B r a i n C l e a r

Sorting through life one thought at a time

Category: Observations

  • I’m Not Overthinking, I’m Thorough: A Virgo’s Defense

    Do you believe in astrology?

    I don’t know that I do. I’ve never been someone who checks my horoscope in the morning to find out whether I should make an important financial decision or avoid Geminis until after 3 p.m.

    But since this is my birthday month, for some reason I ran across something about Virgos. And I have to admit, astrology is quite entertaining when the description starts sounding a little too familiar.

    Virgos, according to the internet, are analytical, practical, organized, observant, helpful, perfectionistic, critical, prone to overthinking, and apparently incapable of simply letting something go when there is still a perfectly good opportunity to analyze it from seventeen additional angles.

    Well, this feels unnecessarily personal.

    The organization part is especially offensive because I don’t necessarily consider myself organized. I just think things should be where they’re supposed to be.

    That’s different.

    And I’m not a perfectionist. I simply don’t understand why we would knowingly do something incorrectly when we could do it correctly.

    Also different.

    And I don’t overthink. I think the appropriate amount, sometimes for several days about something that happened in 2017 because there may still be information we haven’t considered.

    Completely normal.

    Then there’s the Virgo reputation for being critical.

    Again, rude. I’m not criticizing, I’m observing.

    If the dishwasher has been loaded in a way that prevents the dishes from actually becoming clean, I am not being critical by pointing this out. I am providing valuable operational feedback.

    You’re welcome.

    Apparently Virgos also like being useful, which sounds lovely until you realize it means we’re the people who hear someone casually mention a problem and immediately begin designing a solution they did not ask for.

    Okay, this is getting uncomfortable.

    Of course, I’m temporarily forgetting that approximately four billion people could read the same description and find something in their lives that fits.

    That’s the trick, though. It’s like a fortune cookie that’s been to therapy. It knows exactly which insecurities to poke and then has the audacity to charge nothing for it.

    So no, I don’t believe in astrology.

    But I will say this: if a system invented thousands of years ago by people without indoor plumbing can accurately predict that I will re-fold a fitted sheet four times “for the greater good,” maybe the stars know something.

    Naturally, once I found mine a little too accurate, I did what any reasonable person would do and looked up everyone I love, just to see.

    My mother is a Scorpio loyal, intense and apparently equipped with a memory that keeps receipts. My sister is an Aquarius independent, stubborn and deeply committed to doing things her own way. And one of my closest friends is a Sagittarius adventurous, spontaneous and blessed with the ability to say the thing everyone else was still deciding whether they should say out loud.

    Which either means astrology is real, or I just surrounded myself with people whose personalities are extremely on brand.

    I refuse to investigate further.

    Or maybe I’m just extremely, tragically legible.

    Either way, I’ve already ordered a mug that says, “Virgo: I’m not overthinking, I’m thorough.”

    I stand by that purchase completely.

    I also thought about it for six days first..

  • A Swede, a Pole, and a Very Decisive Dog

    Years ago, my Polish friend and I had a brilliant idea.

    We were going to start a podcast.

    Because apparently having full-time jobs and normal adult responsibilities wasn’t enough.

    The name?

    A Swede, a Pole and a French Bulldog.

    The concept was simple. We would pick a subject and discuss it from three different perspectives: Swedish, Polish, and French Bulldog.

    The French Bulldog had no qualifications whatsoever, but he was extremely confident.

    We never actually made the podcast.

    We did, however, make notes.

    I recently found them.

    One of our proposed episodes simply said:

    Swedish meatballs vs. Polish sausage — the origins, why famous, and dog food.

    I have no memory of how dog food entered this conversation. Although considering Hugo was one-third of the podcast, I suppose we were trying to be inclusive.

    Sweden enters the competition

    Let’s start with the obvious.

    Swedish meatballs are better.

    I realize this isn’t technically how you begin an unbiased cultural comparison, but I am Swedish and this is my blog.

    Swedish meatballs — köttbullar — aren’t complicated. Meatballs, gravy, mashed potatoes, lingonberries.

    Perfect.

    Then IKEA came along and introduced Swedish meatballs to the world. This has been both good and bad. Good because millions of people now know about Swedish meatballs. Bad because millions of people now associate one of our national foods with buying a BILLY bookcase and discovering three hours later that you have one screw left over, a panel installed backwards, and a marriage that will never fully recover.

    Poland would like a word 🇵🇱

    This is where my friend would immediately point out that Poland has sausage.

    Not a sausage.

    Sausage as an entire category of national identity.

    And Americans call it kielbasa. Which seems reasonable until you learn that kiełbasa is basically the Polish word for sausage. So saying “Polish kielbasa” is a little like saying “Swedish meatball meatball.”

    There are many kinds. Smoked. Fresh. Garlic. Pork. Different regions. Different recipes.

    I know this because once you have a Polish friend, you will eventually receive information about Polish sausage whether you requested it or not, usually mid-conversation, usually unprompted, usually correct.

    I’m sure she feels exactly the same way about Swedish meatballs, except her version of this paragraph is shorter, because there is only one Swedish meatball and I have now spent four paragraphs describing it.

    She is also as of many years a vegetarian.

    I want to be clear that this has never once slowed her down. She will describe the snap of a good kiełbasa casing with the reverence of a woman who has personally eaten thousands of them. She has not eaten a single one. This is not a contradiction to her. This is heritage.

    We need an independent judge

    Obviously, Sweden and Poland cannot settle this ourselves. We’re biased.

    Fortunately, our original podcast had a third member.

    Hugo. French Bulldog. Thirty pounds. No culinary training. Extensive opinions.

    Hugo has reviewed the evidence carefully.

    Sweden argues for the meatball. Poland argues for the sausage. Hugo would like it noted that both arguments contain meat, and that this is, as far as he’s concerned, the entire debate resolved.

    His ruling: both.

    He would like one Swedish meatball and one Polish sausage for comparison purposes. Then another meatball, because the first sample was statistically insignificant. Then another piece of sausage, because scientific integrity matters. He is willing to continue testing until somebody stops him, and it should be noted that nobody has ever successfully stopped him.

    And apparently, dog food

    Which brings me back to our original podcast note: the origins, why famous, and dog food.

    I still don’t know what we intended to say about dog food. Maybe Hugo had negotiated his own segment. All possibilities are, at this point, equally likely, equally undocumented, and equally his fault.

    Sadly, A Swede, a Pole and a French Bulldog never made it to air. Which is probably a loss to international diplomacy.

    But after reviewing the evidence a couple of years later, I think we can finally declare a winner in the great Swedish meatball vs. Polish sausage debate.

    Sweden says Sweden.

    Poland says Poland.

    The French Bulldog says:

    Why are we still talking? Put them on the floor.

  • When Efficiency Met the South

    I didn’t just move from Sweden to the United States. I moved from Stockholm to St. Marys, Georgia. Looking back, I’m not sure I could have picked two places that were more different.

    I thought the biggest adjustment would be speaking English every day. It wasn’t. It was discovering that I had landed in a place with a completely different rhythm.

    In Stockholm, the checkout line is all about efficiency. You pack your own groceries, and you’d better be done by the time the cashier has scanned the last item, or the customer behind you might start getting impatient. There isn’t much small talk because everyone has somewhere to be, and the goal is to get through the line as quickly as possible.

    St. Marys was a completely different experience. The cashier knew the customer in front of me, and they chatted about family, church, the weather, someone’s tomato plants, pretty much anything and everything. Meanwhile, another employee packed the groceries while I stood there wondering if we’d ever get to the part where I actually paid. I remember thinking, “Are we still checking out?”

    At the time, it drove me crazy. I wasn’t used to it, and if I’m being honest, I just wanted to grab my groceries and go. But somewhere between Stockholm and St. Marys, my perspective changed.

    Today, I smile when I think about those checkout lines. I’ve realized they were never just about buying groceries. They were about taking a few minutes to acknowledge another person, catch up with a neighbor, or simply make someone’s day a little brighter.

    Somewhere between Stockholm and St. Marys, I learned that not everything has to be efficient. Sometimes, slowing down long enough to connect with another person is the whole point.

    Although I still silently hoped nobody brought up tomato plants when I was buying ice cream.

  • What Your Dishwasher Says About You

    There are many ways to load a dishwasher. Only some of them should be legal.

    Forget astrology.

    Forget personality tests.

    If you really want to know someone, ask them to load the dishwasher.

    The Architect

    Every plate faces the same direction.

    Bowls are perfectly spaced.

    Nothing blocks the spray arms.

    This person has quietly reloaded the dishwasher after someone else walked away.

    The Optimist

    “One more plate will fit.”

    It won’t.

    But hope springs eternal.

    The Dishwasher Believer

    Places an entire plate of dried cheese, salsa and yesterday’s casserole directly into the dishwasher.

    Has complete faith that modern technology can overcome the laws of physics.

    The Chaos Artist

    There is no system.

    Large bowls covering small bowls.

    Plastic balanced on glass.

    A frying pan somehow occupies 40% of the dishwasher.

    When asked why they loaded it this way, they simply shrug.

    The Silent Corrector

    Says absolutely nothing.

    Waits until everyone leaves the kitchen.

    Quietly opens the dishwasher.

    Turns the plates around.

    Moves the bowls.

    Rinses the dried cheese.

    Closes the dishwasher.

    Never mentions it again.

    Until now.

    So…

    Which one are you?