University

I saw this posted by Nilsa at Somi Speaks and thought I’d do it myself.

1. Where did you go to college?

I went to university in the UK and the US. Here it was Lancaster, for my first and third years. In the US I was at the University of Maryland, College Park. Go Terps!

2. What did you study?

I did the amazingly useful American Studies. Hence the year in the US. I actually really enjoyed my course. It was all literature and history and film and politics, and other than the boring Puritans bit it was mostly quite interesting.

3. Was college really all that it was cracked up to be?

I loved my time in Lancaster. Really loved it and if it were possible to go back in time and do it all again I would, right now no questions asked. The university was small, and a campus with individual colleges. I was in Fylde. It really fit me, and I knew as soon as I went on a visit that I wanted to go there. I just had the best time, with no real responsibilities, surrounded by friends and able to sleep in pretty much whenever I wanted. What’s not to love? My second year in the States was harder. I lived with five other girls, all in their third or fourth year, and they already had their friends group sorted and there wasn’t much room for me. Once we got past the initial ‘Say this word with your amusing English accent’ there wasn’t much to talk about. And the whole roommate thing is weird. Mine was very lovely and we got on well for the most part, but no matter who you are, spending so much time with someone who is basically a complete stranger is wearing. There’s nowhere you can go that’s just yours, a space you can escape to. Instead you have to keep calm when they’re up til the early hours tapping on their computer, or when there’s a stand off over who should clean the bathroom. Give me my tiny single room in Lancaster any day.

My second semester in the US was much better than the first. I was taking classes I really enjoyed and had made some good friends (all British) and had people visit me, so it got easier.

4. How far were you from home?

A couple of hours at Lancaster. 3000 miles and a five hour time difference when in the US.

5. Did you have the same roommates all four years?

I only had a roommate in the US. One year was enough thank you. At Lancaster a lot of the people who were in my block in the first year were back in the third year, or close by, so there were familiar faces.

6. Where did you order food from at 2AM?

Er…I didn’t. I’d go to late night at the dining hall but I don’t think it went on that late. Being so close meant I’d rock up in my pjs and get a milkshake or something else disgustingly unhealthy. I put on the ‘freshman 15′ and then some. Yeesh. Not cooking for yourself is dangerous.

7. Did you date in college or were you tied down?

There was boy drama in my first year, but it wasn’t serious, more silly frankly. I went on one date, when I was in the US, the second in my whole life, and just as painful as the first. I am not made for dating. I am too awkward. The boy was nice enough I guess, and he took me to the Cheesecake Factory. I have no idea what we talked about, but he never called me again, and I was relieved.

8. Funniest drunk college moment?

I don’t drink, and didn’t then really, so no anecdotes I’m afraid.

9. Did you make it to class on time?

Not always. I had good intentions, but they often went out the window on the first day of term when I realised I hadn’t tuned in my radio for my alarm and the static wasn’t loud enough to wake me. Sometimes the thought of going and sitting in a lecture hall first thing felt like too much, and sleep was more important than education. I made all of my seminars though, and I did better with attendance in the States.

10. What was your favorite class in college?

I really enjoyed my second semester classes in the States. I did mostly literature and history, and some film courses. I didn’t make so good choices in my first semester, and one class was changed on me without my knowing it, and I got stuck with a frickin poetry class which was painful. But later I did a Southern Literature class, and was introduced to writers like Flannery O’Connor and Eudora Welty, and read more of Tennessee Williams and William Faulkner. The professor was also great and encouraging and obviously loved her subject, which helped. And there was a drama class, (as in plays, not me acting) that I enjoyed. In my film class I watched films I had never heard of or dismissed as something I wouldn’t like. So now I have seen Fitzcarraldo (Jesus that film is bizarre), and Breathless (longest death scene ever), Vertigo, and The Big Lebowski, which became one of my favourites. So I think all my classes in that semester were excellent.

I am NOT too Old for this Shit

I spent a good chunk of time yesterday in Hamley’s toy shop, helping a friend search for a present, and was transported back to childhood (as I always am), when I ran into a display of Sylvanian Families toys. I was kind of obsessed with these things as a kid. I’d always loved my ‘peoples’ and carried them around with me, or so I’m told, but these were the best. I adored them. I had all sorts of different families – rabbits, bears, moles, beavers, foxes etc – and a house and a small tree house, and I never got bored. It pained me that some of the families had to live in ice cream tubs and shoe boxes, as the house didn’t have enough room for everyone, but they did have furniture so that was ok. (I admit that it also pains me that these much loved toys are now in a box in my mum’s garage attic, but I try not to think about it.)

One of my favourite things to do was to take all the furniture out of the houses and create a school for the children. I even made them all tiny exercise books with squiggly writing on, so it looked like they’d used them. And then later I would wrap them all in toilet paper for ‘costumes’ so they could put on plays for their parents. I guess very Roman-centric plays? I dunno.

I was very, very jealous when I got older and my younger cousin was bought the mansion for Christmas. It had working lights and a flushing toilet, and I would have just about killed someone for it, had I not been too old for that kind of thing. Ahem. But a flushing toilet! Come on, that was amazing. Also, my cousin didn’t really play with it or appreciate it as I would have, so that stung too. And have you seen the stuff you can get now? Barges and massive tree houses and hospitals and a hotel!! Ugh, to be eight years old again, I’d be in heaven.

My absolute favourite member of the families was Muddy McBurrows. He was a mole and he had a yellow waistcoat. I don’t know why he was my favourite, but he was. Which my brother knew and used to his advantage whenever I was in the toilet and he wanted to go. ‘I’ve got Muddy! I’m hanging him over the banister! I’m going to drop him!’ Noooooooo!! Not Muddy! Do not hurt Muddy. Oh there were tears aplenty over young Mister McBurrows. My brother is evil you know.

As mentioned, my families are in a box somewhere, waiting for the day I have children whereupon I will break them out and live vicariously through them, because they will damn well love Sylvanian Families, I don’t care what I have to do. Even if I only have boys! I will get my working lights and flushing toilets one day damn it.

Potential

When I went home a couple of weeks ago the baby photo albums were out for some reason, and so I took that as an opportunity to scan many, many photos of me being all cute and little. I won’t post them all here, because they’re probably only interesting to a handful of people, but here’s one that’s a fairly big deal.

The first photo. Here I am, brand new, all of 20 minutes old. I am calm and quiet, lulling my mother into a false sense of security there, since I spent the next six months screaming my head off. Here is a me with a completely blank slate, no idea what awaits her, but she looks ok about it. And so she should, there’s not much to worry about really. The first few years will be sweet, school will seem like a drag but later she’ll realise it wasn’t. Boys will be her friends, and then a source of angst. She’ll be smart, but not as smart as she could be. She’ll travel, but not as many places as she’d like to. She’ll be loved, but it won’t end up the way she wanted. And her 20s will kind of suck, but we’re hopeful it’ll get better.

I know I’m biased, but I think I’m it’s pretty amazing.

Ten Things I Know About You

The Pink Jellybaby tagged me with this, so I have to tell you ten things about me, which is hard, seeing as I did my 100 things already. But I’ll try not to repeat myself.

1. I am still not over Adam cheating on Joan in Joan of Arcadia. It would never happen. I’m also not over the fact that they cancelled the show before they got back together.

2. I have been using Quark Express for almost ten years, and just the other day realised I could add a drop shadow to a picture box. It’s my new favourite thing.

3. While I’m not a liar and will generally answer any question put to me, I withhold info something rotten. If you don’t ask me straight out I’m not going to volunteer it.

4. I’m a geek for Sci-Fi. It used to be Star Trek (a love reawakened by the new film and now I want to watch the old ones again), and Star Wars (killed off mostly by the sucky prequels) and most recently Battlestar Galactica. Give me a ship in space with a crew I can root for, and I’m all yours.

5. I have almost no depth perception. Either that or no control over my body. Yes I’m clumsy, that’s well documented, but I will walk into walls and doors and tables…it’s like my body has a gravitational pull to stationary objects that I just can’t fight.

6. I always put the tops back on empty bottles before throwing them away. Why? I do not know.

7. I have the same size feet as my mum, even though I am six inches taller. I don’t know if that means she has big feet or I have little feet.

8. In my first year of university I wrote a cheesy Sci-Fi novel. It had everything – the near extinction of humanity, spaceships, aliens, clones, disease, war, love. It was the first full novel I finished, and was over 80,000 words. I was so proud of myself for finishing it when I’d usually give up and move on to something new. In one of the many moves to and from university the disk I had saved it on was lost. I’m still sad about it. Not because it was a masterpiece or anything, I’d just like to be able to revisit it every now and then.

9. I get irrationally annoyed by people who say Panda Bear. I know technically it’s not wrong, but it just seems so unnecessary. If you say ‘I like Pandas,’ no one is going to say ‘Which ones? Panda Bears? Panda Horses? Panda Fish?’ Although Panda Fish could be cute.

10. I suffer from migraines. They started in my teens and I can remember very clearly getting my first one while in history class and not knowing what the hell was going on with the aura in front of my eyes and then the later feeling of sickness and a headache like I’d never known. I’ve started my week off with a humdinger and am trying to decide whether or not I want to barf or go home or just sit at my desk and silently weep. I have stuff to do, I don’t have time for this nonsense.

P.S. I just need to tell everyone I watched a fabulous film at the weekend. You should all watch Lars and the Real Girl. It is sweet and funny and touching and heartbreaking and a million other things. Ryan Gosling’s performance will stay with you for days afterwards. He is amazing. The film is brilliant from beginning to end. I can’t remotely do it justice with a proper review, just watch it.

Birthdays are nature’s way of telling us to eat more cake

Since we were talking about birthdays, I was inspired at the weekend to scan photos of my past birthday cakes. When I was little, part of the lead up to my birthday excitement was going to Nin’s and choosing my cake. She had stacks of books with all sorts of designs in them, and I would sit there for hours looking through trying to decide on the perfect one. Of course, we have photos of these cakes (although some are missing, where are they??) and I said I would scan them. One of the ones that is missing is my Sylvanian Family house. Nin did a perfect replica of the house I had (it looked like this.) I remember that I wouldn’t let anyone cut into it and ruin it, and I moved in my families and played with it, and then it went off and all stale and had to be thrown away. I was not happy. Neither were the homeless bunnies. I swear I haven’t made this up, have I?

Anyway, here are the cakes we do have photos of. I think these were mine, but if not, let’s pretend:

I think this is my first birthday cake. You can tell because the hands are at 1 o’ clock. I can’t imagine I was that fussed, but since I was a porker, I probably did like cake a lot.

Mr Men! Which Mr Man is this? I was all about Mr Men that year. I had this guy as a hot water bottle too, all smelly plastic stuff and wiggly arms. This may be second or third birthday. Mum would know.

Smurfs! I am showing my age here right?

This one is the first of mine that’s on our infamous home videos. Not the one where I throw a strop and go play with dirt in the alley. True story. I was always throwing a strop. Before the cake was cut we were allowed to take a dolly mixture sandwich off it.

My Little Pony, all skinny and bony. I’m going with my seventh birthday for this one, going on the bows on the pony’s bum, but if she actually had seven bows, then I don’t know.

Does this Care Bear look shifty to you? His head kept falling off. It was held on by cocktail sticks but every now and then you’d just hear a ‘thunk’ and his head would be rolling across the table. Again Nin has kindly added nine hearts, so I am assuming I was nine.

Apparently I was all about Edd the Duck yo. I do not know why. The Broom Cupboard was a big deal. If you’re not British and not my age you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, and I feel bad for you.

Oh yes, ha ha. My whole family thought this was hilarious. About this time I was known for my chair sitting and being in charge of the remotes. I swear I wasn’t as bad as they made out, but maybe I was since Nin went so far as to make me a cake commemorating it.

I did not have a special cake this year, but Nin did make lemon cake I have yet to taste. And this afternoon we are having cake at work. I am going with proper Marks & Spencer bday cake with dolly mixtures on top, none any of this fru fru Patisserie Valerie stuff for me.

Unfocused

• I spent the long Easter weekend at home visiting my mum and the crazy dogs. And other people I love, obviously. I may not believe in the whole ‘Christ has risen!’ thing, but I will happily accept a) two extra days off and b) more chocolate than my tummy can handle.

I left it too late to get decent priced train tickets (bastard thieving train companies), so I got the bus home. Four hours each way, which ate into my weekend somewhat, but never mind. I spent the weekend sitting in the conservatory knitting (and re-knitting) a baby cardigan. I cannot do armholes. Woe.

• Speaking of chocolate, my boss bought me a chocolate bunny to say thank you for all my awesome help while she was away recovering from surgery. It’s a Lindt bunny, one of the best. He is now headless and I feel slightly sick.

• I had a very disturbing dream about Zac Efron last night. Disturbing because, well, why the hell am I dreaming about Efron in the first place? I think that shows just how over exposed the dude is. And also, ICK! I hate my subconscious, and it must hate me too. I won’t go into details but boy do I feel like a pervert. I feel slightly better knowing he’s 21 and not 17, but still, ew.

• On a more serious note, today marks the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster. In my memories I can see it unfolding before my eyes on the television, but I don’t know if that’s a real memory or a created one from seeing it on the news so many times. Not that it matters, I don’t really have any words that can sum up how awful it was, and still is.

Jean Genie

The other day I was cleaning out my room, trying to be ruthless. I mainly focused on clothes. Anything I hadn’t worn in a few months had to go. It didn’t matter if it used to be my favourite item of clothing, if it was just taking up space, to the charity shop it went. Four pairs of jeans have ended up in the charity bin, including one pair I swear have never fit and I have no clue why I bought them.

But for all my talk of ruthlessness, there’s a pair that isn’t going to the charity shop: my favourite pair. Does everyone have a favourite pair of jeans? Ones that you just can’t bring yourself to throw away, even when they don’t fit any more?

I’ve had my faves for years. They came from Thailand. Mum bought them for me. She tried them on in the shop and the lady tried to shorten them. Mum explained they were for her daughter. See, me and Mum can wear the same stuff, as long as she doesn’t mind rolling the legs up.

I wasn’t sure about these jeans at first. I kept putting them on and making a face, and so they sat in a drawer for a while. And then I gave them a proper try, and I fell in love with them. There’s just something about the denim, it’s not stretchy like so many are these days, yet at the same time it’s not binding either. They’re like my own pair of Travelling Pants. Magic jeans not beans.

Except when they don’t fit of course. Even their magic is no match for biscuits. And so to the back of the wardrobe they go, with a sad sigh from me. Until I discover them again, months, maybe even a year later, and I think, ‘Well, I should at least try.’

My fave jeans fit me again. They may have ragged bottoms and a hole in the crotch (so they’re to be worn inside only jeans), but the magic is back.

Oh Mickey, You’re Not So Fine

Little known fact about me: I used to love wrestling. When I was a kid my friend had satellite TV, and I would go over and watch the WWF fights. We’re talking back in the day when Hulk Hogan, British Bulldog, Jake ‘the Snake’ Roberts, Roddy Piper, Legion of Doom and the Undertaker were the big draws.

Last night I went to see The Wrestler. This? Is not the wrestling of my childhood. I don’t remember barbed wire, smashing glass, staples embedded into skin, razorblades hidden in tape to give the crowd more blood. The worst I remember is the Undertaker putting someone in a coffin and the crowd booing. Most of the fights here were way too intense for me to watch, it was like seeing a horror movie, and Mickey Rourke was the monster.

OK, a bit harsh, but my god is that man’s face ravaged. He’s this bizarre combination of too stretched and too smushed. And his breathing! God I hope that was put on for the film, because every breath he takes sounds painful. I never get used to how he looks now, and looking up photos of him back in the day just made my jaw drop a little more. Damn, that man was good looking.

The film itself is pretty good. It’s another one of those films where I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it, probably endured it is more like. I appreciated it for what it was, and Rourke gives an amazing performance. But it’s one of those films where not a lot happens. It’s a character study, we’re just following this broken down man as he goes on with his everyday life, tries to continue his wrestling career, is felled by a heart attack, tries to fix the messes he’s made, but ultimately can’t get away from the man he’s become, which is, unfortunately, a fuck up. It’s hard going. And it doesn’t have a neat ending like so many films do. I’d say that’s a good thing. You can decide for yourself what happens to Randy ‘the Ram’ Robinson. Perhaps he spends the rest of his days in the ring in his spangly tights, listening to the roar of the crowd.

Best. Wedding. Ever.

So my best friend got married. And she looked beautiful. And I guess the groom scrubbed up well too. The party rocked. And there were no real problems, and wow, my friend is a wife!

I basically just woke up. I am still in bed. But since I didn’t actually go to bed until 2 am I think I’m allowed. And I did dance a bit, even though the DJ made me wait frickin forever for Don’t Stop Believing. Seriously, any DJs out there, if 4 people ask you to play a song, play the motherf***ing song! And then a threw myself about like a loon while it played. Plus, the two days before were pretty manic and not a lie in in sight. I have missed sleep. But it was soooo worth it.

Backtrack to Friday when I went to Lizzie’s in the early afternoon to help her take stuff over to the hotel and check in. I was staying with Lizzie at the hotel Friday night, and we had a gorgeous room. I would like to live at that hotel please. And we had truffles which were v nice. And a butler. Oh yes, a butler. I’d like a butler all the time. Just because. We didn’t abuse the service though, but we did send him off to find a needle and thread so Lizzie could mend my dress, and he was gone for ages. I wouldn’t have thought that would be a difficult request, but apparently it was.

Then later we went to another hotel for tea (proper tea, the way we Brits do, with tiny sandwiches with no crusts, and scones and cakes, and oh we don’t like scones with raisins, could you make us some without? Oh of course, or you could have these chocolate ones? Gimme gimme! Chocolate scones, who knew?) with lots of friends. And then we had drinks but me and Lizzie were in bed by 10pm. Aren’t we good. I didn’t fall asleep straight away and then Lizzie made me get up at 8 am to have breakfast with the groom’s mum and Aunt. She’d been awake since 5 am looking at her dress and going ‘Eeee!’ I opened one eye and glared at her for a bit, but she didn’t notice.

But breakfast was very nice, although that goes without saying seeing as everything at that hotel is nice. Better than nice. Divine even. After that we went back to the room and packed up our stuff as we were moving into Lizzie and J’s suite to get ready, and the butler took us over. I love saying that, the butler. I am slightly obsessed with the butlers and where they go when they are not butlering, do they have a cubby hole, an office? Are they bored waiting for their next challenge? Do they maintain their own uniforms or does the hotel do that for them? Does the cleaning come out of their wages? I must know!

We had one, and I think the only, thing that did not go to plan on the day, and that was the manicures. When we went down to the spa to get our nails done they had no record of the booking. I felt very sorry for the woman, who looked mortified when Lizzie said she was getting married today. And Lizzie, not being a bridezilla in the slightest, was calm and collected and said it wasn’t her fault and the woman kindly fit us in anyway and sorted out our nails. Although while doing so she was looking after a chap who was on the running machine, in some sort of outfit that looked like a wet suit, and plugged him into the machine. Apparently that makes you sweat more. It was bizarre.

After that it all kind of kicked off. We went back to the room and showered. Liz, the other bridesmaid, arrived, then hair and makeup, then the photographer, and we got dressed. Early of course. Lizzie’s greatest fear in life is being late for something, and so we were ready with about two hours to spare. She kept sneakily making her way into the hall bit of the room by the door and then we’d all end up there and stand about for a bit before realising and making her go back into the living room. If she’d had her way she’d have been down the aisle before J.

And then it was time, and I was a bit nervous, but Lizzie was mostly calm, or at least seemed it. And we were walking down the aisle before I knew it and I don’t really remember that bit, apart from ‘don’t stand on the dress, don’t stand on the dress!’ so I hope I smiled at least. I didn’t get to see J’s face as Lizzie entered which is my favourite bit, but I am sure it was a picture. And the service was lovely, but short, and the two readings were beautiful and excellent choices. Then I had to sign the register but since they gave me a fountain pen, which I never use, neither signature looked like the other, or my actual signature, sorry history.

Then it was party time really. We could all relax. I followed Lizzie around for a bit holding her dress, because when else can you have someone do that if not your wedding day? And we had formal photos and canapes and I managed to eat one of the amazing mozzarella balls, before settling into the main room for dinner and speeches. Dinner was excellent. Really yummy. And the cake was well worth waiting for. Mmmm cake… I know Lizzie’s dad had been very nervous about his speech, because he’s quite shy and quiet, but he did such a brilliant job. That’s the closest I came to crying all day, must say. He was sweet and funny and just lovely. And J’s speech was good, and the best man wasn’t crude (unless you knew the in joke…)

Then it was the first dance, and then we all danced, and wow the night was over. How is it possible that it’s done? They’re married. What the hell are we going to talk about now!?

Lizzie kept thanking me for being Maid of Honour, but you know, there is no need. It really was a pleasure. I’m so happy I got to be part of it, to see the backstage stuff, to go along and help with whatever she needed help with. And it’s not like Lizzie has been a demanding bride. Of all the people to be MoH for, she has to be the easiest. No stresses, no flip outs, just relaxed and calm all the way through. Not that you’d expect anything else from her really.

And now back to normal life, where I don’t have a butler to send to the shop for milk and bread, so that’ll have to be done, and my hair is still solid so a shower would be good at some point.

But it was the best day.

Can We?

I haven’t said much about the election, not because I don’t think it affects me, it does, it’s just there’s so much that has been said, and that you can say, where do you start? The beginning is always a good place, right?

I’m not an expert on American politics, not even close. Hell, I hardly know anything about British politics. Not something I’m proud of, it just doesn’t seem to stick in my head. But I do find the American system much more interesting, the fight for the nomination, the debates, the voting. It’s pretty great to watch it unfold, especially now. It would be better if I could say for certain that the guy I’m rooting for is going to win, but I learned some time ago not to count your chickens.

Back in 2000 I was living in the US. I was at the University of Maryland, in my second year. I got to see the hubbub up close. Only I wasn’t paying attention. Call me self-involved (you can, that’s fine) but I just didn’t think it was a big deal. And that’s because I didn’t think there was any possibility that George W. Bush would win. I wasn’t remotely worried about it. I figured everyone saw what I saw when they looked at him, which was pretty much a spoiled Daddy’s boy as thick as two short planks. I found him humorous, back then it was fine, laughable was ok, he wasn’t actually going to be important or anything. Actually, I can tell you exactly what I thought, since I have my journal from then. On 13th November 2000 I wrote:

I suppose I should write about what’s going on in this country with the elections…the count was too close to call so they have to re-count Florida and absent ballots. It’s a whole big who-ha that’s been going on for a week and it’s taken over TV and it’s all anyone talks about. I suppose it’s a huge thing really, cos it’s never happened before. I really want Gore to win, because Bush is just so ignorant, he’s so dumb! Why would anyone want him as their President? What kind of country am I living in here!?

Sigh. I kind of wish my younger self had paid more attention to history in the making, but it wasn’t to be. And so I went on my merry way figuring nothing much would change once Clinton left office.

Oh. How wrong can you be?

I remember what happened next. I remember being utterly confused by the whole thing. And then it was 2004, and my hopes weren’t as high, but they were still there, still clinging on. He couldn’t possibly win again, could he? Not after everything? Well, yeah, he could and he did.

And now? Well, I gotta say, the hopes that I threw away are trying to latch back on to me, stubborn little buggers.

And because I’m five years behind and only saw this today:

God, I hope so.