| From Deep Inside the Crevices Of Love |
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| By Irene Pleym Jakola | ||||||
| Wednesday, 07 March 2007 | ||||||
 Photo: Wikipedia When I moved to Oulu I moved straight in with my boyfriend. That’s something I’d never done before, and I can assure you the first months were not only roses and daisies. Don’t get me wrong, there are advantages in living together with snuggums. You have someone to share the dishes with. That this particular example often ends in a not-so-loving fight about whose turn it actually is to do the dishes is beside the point. Your boyfriend is always there to warm up your ice cold feet or to give you neck rubs. He’s there when you need to talk, complain, and nag, and he’ll more or less happily help you carry heavy things, change car tyres, and repair items that require heavier tools than a nail polisher or a pair of scissors. Emancipation? Shush, he’s cleaning the floors. Unfortunately there are disadvantages. You’ll learn soon enough that it’s impossible to hold gas for a whole evening. Try, but it’s painful. He’s also not going to like your absent-minded and very out of key singing, and you’re certainly not going to like him sitting in front of the computer playing games all evening. We all have bad habits that we have to try and kick, or learn to live with – but life becomes a lot more difficult when you’re trying to understand and bear each other’s tastes. Music, for example, can become a serious problem, especially if you have narrow taste or you’re stubborn and difficult. I’m a bit of both; by choice of course. Last evening we sat down, prepared to be romantic and talk in reds and pinks about Paris, love, and the film Titanic. He poured me a glass of red wine, kissed me tenderly, and went to put on some music. That’s where it went wrong again. He wanted to listen to The Smiths, I to KT Tunstall. Most of the time it’s fine: you bend, you get to know some new music. But when he put on Roxy Music I wanted to chew off my arm. And when I wanted to listen to Cat Stevens, he started twitching and turning in his chair, begging me to stop the horror. Movies aren’t any easier. Some people love a good horror from time to time but I can’t sleep for a week after watching them. Obviously it’s better with someone’s armpit to sleep in, but I thought Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer were scary, which should tell you a thing or two about my limits. A chick movie, on the other hand: oh, how I loved Pride and Prejudice. Watching it once alone, I cried my heart out then I made the boyfriend watch it with me for a second round of tears and occasional small hugs. Apart from some moaning and an occasional “oh-my-god,” he behaved well, even going quiet when I told him “please be quiet, sir, please do!”
In Norway we say “taste is like an ass – split in two down the middle.” Either you like or you dislike something. I believe the truth has diversity to it. For example I often think that a band or their music is just alright. I can listen to it without feeling pain, but I don’t jump up and down in excitement either. That’s how we survive, I think. You learn to listen to music that you wouldn’t pay to have in your collection. It’s like going to Onnela on Saturday evening. Most of the time they play songs you hate, but when they put on your favourite you shake your cheeks and sing out loud as long as it lasts.
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