Monic-ahhhh's Blahhhh-g

Welcome to Chunderville, USA. Population: MY WHOLE LIFE

2012-01-06T18:00:00.000-08:00

This is a story about barf.

If you're not into a long and detailed narrative of spew, turn back now. I mean it, this will be a tale of vom, a ton of vom, and nothing but the vom, so help me Vom. Strap in if you're ready for it, yak-afficionadoes. All of this happened to me yesterday.

I can't say for sure if it was Air Canada's pasta, or the Thai food I ate with my family before I got on the plane, or the Starbucks sandwich I had somewhere in between, or some kind of unrelated virus entirely, but whatever it was, good work to it, it definitely won Britain's Next Biggest Life Ruiner. BECAUSE:

I boarded my Air Canada flight back to London with the usual mixture of sad/happy, exacerbated by a rushed but lovely dinner with my Mum, and my Dad's hilarious and adorable but also really-kind-of-emotional-if-you-think-about-it habit of refusing to leave the airport until I get all the way through security and he can physically no longer see me. The movie selection was pretty choice (Ratatouille what's upppp), and I ate my bolognese pasta and little crappy chocolate cake and went to sleep.

Then I awoke. The teen beside me was snoozing away with his hoodie over his face but it became increasingly clear to me that I needed to get out of my seat and into the bathroom for vomit reasons, so I nudged him awake. He looked at me the way I imagine he looks at his mom when she tells him to turn down the Dashboard Confessional, and I awkwardly jangled all the seats in my immediate vicinity until I was in the aisle.

The next twenty minutes don't need a ton of description except the quick disclaimer that if you're going to attempt a barf-while-peeing maneuver in an airplane bathroom, do NOT try to wash that barf out of the sink with water. It will make a watery barf stew that will threaten to slosh over the sides of the sink/all over your undone trousers and underwear during the inevitable turbulence that will follow.

The remaining hours of the flight were divided between weirdly sweaty naps and waking up the much-beleaguered teen (Sorry, dude. WHO COULD HAVE KNOWN?!) to go to the bathroom and watch each part of my plane meal surface into the sink.

Real Life Low, right guys? Surely the torture ended there, in my feverish plane nightmare world. No way it could get any worse at all, that would just be too cruel to handle. JKKKKKKKK! It got SO much worse! We hit crazy bad turbulence during landing. Like, insanely bad. It was a real roller coaster ride of emotions, if all the emotions on the roller coaster were softly whispering "barf right now wherever you can." Wherever I Could looked like it was going to be my own pathetic little hand, so I grabbed my air sickness bag. I started to feel a bit better, and the turbulence settled down. Just in case, I reached said pathetic little hand inside the air sickness bag to open it up, so that if I felt sick later I would have a receptacle.

And that is when I touched a stranger's cold barf.

As you may have guessed, this caused me to just chunder EVERYWHERE, everywhere mainly being onto one of my very favourite sweaters (RIP that sweater, you deserved so much more). I tucked the sweater under the seat in front of me, said a quiet knitwear eulogy and softly cried to myself while we landed. (For real, I did all those things.) When I got off the plane I took an air sickness bag with me, as it was becoming increasingly apparent that there was something horribly wrong with my insides and I should steel myself for more bad behaviour on the part of my internal organs.

In line at customs is when I reached what might be my most miserable point ever in life. Alone and surrounded by other tired and worn out (though less smelly/dishevelled) travellers, I felt more barf about to happen. At this point that made sense to me, so I calmly reached for my air sickness bag and went to open it and my mouth at once, ready to get it all over with. It was in this moment of calm acceptance that I realized that the teen had put his gum in the bag. Right at the top. My mouth filled with vomit and I clawed desperately at the masticated remains of the sickening cherry-esque scented wad of glue holding the bag shut. Literally, barf was dripping out my mouth. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned towards them to explain that this was NOT A GOOD TIME, I vomited all over the concerned customs official's shoes and pants.

That is kind of the worst of it, I shilled out for a cab and sat in the back writhing around in my own sweat and half sleeping and waking up to barf and noting glumly that it was a spectacularly crisp and beautiful morning, and the Thames and all the usual landmarks looked unbelievable and this really is a living fairytale land sometimes, but mainly I thought about barf. I went home and the chunder express choo-choo-ed up the stairs and into my bathroom and there it remained for several hours. It was maybe the worst, and definitely the grossest, day of my whole life. And you know what, though? Like, pretty nice life.

I had a wonderful trip home and I'm back in another wonderful new home full of lovely people and things, and I maybe spent the past twenty four hours barfing my guts out and literally responding with joy when I found I had no more food and only water to purge from my weird shaking clammy body because water doesn't have a foul sour taste or any chunks in it, but if that's the worst, I have no real idea of what "bad" even is. HAPPY 2012 EVERYONE!

(PS I'm very high on different cough and flu and stomach medicines right now, don't get me wrong, it was still pretttttty terrible.)

working girl (not that kind)

2011-11-30T16:52:00.000-08:00

I really don't want to make this all about HCIMYLM Man, but today on my way home from work, I discovered he now has a full sized guitar, a giant gold pig-shaped piggy bank on a table, and Sperry topsiders. So, he's great, we all know he's great, the end, just picture an absurdity curve that goes upwards infinitely, and that is him.

Now, I promise that is the last mention of him for a while. I have heard the fans shouting in the streets ("But what has your mom been texting?!" "Have you abandoned embarrassing hats? WINTER IS COMING! Also how do you feel about Game of Thrones?!") and I am responding with a thrilling post about the job that I have now. It is a bartending job and it is great for a number of reasons. I have put the reasons in a list below:

1. British customer service standards are so incredibly low that I am required to do almost nothing but still considered to be pretty good at my job. In a world where I once entered a bank to take money out and was told that that branch was "not a cash bank", and no money was handled there, a bartender literally only needs to put the drink on the counter and take the money and give the required change. You don't even need to be fast. I sent a fax today because the governmental agency I was trying to send a copy of my passport to REFUSED to accept a scan over the weekend so I had to wait til Monday when the printing place near my flat was open. British people are cool with waiting for things.

2. Because I work in an office building--not naming names for "professionalism" reasons, it's just a Corporation that is in charge of Broadcasting and is British, could be any building or office--and because the office is kind of arty--again, could be anywhere, just some place where culture is produced, no one knows where--it is like a beautiful little community of pals who all know each other and are just happy to be hanging out and therefore don't give me or each other a hard time. Just a Bustling, Beautiful Community. Where I work. Could be anywhere.

3. Having a job that is just making drinks and sometimes bringing nachos to people's tables means I can just go home and not have anything else to think about. I can read or see my friends or watch a hundred hours of cat videos on the internet and there's nothing else I need to be doing. It almost feels wrong to not be stressed about some terrible and obscure paper. In related news, I can't believe how much time I used to spend thinking about how I could best compose a pun that would involve Thomas Middleton, gender norms and the concept of dismemberment. (FYI it's "Maidenheads and Maiden's heads: The dissection of the female in Middleton". In case you were wondering, which, obviously we all were.)

4. Before I got this job I was getting pretty desperate. A well dressed older lady approached me on the street one day with some flyers for her soon-to-open bar, and told me that I "had the look" they were going for for their waiting staff, so I should consider sending in "an application and some photos." Cool bar, right? How great that they're just wandering the streets checking out girls with the right look! JK, it turned out to be a topless gentleman's club. So, working at a place that lets me keep my top on is a real plus these days. I try not to think about how the removal of a bra and t-shirt would mean literally five times more money an hour.

5. Today at work the big boss came in, never learnt my name, and referred to me only as "The African Queen" without ever explaining why. A choir of heavenly angels followed him around echoing 'perfect'.

Everybody, quit what you're doing and get a job working in a bar, right? Living the dream! Keeping our shirts on! Also today as I was rounding up a Skype chat with my Dad he said "so have you seen that French movie about the caves?" He later sent me an email that was two lines, one of which was "I have a cold." I cannot WAIT to come home to Canada and get all the hot news at Christmas!

brief update

2011-11-20T16:46:00.001-08:00

HOW CAN I MAKE YOU LOVE ME Man has a full-sized guitar now with a case for collecting money. Yesterday he was just laughing to himself and playing one string over and over. More blogs (unrelated to that man) tomorrow.

my dream duet

2011-11-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

Okay, so, err'body be trippin' about how I haven't updated this blog in a million years, and I get it, we all love to procrastinate. Except here is the thing: I don't need to procrastinate anymore! I'm officially all finished with school! I have a Master's degree now, which is probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life, but here we are, it's happened, that's just a thing that is true about me now.

This is what I've been doing with my time guys.
I'm obviously really busy, too busy to blog (2B2B), definitely.

THAT BEING SAID, I really enjoyed the ol' blog and I think maybe my legions of adoring fan (singular, hey mom, how's it going) have a point. So, once a week I will try to do a blog on you guys. This week's topic is near and dear to my heart because I see him every day and his story is ever-changing and he is so mysterious. I'm getting ahead of myself.

This week is all about the man my flatmates and I refer to as The HOW CAN I MAKE YOU LOVE ME Guy:

This possibly-homeless gentleman spends every day from around noon until midnight in a pedestrian underpass beside the Tower of London. I pass him twice a day going to and from work, and the first time I saw him I was terrified. To be fair, I was walking through an underpass late at night and a gigantic African man in a ratty red track suit with a huge pile of unwashed dreads was standing in the middle of it totally motionless holding a sign that read "HOW CAN I MAKE YOU LOVE ME" in front of a suitcase that was open and full of hundreds of pieces of paper bearing the same message. I hurried past and tried to avoid eye contact.

The HOW CAN I MAKE YOU LOVE ME Guy (hereafter HCIMYLM Guy... such a convenient acronym. Much shorter.) became a regular part of my day pretty quickly, and I stopped being scared of him. Once when he wasn't there, I worried about what could have happened to him, but he was back the next day so maybe he just slept in. From what I could tell, he just stood there holding the sign every day, with the same suitcase, in the same full red track suit. He packed up every night and came back the next day. People sometimes threw money into the suitcase.

Then one day he was sitting down. He had bought a cheap three legged stool. Also, he had the exact same track suit on but it was green. I got used to the new track suit and the stool. He still had the sign and just held it while he sat. It should also be noted that he does not move. Not to stretch, scratch, or look around. He just sits and stares straight ahead.

A few weeks later, he was wearing a blue version of the same track suit, and instead of the suitcase full of signs, he had one of those little waving cat piggy bank things you can buy in Chinatown. A few days after that, when I came home from work I found him surrounded by a small army of little waving cat piggy banks. Just chilling on his stool in his full blue track suit, surrounded by waving ceramic cat figurines.

Hey guys.

Basically as soon as you get used to what you think is his "thing," he messes with your brain and gets an entirely new thing. The new thing is always fancier and more expensive than whatever his old thing was, which you will never see again. This guy is the most upwardly mobile maybe-homeless person I've ever seen. The biggest changes have come in the past few weeks. One day when I was coming home from a night out, I heard some eery music coming from the underpass. HCIMYLM Guy was sitting down there in his classic red suit, playing a ukulele on the stool. The cats were gone, and there was no sign of the suitcase. People were dropping money into a hat as they walked by.

Last week when I came back from my first shift at my new job (more on that another time), he was sitting there in a FULL SUIT AND TIE, serenading people on the uke. What is this guy's story?! I honestly think he might be the most intriguing person in London. Also, he sits nightly in the shadow of the Shard so he knows good real estate when he sees it. I fully expect him to buy the Shard penthouse when it opens. At the rate he/it is going, by the time it is completed he'll probably be able to.

Well, anyway, here we are, you're welcome, the blog is back on. Now back to learning to play 'Remix to Ignition' on the ukulele. Working towards a duet with HCIMYLM Guy. The duet of my dreams.

probably that is alright for now, man. you can take it easy.

2011-09-08T08:50:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare, buddy. Everyone was really impressed by Macbeth. See also: Romeo and Juliet, King Lear... great work! Dramatic and captivating. Poetry coming alive onstage. Timeless masterpieces that resonate as truly today as they surely did hundreds of years ago at the original Globe. But for the next like, two weeks, maybe just can it? Maybe just consider not being a part of my life for a month or more? Maybe get out of here and shut your pentametric mouth? Yes? Good yes okay yes thank you. Great talk. Really appreciate it. Forsooth, and all that.

there are weirder things to study than dissection in the early modern period

2011-08-22T08:26:00.000-07:00

monica (4:31pm):
hello hello- what are you up to?

emily (4:33pm):

researching dog-powered treadmills, you?

monica (4:33pm):

......

emily (4:34pm):

this is my life now.

"hands in the air victory" INDEED

2011-07-19T13:01:00.001-07:00

This is a list of words and/or phrases people have searched that lead them to my blog. Each one is a beautiful treasure, and, I think, a wonderful reflection on me as a person. Behold:

- "hatfield house

- "monica heisey twitter

- "and the author

- "the shard

- "hairy old women farting and shitting

- "hands in the air victory

- "hasselhoff

- "http://www.monic-ahh.blogspot.com

- "kate middleton ursula

- "leopard print fur hats+euros"

A few things about this list:

1. Whoever is googling the entirety of the blog's url instead of just putting that same information into the address bar (Mom...?) is doing extra unnecessary work.

2. Whoever is googling "leopard print fur hats+euros" is a hero. And, probably, a well-dressed European.

3. I love the Shard like it is my metal and glass baby. I hope whoever was googling it looking for real information was happy of the drawing I drew of it as a Christmas tree.

4. That hairy old ladies thing is straight up the most hilarious thing for someone to be googling for whatever reason. Also, the most perfect thing that it linked to my blog. I am guessing because of frequent references to my terrible at-home haircut, obsessive Shard coverage, and that time I rewrote The King's Speech to be about farts, and probably because all I do is talk about how Shakespeare is my boyfriend and then make puns... very old lady behaviour.

Anyway, the point is, the world is hilarious and some people are googling perverts. Back to work on the ol' dissertation.

Things I Did This Week Instead of My Dissertation:

2011-07-15T09:10:00.000-07:00

Attended a very lovely comedy evening featuring a character called "Party Bee" and a review of all Disney's straight-to-DVD sequels. Guys. Cinderella 3: A Twist in Time is a real thing. But really, the truth of the matter is, I'm never going to have a bad time at a show where a be-stubbled man sings "Part of Your World" and accompanies himself on the ukulele.

Wandered around London like an impoverished pilgrim, peering in cafe windows like a Dec. 23 Tiny Tim. Went home and discovered my flatmates enjoy eating spinach like it is chips, raw and straight out of the bag.

Gave up on Google+ at almost the EXACT MOMENT I accepted my invitation. (Related: Shut up Google, "invitation." This is the internet, and if it was invite-only there would be no lonely weirdos making mash ups of cats and Star Wars or whatever it is that I look at all day.)

Had a lot of pictures of my friends having a good time in Toronto sent to me over bbm. It was kind of delightful and kind of agonizing, and Ava, if you are reading this, your boobs are looking great.

And lastly, instead of writing my dissertation I ... drew things like this...? for some reason? This is also only one of a number of cartoons I drew where the joke is just a pun drawn out as a literal thing?

Shut up brain. Go back to reading that play you are reading that one literary critic has called "sensational even by Elizabethan standards", and "almost preposterously violent".

SUMMER 2011, right?

TAKE ME OUT

2011-07-06T07:02:00.000-07:00

What I like most about having started a humour-oriented blog upon moving to England [professional tip: probably if that is how you describe your blog it is not very humourous. However, my mom reads this thing and laaaaughs and laaaaaughs so here we are.] is that England is SO SILLY I barely have to do anything. What follows is a description of the British television show Take Me Out. It is just a real show that exists here and is fairly widely watched.

A love match in the making, I'm sure. Paddy is a modern-day Cupid.

Lights up. Thirty or so ladies stand at illuminated podiums with their names written on them. They are very dolled up and wearing shiny party dresses, corsets, fascinators, etc. The host, a cheeky Irishman named Paddy, appears and gives them a hard time about being "singletons", prompting some of them to get VERY cheeky in return, while others look kind of sad in the heavily made-up face.

THEN. A series of male suitors descends from a pod in the middle of the stage. The technical term for this pod is "The Love Lift." They descend one at a time after Paddy shrieks "Single Man, reveal yourself!". Usually they dance.

The ladies all just look at him, and if they are not into it, they turn off the light on their podium. The slogan for this portion of the show is "No Likey, No Lightey." I have a hard time with that for a number of reasons, namely that it is a ridiculous slogan and also that every time I hear it I get really nervous that it is culturally insensitive, although I'm not sure to whom... maybe just to the concept of 'culture', in general.

Then there is a video about the man, where he talks about his job and his life. More ladies can turn their lights off. The host gives everyone a hard time about this as well, asking why people weren't into it or why certain women have kept their lights on. Answers range from "I love a man in a footballer's uniform, I quite fancy myself a WAG. wiiiiiink" to "Well, he's proper fit, inn'he?" Very deep connections are forged after watching the two minute video about these men's jobs and lives.

This man gets a big time Blackout... the ladies NO LIKEY.

After this, if there are women still available, the man turns off the lights at any remaining podiums—based purely on how the women look in their shiny party dresses, as he has not actually spoken to any of them—and when two are left, they answer a single question from him, after which he chooses one, and those two go on a beautiful televised date, to be shown on the next episode. The most hilarious part of this is that Paddy reveals a secret to "up the stakes" before the Single Man chooses, and the secret is always like "BEFORE YOU MAKE YOUR DECISION, one of these two girls is a registered massage therapist." or "BEFORE YOU MAKE YOUR DECISION, one of these two girls has a thing for tall men." He could be turning the light out on the registered masseuse of his dreams!

These encounters take a total of ten minutes, maybe, and there are a few of them every episode. HOWEVER, the best thing in the whole world is what happens if the ladies all turn their lights off before the man even has a chance to turn any off himself. This is called a BLACKOUT and when it happens it means the man has been REJECTED by 30 ladies based on his looks and a two minute video about his life. At which point he is sent up some illuminated stairs while the ladies all wave and sing along as the song "All By Myself" plays.

As a prime example, meet Rob. This Single Man, referred to as a "sexy zebra," makes the ladies fairly cheeky. He also is the victim of a Blackout. (Every time there is a Blackout Paddy gives the rejected man 'some paddy love'. Rob turns this around on Paddy. Hilarity ensues.) Observe:

Literally you could not make this stuff up. But obviously someone did.

i promise i will eventually post something that is NOT my dad bbm-ing me, but at the moment he is on fire and who are we to fight it?

2011-07-03T14:07:00.000-07:00

7:21 pm DJPete: hey sweetie hope you're having a good day!

7:25 pm monica.heisey: great day. very good day.

7:27 pm DJPete: And why not, it's Friday night, you are a single gal in London on Canada Day!

This girl knows what we're talkin' about.

I'm almost 100% certain that if I got my Mom on BBM I could do daily updates based entirely on text messages from my parents. Miss you guys. Happy Canada day from your SINGLE GAL* IN THE CITY!

*My boyfriend is very nice and you've all met him a few different times.

every day i thank jesus for BBM

2011-06-30T17:38:00.000-07:00

5:14 pm DJPete: Honey Badger

5:15 pm monica.heisey: ... say what now.

5:16 pm DJ Pete: Youtube. Honey Badger. Watch it and report! Love dad.

rump stump thump

2011-06-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

There is a little brick laneway between the courtyard where my flat is and the main street that runs in front of it. It is a very convenient way to get out to the main road and also to and from the grocery store at the end of the road.

Yesterday, in the throes of research, I went on an emergency Diet Coke run, and ended up picking up a few other groceries as well. With my arms full, I headed back home. As I walked through the little laneway area, I met a man halfway through. He had one arm and was really smiley. I'd never met anyone else in the alley before, so I didn't realize it was not big enough for two people to pass through comfortably until it was too late.

Google search complete wanted me to search for "Winklevoss twins". NOT PERVY ENOUGH.

And by "too late", I mean "the man with one arm slapped my butt with his stump, winked at me, and walked along."

this is what they think of us.

2011-06-26T06:22:00.000-07:00

At a "North American-style" breakfast party; streaky bacon, orange slices, legitimate maple syrup and thick pancakes abound.

Brit 1: This breakfast is going to be wiiiiicked.

Lone Canadian: Are you trying to use North American slang to get in the spirit?

Brit 1: Yeah, dude.

Brit 2: Totally awesome breakfast.

Brit 3: Yeah! Cowabunga!

Qui vol cet oiseau?

2011-06-21T17:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, Air Transat. Okay, people who take airplanes. We need to have a talk.

To Air Transat:
Your in-flight entertainment plan should definitely not have included Big Momma's House 3: Like Momma like Son, or whatever that nightmare was called. I did, however, greatly enjoy the periodic breaks for Spanish language lessons (me gusta los continental breakfast) and the Canadian trivia from 1991—which female singer had a mega-hit with the song "Black Velvet"? Now I know. It was Alannah Myles.

The main thing I wanted to talk about though, was the occasional cartoon you would put up that was just an airplane with a blinking light on the top of it, and a speech bubble saying "Who's driving this bird?". For one thing, it made me nervous about who, in fact, was driving said bird. For two, it made me really nervous that you guys also don't know how planes work. One of us should know that.

To people who take airplanes:
I understand that sometimes you want to take your baby with you when you are going places. Don't do this. Or at least, if you do, don't let them play with all the buttons on their chair until they find the very amusing overhead light on/off button. Also, don't be mad at me when I look at them with my I'mma Cut You face; I am not above giving that face to a child.

Further, I understand that plane tickets are expensive and that it's probably pretty embarrassing to have to buy two seats to accommodate just you if you are a large person. However, I bet it was more embarrassing when the girl beside you woke up and you both realized she had been using THE SIDE OF YOUR BODY as an arm-rest the whole time, because the actual arm-rest was in fact covered by the side of your body. Embarrassing for us all. Buy an extra seat on the bird!

I sound like a real grump and I have already done a blog post re: my feelings on air travel, so maybe shut up Monica on this one, but also, Air Transat really is the butthole of the skies.

The good news is, I am back in England where the tv is weird, the people are cheeky, and "Salad Cream" is a thing.

like a town in the South of France

2011-05-10T09:01:00.000-07:00

I am very committed to fully experiencing this year abroad. I want to do and see British things and learn British stuff and eat British food. It's why I'm getting fat (vegetables in England are illegal unless you put them in a pastry coating), it's why I snog gingers exclusively (Affirmative Snog Action), and it's why I try really hard to accumulate a brain-dictionary of British slang words.

My flatmates have been taking advantage of this interest in the British vernacular. They tried for an unreasonably long time last week to convince me that 'twinkledip' was Brit slang for vagina. Come on, guys. I know the English language is silly, but it is not THAT silly. Also, did we all take note of that seamless use of the word 'flatmates' in the above sentence? MAKIN' IT WORK.

Now, there are lots of funny and silly—and also real—words you can use if you want to sound wanky and British. 'Wanky' is one. 'Well' to mean 'very' is another. But the main one is 'nice.' Nice is the most important word in the British language, because it is basically their only adjective.

Consider this example. The quotation below indicates how a British person would describe these breakfasts:

'Nice.'

'Really nice.'

'Not very nice'

When things are really wonderful, they are 'nice' or 'really nice'. The opposite of 'nice' is 'not very nice.'

A good meal is 'nice,' the man you met on Friday night who you have a huge crush on and think might be THE ONE is 'so nice' (James, call me), a person who you never want to talk to again is 'just not nice.' No other descriptive words indicating the quality of a person or object exist. The more you know.

Library Listening Update:

2011-05-06T04:08:00.001-07:00

Accidentally unplugged my headphones from my computer and blasted "Back to December" through the silent Rare Books Reading Room. I may have to leave.

For some context, "Back to December" is a heart-rending ballad about the age-old problem of what to do when you are careless with your TeenWolf boyfriend's heart. The answer is to invite him to your house, apologize for 'leaving his roses there to die', and ask about his family. Then tell him all you think about is that time you broke up with him. Romanz.

Absolute Sofering.

2011-05-05T11:16:00.000-07:00

I'm in the British Library right now. I've been here since slightly before noon. Some equally disheveled/slightly smelly people are here with me, forming a League of the Truly Pathetic: people that are at the library until it the second it closes. "Committed to caffeinated drinks, developing hunchbacks, and forgetting what the outdoors look like!" - League Motto

Earlier today, a distinguished-looking professor (probably) in an actual tweed jacket with elbow patches was sitting beside me, writing in a leather-bound notebook about Romanticism in painting or something equally erudite. On the other side, a 'mature student'—every university-level English class has at least one Mom in it, this is a rule—researched the Cuban missile crisis.

Everyone around me is more or less oozing academia. I've been listening to Taylor Swift almost exclusively, all day long.

Taylor Swift: bibliophile

I can't help it. Something about being forced to read sentences like:

“Such theoretical refinements threatened a bottomless mise-en-abime of theatrical signification. …The axiomatic leap from the stage object’s materiality to its sign function continued to risk theorizing the material object out of existence."(Sofer p.10)

What does that even mean? It just makes me want to jam out to some slightly vengeful* country-pop. I guess everyone has their own library thing. The man across from me seems to require a study-break system of prolonged and uncomfortable eye contact with girls in the library... whatever works, right? Hope that paper he is resarching about rape in Classical myth [real topic] works out.

Not working anymore: my brain. Maybe as a result of needing more sleep, or possibly as a result of reading way, way too much old-timey language, I have started misspelling things. I was legitimately confounded earlier as to why my spellcheck was not recognizing "apparelle" as a word. Goode worke, Heiseye!

My paper so far: "Prithee viewe the evidence, here presented, by a mere womanne, aboute bodies in the Renaissance, where we are all frome. Forsooth!"

... Okay for sure I need more sleep. I promise not to blog again until I have a nap. GOD YE GOOD E'EN.

*Highly vengeful. TSwift is an angry woman. Do not wrong her, she WILL rhyme about it.

Blog Hard 2: Blog Harder (Too)

2011-05-01T09:49:00.000-07:00

Well, shit guys. I didn't write a single thing on this blog for twenty days. Naturally, the press, blog-o-sphere and twittersphere were horrified and in a general uproar:

"Monic-ahh's blahh-g deserted: Five outraged" - The Guardian
"Has she not burnt her tongue on anything this month? Surely she's made a questionable fashion choice or seven. COME ON." -@stephenfry
"Why did she have to get a life and stop writing useless updates to fill the void??" - CNN.com

As you can see, compelling stuff. The good news is that two major papers are now handed in (have fun with those, King's academics!) and I am back on track and DTB. People are getting really excited about the reinvention of this blog. Some early critics have called it 'edgier than the first blog, but with about the same number of cat pictures.' The blog is going to dye its hair brown and sing about the ISSUES. It wants you to know it's all grown up, and it's not going to sugar-coat its identity just because the blog's managers want it to be a 'role model.' It's getting serious as an ARTIST.

First order of business:
Kate Middleton = Ursula the Sea-Witch in human form?

I mean, the resemblance is uncanny. Except for the fact that 'Vanessa' didn't have a fit sister in a slinky silk dress stealing her thunder as she sashayed down the aisle with adorable children on either side, this is pretty much how the royal wedding went, right? Related: as a child I used to just sing that Ariel tune to myself and others. Nobody liked it. I LOVED IT.

And now a photo-essay on what happened this month:
(... photo essay.)

The London Marathon route went by our terrace. We yelled encouraging things at the runners with a megaphone while barbecuing skewers of halloumi cheese.

The Queen of Hoxton provided these jaunty delights to serenade the 11 am rooftop boozefest that was the Royal Wedding.

Pimm's is pretty much how summer happens.

Just in case it was in any way unclear, these people have been drinking.

These three gingers arrived at the barbecue separately in matching blue button downs and brown loafer shoes. Great and/or terrible work, everyone!

This is how I want everyone to picture me always.

Priorities, British people. Priorities.

2011-04-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

This is an actual transcript from an actual conversation that was just televised on Antiques Roadshow.

Evaluator: Well, given that this particular vase is from Lalique's opalescent line, I would venture you'd probably be able to fetch 3,000 pounds or so for it at auction.

Vase Owner: Wow. I could pay for my funeral!

[Update: Maybe they really are all like that.]

"Where are we?" "We're still on the island." "But where are we IN TIME?!"

2011-04-07T15:56:00.000-07:00

Coming to England is a lot like time travel: you get into a rickety metal canister, get a bit drowsy and shaken up, and when you emerge, you're in A FAR AND DISTANT LAND... and, probably, THE PAST.

I don't mean that it just seems like the past because people still think the word "tart" is offensive and to open a bank account you have to send three different letters to the Isle of Wight and people still sometimes conduct their business via fax and Hyde Park has special paths for horse-riding and the other day someone near me referred to a young boy as 'Master Stephens', but rather because Hollywood has taught me that a British accent of some kind is film-speak for "this happened a long time ago." 'Where' seems to not be a big factor- the English accent was the accepted language of all people prior to this moment in history, guys. Accept it. Get on board or sod off, right?

It's actually a bit of a cause for concern. Maybe I am displaced in time! For all I know I could be living in 1940s Russia:

That makes sense. Just a bunch of famous English people using their regular British accents to play Russian soldiers during WWII. The Germans have German accents, duh, because we all know German is one of the most evil accents ever.

It is also possible I have ended up in Ancient Greece:

Damn you, Air Canada. Maybe I've been kidnapped and brought here as the wife to a weenie in a dress when my REAL HUSBAND, an older, fatter weenie in a dress, is desperately searching for me and is SUPER MAD. I think this means my new flat is going to get burned down and one of my flatmates is going to have to have a sword fight in my honour? RIP Adam of the past/future/dress.

Or magical, 2,000 BC Persia:

... Not sure what's going on here. I'd rather not involve myself with this ridiculousness and its sands-of-time/leather skirts/CGI antics. Get some new accents, videogame Persia of the olden days! Stop dating Taylor Swift, shirtless Jake Gylenhaal!

I could also be in my favourite option, 1930s prewar Austria:

If Fraulein Maria wants to make a fun mnemonic device for important names/dates in British history, that is okay with me. ("Anne, a queen who lost her head, Faust, a play by a dead guuuuuuuuy?" ... Yikes. Apologies to fans of The Sound of Music, British history, and intelligence.)

The point is, I guess I'm living in the days of yore and am a Carmen Sandiego-like globetrotting, time-traveling woman of mystery. (Just kidding, I'm in my pyjamas drinking a sleepy-time tea and watching a Danish avant-garde production of King Lear.)

movin' out

2011-04-03T08:18:00.000-07:00

I love Billy Joel. I discovered this while backpacking around Germany and some neighbouring countries—Belgium, but who cares about Belgium? Give me some waffles and let's move on, right?—and I've never looked back. I will love him oooh-oooh-oooh, for the longest time. Or until my friends read this and mock me into submission. Laughter: enforcing social norms and stopping me from liking weird stuff since 2000 BCE ("hahaha... now pray" - Jesus). Anyway, that's really just an explanation for the title of this post more than anything anyone wanted to read about at all.

The main point is: I have a new flat and she is a beaut! I live with three other "young professionals" ('other' might be a bit much, basically I am a boxcar hobo/benevolent squatter living amongst three young professionals) who are all lovely and explained our downstairs neighbour to me thusly: "She's... fine. There's just a ... smell." She apparently also once described her younger son to my flatmate Adam as "Straight as a dyke." We think perhaps she meant like, straight as a levee used to transport water from one place to another, or perhaps she meant "I'm insane and hilarious!". Either way, point taken and I am looking forward to meeting her, instead of just passing the pram she found on the street that she carries her groceries in.

Pretty much that's my exact moving experience.
I'm the one in the middle, throwing my chubby little hands in the air in jubilant victory.
Also, this image is from the website "urbandaddies.com".

Mainly I am excited to cook in a kitchen not coated in a constant, mysterious layer of 'sticky'. Goodbye Wolfson House, you are a big pile of garbage. Literally, the main entrance to my old residence was located in Guy's Hospital's truck receiving parking lot, instead of facing the perfectly normal street, and was therefore surrounded by hospital garbage. Safe and nice. On the bright side, they promised not to charge me for the tons of mold that grew on the walls and ruined several of my books and articles of clothing. Such kindness.

Exciting: there is a cupcake cookbook in our flat (there's also a terrace, a really good shower, A BIDET, and a kitchen that looks like the set of a Jamie Oliver television show, but whatever) and I plan on giving it a proper try. Earl Grey cupcakes anyone? COME VISIT.

Purchases from Poundland

2011-03-31T02:26:00.000-07:00

Made plans to meet my friend Craig for an "early breakfast" so we could get work done. Meant to have met at 10:15, we both sent polite "let's defer til 10:45 I'm still in bed" texts (only polite if the other person happens to ALSO be still in bed) and I think I'm still going to be late... grad school is ruining my life.

On the plus side, on a scale from One to Awesome, this is about a 12:

The best tote bag, or the best tote bag ever? Happy nuptials Wills and Kate! I put my laundry in you.

Just checking.

2011-03-29T07:16:00.000-07:00

1: Any clue where you want to grab food? I have to plan travel. Also, are you trying to have a threesome with me?

2: Indian food by The Miller at 6 or so? Also, no.

early modern anglia is for lovers

2011-03-23T14:51:00.000-07:00

So, I think my next-door neighbour is in the middle of a beautiful coming-out narrative, wherein coming to university in a big cosmopolitan city allowed him to meet the love of his life and discover the joys of his burgeoning homosexual identity. It's pretty beautiful. Except for right now, when it's horrible. The walls in this place are really thin and him and his Italian stallion/"friend" are mere feet away from me giggling like the keynote speakers at the 2011 Man Giggles Symposium and TickleFight Expo. While I feel a bit weird interloping unwillingly on their hairy tryst—seriously, they're both real hairy dudes—it's mostly just making me heartsick.

These guys know what I'm talking about.

Now, to deal with problems in life you're supposed to use what you know, right? This is what I try to do. Having spent the past five years of my life mostly reading early modern poetry and drama, this means I solve A LOT of my problems by dressing up like a boy and trying to pun them away, and also via that potion you can get from any priest that makes you look like you're dead, when really you are just INCREDIBLY asleep. Regardless, I've never taken the advice of witches, or been duped by a bed-trick (exactly what it sounds like, just the very normal Elizabethan practice of turning the lights off and forcing your maid into bed with your new husband so he would think you were a virgin, whatever) so I guess I'm doing okay.

Being lovesick was considered an actual physical illness in the early modern period, like having the flu or being insane (also considered a physical thing—there was no twitter so it was harder to diagnose back then).So what does Renaissance medicine have to say about the longings of the heart?

... If you read that last question and are legitimately interested, I guess keep reading this, and if you're my mom (the only other option) please be warned, shit gets REAL.

Jacques Ferrand's 1623 treatise on lovesickness describes its symptoms thus:

a pale and wan complexion
a slow fever
palpitations of the heart
swelling of the face
decreased appetite/insatiable hunger/raging thirst
sighing, headaches, melancholy
causeless tears, fainting, and other oppressions
insomnia
epilepsy
madness
uterine fury (a personal favourite)
"satyriasis", defined as "an itching or tickling of the private parts"

He also adds, optimistically, that "for the most part, these symptoms are without mitigation or cure." Except for the glimmer of hope provided by sweet, beautiful reconciliation after time apart or a nice love letter, right?

Just kidding, have sex with a prostitute or a nearby widow! Immediately!

That is Jacques Ferrand's advice. Truly, this was the age of ROMANCE. He mentions that the ideal is to have sex with the actual object of your desire, but if they're not around, feel free to find a prostitute, slave, or widow. And as soon as possible, satyriasis is no joke*.

Also, I'm pretty sure he was a doctor. I guess in the age of barber-dentists it's possible that he was a doctor-pimp and this counts as a particularly egregious example of vertical integration, but whatever the reason, this is barf. He does list one other option, but it's too gross even for the internet** (and the internet is a GROSS place) so we're just going to pretend it's not a thing.

I'm really at a loss here. For starters, my uterus is FURIOUS. I think probably the safest bet is to consult a ghost or do a spell of some kind? Maybe someone has a really good riddle I can administer to people until I just marry the first man who gets it right. The course of true love and all that.

*Don't be stupid, Jacques Ferrand, boners are hilarious.
**AN OLD LADY IS SUPPOSED TO SHOVE A RAG DIPPED IN MENSTRUAL BLOOD IN YOUR FACE I GUESS SO THAT YOU ARE SO GROSSED OUT YOU NEVER HAVE A SEXY THOUGHT EVER AGAIN IN YOUR LIFE? EVER AGAIN EVER?! LOVESICKNESS SOLVED NOW YOU HATE EVERYTHING?? I TOLD YOU IT WAS GROSS.

The King's Speech

2011-03-19T12:52:00.000-07:00

I'm not generally into bathroom humour. But the other day I was literally doubled over crying on the tube, thinking about The King's Speech and how hilarious it would be if instead of a stutter, Colin Firth's character just had a flatulence problem whenever he tried to speak in public. Everything else about the movie- the subtle acting, the complicated exercises with Geoffrey Rush, the pressure from World War II, Helena Bonham-Carter as his supportive, understanding wife- would be the same, except that instead of stuttering, high-pitched ladyfart-type sounds would come out when he attempted to give a speech. Watch this trailer and tell me you're not losing your mind thinking about that. No? Just me? Come on guys. Give in to your inner five year old. (Related: Having cookie dough tonight for dinner.)

And the Oscar for Greatest Fart-Based Rewrite of an Original Screenplay goes to me. It's just an honour to be nominated in the company of past winners like Celine Dion's "My Fart Will Go On", Tarantino's masterpiece Inglorious Gas-turds, and The Defarted.

PS. "The war will come, and when it does, we will need a King we can all stand behind."

Van Gross

2011-03-14T17:31:00.000-07:00

A posh British family sits in a cafe in an art gallery, dressed in their preppy best, ignoring the redheaded grad student in the corner reading a THRILLING and not at all creepy history of Renaissance stage representations of female orgasm. While she attempts to hide the unnecessarily graphic illustrations from those around her, she creeps on the family's convo, because kids with British accents make her more serious than normal about her fantasy marriage to Prince Harry. Just THINK of the ginger babies! Adorable!

Child: Who was that artist with the orange hair we saw? He made a painting of sunflowers.

Her Dad: Van Gogh. He cut his own ear off.

Child (horrified): ... WHY. WHY DID HE CUT HIS EAR OFF. FOR WHAT.

Her Dad: I can't remember. Because he was sad.

Her Mother: He was sad because a girl rejected him. I think he sent her his ear.

Child: That is gross and stupid. Of COURSE she rejected him, he's ginger.

Czech, please

2011-03-05T20:08:00.000-08:00

Badummmm-shhhhh. (That's a drum. The sound FX on this blog are stunning. It's all about #multimedia right? (...what is happening.))

Okay, so opening with a bad joke and a double parentheses doesn't bode well for this particular post but I promise it's worth it because the glories of Praha, where I went on reading week with my visiting famiglia, are multitudinous. To wit:

THE HAT got taken out in all its leopard-print, furry glory, beause if you can't wear a leopard-print furry head covering in the cold winter of Eastern Europe, when can you? I was emboldened by the many and various beautiful fur hats/ensembles of the local stylish Czech ladies; I have seen the utmost in glamour and function, and it is a full-length fur cape.

THE HAT was really in its element in the Czech Republic, where fur hats were one of the things sold at Prague Souvenir shops, alongside "czech me out" t-shirts, marionettes (?), and those stackable dolls. Nothing says "my beautiful Eastern European vacation" like a set of stacking dolls with the cast of Twilight inexplicably pictured on it.

Also, our tour guide did NOT delineate when she was telling us historical facts and when she was telling us folkloric Czech myths. "This is where the statue of Stalin was until it was joyfully torn down after the fall of the Communism" was exactly the same as "This is the statue of the frog spirits who can marry women of the town, and once the woman is marriage to them, she can breathe also underwater." (That is a real informational tidbit she told us. The Czechs are a complex and storied people.)

... And then we went with my Dad to a black light theatre show with some minor barely-legal nudity and a great deal of lesbian sensuality.

"Aspects of Alice" was a theatre experience for the ages. Apparently based on Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland, it opened with an author in a billowy blouse writing at a desk. Then he was crucified.

It was really all upwards from there, some highlights being Alice's menorah-lighting trip to a Jewish cemetery (?) and having her suspended in the air, slightly tilted to the side (??). Alice had a lot of aspects, each more meaningful and thought-provoking than the next. She did a bunch of flying around on a bicycle with some illustrated friends. Another aspect involved a fat elderly clown and a creepy show where he came into her bedroom with a girl clown friend and they did fun tricks, mainly just the girl clown suspended in the air, slightly tilted to the side.

A main source of hilarity and fun in the show was pretending you were going to give someone something and then NOT GIVING IT TO THEM. This hilarious and always-surprising gag was then followed by lots of anime-type laughter. It was like a sensual massage for the eyes. It was literally like a sensual massage for two of the actors; in Act Two, Alice (who we should all recall has been playing a child for the duration of the show) and the Lewis Carroll/Jesus hybrid (who we should all recall was in real life a pedophile... Lewis Carroll. Not Jesus. As far as I know.) have a tender moment in the nude, which ended when he wrapped her in gauze and made some flowers and a baby out of the extra fabric. There was a mirroring activity and some multimedia. FIN.

This video synopsis was made by the theatre company and includes some key aspects.

We also had a night on the town, where we went to Club Lavska, which more or less translates to "The Love Club", and which surprisingly was not a secret prostitution ring. I am more skeptical about the building we passed on the way called "The Erotic Supermarket". (Like I said, complex and storied.) That night did not end well. Beer is cheaper than bottled water in this town, so it was kind of doomed from the start. Now some pictures!

London siblings

Old clocks are a huge thing in Prague. They love them.

In 2002, Prague was completely flooded and the water was over the arches of the bridge. I know this because any time you look at anything in Prague, people explain to you what portion of it was covered by water in the 2002 flood.

We went to see The Magic Flute in this beautiful old opera house. The Magic Flute's actual libretto is cracked out and way more racist and misogynist than the children's version we used to listen to on family car trips (NERD CAR GUYS. There were also Oscar Wilde books on tape. This should help explain how I got this way.)

There is a John Lennon memorial graffiti wall in Prague. Because why not.

Praha for now! (Someone get me the phone number of Czech souvenir t-shirt makers.)

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS

2011-02-27T16:56:00.000-08:00

Today, in "things I did instead of my readings for tomorrow," we have Home Haircut. Now, normally I cut my own bangs and it's no big D. A cooler-than-me friend initially gave me a straight across fringe one summer at Cambridge and since then I've felt pretty okay about giving them a trim, or letting them grow super long to cover it up when I can't afford to dye my eyebrows (it's fun to be albino). But when I cut them it's usually, just, like, straight across. Following a line.

And then today, for no reason, I did this:

You brought this on yourself, self.

All together now: "...what?" And not like, "What a kicky, retro-inspired good idea!" or "What? I don't see a difference! You look as normal as usual!" More just like... "what did... why...?". Or "what... was the purpose of this?" Or "what... is wrong with you?"

Basically, I just was not up to the task of trying to do anything more than cutting across the dotted line made by my brow bone, and then I got TOO EXCITED about some pictures of Bettie Page. I probably (completely) would have benefited from the help of someone with hand/eye co-ordination and whose eyes weren't being covered in ginger scraps throughout the process. Also, you get what you pay for and I was using scissors I had stolen from my former workplace, so.

Some people tried to be nice. Some people told me I look like a Vulcan. They are not wrong.

Oh well. Bangs will grow out. In the grand scheme of Problems You Could Have in Your Life, stupid-looking bangs rank as Not Actually A Real Problem ("Thanks for admitting that, you privileged brat." - Orphans, People Who Just Got Fired, Teen Moms, Pretty Much Everyone from Egypt, Libya, etc.) so at least there is that.

It is also a good lesson re: body modification in general. Three to six weeks from now, these bangs will be gone. This, on the other hand, is forever:

Precious.

LIFE, sometimes, you know?

2011-02-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

"Well of course the lovely thing about the house is that each marchioness has such a different taste, and that is really reflected in the Great Hall. Most of the decorative touches in there aren't original, they've been Jacobethan-ized by past dowagers. ...More tea?"

THIS REALLY HAPPENED TO ME.

I spent the day with the other research interns at Hatfield House, a manor home in Hertfordshire originally built in 1611. It's closed to the public in the winter but we went on a Special Geek Mission to check out the Jacobean tapestries. (This is my life now, deal with it everyone.) It was nerd heaven- the library there literally looks like the one from the part in Beauty and the Beast where he just gives her the library as a present. BEST PRESENT EVER. NICE ONE, THE BEAST.

It was also the most British day of my life.

We had tea (in real china cups, on real china saucers) and sandwiches (coronation chicken cut into tiny triangles) and cake (fruit) in the TAPESTRY WORKSHOP overlooking the gardens, which look like this:

I was informed about the joys of lemon curd and the geography of Shropshire. There was some discussion about a candlelit ball. It was serious. Afterward, we went on a tour and asked nerdy questions about crown mouldings and when we got outside, the lord and lady of the house-who are literally a LORD AND LADY-were arriving home from a walk in the countryside with their dogs. They were dressed almost exactly like this, but with more HAT happening:

I, on the other hand, was covered in sawdust from crawling around on some boards looking at the bizarrely-shaped breasts of the busts on the ceiling that was getting restored in their home/beautiful historic building/where Queen Elizabeth I actually lived for a bit. I respectfully averted my eyes (?) out of confusion as to what else to do, but then their dog came over and put its entire face up the back of my dress and there was no avoiding them.

For the first time in my life I literally thought should I curtsey, slightly? A bit of a bow, maybe? Some marginal act of deference because these are real life nobility and that is a REAL THING that exists in the world and here you are at their manor house for no good reason while their dog sniffs your bum and it's pretty funny but no one is allowed to laugh and nice tapestries, your lord and ladyship? I went with a limp handshake and weak "pleasure to meet you", so probably they could tell.

They were very friendly and sweet, and kept apologizing for the state of the house... I think if they saw the room that I live in they would be too confused to even pity me. "What do you mean you... live... here? Where? Wh... where do you keep your collection of quilted jackets and distinguished-looking riding hats? Where do all the rifles go? YOU SLEEP HERE?!? I believe a case of the vapours is coming on. Fetch me my fainting couch."

The day was pretty wonderful, all in all, with a lovely train ride, some great fun trying to read Old English spelling off the border of a 16th century tapestry (I told you, this is my life now), and the moment when our host, a delightfully British older lady named Joan, who may be the poshest woman in the world next to Lady Salisbury herself, referred to early modern clothing as "severely blinged out". She is the gem of Hatfield House (second maybe to the many actual gems that I'm sure they keep therein).

In closing, the most romantic scene from any Disney film ever. And this INCLUDES the scene in Mulan where she has to pretend to be a man and go skinny dipping with the fat guy... sigh.

I think I'm going to kill someone.

2011-02-13T17:49:00.000-08:00

In Gnomeo and Juliet one of the characters talks to SHAKESPEARE'S GHOST in the form of a statue, and together they decide that the lovers dying in the end is not a good story. OH GOOD.

Royally Screwed

2011-02-11T12:54:00.000-08:00

The English like to refer to pervy weirdos as "sexual perverts", as if there were some other kind of pervert running around that wasn't into sex whatsoever, but was reaaaaally into watching people grocery shop or exposing their musical tastes to unsuspecting fellow passengers on the subway. Regardless, I don't think you have to be a complete seeeeexu-al peeeerveeeeehrt to find these ROYAL WEDDING-THEMED CONDOMS hilarious/intriguing/brilliant. They come in a "timeless souvenir heirlooms box", which is good because you for sure want to display these prominently in your home. They mostly refer to the condoms as LOVE SHEATHS which is just tooooo much for me to handle or even really consider, but the company assures me that "England boasts some of the best lovemaking in the world," so at least there's that.

What I really can't handle is the copy. The slogan is literally: "Lie back and think of England." Then they get real sentimental on you: "Like a Royal Wedding, intercourse with a loved one is an unforgettable occasion," before suggesting that "Combining the strength of a prince with the yielding sensitivity of a princess-to-be, Crown Jewels condoms promise a royal union of pleasure." The phrase "regally ribbed" comes up at one point.

It comes (hehehehehe) (oh like you wouldn't...) with a terrifying photo composite of what Kate and William "might look like" on their wedding day, and then the even MORE terrifying disclaimer:

Crown Jewels Royal Wedding Souvenir Condoms are a novelty condom not suitable for contraception or protection against STDs.

Ummm... you guys? What? Are these literally for display in your home? Are you supposed to just... put on a condom because you want to, and aren't interested in protection against pregnancy or STIs? "You know, honey, I think it would be more fun if I just slipped this novelty condom on. It's useless but festively decorative- like a party hat for my penis. Now lay back and think of England!"

NO.

wherefore art thou work ethic

2011-02-10T13:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I worry that I don't try hard enough with anything that is actually important. Case in point: I try preeeeeetty hard to make it clear that I know selfies are embarrassing, but also something medium necessary to convey certain instances in my life that I'd like to tell the internet about. I do not try pretty hard to find the appropriate readings for each week. Or to say things in class that make sense. My initials are M.E.H.... My NAME ITSELF expresses ambivalence. Doomed! I had hoped that entering an MA program would have magically flicked the 'on' switch on my work-ethic-o-meter, and the 'off' on my bullshit-all-the-time-capacitor. Not the case. And so we get situations like my class notes from a little while ago:

Please note the valiant effort made at the top with the date and course-title. I was SO close. Also, this was at least moderately productive as an exercise in that it made me 100% aware that a future career as an artist is not something I can aspire to...

All this stick figure "hilarity" and "fun" is not to suggest that I am a complete layabout who does nothing, ever. I am very dedicated to the work I do at the Globe, if only because I FINALLY have something to say when people at parties make that long sigh noise and then say, "Oh. An English degree. And what are you going to ... do with that?" It will for sure shut them up when I say, "An incredibly rewarding unpaid internship once a week!" Suckers.

PS This is a thing that I ate for dinner today. It looks like literal barf.

For the record, it might as well be. It is basically a salad that I poured a curry on top of. PovertyCooking.

Two households, both a huge indignity...

2011-02-04T17:17:00.000-08:00

...No.

Puns and Shakespeare are two of my favourite things (puns IN Shakespeare, natch, drive me wiiiiild), so theoretically I should LOVE the upcoming film Gnomeo and Juliet. And yet, it offends me deeply. I think this is a bulletpoint situation... wherein I picture the points as actual bullets shattering the piece of crap porcelain lawn figurines they are using to bastardize one of the greatest love stories of our time.

In that spirit, I give you a list of reasons this movie is an abomination:

"Hey guys... Gnomeo and Juliet" would be medium funny in a hypothetical situation or as a one-off comic illustration or something. However, you can't just name your one character something moderately funny and base an entire film around it. See: Corky Romano in Corky Romano, Fat Bastard in the Austin Powers movies, etc. etc.

The punny spirit of the title has taken over the marketing of the movie in general, to horrifying, cringe-worthy effect. To wit: the poster above, and also "Welcome to my pad"-A Frog. That's a real ad for the film that is on the side of a lot of double decker buses driving around the city assaulting the literate.

The plot is COMPLETELY changed. The families are not even Montagues and Capulets, they are Lady Blueberry and Lord Redbrick, whatever that means. And I don't think you have to be a Shakespeare dork to insist that a movie based on Romeo and Juliet needs to end in tragedy, children's film or no. LIFE LESSONS. West Side Story knows what I'm talking about.

I am preeeetty sure they turned Mercutio into a porcelain mushroom named "Shroom". So.

My point is, you don't need to be telling Romeo and Juliet to tell a love story. Just tell me a cute story about a garden romance. This is going to be so horrific and a generation of children are going to be lulled in by the inexplicably high-profile cast (e tu, Michael Caine?) and think that this has any relation to Shakespeare's story whatsoever. Plus they will probably butcher a lot of my favourite moments... for starters, a mushroom without a face is going to deliver the Queen Mab speech.

I don't even want to THINK about the field day they're going to have with the "rose by any other name" speech.

... field day.

gettin' blitzed

2011-01-31T12:47:00.000-08:00

I've done all the available readings for this week, I've gone for a run (?!?!), I've bought ridiculous amounts of produce, and have been back in London for over a week. I've done some minor ukulele playing, even. And yet, my suitcase remains unpacked. Well, it's been opened, the ukulele retrieved, and the clothes sort of strewn about everywhere as if I was an Important Person and spies had rummaged through my personal effects looking for secret documents and hoping to Send A Message. There is nothing left to do now except unpack it, probably.

Oh, right. Or I can just get way too excited about the Blitz party. This Shoreditch club night sounds like basically the best thing since that tumblr of hot guys reading, or that iPhone app that sticks cats in all your pictures. I thought I'd have a little hair practice party, because all them ladies on youtube say you can just twiddle some bobby pins around some hot rollers and then use a spray or wax (but never a gel) and you're fine... and they are liars. This little number is mostly being held up by grease and my obsession with bygone eras, and it was a STRUGGLE. Anyway, then I had a make up party and a dress party and a vintage undergarments party [not pictured], which is all well and good, except for this:

Suitcase is right. I have some cleaning to do.

Careless Whiskers

2011-01-27T14:22:00.000-08:00

Monica 22:14:
I had the WEIRDEST sleeping hours today.
Like, asleep from 4 am last night to 7:30 this morning, then wide awake til 11:00, back to sleep til 2:00. Then awake til 4:00, and napped til 5:00.

Melissa 22:14:
What even is that?

Monica 22:16:
Basically those are a cat's sleeping hours. Which helps me achieve my goal of being more cat-like in everyday life, but also more or less ensured that I did nothing today.
Cats don't have jobs for a reason.

Melissa 22:18:
Mmmm this is true.
Wouldn't life be great if you were a cat??
SO GREAT.

Running Wild

2011-01-26T15:57:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you feel great about the Master's Programme (the extra 'm' and 'e' mean it's a big deal) you are in, and sometimes you are in class while the director of a theatre company asks you to stand "relaxed, with your feet shoulder width apart, but your hips slightly backwards, like you're holding a penny between your bum cheeks, and with your chest out, and stomach inwards as though someone's putting a needle through it. Calmly." Sure.

In other news, I brought a ukulele back to London with me, basically 100% because of this:

Someone hook me up with some butt fringe and we are in business.

The Girl Kant Help It

2011-01-23T11:29:00.000-08:00

I think there is so much comedy about airplanes because flying is actually kind of terrifying and horrible if you think about it, and laughter is a good way of dealing with things that are difficult or scary (she said, exposing a world of neuroses to the internet). But really, about once every flight that I take, I have a moment where I realize that I have NO idea how what is happening is happening. I could just google how planes work, but I suspect technically getting it would be of little help towards actually knowing what the eff is going on. I know it is something to do with wings and wind and maybe something called aerials or vectors, but realistically I am about as clueless as the 1800sy people who were around when planes first became a thing.

"Well, Marple, I'm getting into this big metal bird, and with some luck and help from the sweet lord who is for sure real and governs all of our movements, eventually I will be back in the warm, colonial arms of mother europe. God save the King, right?" - Me, basically.

Marple = incredibly common 19th century name, obviously.

Other things that I don't know how they work and which you could tell me were magic and I would proooobably just be alright with it:

- The Internet
- My iPod and computers in general
- Yeast (Seriously, guys, it's a bit alive, and then your bread rises. What?!)
- Men (AM I RIGHT, LADIES?? Just kidding, i know how men work. Food and sex and compliments about their beards, right? ... #mostlyjoking #someonepleaseexplainmentome #hashtagsoutsidetwitterareathingnowgowithit)

All of this plane jibbajabba is brought to you from the big metal bird I am currently in, where I'm curled up in bed blogging on my iPad like I'm Kanye West or something [HAHAHHAHAHAAH AUTOCORRECT CHANGED THAT TO "blogging like Kant or something". Way better. Autocorrect, I cherish you. You are like a helpful and hilarious companion with impeccable grammar... Oh no. Autocorrect is my ideal date.]

Anyway, I'm on a plane, which means soon I will be back in England where I pinky swear I will start blogging regularly. Like, twice a week and on the same days. Taking the internet seriously, everyone. So tell your friends. This blog will be bigger than Kant's in no time!

Marginally related but incredibly important: my stewardess' name was Randy Mann. How does that even HAPPEN. Where is that woman from that that is not a HILARIOUS name??

I do not deserve to be a grad student.

2010-12-31T12:10:00.000-08:00

Haven’t written much because I’ve come home for the holidays and have been too busy eating high-calorie meals with long lost pals, getting drunk with elderly relatives, and making out merry all over the city of Toronto. This is a good place.

While looking through boxes in my mum’s LOVELY new place in Cabbagetown, I found a folder full of my undergraduate essays, including a gem called: ‘“What a rant, say you, is here”: Problematizing Edward Young’s conception of ‘Originality’ and the Author in his ‘Conjectures on Original Composition’’. First off, I’m not sure when I discovered the formula for essay-titles, but if anyone is not aware yet, this is it:

Witty pun or quote/Colon/Explanatory bit about your essay with a few academic-sounding words.

e.g. Pic of the Litter: The politics of cats, captions and ‘laughing out loud’ in the internet’s postmodern milieu.

A+.

The essay I found is not exceptional. I did fine on it, but reading it over, it mostly just ramblingly contradicts Edward Young’s opinion that imitation is a low and ultimately useless form of creative output. (Sorry, everyone after Madonna.) My chosen approach to debunking this theory was to craft some imitative poems of my own, and being the hopeless Bard-worshipper I am, I rewrote some of the more famous sonnets. About cheese. And Maury Povich.

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare Brie to a summer’s day?

Chevre art more lovely and more temperate:

Gruyere doth shake the dear tastebuds of May,

And Cheddar’s lease hath all too short a date;

Sometime too hot the eye of Parmigiano shines,

And oft is Swiss’ gold complexion dimm’d;

And every curd from curd sometimes declines,

By chance or nature’s changing course unserv’d:

But thy eternal odour will not fade,

Nor lose possession of that taste thou ow’st;

Nor milk shall brag thou wanderest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest (blue)

So long as men can eat, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to cheese.

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of third wives

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it augmentation finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! It is an ever-fixed mark,

That lived in trailers and is never shaken;

It is the star to ev’ry gold-digg’r’s bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although her man be taken.

Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But Botoxeth it out even to the edge of doom:

If this be error and on Maury proved,

I never writ, nor Hefner never loved.

Guys. What a stupid essay. I basically wrote 2750 words of explanatory nonsense because one day I thought it would be fun to write a sonnet to dairy. The best part of discovering this paper, though, is without question this comment from my professor:

“I like the flow of your sentences, and your general style. … the only issues for me were the moments where you claim (not apparently tongue in cheek) that your poems are the equal of Shakespeare’s.”

Well. I’d like to see ol’ William write a blog post. GOOD LUCK FIGURING OUT GOOGLE YOU SIXTEENTH CENTURY PONCE.

Hoff the hook.

2010-12-20T04:18:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to dignify the closed airports with a post. I think we can just all agree that 10 centimetres of snow should not completely shut down one of the world's busiest airports for 48 hours, and move on. Fuck you, Heathrow airport, you are terrible, the end.

In happier news, I don't even need to go home, or even stay alive, really. I could just die right now and it would be okay, because I saw this:

Look at those gentle yet mischievous eyes. They're looking right into your sense of childlike wonder

(and love of dirty jokes about 'rodgering').

The photo doesn't make it clear what THIS is, but I think it does make it clear that this is amazing. Basically, when we heard that David Hasselhoff was starring as Captain Hook in a children's Christmas panto, we had no choice. Tickets were purchased, the train was ridden to Wimbledon in the bitter cold (a newspaper literally described it as a "bone-chilling -2 degrees", so...) and the greatest theatrical journey of my life unfolded.

I'd never seen a panto before, and that was an experience in itself- foam fingers, balloons, and popcorn in the audience, widespread adult drunkenness, hundreds of little british children heckling the incredibly over the top actors, a full-on audience sing-along to 'Rule Brittania' etc., are all apparently normal. I'm not so sure if the rest of it was normal. Things got so intense I had to start taking notes.

After some introductory flying around and general poncing about by Peter, the children (Wendy a grown up, the other two actual children) arrive in Neverland. This was explained to the audience by a trio of Supremes-esque sassy lounge singers who sang "Do you know the way to Neverland", a brilliant rewrite of the Burt Bacharach classic "Do you know the way to San Jose". This was one of a few reworkings of semi-popular cheeseball songs from the past in the show. My personal favourite was the emotional rendition of "Midnight train to Georgia" that accompanied the moment when Peter decides to let his friends fly home without him. "Midnight Flight to Childhood" is truly a song for the ages.

Basically, the first 30 minutes of the show were a waste of time (until the lounge singers came back as mermaids... who were flying? Fine.) because everyone in the audience was just waiiiiiiting for the Hoff. And when he finally arrived it was glorious. He opened with some rapidfire puns relating to his own name, and literally referred to himself as "hofferific", before breaking into his 80s classic "Hooked on a Feeling" while brandishing his hook and swiveling his hips like a pro.

The Hoff was actually really charming, and managed to balance the ridiculousness of his sidekick, some British pseudo-celebrity whose whole joke was just... being gay? He was a fancy pirate named "Jolly Roger" who basically wiggled his bum around, did a lot of suggestive rubbing of different phallic pirate-y objects (mops, swords, you know, use your imagination. "swab the decks, roger..." "the WHAT?" cue laughter), and at one point showed up for fifteen seconds onstage in a pineapple outfit and stiletto heels for no real reason. The English people were LOVING it, but they were also loving the superbly racist depiction of Tiger Lily and the other white actors playing Indians in the show, so who can say.

It was a weird experience. While legitimately one of the funniest things I've ever seen, I don't know how I feel about a so-bad-it's-good show that is live. The Hoff literally made a joke in the show about life taking a wrong turn sometimes, and I didn't know whether to laugh or hug him. Also, at the end, a great deal of the cast was "flying", which just meant swinging, pendulum-like, back and forth across the stage during a rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing", while cast members dragged people out of the audience onstage to dance with them and gave them loot bags. Okay? Okay. I guess. To be honest I think I'm still digesting.

I will leave you with yet another shining star in David's oeuvre, a classic he also performed on stage with more gyrations than were probably necessary (which, in this case, is any gyrations whatsoever).

"Just look at the camera for a.... there we go."

2010-12-09T06:27:00.000-08:00

Watching Bridget Jones on my next door neighbour's telly (just kidding that is not a real word I would use, although I'm all about "chunder" to mean "vomit") last week I realized that its eponymous heroine lives right around the corner from my house. Mainly this lead me to consider why, despite the millions of times I have embarrassed myself in the area through "charming" Bridget Jones-y mishaps (falling, clothing malfunctions, a general lack of awareness regarding British traffic directions, etc.), I have not been asked on a date by a beautiful-if-horrible Hugh Grant type and then rescued from that terrible relationship by beautiful-and-perfect Colin Firth. Not the type, just the man himself.

And then I realized that I carry the reason in my wallet.

... wasn't that so suspenseful?? I am getting good at writing these so that you HAVE to click on the post. As a reward for being such an intrepid reader (Mom and co., keep up the great work), you are now going to be taken on a tour of why Mr. Darcy remains at bay. MY ID CARDS.

I mean, look at these things. They were all taken on different days, and they are all soul-crushingly hideous in their own ways. My first few weeks in London were punctuated by a few different opportunities for incredibly unflattering photos, and these are some of the worst. While I recognize (and pray nightly to Jesus) that I do not look like this in real life usually, it is a pretty huge bummer to have to present them to people, and surely must be taking a devastating toll on my self esteem. Right?

EXHIBIT A:

Just a studious Justin Bieber-esque lad off for a day at the BL. He looks tired.

EXHIBIT B:

I was being "chatted up" while in line for this photo at the library. We were talking about how terrible ID photos inevitably are, and then as a cuuuuuute joke we decided to compare ours. Before I had looked at this. I did not get asked for my number.

EXHIBIT C:

This one is just not even my fault.1) I am never getting my bangs "professionally" trimmed again, and 2) I ASKED THE MAN taking this if it looked okay. I should have used a more specific adjective, but I still think he is a liar.

Thank God I am going home to Canada in 10 days where the straight men dress poorly and the accents don't ramp people up ten points on the hot scale as soon as anyone opens their mouth. Although, there is the small matter of my passport photo...

Serial killer with a comb-over and no eyebrows to speak of? I'll take it.

Like a party at a banker's house in 1982. (Tons of snow?)

2010-11-30T04:36:00.000-08:00

That is not what London looks like right now. There is some beautiful snow action happening, but it is mostly ambient and airborne, the kind that turns to regular ol' rain once it hits the ground. The rooftops are slightly whiter than normal, but otherwise it's business as usual here at the Ye Olde Britishe Water Emporium aka the whole country all the time.

But. Everyone is losing it. Seriously. For one thing, people are walking around everywhere huddled in groups under snow umbrellas, which are their regular rain-time umbrellas being used as some kind of snow-defender. Guys, snow doesn't get you wet like that. Also, you look stupid. No one can see where anyone else is going so there is a lot of tutting and hawing and hemming as people try to skirt around the other bundled up, wet feet they can see from beneath their nylon guardians.

In addition to the pedestrian chaos, a lot of trains and roads are just not happening, and people can't get into the city or out of their homes. A lot of people's workplaces have been shut down for the day. Maybe it's the Canadian in me, but I'm just sort of finding all of it hilarious. My real hope is that things will get like the picture above and everything will shut down and I'll just make hot chocolate and go skating and for walks and read in my room with my pathetic electric candle and christmas lights from Poundland.

POUNDLAND IS THE NAME OF THE DOLLAR STORE HERE.

Right, so this is probably the most embarrassing blog post ever written.

2010-11-26T18:33:00.000-08:00

Every time a new Harry Potter movie comes out, I wonder if this will be the time I am finally a grown up and stop leaving the theatre thinking (sometimes secretly and sometimes out loud), "GOD I wish magic was real so badly." Deathly Hallows Part Two is my last chance to be a real person, you guys.*

Tonight I went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part One for the second time. The first time was free though, which I'm pretending makes that less lame. My friend Heather had been given free passes from her place of work, and at that screening there had been free popcorn and drinks and actors dressed up as professors from Hogwarts doing imitations of them and talking to all the patrons of the theatre as if we were students. It was both great and lame, which is one of my favourite precariously balanced states. I came for the free stuff and stayed for the RON.

Now, I did not make this Rupert Grint collage, but I would. (Not really, but I make mind-collages of him on the regular.) He is a beautiful ginger man who I love a lot. My love of gingers is well documented, and this movie franchise features a large ginger family, the lone female of which is so redheadedly seductive she snares the hero of the entire thing, so obviously I'm all about it.

Gingers aside, the movie is actually really great. Voldemort is really scary and there are a lot of scenes that STRESSED ME OUT, but sometimes you just have to deal with a snake biting you through the screen and implicitly eating a recently murdered human. You know how children's films are. Splitting it up into two parts makes a lot of sense, as the book is huge and this is the only chance they have at covering as much of it as possible. Plus, you know, double the profits, blah blah.

The music in this installment of the Teenage Emotions part of the Harry Potter series was great, and even though by now the audience is all really familiar with how the spells work and what apparating looks like, the magic/action scenes were really interesting and well done. Plus, RON.

He is hilarious and dopey and charming in a way that were he and I both actually 17 and I was his longtime friend from Potions class and other magical hijinx at our special school for wizards with our celebrity orphan Chosen One pal, I would be super into him. LIGHTEN UP HERMIONE.

Ron gets really emotional (Everyone in Harry Potter world is emotional all the time now. Wizard hormones are even more dramatic than muggle hormones, apparently.) at a few different points in the film, and the audience lost it in both theatres I went to. To be fair, the dialogue during Ron's outbursts is pretty embarrassing. But I also think that is what made it accurate. Think about your teenage livejournal (shut up, you had one), or the song lyrics you thought were soooo deeeep in high school that you just had to write them on your binder. That kind of crap is exactly what an awkward ginger teenager would use to emote! I know because I was one! And if he'd done that to me I'd have been into it! And then we'd make out at my locker! He'd let me wear his Gryffindor sweater and then I'd make coy teenager jokes about the length of his wand while never intending to actually touch his 'wand'!

... I did not have a boyfriend in high school, at all. In case that was in any way unclear.

*But wouldn't it just be SO GREAT if it was?!

The most shardiest time of the year

2010-11-23T06:53:00.001-08:00

My favourite thing in the whole world, the Shard, became the tallest building in London today, and it is only partially built. Suck on that, 1 Canada Water, title-holder for the past 20 years. I learned about this via the twitter account @skyscrapernews. That's a thing.

There used to be this beyond amazing display of children's Shard-inspired artwork at its base by London Bridge Tube Station, in theory based on what the building would look like when completed. In a solemn reminder to take opportunities when they come to us lest we miss out on something GLORIOUS, I did not take any photos of the child's drawing that turned the Shard into a giant super hero, or the ones that gave it weird spirals, or the one of it poking the moon in the face. Tragique.

To supplement, here is some artwork of my own. Family and friends should look forward to receiving these beauties in their imaginary mailboxes shortly. Merry Shardmas everyone!

Weekend update

2010-11-20T18:35:00.000-08:00

(See what I did there? That's already a thing!)

The main point of this post is to offer this piece of advice: if you are pushed into an already packed car on the Tube by a group of people, one of whom is being particularly rude, tutting and fussing and being generally curmudgeonly in a very British-in-a-bad-way manner, it is probably the man with the silk paisley ascot, pinky ring, and large, curled moustache. The good news is, he will provide entertainment for the rest of your journey, as he is not only disdainful and furious when getting on the Tube, but also horrified by the incorrect subway etiquette of passengers in general. Let the theatrical eye-rolling, exaggerated sighs, and somewhat terrifying sneering begin!

Ladbrokes also runs a tasteful event called 'the poker cruise'.

Also: LADBROKES. Ladbrokes is an English business that I had presumed was a place for betting on sports games and horse races and the like. Turns out, you can bet on anything you want. Anything. People who got wind of the William and Kate engagement were rushing into Ladbrokes' all over London before the news broke in an attempt to get that bet in. You can still bet on where the Royal couple is going to get married, though, so good news. Ladbrokes is the commercial equivalent of saying to a friend "Oy, mate, bet you it's going to rain later today." "Bet it's not." "You're on." That is a real business here. Also, why would you name your gambling business Ladbrokes? That just seems like a bad plan, from a branding perspective.

"You probably get this all the time, but..."

2010-11-18T05:48:00.000-08:00

I get compared to Drew Barrymore semi-often. One time, in LAX, a confused family actually asked me if I was her. I take this as a big time compliment and am very unsecretly pleased about it, as Drew Barrymore is quite a cute lady. Usually if someone starts a sentence with "You know who you look just like..?" I just sort of presume that's where things are going, commence feeling good about it, and get my smiley face on. Since moving here, I've been told by a number of ladies (and one old man) that I bear a striking resemblance to the singer Adele. On the one hand:

I guess?

On the other hand:

My face is getting less smiley and more like this, on the reg (also in case you haven't noticed, I have NOT said no to selfies. I have said YES YES YES):

I bought a fur hat, everyone be cool.

2010-11-13T15:24:00.000-08:00

You know when you go shopping by yourself and somehow end up sucked into a delusion-vortex where you are completely cool and can pull off anything you've ever wanted to wear in your wildest dreams? Typically, I call this Euro-shopping, where you go out to a store in Italy or something, and everyone else is wearing camouflage jeans with "Sexy and Military" written on them in rhinestones, so you think your shirt with the see-through sections over the shoulders is cheeky and fun, instead of super weird and embarrassing. Or you go to France and decide that since the gamines can do it, dammit you are getting one of those gray tunic-y sack things and rocking the HELL out of it, instead of looking like a B-list celebrity trying to start pregnancy rumours. The good thing about Euro-shopping is that it only happens in Europe. (In the twitter version of this post, the hashtag is #ohshitiliveherenow.)

I went to a vintage market in Brick Lane the other weekend, and had been looking for something fur, as well as something leopard. Drunk on my obsession with the '60s and that weird mildew smell that is ubiquitous wherever second hand clothing is sold/your great aunt's basement/Miss Havisham's house, I found EXACTLY what I was looking for.

Then I took it home:

Help, you guys. I can't pull this off and now I own a leopard-print fur hat.

PS If you've noticed that I've been incredibly prolific in my blogging this week, it's because a) I am courting my solo reader from Peru who has returned TWICE NOW (hola, bienvenudos) and b) I have a paper due on Tuesday.

some pictures

2010-11-11T07:33:00.000-08:00

I am really terrible about taking pictures. I know in this age of flickrtumblrtwitter "check out our brand on facebook" that if you don't document it and then post it on the internet, it didn't happen, but a lot of stuff happens too fast to take pictures, okay? Anyway this is the best I could do:

Somerset house is right beside my campus. Amazing.

See all my sexxxxxy pixxxxx below. ($1.50/min)

Hali and I visited the make-your-own-art-on-postcards area of the Tate. That's us. I am skilled.

This is straight up stolen from swap-or-die's facebook page. A clothes-swapping good time on Halloween.

This is when I got zombified for my starring role as zombie #4 in The Insti2ute, a Halloween comedy/horror spectacular in Islington.

Hannah and Jade at the Swan for some amaretto and hot chocolate breakfast before class.

In an effort to avoid overlapping pics here with facebook pictures, I've been reduced to weirdos like this. Me and Mo at brunch in Camden.

Russell Square on a bizarrely sunny yesterday afternoon.

ill, bruv.

2010-11-09T12:41:00.000-08:00

That's me. (Artist's rendering)

Have fallen ill with that grimey cold that seems to always coincide with the start of winter in earnest. It does not help that the weather for the next week is slated to be 100% Go Back to Bed weather. Which, I'm realizing, is England's default forecast.

Today I caused a minor scene in Sainsbury's while trying to get some Neocitran. I guess the cashier had never heard of this brand, but when I tried to explain what it was and how it worked, he looked at me like I was an alien. In an effort to be helpful, he started listing brand name products, but I had no idea if liquifen or any of the other context-less names represented what I was looking for. A line (sorry, queue) formed. It was awkward. I eventually struck off on my own to find the medicine section. Sainsbury's, riddle me this: why do you have three different brands of anal lubricant but no lozenges?

Point-form weekend

2010-11-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

1. It is 'bonfire night' in London, also known as Guy Fawkes' day, also known as the weekend everyone, regardless of familiarity with pyrotechnic safety procedures and/or blood alcohol level, lights fireworks and bonfires all over the city, in backyards and on street corners. It is also the first week of London's firemen and women going on strike.

2. I have spent the weekend being a hung-over academic at a gesture lab/conference at the Globe, which has led to a lot of doodling, most of it Shakespeare-based, all of it embarrassing.

3. The gesture lab has involved a lot of professional actors explaining their theories of early modern performance and workshopping ideas/methods of staging. A lot of it has involved some very floofy acting-type exercises, including something about 'floating' and 'falling' based on Chekov, and actors moving feelings and colours to different locations in their bodies. It has been a cruel reminder as to why I ultimately failed as an actor: my complete inability to let the colour purple govern my movements.

4. Spent last night at a party in Peckham talking about time travel and the way British people say the words 'pedophile', 'hummus', 'yogurt', and 'albino'. (Spoiler alert: they say it weird.) In the name of bonfire night we sent up this firey lantern thing into the air, although as it floated into the night sky it looked suspiciously like it was about to become consumed in flames and maybe land on someone's roof. Whoops. No one called 911 because a) I don't think that's the number for emergencies here, b) The firemen are all at home on strike laughing at their genius trick, and c) It was pissing rain and went out on its own anyway. All's well that ends well and all that.

Here is one of my aforementioned doodles. I presume by now I don't have to preface this with NERD ALERT:

GET IT BECAUSE IT'S ALSO A DRINK?! AND THOSE GUYS ARE LETTUCES? AND ALSO CAESAR SALAD. HOO BOY, IT'S GOOD.

Home is where your psychotic pet is

2010-11-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

Monica: For the first time since coming here, I'm legitimately homesick today.

Emily: Why?

Monica: No real reason, that's the worst part!

Emily: Oh, I thought you might have seen a crazy dog, or a dad having portraits done of his daughters.

I miss my weird family and my weirder friends.

listen up London, you too crowded

2010-11-03T15:24:00.001-07:00

oh, oh dear, terribly sorry, would you excuse me, just trying to get by, ah, yes, mmmm quite.

"Where'd you find the ringer?"

2010-10-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

I would never have guessed that it would take moving to London to get some damn stage time, but here we are. I now do improv twice a month or so as part of 50:50, a show that is half our in-house improv group, and half an ever-changing line up of guest acts who do other types of comedy, music or performance of some kind. My first show was last Tuesday and while it would make a way better story if something had gone hilariously wrong, it was just a really great time. AND a bunch of wonderful friends came to watch. I am a lucky lady.

In case you were concerned that I had gone a full 24 hours without embarrassing myself, fear not: I popped into Starbucks before the show and ordered a grande 'London Fog' without thinking. The baristas were confused to the highest degree and had no idea what I was trying to ask for. I think they thought I was a moronic North American overcome with the WHIMSY OF TRAVEL."Yes, do get me a crumpet, and a large serving of London Fog, with a side of Prince Harry... am I right, Harriet??" "Oh Charlotte, you are BAD. Look at that policeman's hat!" Yikes.

Attitube

2010-10-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

There are no garbage cans at all on the Tube (pronounced "Choobe"). They removed them after the 2005 Underground bombings, apparently. I told a Tube operator that it was kind of a hassle. "Less of a hassle than being blown up, I reckon," he said. "Have a lovely day miss." Touché.

Night class

2010-10-21T07:58:00.001-07:00

(Photo stolen from Kim Villaweever)

WTF, England. A Drama in One Scene

2010-10-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

A university campus overlooking the Thames. Three girls eat sad-looking packed lunches in the cafeteria.

England: Ooh I love a cheeky sandwich.

Canada: A cheeky sandwich? What does that even mean? Is this a gross lunch meat thing?

England: Oh you know, you can just put 'cheeky' in front of things. Cheeky sandwich, cheeky pasty, cheeky jacket potato...

Canada: ...

THE SHARD

2010-10-16T08:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, so when I moved into the London Bridge area the first thing I noticed was The Shard, an ambitious-looking but partially-completed construction project that appeared to be about 80% of the way towards becoming a decent-sized skyscraper. I have since learned that The Shard is going to be the tallest building in Europe when it's completed in 20Never and that the current structure is a little under half of its total height. I have also learned that it is the Construction Site that Never Sleeps. Brutal.

However, I am obsessed with this thing. It is gauchely large and so ridiculous and, well, LOOK AT IT:

All the pictures of what it will look like in the future are swathed in the kind of softly emanating, holy glow usually reserved for saint's heads or Barbara Walters specials. The 'vision statements' that are printed on the side of the construction site are also really amazing:

"City. Light. River. Glass. ... The Shard will be a small vertical city... rising into the air as a 306-metre glass spire..."

"The river of magnificence, used as a golden highway by princes and diplomats." - some guy named Peter Ackroyd

I'm presuming this last one's about the Thames but there's just a huge picture of the Shard with the quote, so...

I won't even get into how many shart jokes I make on a daily basis. (It's lots.) I have more fun with the Shard than with Cockfoster station or Tooting Broadway station. This is a good place.

Say no to selfies

2010-10-12T10:21:00.000-07:00

My digital camera came in the mail the other day, leading to a thrilling moment where I thought I had mail from a loved one or something, and then was brutally denied. Not that I don't love Amazon for sending me the technology I ordered, I do. Just not as much as I would love real mail from home. (a-hint, a-hint)

Anyway the good news re: the camera really is that I won't be taking lame-o pictures like this anymore to illustrate that I made and then ate a delicious, piping-hot curry (out of tupperware because these are desperate times):

This is also good because it means the auto-timer will not capture me doing this immediately after the first picture:

Lessons of the day: curry-modelling is a dangerous vocation, and PhotoBooth is bad for my self esteem.

I just want mashed potatoes so bad.

2010-10-10T13:58:00.000-07:00

Sunset in London from my residence. Photo stolen from Daniel Giacopelli.

This weekend has been packed with improv workshops, which has been great fun and full of lovely new people (and some old Canadian Improv Games amigos... there is no escape.), but has also left me somewhat homesick. It does not help that today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and I know for a fact that I am missing out on more than one amazing turkey dinner.

Mostly I've had to turn off my iPod; it is too full of music I associate with people and places that I love in Canada. It's not just the sad songs (or even the good ones) that get me all mopey: Justin Bieber's "Baby" and various tunes from Glee, for instance, recall embarrassing dance parties past that I would like to be reliving right now. Plus, JBiebz has been mocked to my face a number of times since I've moved here... some people are just intimidated by raw talent and true follicular beauty. These tunes are all prime for inducing "misty water coloured memmmmmmorrrrries" moments:

Home- Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

Clark Gable- The Postal Service

Regina Spektor- Better

Twist it! (Shake Your Tailfeathers)- Ray Charles

Girl from the North Country- Bob Dylan

What'd you do today Monica? Explore the city? Go for a pint with some pals?

2010-10-06T15:09:00.000-07:00

Better! I hung out desperately needing to wash my hair and vacuuming my room on my hands and knees.

... with this.

Try not to be jealous, especially when I tell you that I also spent about an hour and a half photocopying most of a book one page at a time. Ahhh the crazy London lifestyle.

Remember when I said my programme sounds cool but is mostly really dorky?

2010-10-05T09:30:00.000-07:00

I rest my case.

Henslowe's Diary is basically an oldey-time account book chronicling money lending from a man who also happened to own the Rose theatre. According to some critics he was a bit slow/potentially functionally illiterate. While this has been hotly contested by other scholars, he has recorded several performances of Titus Andronicus as "Tittus & Ondronicus," so you be the judge on that one. In case you're interested (and who wouldn't be?), a man named Robarte borrowed roughly 20 pounds on the 25th of 'febreary,' 1598 for a 'boocke called the myller'.

On the bright side, while I was eagerly and captivated-ly perusing this non-stop thrill ride of a book, the Globe's music department was practicing their military drums/trumpets for the entry of Henry IV later that afternoon, which felt a bit like time travel and made me geek out in a huge way.

In a few weeks or so the actors move out of their dressing rooms in the Globe and then we all get one as a 'study corral'. I'm not crazy about the image of MA students as a bunch of studying bison, but I'm presuming this will be a similar geekcitement opportunity, and am pretty jazzed about it as well.

"Oh my actual God..."

2010-10-03T15:16:00.000-07:00

Have moved house, partially because I do everything Brian Rieper tells me to, and partially because tumblr was getting on my nerves. There are just a lot of sardonically captioned photos in my life already, you know? Now you can comment and I can keep track of all seven of you and what you're looking at.

I spent the weekend in Brighton with Hannah, in her home which is the most picturesque British cottage ever created. I literally want to get married in her back garden. (Maybe to her, at this rate.) We mostly explored the local pub scene in torrential rain, failed to get Glastonbury tickets, and watched the X-factor with Hannah's mum. Oh my God you guys. British reality TV is hilarious. Things are just a bit more whacked out, the variety of accents and styles of dress is brilliant, and they are simultaneously dirtier and more intensely earnest and emotional. Plus, they are called things like "I'm Famous and Frightened!" (exclamation mark theirs). In this show, celebrities "spend three nights in a haunted castle and do terrifying challenges for charity."Some other highlights:

Animal Airport
Celebrity Love Island
Baby Ballroom: The Championship
Death Wish Live
Chaos at the Chateau
Flog it!
The House of Tiny Tearaways
The Edwardian Mansion-House

I really hope they are all exactly what they sound like, especially "Flog it!"

Charit-e

2010-10-03T12:40:00.002-07:00

Got very lost on the way to a party in Shoreditch hosted by a house full of dancing Greek men. Fortunately, a kind benefactor with an iPhone appeared and gave us very solid directions, as well as information about his own evening’s plans, which included a late night rave/benefit event in an abandoned warehouse, thrown to raise money to save the rainforest. What a hero. When he is not helping lost damsels in distress with his fancy gadgets, he is doing MDMA for the Amazon. The charity raves are held right by my residence apparently, which means I may finally achieve my dream of becoming a philanthropist. It just feels good to help people.

Sisquotable

2010-10-03T12:40:00.000-07:00

Today during the first day of my MA programme we were having a very serious academic discussion about a very seriously old and obscure British play called Hengist, King of Kent. Everyone had very well thought-out things to say about the portrayal of women in the play, the differences between the quarto and the manuscript texts, and the influence of the British folkloric tradition on its ‘historicity’. Mainly, I found it amusing that the aforementioned Hengist lives in a place called ‘Thong Castle’. Good ol’ Heng-y names the castle himself in a fit of superb creativity and unbridled masculinity. BTW, this is what comes up if you google that phrase, which is a real place in England, in the town of Thong.

2010-10-03T12:39:00.000-07:00

Chance of rain

I get pie with a little help from my friends

2010-10-03T12:38:00.000-07:00

There are some things that you can tell are gross without tasting them. For me, this includes any of those fancy-party pâtés with gelatinous components, MacDonald’s ‘Chicken Mayo’ and those Scotch eggs with the weird crust that are then baked or something. Up until today, this list also included Cornish pasties and English meat pies. I was very wrong indeed.

The pie shop Pieminister was recommended to me by a Real British Person, my friend Hannah who is also doing the Shakespeare MA. It’s pronounced ‘Pie-Minster’ and Alison and I have been joking about it all week. But when we saw a stall from the store tucked amidst the fresh produce, cheese and weird-looking meats at Borough Market, we had no choice.

The Thai Chook Pie is made with “free-range British chicken, fragrant Thai green curry, sweet potato and lime in a lovely pastry”… I know. These unassuming little guys are so, so delicious. It’s hard to eat, and fairly hefty, so it functioned as two meals in one: cold in the garden of a church near the Thames, and later heated in my grotty dorm kitchen (where the food thievery, janky leaving out of dishes and other housemate crimes have already begun). Honestly, I wanted to think it was disgusting, but it was, as the description says, lovely. I ate my words and then I ate that pie. Hard.

Another great discovery: If you show up at Borough Market around closing-up time (due to thriftiness or hangover, whatever) you can get all the delicious fresh produce for half price. Also, it’s all organic and local. And sold to you by hot farmers. I promise I’m just there to support local/green cooking.

2010-10-03T12:36:00.001-07:00

"What does one wear to a 10 year anniversary party for a Shakespeare centre?"
"I don't know, a ruff?"
- Alison Mowat, flatmate extraordinaire.

A broad, drinking

2010-10-03T12:35:00.003-07:00

I got drunk on England and bought a cape. Then I got drunk on alcohol and made friends with my program. Everything at King’s seems to involve large quantities of free wine and “nibbles”, which I am obviously very okay with. However, as the lightweight of the universe I’m still trying to figure out how to booze with my superiors and NOT ramble to them about my childhood love for Anne of Green Gables and the perils of growing up ginger (to be fair, she started it).

I knew this was a good place when my professor bought us all beer and crisps during an ‘early modern meet-up’. At least I’ll be acquiring pounds in some sense over here.

2010-10-03T12:35:00.001-07:00

gnarly dorm rooms: universal.

My happy place

2010-10-03T12:32:00.001-07:00

Now five minutes from my bedroom.

L'undone

2010-10-03T12:30:00.000-07:00

So, I am the kind of person who lives abroad now. I am also the kind of person who blogs, I guess. this is a real journey of self-discovery. The main thing I have discovered about myself while living in the UK is that my voice is about 10 x too loud for any given situation. A few friends have called me out on this before, but it has never mattered until I moved outside of North America, and realized that the Loud American stereotype is a real thing. Interestingly, I have chosen to combat this by compulsively mentioning my Canadian background within ear shot of Real British People, I suppose in some kind of attempt to excuse myself. “Well, that’s not so different from the Toronto subway map!” I'll exclaim. “Oh no, it’s raining again, eh? EHHHH?” and so on and so forth. A really smart person would probably just quiet down, instead of loudly confirming their outsider status while trying to ingratiate themselves to their sovereign nation, but here we are.

And where we are is LONDON.