movin' out

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".

Purchases from Poundland

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.

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

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.

The King's Speech

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

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

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.