My Other Missing Gene

“I think you must be lacking the bitch-gene.”
– Tor Willy to me today

The above wasn’t meant as a compliment – not entirely at least, although it was said with a certain fondness. To understand this, you should know that I really, really don’t want to be the kind of girl who calls her boyfriend/husband/lover/partner every half hour whenever he is not at home, just to make sure that he isn’t having too much fun or is in risk of forgetting all about her (believe me, girls like that do exist). And, may I add, Tor Willy knows how my mind works. And I guess this knowledge is what caused him to utter the above-mentioned statement when he arrived home tonight. It is worth nothing that he said it after I told him that the network had been down for many hours and that I had tried to fix it myself, rather than calling him when he was out and about. And that it still didn’t work. He said it after I told him of one of the ways I had tried to fix it, namely by pressing a pen into that little hole on the Airport Extreme which resets it, and after kindly explaining to me that simply unplugging the Airport Extreme would have been a lot wiser – then at least I wouldn’t have caused all our settings to disappear. And then he wouldn’t have had to spend any amount of time fixing the mess I’d caused. Then he said it – with a certain fondness and shaking of his head.

Still, I’ll label this ‘Compliment of the Day’.

By popular demand …

… or perhaps peer pressure – whatever you call it, it has lead me to start blogging in English again (as the observant reader has no doubt already noticed). I haven’t really decided how much I’ll write in English – definitely not everything, because some things simply wouldn’t make much sense in English (and that’s not just because my head goes off on its own now and then), and some times I may just feel more like writing in Norwegian – but I promise: I will make sure the Norwegian-challenged will find something to read here from time to time. I will have to reorganize my blog, methinks, but I’m not going to do that right now, nor within the coming weeks – but when time permits, I probably will try to think out some way of redoing my blog that will make things look a bit more organized when I’m blogging in both English and Norwegian. For starters I’ve created at category called “In English” where I’ll publish (you guessed it) the posts I write in English.

Let me add that I know what it means when several people independent of one another hint or tell me directly that they’d like me to write in English again. Yup, peeps, I love you too.


Some people still get bright ideas. Most of us get tons of spam, and up to now there’s been little to do about – or with – it. Well, yes, if you’re like me you may have forwarded it to your e-mail provider (if they have a special address for the purpose, that is), hoping vaguely that perhaps it’ll help them improve their spam filters, but I’ve never had any real pleasure from all the spam I have received. I’ve won the main prize in at least fifty lotteries (if only), received thousands of offers to buy drugs, a bigger penis, hot and willing girls, certificates of one sort of the other, and whatnot, but just an inkling of pleasure? No, Sir, I did not get that from any of it.

But wonders never cease to happen, do they? If I told told you that I’ve gotten real pleasure from some of the spam I’ve received recently, would you believe me? Probably not. But then you’ve never heard of spam recycling, have you? Honestly, you should give it a try.

It may not exactly be useful, but it certainly is a pleasure to watch if you ask me. As I said, some people still get bright ideas, and this is one of the better.

A letter for Rob

Apparently, some people are having a hard time trying to decipher everything I’ve written in Norwegian in this blog, thinking fondly of the days – way back when – when I used to blog in English. Don’t get your hopes up, people, this is not for you. However, you are of course welcome to read it.

This is simply a short message for Rob. Yes, you, Rob – not that other Rob who might be reading this blog. Because that other Rob whom I probably don’t even know, would have given up on the Norwegian long ago and found another blog to read, a blog he could understand, a blog in English, that is. But you, Rob, you never gave up, did you? You still drop by my blog every now and then, because you know me and you do understand at least part of what I’m writing. Swedish, Danish and Norwegian may not be your second mother tongue, but you understand a fair bit – and you’re the sort of person who would drop by occasionally just to try to figure out what’s going on in my life. I think you do. I hope you do.

Now, the reason why I’m writing this is that I consider you a dear friend of mine, even though we’ve been out of touch for some years. I were never very good at writing friends and family on any kind of regular basis, and neither were you (not from what I know of you). However, on a highly infrequent basis we have stayed in touch since we first met back at the old Sixdegrees. What is that? … 9 years ago? A year might go by, more even, then one of us would drop a line to the other, and the other would reply. We would exchange a few more mails, and then another year, perhaps two, would pass by with no word between us, until suddenly an e-mail wound its way across the Internet again and we’d exchange a couple of more mails.

Much has been happening in my life over the past few years (which, I think, you’ve probably gathered from my blog), and I’ve been worse than usual at keeping in touch with dear and loved ones. However, I did think of you (and other friends I ought to have written or called long ago) every now and again, and in the end, as always, I thought “Well, about time I heard what Rob’s been up to lately”. So I sent you and e-mail. Five seconds later I got it back – no such number, no such soul as the King once sang. So I tried the other address I have for you. That one didn’t work either – and now I’ve run out of addresses to try.

That’s why I’m writing this, Rob. To put it bluntly: Please, please, please, get back in touch. Pretty please, even. I don’t give up on good friends easily.

I’m on Facebook, but you can also write me at monique at inkuria dot org. And if you’re still wondering if you’re the Rob I’m addressing this to – well, then you probably are. Just to confirm, although I don’t recall the evening in detail, here is a pic of you and me getting on down at the old Cairo Jack’s in London back in 1999:

Getting on down

If you’re not that Rob, in fact, even if you’re no Rob at all, but is called something completely different, you too are more than welcome to get in touch if you believe you know me and we’ve been out of touch for ages. To tell the truth, I’d be more than delighted to get back in touch with some of the other people I’ve lost touch with over the years.

You are, of course, also welcome to contact me if you know me and we haven’t been out of touch for ages, or if we are still in touch infrequently or, for that matter, on a daily basis, because I don’t really think any one can afford to lose a friend. I always love hearing from those I count among my friends, and although I may be bad at holding on to them, I never completely let go of my friends. You are in my heart, no matter how much of a cliché that may be. Please, hold that thought …

And, Rob? Write me.

Lots of thoughts and *huggles*


Word Wrap


when I take your words in my mouth,
and my tongue is lingering over each,
tasting them,
searching for hidden meanings
and untold stories,
careful not to twist them out of shape
or bend them beyond their limits,
I find a world within them for myself,
and get caught in their landscape.

Your words wrap me,
caressing me in hidden places,
and entangling my mind.

I feel your touch.

—Monique Marquard

I wrote this poem around 2000, but it’s been making a new kind of sense lately.

Rain check

Rain check: A promise or commitment by a seller to a buyer that an item currently out of stock can be purchased at a later date for today’s sale price.

The term originated from baseball. Spectators at games that were postponed because of rain would receive a check that could be used to attend a future game.

Baseball is the mother of many strange things.

To be or not to be

For those who do not remember:

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. — Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
—William Shakespeare