I Think I Need to Dispell Some Misconceptions about My Six-Foot-Tall Swedish Ladyfriend Who Happens to Be a Licensed Massage Therapist

Her name is Kerstin. It’s pronounced “SHES-TIN.” A lot of people get that wrong.

She is from Sweden. She is a licensed massage therapist. In Sweden, they have this thing called “Classical Massage” which doesn’t involve vibrating beds or “happy endings.” Most people in Sweden aren’t happy. But they love Max von Sydow.

She is six feet tall and blonde and super-fucking hot. O.K., whatever. But she speaks three languages and works for a living (though not in a Donna Summer style). And, yes, she is a licensed massage therapist. She’s very esoteric, you know. Transcendental and all that shit. It’s not like she’s flying around the world wearing miniskirts and drinking champagne. That’s only in the movies, bro.

She can put her legs behind her head. Yeah, that’s fucking hot and badass, but she’s very serious about her craft. Enough with the stupid jokes.

She doesn’t drive a Volvo. She doesn’t drink Absolut. She doesn’t like ABBA. And she doesn’t cavort in Roman fountains in strapless evening gowns. (Her boobs aren’t that big, either.)

For some reason she doesn’t like Swedish metal. I love metal and there’s all these cool bands coming out of Sweden, but she’s not down with that. She’s into Kitarō and, like, Yanni. And the Rolling Stones. She had no idea about HammerFall until I burned her a disc. (What are you gonna do?)

She teaches a yoga class, because she’s all into that. Did I mention that she can put her legs behind her head and there is this one position in yoga called “Bird of Paradise.” That shit is so fucking crazy sexy I don’t even know what to say. Still, she won’t take me seriously about dating …

She towers over me even without heels. Fucking Swedes. She’s all giggly and sunshine and likes lingonberries on her toast. I don’t have any idea what lingonberries are, but she’s so fucking hot I could care less. She hasn’t given me a massage yet, though. But whatever. Lingonberries. That’s so gay. But, contrary to popular belief, she would put grape jelly on her toast given a choice.

Like all Swedes, she’s very punctual. Like most Americans, and New Yorkers, I’m always running late. But she’s cool about waiting. She doesn’t get pissed if I’m late. Enough with the judgments about pissed-off Swedes who don’t like having to wait. (Did I mention she’s six feet tall and blonde and totally hot?)

She knows who The Swedish Chef is because they have the Muppet Show in Sweden. She thinks it’s funny; but, yeah, she gets it. (Bork-Bork-Bork!)

Yes, she eats herring. She doesn’t like it as much as Italian food. So, fuck you—deal with it!

She can’t tell a joke to save her life. True of all Swedes, I have found. Good with stories about growing up on a farm with a pig named “Herr Nilsson” and a ram named “Ulrich,” but that thing about Swedes being serious is way off. I mean—she basically had a pig named “Mr. Nelson,” which is kind of funny. If it was called “Major Nelson” it would be even funnier. But she doesn’t know about I Dream of Jeannie, so my idea about getting her into scarves and calling me “Master” is kind of dead in the water.

She has shopped at IKEA. But no discounts. What’s up with that? Fucking Swedes …

She does like Ace of Base. Well, there are some stereotypes you can’t break through …