Your husband, Steven Pickles, knows nothing about Bohemian Bliss.

Hallo. Wow. You look great.  Like happier. Like all those dark circles under your eyes are way less dark.  And your thighs look less like sausages.  Gosh, you’re as pretty as an elfin flight attendant.  What solar cream are you using these days?

Oh and I see you are here with Steven Pickles.  Your successful  industrial canning tycoon husband.  What’s that you guys have in this parking lot near Gullfoss waterfall?  Oh a  Porsche 911.  Pfuh.  Haven’t you heard? Capitalist status is out and bohemian bliss-convenience is in.

Here, come over here with me.  Yeah, yeah, no, don’t worry Steven Pickles is studying a tuna can in the trash.  Come look at my camper-van.  It’s a Ford Transit.  Note the solar panel.  Note the electric cooler.  Yes, that is beer in the cooler.  Please don’t touch that.  Thank you.  No, I’m not saying you were going to drink one, I’m just saying, please don’t put your hand near that Viking can.  That six pack cost $17 so I’m just taking precautions.

Here, hold my hair scarf for a moment, while I quickly change into my arctic bikini because Vincent and I are on our way to the hot springs.  That’s right.  We’re just going to drive there, go in the geothermal water, take a coffee from the community room which looks like the most inviting living room ever and then go eat some lunch in the camper-van.  We’re having Skyr, brown bread and smoked salmon and then we’ll take a little reading nap.  I’m reading Graceling. It’s about a medieval girl warrior.  As I read, I can hear the grumbles of Katla the volcano as she sits sleeping, dreaming quaking dreams of sand and ash.

If you find yourself in Iceland, check out Northbound for your camper-van rental. This is where we got ours and this company is super nice to work with.  Gummi, from Grand Iceland, picked us up at the airport and was really informative and helpful:

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This is not a poem.

Salut!  So, I just saw the solar eclipse and everything has changed in my life.  I feel that we are on the brink of a hopeful, exciting, peaceful future!  C’est magnifique!  And, I am still working on my drawing challenge.  So far, I’ve learned that 21 days is a very long time (trop longtemps, peut-etre?) and I’m not that keen on “committing to a new routine.”

In the meantime, I’ve just finished a course about poetry.  Ah oui, les poésie!  Tres beau!  Or is it? 

Sometimes it’s extremely annoying.

Like, if you are going out and you’re like “Okay, so we’ll meet at Brothers Lunar Pub at 9.  I’m going to bring my buddies: fiction, non-fiction, photography, maybe painting isn’t busy, oh yeah and poetry said she wanted to come.”

And your friend is like, “Ugh.  Poetry.  Really?  Maybe we can just not tell her we’re going tonight.”

“What? No.  We have to tell her.  She’s was excited to wear this new couplet and she was talking about some kind of rhyme scheme she has going.”

“Ugh.  I don’t think I can go.  I think I need to continue my research on ancient plumbing on Pinterest.”

This is a made up scenario, but obviously something like this has happened to you.  En fait, I’ve seen you at Brothers Lunar before.  Actually you were the one who asked if my scarf was a “slanket” or a “freedom blanket” and then laughed hysterically with your cool friends.  I remember it all really well.  I have a photo of you on my dashboard and I often stay up late at night in my car listening to police conversations.  Just saying.

Anyway, here is a class I’m teaching in case you have conflicting views on poetry (click photo svp!):



Minimal Comfort

Making friends has always come exceptionally easy to me.  I think largely because of my natural aroma–a soothing mix of sausages and cedar.  Because of my high demand, I often have to write people a rejection letter of friendship, much like the rejection letter I just received from a certain graduate program I applied to.  I hope it inspires them to go out and find other friends, like this rejection letter inspired me to madly apply for interesting day jobs.

Currently, I am in two groups of friends: the Minimalists and the Hygges (hoo gah ees).

I like hanging out with both groups.  The American Minimalists usually invite me to parties that take place in either vacant loft spaces or abandoned beaches.  I wouldn’t say their parties are “extremely fun,” but they certainly require very little preparation.  I never need to bring the usual entry ticket of a bottle of wine or beer.

Conversation at the Minimalist parties often involve a lecture like interaction about the benefits of Minimalism.   At the last party, Jaco (he minimized his name) began a power point facilitated conversation on freeing oneself from stuff. I noticed that out of the all the stuff he had given away, he did choose to keep a tie dyed shirt that said “Hilton Head” on it.  I questioned this choice and soon found myself more interested in the offshoot group that was emerging: the French Minimalists.

It was led by three French people who subscribed to the French concept of wardrobe.  This wardrobe fascinates me.  When flying from Lyon to Rome over Christmas, the French minimalists members each packed an incredibly small suitcase.  They wore a sweater, jeans and sneakers for every event.  Because we were flying on a low cost European airline, I had to share this suitcase with one of these members.  I was forced to become a French minimalist.  My strategy was simple: black.  However, black can get boring so I soon accessorized with socks, the airline’s seasickness pamphlet and a found pen.  These came in handy.  It should be noted that I grew up in a collective community of TJ Maxximistas which gave out awards for creative approaches to outfit design.   Thus, unwilling to let go off my roots, one night at a Roman cafe, I took a wool sock and made it into a Hermes-like foulard.  I’m not sure what everyone thought, but I got the impression that I fit in perfectly.  Dare I say I was a style leader?  I’d feel fairly confident saying that. However, there was a slight sweat problem as I could only bring two pairs of socks and we walked around the city for 8 hours each day, hence why I now smell like cedar foot powder.

Parties with the Hygges are pretty relaxing as they consist of meeting in yurts with roaring fires.  We don’t talk a lot–instead we just read books, light candles and eat dark chocolate.   Sometimes the parties go on for a very long time.  The Alpha Hygge, Lana, asks that we turn off all cellphones upon entry, so last time I was hanging out with them, I hadn’t realized that fourteen days went by and I missed a call for an interview from a high paying think tank in upstate New York.  I don’t blame Lana or the Hygges for potentially missing this incredible job opportunity that would give me a sustainable salary and dental insurance.   Instead, I just heated up some potatoes, put them in my socks, chopped some more wood and picked up where I left off in my German novel.

One time I invited both sets of friends to a bar. In retrospect, this was a pretty bad idea.  Jaco kept collecting all of the comforters that Lana had brought and Lana told me she found Jaco condescending.  She left the bar by giving him the middle finger and shouting “Minimize this.”  I get this.  Jaco is super annoying, but Lana is also kind of stressful too in that she is always asking me to chop more firewood.  Man.  How many fires are we going to have.  It’s like April and there is this cool class on user interface systems that I want to take.  I may have already missed it.

So, I actually just have been avoiding all groups of friends and instead using my time to ceaselessly mock interview myself.  It’s going well.  I never knew I had so much to offer.