initials a.z.

Why are bad films so good on long flights?

2012-01-01T19:04:00.000Z

Before making my recent 11-day pilgrimage* home, I was reminded of an airplane-travel phenomenon by my good friend Molly Knefel. She and her awesome (now-not-then-recently-arrested-for-documenting-the-occupy-movement) brother, John, were on an episode of the podcast Ear Candy earlier this year, and shortly after hilariously discussing of the 'branding' of John and Molly†, the subject of romcoms was raised.

The Knefs on the 'cast.

One of the hosts mentioned having seen some terrible Sandra Bullock film on the plane, thereby exonerating himself of all responsibility in the viewing, a tactic that I have employed many-a-time. Molly followed up with: "Romantic comedies are the best on airplanes... I just watched 'He's [Just] Not That Into You'... I would never actually want to see that movie, but on an airplane, it's perfect, because it's just so stupid...."

The thing is, I watched 'He's Just Not That Into You' on a plane, which Molly goes on to accurately describe as a "parade [Or barrage? Or some awesome combination of those words] of gender stereotypes." I watched the whole thing. I kind of hated myself, and I definitely hated every writer involved, all the stupid characters for making such absurd and contradictory decisions, and Ginnifer Goodwin for participating in such a shit show, but I watched the whole thing. I could have been reading a book.

So why? Why do we watch crap on airplanes? I asked myself this question on the 19th of December, when I boarded my 10-hour flight home, and again when I selected 'Bad Teacher' as my first viewing choice on board. 'Bad Teacher'? I thought, Really, Anne? Cameron Diaz? You hate Cameron Diaz! And I do, but Justin Timberlake can be funny, and I love Jason Segel, and he did totally rescue all the scenes in which he participated, but this doesn't change the fact that I do not enjoy watching Cameron Diaz on screen at all! But I guess I do. I chose to watch her over Kristin Wiig, Mya Rudolph and a crew of other hilarious women in 'Bridesmaids', which I've only seen once and totally merits a second viewing, especially in the context of my own sister having recently gotten engaged.

I'm pretty sure Cameron Diaz and Kate Hudson are my go-to, plane-only actresses; actresses whom, under any other circumstances, make me hate the industry for employing people like that rather than people like... well, me, but who seem to provide the perfect level of sedation/distraction on a long flight.

There are so many conveniently spliced together images of these ladies on the interwebs.

There are some films I haven't made it through, even given the strange alternate universe of movie-viewing in flight. I could not stomach even the first half of 'Bride Wars'. Apparently Kate Hudson plus themes of women's innate obsession with weddings -- the kind that overrides lifelong friendships -- was too much, despite my Diaz-Hudson rule. I also started watching 'Horrible Bosses' on the same flight as 'Bad Teacher'. I suffered through a good 20 minutes before conceding that my love for Jason Batemen, Jason Sudeikis, and Charlie Day could not possibly rescue the film from some of the worst writing ever spoken on screen, nor me from my mounting outrage that three such hilarious men chose to be involved in such crap.

I decided to follow up that particular disappointment with a film I felt more sure I would enjoy, so I watched 'Crazy, Stupid, Love' (whose title, by the way, evades my understanding with its two commas). Despite a sort of draggy middle section, I genuinely enjoyed it (duh: sexy/just-hasn't-found-the-right-woman-yet Ryan Gosling + inept but loveable Steve Carell + the student becomes the teacher plot line = heartwarming). It was a departure from my usual choice to watch anything I wouldn't watch anywhere else, but I was pleased, and then I slept for the last leg of the flight.

I think watching a good film can be sort of emotionally exhausting, and maybe that's why I (we? can I speak for everyone here?) choose mostly not to watch them on planes. I usually don't sleep well on flights, so the last thing I want is to arrive at my destination both shattered and distraught by images of the Holocaust, for instance. I'm pretty sure they don't show 'Schindler's List' on planes. Maybe that's why. Also, I don't think good movies are done justice on a 6" screen.

I did go the light-hearted but well-made route with 'Midnight In Paris' on my return flight, but then I accidentally started watching 'Beginners', because I thought it was the terrible-looking Katherine Heigl/Josh Duhamel film I saw playing on someone else screen. It was, of course, a rather serious film starring Ewan McGregor as a man whose recently-out father has just died, and I watched it because it was compelling, but I wrapped things up with 'Something Borrowed' (so Kate Hudsonly terrible) and 'Life As We Know It' (also awful and full of unbelievable character actions/transformations), which I had initially confused with 'Beginners', because I just could not put myself through something with subtitles or themes on the futility of marriage or life in general. I wanted to arrive back in London with the emotional (if not physical) energy to go out New Year's Eve.

*Just a regular visit. No actual pilgrims involved.
†If you don't know/follow the antics/comedy/insightful writings and broadcasts of John and Molly, you are missing out.

Tune

2011-09-10T15:51:00.000+01:00

Via my WIG Lauren, medium to the Sexy Gay Jesus.

Sometimes retro theme songs really hit the spot

2011-05-27T13:09:00.000+01:00

Now is one of those times.

I've also found Laverne and Shirley to be uplifting.

When you wake up and you're living on a couch instead of with your boyfriend of 2.5 years, it's good to remember that you're gonna make it after all, doin' it your way.

I heart Scotland

2011-02-21T21:44:00.001Z

I meant to post this months ago, but I'm doing it now.

Irn Bru is a Scottish fizzy drink that tastes like bubble-gum cotton candy, but looks deceptively like an orange soda. It is widely heralded as a hang-over cure, and loved by Glaswegians. I kind of love this commercial.

Snowy Armageddon hits Scotland!

2010-12-07T21:40:00.001Z

And I thought the PNW was unprepared for inclement weather.

It has been snowing for a good week and a half now -- a lovely Saturday morning surprise turned epic icy failure to grit roads and sidewalks. The snow stopped, partially thawed, refroze, and recommenced, so now we have that lovely packed, slick, no-possible-traction kind of surface that cars and pedestrians both love, and what is the Scottish government doing about it? Nothing, apparently.

Now, I know it's hard when you're not ready for it. I grew up in Vancouver, Washington. I know what happens to a rainy, temperate climate when the temperature dips below freezing. But this is normal weather here. It's early, yes, but normal. Pull yourself together, United Kingdom!

I was the only one who showed up to work in my department today. I walk and take the underground (which has been jam-packed, due to it being the only reliable source of transportation), so I don't have a problem. We closed early yesterday and it took one lady nine hours to get home. Two of those hours were spent crossing a bridge. Buses have been canceled for days. People have been stuck in traffic for over 24 hours. To save gas and stay warm, people are piling into each other's cars and running the heaters. Cars have been abandoned on the motorways. Does this not all sound a little bit absurd? A bit Day After Tomorrow-ish?

Minnesota can do it. Norway can do it. Most of Canada does it every year. Deal. With. The. Snow.

When the plumber don't come, sh!t gets Elizabethan

2010-10-05T12:47:00.000+01:00

It all began two weeks ago, when I joined the bf in our new flat in Glasgow. I suppose it began before my arrival, but I was blissfully unaware of the trouble that lay ahead. An old Scottish house turned into apartments, you say? Servants' quarters becoming living quarters, a great room now comprising a studio. Delightful, I say, Positively charming! And it is, our apartment, with its vaulted ceiling and myriad retro and antique lamps, collected by the landlady. With an old house, however, comes an old infrastructure, and sneaky little problems, easily overlooked by an enthusiastic couple, looking for a cheap place to stay.

Who would have thought to check the water pressure in the shower, for instance? Or the spare bedroom for draughty windows? Not us! We'll take it!

And so here we are, a month into the lease, without a functioning shower. What began as a simple request to replace the shower head has turned into a saga of disconnected pipes, an absentee landlady, and the futility of baths.

Prior to my arrival, an electrician came to replace the shower head. That's funny, you may be thinking, wouldn't a plumber be the more logical hire for this job? I might have thought the same, but this new shower head would be more efficient! would heat water only as it was needed! would require an electrician for installation! would prove to be the beginning of the end of bathing as we knew it!

The combination water-heater/shower head was installed, but the electrician soon discovered not one, but two problems: the water pressure was still disastrously low, and the heating function was not working at all. Yes, our temperamental, sometimes scalding, sometimes freezing, unenthusiastic stream of a shower had become a cold trickle. The landlady was contacted (pre-absentia), and her suggestion given: to take the new unit off until she could buy a new one to replace it. This would have meant cutting off the entire water supply to the apartment, and luckily the bf foresaw a near future of bedpans and latrines quickly enough to forbid such an action. Thus, we were not made toiletless, but our shower remained unusable.

The story to present is a sad one, and probably too whiny and redundant to relate in its entirety. I will be brief. The landlady disappeared on two weeks of holiday; a plumber was promised and never showed (did I mention the electrician -- in his initial cutting off of water supply -- disconnected our washing machine and then forgot to reconnect it before leaving?); the shower head company was contacted by the bf when promises of such contact by the electrician never came to fruition; the problem was diagnosed as most certainly a plumbing issue, and the landlady sent a second electrician to install a new shower head, (without explanation or contact with us) who confirmed that this was, indeed, a plumbing issue; the landlady returned from holiday and left (again without explanation) a third new shower unit outside our door. When the bf finally got her on the phone after leaving numerous voicemails and texts explaining the situation, she claimed this was the first she had heard of the plumbing issue! And so here we are. Whining complete.

The situation has, if nothing else, elicited a certain amount of creativity around the issue of hygiene in our apartment. Baths were the first logical endeavor. We cannot shower, but we can bathe (thanks to the separate nature of the bath faucets from the shower source)! The (obvious) problem with baths -- other than the extreme waste of water -- is that they are time-consuming and not particularly effective. Showering is usually a five- to ten-minute task for me, an easy fit into a somewhat rushed morning. A bath I have to plan, to set aside time for. After the tub is filled and my necessary cleaning attended to, I am left in a pool of soap and shampoo and the things that I presumably washed off of myself and, on shaving days, little floating bits of stubble. I don't feel clean, and so I try to hold my head or shoulders or knees or toes under the running tap, but the cold and hot water run out of separate faucets, and I am alternatively burning and freezing myself in the effort, sometimes cupping a mixture of the two temperatures in my hands and throwing the contents over my shoulder and onto my back. I feel like an ape, a desperate, soap-scummy ape, and then I think Eureka! A bucket!

The bucket is a useful addition to the bath, allowing for more thorough rinsing as well as fresh-water wasting, but more and more I've turned away from bathing altogether. On days that I go to the gym, I can use the showers there. I have never been so excited to stand under 30 continuous seconds of running water, nor so unbothered by the notion of having to push a little button again so I can enjoy another 30 seconds of beautiful, high-pressure, hot, streaming water. I can have as many 30 seconds of water as I want! And I don't even want that many!

On days that I don't work out, I've taken to the Elizabethan trend of creating elaborate hairdos and applying additional makeup and perfumes to mask the fact that I have not bathed. I find this kind of trickery a little too exciting. What color eyeshadow shall I wear today to distract from my oily complexion? If I slick my greasy locks into an elaborate updo, will no one notice my smell?

So far, I've met with no discernible room clearings, no audible gasps of horror, no out-and-out retching at the scent of me. Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps I have been liberated from the tedious routine of hygiene, cleaning myself each day only to find myself dirty again the next. Maybe the Elizabethans had it right!

Or maybe I just need a shower.

Employment and a dearth of creativity

2010-09-14T00:07:00.001+01:00

That's right, I said dearth. I may be gainfully employed and neglectful of my blog, my I remember one or two words from the SATs.

My SAT scores came up again recently. Now that I've settled into New York life -- that's right, she's the mistress that skillfully seduced me away from you, my reader(s) -- I'm going to uproot myself once again and head down what will *hopefully* be a path to a career, a steady income, and stability. In the U.K.

Why couldn't I just stay here in New York, you might ask, keep the rather fun job I already have, and actually wake from my creativity coma? It's New York. I could be out at open mics, writing for blogs, and generally promoting myself at least as much as I do Broadway Shows for a living. I could stop making excuses about this being a temporary situation -- which it is.

And that's where the SAT scores come in. I submitted them -- along with three generations of birth certificates, three months of bank statements, my resume, repeated pleas for mercy and assurances of my employability -- to the British Consulate General of New York. The SAT scores were a bit over the top, but they did ask for "Evidence of any English language ability or qualifications," and although I taught English is France for a year, I never had to take the TOEFL exam, so my Verbal scores in the 91st percentile from 8 years ago will just have to do.

The only thing to do now is wait. It is excruciating. The direction of the next 2 to 5 five years of my life is in the hands of one person or several people, none of whom know anything about me, other than what I look like on paper. According to estimated processing times (5 to 10 business days), I should hear a decision about the visa by Thursday, and according to the plane ticket I have already purchased, I should be flying to London on Saturday. Cutting it a bit fine, am I?

In this last week of mild panic, as my work hours wind down to nothing and I am left with one final paycheck and as many superstitious rituals as I can possibly prescribe to, I turn to you, blog. I miss writing. I liked writing before I moved to New York (for the summer) and became obsessed with work and hours and saving enough to support my next move. This summer has been fun and fruitful. I did save enough to show those visa folks I'll be okay until I get a job, I have generous friends who have put me up at little to no cost, and most importantly, I've had the opportunity to spend time with good friends that I hadn't seen in years. In the chaos of it all, I allowed myself to stop writing, to stop auditioning, and to allow my creativity to be swallowed up in my job and my admiration for the accomplishments of others.

So: this post is an exercise and a challenge to myself. Get back on the horse. Blog when you have time, don't just watch T.V. (I knew there was a reason I hadn't had one of those things in years). Go to open mics. Get back onstage. Get an agent. Work hard. Have something to show for it. Don't spend every waking moment panicking over whether or not The Powers That Be will grant you a visa. Worrying will not affect the outcome. Write new mantras.

The longer I am away from my blog, the harder it is to return. Should I tell them about how I went to Melbourne for my boyfriend's brother's wedding and then to his home country of New Zealand and that his family is awesome and that I'm in love and even though we had to be apart for 7 weeks, together for 6, and then apart for 5 more I think it's all going to be okay? Or should I just start off here, forget what I neglected, and dive in?

Dive in.

Morning Blogging, Take One: I like to be in America

2010-06-07T17:03:00.000+01:00

I am so unemployed. Like, it's not even funny. But unlike the dilemma of forced unemployment in Ireland (no work permit), my American unemployment can be solved. And I'm totally on it. In the meantime, I've managed to get down to my local HRA for the food stampies, and I've found myself with a lot of time to just hang out... an all too familiar feeling.

The grass is always greener, right? I mean, when I did have a full-time job (now a million years ago), all I wanted was a week or seven off. I was sure if I just had time I would accomplish so much! It turns out I don't do so well with the self-motivation thing when I don't have any obligations. But I'm trying to be better. Like in writing this post.

I did give myself a theme song, which is kind of like finding employment. Okay, so it's not at all, but I have a lot of time on my hands.

I was wandering through Manhattan, enjoying a lovely summer day and minding my business when suddenly the line, "I like the island Manhattan!" popped into my head. Before I knew it, America from West Side Story was playing on repeat in my head. And now I will do the same for you.

I love Rita Moreno. If anyone is going to sing my theme song, let it be her. Did you know she's an EGOT? I did not until I read it on her Wikipedia page. I am not surprised, though, as she is overall awesome, and especially so in sketches like this.

So, that's it! New inspiration! I'm not just going to find part-time work, I'm going to EGOT! And I'm racing Tracy Jordan to the punch. I have two months. Go!

So it turns out I didn't miss America that much.

2010-05-26T05:15:00.000+01:00

After 11 hours of sleepless trans-Pacific travel yesterday, I arrived at LAX only to be greeted by a barrage of American unfriendless and impatience.

It was 6am, but my brain thought it was 1am tomorrow, so I was in a fog. When I got to Passport Control, all of the lines I saw said "Visitors." Note: In every other country I've been to in the past two years, there have been two lines at Passport Control. EU and Non-EU, Australia/New Zealand and everywhere else; you get the idea. To my mind, asking whether it was the right line was not an absurd action.

When I approached the woman in charge of directing people and asked her whether these were the lines for citizens, she yelled in my face, "Do you see all these lines! Get in a line! Look at all the lines! Just get in any line where there's no other people!" Literally, screamed at me.

I was so taken aback that I said (calmly), "Yes, I see the empty lines, but they say 'Visitors.' You didn't answer my question. Are they also for citizens?"

To this she screamed, "Do you see them?! Do you see all the lines? Look, there's no one at half of them!" So, again, she didn't answer my question.

I responded (still calmly -- I was impressed with myself), "You still have not answered my question. I don't understand why you're so upset." I walked away while she ripped into me again.

After the ease of check-in and security on my New Zealand domestic flights (you only have to get to the airport 30 minutes in advance -- it hearkened back to the days when non-passengers were allowed to accompany loved ones through security or meet family members at the gate), I was a bit floored by the intensity of security at LAX.

First of all, I had already gone through security TWICE before boarding my flight to the U.S. That's right, I had to go through (not-laid-back international) New Zealand security, which included a routine pat-down with a wand and taking a sample from my bag. THEN, I had to go through extra security at my gate due to U.S. policy. This was extra annoying because Dr. BF had come to the airport early with me so we could have a nice (well, airport nice) meal together before parting ways, but 30 minutes before my boarding call the departure screen listed my flight as in its 'Final Call.'

As a result, I rushed to the gate in a panic, had to say goodbye to my bf in a real hurry, went through stupid second security, and then sat at the gate for another 20 minutes while they delayed boarding. Effing 'Final Call' bullshit.

So then I get to LA, and I have to do it all over again. After the mean lady and Passport Control yelled at me and I picked up my bag and dropped it off again, I stood in line for at least 30 minutes to get through security. Several people cut in front of me because they had flights leaving soon. I didn't mind this, I wasn't in a hurry. I let one man in front of me and gave him some space to take off his shoes (I had already unpacked my stuff into the buckets). I thought this was reasonable. The man behind me didn't. "Ma'am," he said, "Ma'am, go. You can go." The words weren't forceful, but the tone and attitude were.

I guess I hadn't noticed how stressed out people are here until I left and came back. I have to admit, that's ofter how I feel at airports, like my flight is the most important and why should I have to wait in line? But I've kind of gotten over it. And I certainly don't voice it.

There are a lot of things to whine about in other countries, but I have to say, people generally aren't in such a hurry. And I'll miss that.

Oh no oh no oh no

2010-05-26T02:23:00.000+01:00

Is this for real?

This does not a storyline constitute.

Happy Birthday to Me!

2010-05-20T00:30:00.000+01:00

It's my birthday! Well, it is in New Zealand, where I am. It's still yesterday where most of you are.

I'm 25 today. I don't usually talk about my age because I always seem to be running with a crowd much older or younger than myself, but 25 seems significant. A quarter of a century! And I'm in Wellington, which is pretty exciting. No Conchord sightings yet.

The trip to Aussieland and NZ has been whizzing by, and I can't believe I'll be in New York on Monday. We were in Melbourne for almost a week, but it was hard to wrap my head around the fact that I was in Australia as we were kind of constantly on the move.

We were there for Dr. bf's brother's wedding, which was in Mornington, just south of Melbourne. The wedding and reception were good, and I busted some awesome moves on the dance floor, earning me the John Travolta Saturday Night Fever Award. Yes, this was a real thing, and I did win it. And it wasn't fixed! A friend of the bride's (no acquaintance of mine) judged the competition, and we didn't even know it was happnening at the time.

We've been in New Zealand for the last week and a half. The GD and I stayed with his lovely mum in Christchurch for several days before heading off on a brief roadtrip around the South Island. We went to Dunedin (where he went to university), Te Anau (beutiful lake and trails for hiking), and Milford Sound, which is part of Fiordland (not a typo, just a silly spelling choice) National Park, where we kayaked with a guided group on the sound.

We also spent a good deal of time with the GD's sister and hubby and their three adorable boys. Needless to say, his family is awesome and we had a great time.

We got into Wellington two nights ago, and it looks like it's shaping up to be a slightly sunnier day than yesterday, so some exploration into town is in order. We stayed with friends of Mark just outside the city last night and were treated to delicious (birthday) French toast for breakfast.

We've done so much in the past two and a half weeks, and I can't possibly cover even a fracture of it in this short post, but I wanted to check in. One more night here, then it's up to Auckland for two nights, then off to NYC! I can't believe how quickly it's all gone, but that's the way with vacation. More detailed accounts of adventures to follow.

Expensive Mistakes

2010-05-04T01:19:00.000+01:00

Adventure! We (the GD and self) and in the Hong Kong airport on a short layover. In a few minutes we'll be boarding our second (super long) flight to Melbourne.

So, did you know you needed a visa to go to Australia? I didn't! The good news is they're free and you can apply online. The bad news is if you are ignorant of this policy and your boyfriend is from New Zealand (the only country exempt from the policy) and no one tells you until you are checking in at the Qantas counter, you will have to pay £25! And that is like a million US Dollars!

Expensive lesson learned. Btw, Qantas is an awesome airline that serves many kinds of food (including Twix ice cream bars!) and has movies on demand. So far I've watched It's Complicated (adorable -- Meryl Streep stoned is the best) and Avatar -- slightly less impressive on a 6-inch screen).

It is sometime in the morning now, but my brain doesn't know that, so I'll probably be sleeping as soon as we get on board. And then eating some more delicious food. And watching more movies.

Also, Hong Kong airport is probably one of the best-organized ~~airports~~ places I've ever been. Friendly people with perfect English and informative signs press color-coded stickers to your lapel (on, you know, shirt) as you get off the plane and direct you to your connection. It feels a little like kindergarten, but this is comforting in an unfamiliar place and without a real sense of what time it is.

They're starting to board now! Got to go!

The ephemeral art (of acting)

2010-04-23T11:08:00.000+01:00

I hope to (someday) be the kind of working actor who goes straight from one project into another, the opening week of one play overlapping with the first reading of another. Of course, this would require me to somehow reconcile my desire to travel and live in a new place every year or so with my desire to establish myself as an artist in one particular place. Or figure out how to be a better traveling performer. Maybe I should learn to lift heavy weights. Or grow a beard.

Saturday was the closing night of a one-week run of Twelfth Night. I played Viola, which was a great challenge and pleasure. I worked for five weeks to memorize lines, discover how my character moved and spoke, and then give my lines new energy and meaning for each performance; and now it's all done. It's an ephemeral art, and I think that's the hardest thing for me to embrace. Months of auditions finally end in a casting; weeks of rehearsals end in a (series of) performance(s); and that's it.

The show may be revived in the summer, but I'm leaving Ireland is less than two weeks. It pains me to think of someone else taking over role. Not Viola -- it would take too much energy to be pained by everyone else who had ever played her -- buy my Viola; the place I took in that production. And yet, I have to move on. I am moving on, literally. I could have more work based on this show, but I'm leaving. As is my wont.

Islandic [sic] volcanoes and why I should be employed as a translator.

2010-04-16T13:19:00.006+01:00

For anyone who isn't up to date on the latest geological news, a volcanic eruption in Iceland has created a massive cloud of ash over the U.K., Ireland and Scandanavia, grounding all flights in those countries. Just to be clear, I can't discern any kind of a cloud here (in Dublin), but ash has started to fall in parts of Northern Britain, causing concern for the health and safety of residents.

In an originally unrelated story, I was working on an article for the tourism blog I write for today, specifically on how to get to and from the Beauvais airport in Paris. Much to my chagrin, when I opened my draft, I discovered the latest changes I had made yesterday had not been saved, so I had to go back through, rewrite, and recreate the links I had used. One of them was for the Beauvais Airport website, specifically the bus timetables provided. When I went to the site, however, this was all that appeared:

ATTENTION fermeture de l'aéroport

En raison d'un vaste nuage de cendre provenant d'une eruption volcanique en Islande, le trafic aérien en provenance et à destination de la scandinavie et du Royaume Uni est actuellement très fortement perturbé.

L'aéroport sera totalement fermé aujourd'hui au minimum jusqu'à 20h00.

Pour plus d'information, merci de bien vouloir consulter le site de votre compagnie aérienne.

WARNING disrupted traffic
Due to a large ash cloud coming from an islandic volcanic eruption, the air traffic from and to scandinavia and the UK is actually heavily perturbated.

The airport will be totally closed today at least until 20h00.

For more information, please visit your airline website

Okay, so first of all, the heading in French reads "fermeture de l'aéroport" -- "airport closure" -- so why does the translation read, "disrupted traffic"? That's a bit of a mixed message, isn't it? (Yes, this is going to be a gripe about grammar and translation, so stop now if you don't care.)

In the English version, "islandic" and "scandinavia" are improperly un-capitalized (never mind the fact that in English it's spelled "Icelandic" and not "Islandic"). There is often some confusion between French and English due to rules of capitalization (days of the week, months of the year, and nationalities all begin with lower-case letters in French), but the names of countries are capitalized in both languages! They even effed up in the French version, forgetting to capitalize "scandinavie."

Also, "pertubated"? That is so not a word. Even "perturbed" would not have suited this context. The verb "pertuber" should be translated as "disrupted" in when it refers to anything other than a person.

Another translational blunder? "Actuellement" does not mean "actually," in English; it means "currently." And tisk for not ending the final sentence with a period!

I am also annoyed that I can't access any of the normal pages of the site, because now I'll have to wait for this whole volcanic ash cloud thing to clear up before I can reincorporate those links into my post! And writing for that website is how I earn my monies!

So, website editors of Aéroport Paris Beauvais Tillé, if you're listening, your annoying translation and inexplicable closure of all web pages are pissing me off. Also, if you're interested in hiring a better translator, I'm available. And anal about grammar. Rant complete.

Fame follows me to Ireland.

2010-04-13T15:05:00.004+01:00

I once made the paper while living in France, and now, I've done it again!

See?

What? You don't see it? No, I'm not the one in the hat and glasses (though I would be impressed with myself for growing such a fetching little chin-beard). That's me there, to the left, down, down, there!

Super high qual pic, right? Can't you tell that blurry white thing is my forlorn face? And that the brown smudge is me, disguised as a boy? With no hope of winning the love of the man standing just behind me?

There, that's better. No exclusive interview, this time. I guess that was the perk of being the only American in a small town in France.

Also, come see Twelfth Night! It's on all this week at the Teachers' Club, 8pm. That's in Dublin. So, for the two of my three followers who don't live in Ireland, I'm sorry to say you'll be missing out at this juncture.

I need some levity!

2010-04-13T12:39:00.004+01:00

And so, who better to turn to than Bret and Jemaine?

Oh man, I love Jemaine's sparkly pants! Also that the scrawny guy from Boom is featured in this video.

Here's another one for your viewing pleasure.

I really want to dance with that bouncer/sunglass-wearing fellow.

That's right, gentlemen, feminists can also enjoy humor about man bits! I've been so engaged in feminist debate over that past couple of days that I forgot about the funny! I know my good friend blogging Molly understands this. Let's all be smart and considerate, but can we still maintain a sense of humor?

Is feminism misandrous?

2010-04-12T15:35:00.002+01:00

Whew! I just spent the last several hours writing this response to my good friend Molly's insightful (and apparently controversial) piece entitled The misguided, embarrassing war against feminism rages on.

Mine is a lengthy response, but please read it, along with Molly's post and the comments she's received. If you care about feminism (one way or another) please join in the discussion/debate! You can leave comments here, on The Ladies of Science page, or on the original post at True/Slant.

What do you think of the reaction she has invoked? The apparent need for males studies?

One thing leads to another.

2010-04-09T12:28:00.000+01:00

Why is it that, when I stop writing one thing, I stop writing everything? I stop blogging, and so I stop writing new comedy, short stories and I just generally stop writing at all. Maybe because writing has suddenly become my job in the form of lessons about France. I do enjoy writing them (and getting paid for it), but after an afternoon of research, voice recording and blogging for profit, I'm much less likely to stay glued to my computer to write a post of my own.

And I'm rehearsing for a play (which is awesome), but it means I've taken on odd hours of rehearsing until 10 or 10:30, and then coming home and staying up until 1 or 2 for no particular reason, which (in turn) means I get up at 10 or 10:30, putter around the flat, and around this time (12:30, as my blog has stopped using a time stamp) I think, Hmm, maybe I should shower. And I do eventually, then I do some work, run through my lines, and it's time for rehearsal again.

This is what I've wanted for so long: to be in a play, to be making some kind of money at writing. Now that I'm here, however, I've grown complacent. I haven't done a stand-up gig in weeks. I've stopped writing and editing my own work. I haven't thought much at all about the fact that I will be in New York for two months this summer and I want to make something of that time. I'll be in New York, for god's sake, I need to be thinking about theater and writing and performance and where will I rehearse? and who with? and what kind of time frame will I have?

And so the questions pile up and I shut down again. Easier to leave the questions unanswered than tackle them all at once. And in the meantime, I'm broke. Or as close to broke as possible when my boyfriend provides most to all living expenses and I just halfheartedly chase dreams and hope that something will come up.

I broke my blog. UPDATE: Fixed it!

2010-03-29T08:05:00.001+01:00

So, silly me, all I had to do was click "Revert widget templates to default" on my edit HTML page. Not sure how I messed them up in the first place, but it was only after hours of scouring my HTML and reading tutorials (to no avail) that I figured this out. Sheesh.

Does anyone know how to fix it?

So, I have a pretty rudimentary understanding of html, and in the recent process of toying with the appearance of my blog (mostly using copy and paste templates), I somehow lost the date on each of my posts, and instead of having a "comments" section, it now just says "read more" at the bottom of each post (even though there is nothing more to read).

Does anyone know wtf I did?

I will look into this further.

Respectfully yours,

Anne

P.S. - I have already tried the obvious things like checking the date and comment settings. That is all.

St. Paddy's Day in Dublin

2010-03-24T15:25:00.000Z

I had the ~~great privilege~~ nutty experience of being in Dublin on Ireland's big day last week. I decided it would be fun to describe the day through photos.

11 a.m. (ish): Pedestrians head over the Millenium Bridge to line the parade route; surfers row by on their boards.

12:20 p.m: O'Connell Street is packed beyond hope. We are not sure where the parade goes next, so we settle in and resign ourselves to the fact that we will not be able to see.

The kid on the sign has the right idea.

Climbing is a popular tactic.

Kids on shoulders definitely had the best seats in the house...

... and provided the highest levels of adorable Irish pride.

Some grown-ups got in on it, too....

... including myself.

From this vantage point, I was finally able to catch some parade highlights:

Like this giant chicken!

And more adorable children.

Awesome, tall puppets.

Lady in the sky.

Attack!

Not sure... but I like it!

So, as it turns out, the St. Patrick's Day Parade had little to do with Ireland. Oh yes, the crowds were out in all their green and face-painted glory, but the floats themselves seemed to be a bit... random. Don't get me wrong, I love giant papier-maché insects and puppets that hover high enough over the crowd to be seen by all, but there wasn't anything that particularly bespoke Ireland. Or maybe I just couldn't see.

Giant Cadbury Egg Not, In Fact, Filled With Creme*

2010-03-12T19:04:00.002Z

When the GD brought one of these home from work, I was truly excited:

Why, it's a giant Cadbury Egg! It will be filled with so much creamy goodness!

When I went to crack it, it crumbled into its hollow shell. No cream. Not so much as a prize. I know it's no Kinder Surprise, but a girl can hope.

I guess it would be kind of an unwieldy process, cracking open an egg of that size and trying to consume it in one go. You might need several friends around to aid in the process. Some might find ostrich-egg-sized yolk to be alarming; I know there was always something a bit off-putting to me about the standard-issue Cadbury egg filling (I always preferred the caramel). I was also unnerved by the idea of bunnies laying eggs at all.

That aside, what makes a Cadbury Cream Egg is its cream filling, and though the giant one is not explicitly marked as such, I wanted reality, on this front, to live up to my imagination.

If Philip Morris is behind this egregious skimping on filling, I'm gonna be pissed. Kraft already attempted to close down a factory during negotiations over the sale and began discussing job cuts soon after the acquisition; this is the next logical step, no?

UPDATE!

Apparently, the GD brought home the wrong egg. Further research/google image searches yielded this beauty:

Either that's a normal-sized egg in excessive packaging (quite possible), or that's the one I had in mind.

*As spelled on packaging. That was totally an accidental spelling on my part, but I guess that's how they roll over in the U.K.

International Women's Day

2010-03-09T16:44:00.003Z

... was yesterday. But it's not too late to celebrate! My friend, Molly, wrote a great post on True/Slant in recognition of some awesome woman-ness this year.

I first became aware of International Women's Day was while I was living in Cameroon in 2006. It was a huge deal and there was an enormous parade through Yaoundé with President Paul Biya and his crazy-haired wife, Chantal, in attendance.

(I have pictures of this somewhere in the internet universe. I must track them down.)

UPDATE: Found 'em!

We (the visiting white students) bought traditional muumuus, dressed up with our host mothers and marched in the parade!

I forgot about all the guns. Also, love that he's checking his phone.

It was amazing. There were thousands of women out and, as there had been two colors that year for the traditional Women's Day fabric--turquoise and pink--we were divided into groups by color. Only, as soon as we were spotted, we were forced to the front of the line (that is to say, further divided along color lines), as if to say, "Look! We've got foreigners in our parade! They are both white and able to look ridiculous in muumuus!"

A friend with her host-mother and another Cameroonian woman.

This only became more embarrassing when everyone started singing traditional songs that were completely unknown to us. There we were, the white folks right at the front, not singing or gesturing along with the rest of the crowd! So, we basically looked really... white.

Lady Police Officers!

Despite the nationally-aired humiliation, it was an amazing event. I truly felt a part of something that transcended nationality, age and attire. To see so many women out and dressed in the same fabric--many of them had made their own dresses--and to be one of them, myself, that was a unique moment.

This is one of those things that is awkward when translated from French, so let's veer from the literal:

"Opportunities for women in high, decision-making spheres (positions/jobs)."

I missed my chance this time around, but I think next year I'll dig my muumuu out of retirement, round up some friends, and parade down whatever street I may be living on at that future point in time. Any excuse for a parade. Especially when the excuse is the awesomeness of women.

You're packed and you're stacked 'specially in the back...

2010-02-19T16:59:00.004Z

Latest youtube distraction: early- to mid-90s music videos. Okay, so it's a recurring distraction.

I love Salt-N-Pepa. Someday, when I have lots of time on my hands, I want to write a post about how Very Necessary is one of the most important albums for feminism in hip hop of... ever. But, for now, enjoy the awesomeness.

I like how Spinderella is in all the videos, just so we remember she's part of it. Also, Pepa could kick my ass.

On a slightly related note, am I the only one who just now noticed that in TLC's Unpretty video, Lefteye is signing the lyrics? Not singing, signing. Is this because the poor MC has nothing to do?

I would embed the TLC video if I could, but I can't. Watch it. Appreciate the futuristic, zen-powered hovercrafts. Smile as the bulimic girl tears the negative images of women off her wall and puts on a swimsuit! Cheer as Chilli karate-kicks her bf for trying to pressure her into getting a boob job. Did anyone else think she was going to get hit by an ambulance when she fell to the ground in relief outside the clinic?

Am I old at heart? [Updated: 2/19/10]

2010-02-17T16:49:00.003Z

Or do I just hate things because I'm rational and those things are annoying and loud and not part of normal human etiquette?

I rode the train today. As it turns out, I've been riding the train a lot lately. I come into Dublin about once a week, for classes, gigs, etc., and it can be a very pleasant ride. Three hours long, but nothing to complain about. I write, I read, I doze off to various podcasts. Except....

Teenagers. I. hate. teenagers. And I think I am starting to hate throngs of school-aged children, as well. Teenagers, in my opinion, are bad in any numbers greater than one. They are disrespectful, they destroy any semblance of calm in a room, and I am sure that I was never one, myself.

Okay, yes, I did pass through adolescence, but I maintain that (no matter how angst-y I was at home) I exhibited a certain level of maturity, awareness of my surrounding, and QUIET while out in the world. (Mom, you are not allowed to comment on this assertion.)

I HATE those effing mp3 players that play without headphones, I HATE the effing teenagers who yell over their blasting club remixes in conversation, and most of all I hate the parents (when present) who do nothing to suggest that the volume of their kids' music (let alone their voices) is inappropriately high.

So, yes, I am a cranky old librarian at heart. And that's just fine with me.

[UPDATE: Feb 19, 2010]

It turns out I don't just hate teenagers, I also hate old people--the ones who think that cell phones are just like the landlines of yore, attached to imaginary walls in their imaginary houses and who think that speaking at a volume appropriate for these imaginary settings, not to mention compensating for the onset of deafness, is the norm.

It's a train, people, not your kitchen or living room or parlor. The people all around you? They are real. They are trying to read. They are trying not to throw their books at your head.

I saw Catherine Deneuve!

2010-02-12T22:48:00.003Z

I swear! And no, I wasn't watching-- well, pretty much any French movie made in the past thirty years. I saw her for realsies! And like a big creep, I took a picture.

Of course, I didn't want to be too creepy, and as a result, you can't really tell it's her at all. Damn my 3x zoom! It's just not enough in these kinds of situations. But anyway, that woman with all the blond hair blowing into her eyes, that's her.

Thanks to Sofia for taking me to Trocadéro; also, for noticing it was Catherine Deneuve being filmed on location. Highlight of this trip to Paris.

The Bad-Tempered Ladybird

2010-01-20T17:02:00.003Z

And other English (U.K.) absurdities.

Wandering through a bookstore in town today, I came across this little wonder:

For any of my (numerous) non-American readers, this must not seem odd at all. Why, this is what the classic Eric Carle book was always called, right? Wrong! Here, for everyone's amusement and enlightenment, is the original (U.S.) cover.

Now, I know that lots of things undergo name changes when traveling across the Atlantic (e.g. The Boat That Rocked [U.K.] becomes Pirate Radio [U.S. and far more awesome/to the point]*), but is the word "grouchy" so unfamiliar to U.K. and Irish audiences that it had to be changed? Because, let's be honest, calling him bad-tempered just takes all the fun out of it. He's not bad by nature, he's just upset because there are not enough aphids to eat and no one ever taught him how to share! But he learns his lesson. It was probably just the food rage getting to him, anyway.

I'm not even going to go into the fact that the animal in question is a bug and not a bird.

I suppose in the land of wheelie bins (rolling garbage cans), rubbish (garbage-- why do we have so much disagreement on this topic?), and prams (strollers-- for babies, this time, not trash), I should simply come to expect this kind of mucky logic. But I'm not going down without a fight.

Further to my point:

This Indian-language (not sure which one) version of the book also features the original title. Just sayin'. Majority rules.

*This, however, is not as bad or inexplicable as the French changing the titles of Step Up 1 & 2 to Sexy Dance 1 & 2. It's still English. I guess the French count themselves more familiar with the term sexy...

Life imitating children's stories

2010-01-11T14:19:00.004Z

Ireland has run out of salt.

I read a story when I was a child, oddly part of a compilation of Christmas tales, called I Love You More Than Salt. The premise (as I vaguely remember it) was that a widower king (aren't they always wifeless?) asks his three daughters to prove their love by telling him what they could do without if it meant still having him around.*

The first daughter said something along the lines of, "I love you more than silver." Acceptable.

The second followed with, "I love you more than gold." Awesome. King Dad loves this.

Then, daughter number three--the quiet, reflective one--answers, "I love you more than salt."

The King is not pleased. Salt?! When she could have said rubies or diamonds?!

Anyhow, some kind of banishment occurs, blah blah blah, magic spell, kingdom is deprived of salt, everyone is like, "Oh, our already bland medieval food is now even blander!" The King admits his fault and the daughter (along with the salt) is returned.

Moral of the story? Salt is good^†.

Over in these parts, we're not suffering from that kind of a shortage. Oh no. Our food is as salted (albeit potato-y) as ever; it's the weather that's caused the problem.

Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, I witnessed the routine shutting down of every functioning system and person in town due to inclement weather. The first sighting of a snowflake; the threatened accumulation of up to 1/4 of an inch of snow; the dreaded overnight freeze: any of these things would have schools closing early, opening late or not at all, people holed up in their houses for fear of driving or walking, and newscasters spouting hyperbole about "Arctic Blasts." Of course, in recent years, with climate changes becoming more and more evident, my little hometown has experience some severe winter madness-- and they still don't know how to deal with it.

Ireland is in the same boat.

A small country used to rain, overcast skies, and-- um, rain, Ireland was ill-prepared for the snow and ice that has hit the ground in medium force (maybe 2 to 3 inches) in the last week. In fact, the recent "chill" affecting the region is so unprecedented that the entire country's road grit and salt supply has been exhausted. I kid you not. Apparently, hardware and grocery stores have also come up dry as people have been trying to tackle the problem individually, and that supply is soon to run out.

So, what does this mean for Ireland? And more importantly, what does it mean for me, the average pedestrian? It means that only the main (and I do mean main) roads are free of ice, and only the sidewalks in town centres have been salted. When we had a rental car last week, the GD nearly spun out trying to get up the road to our apartment.

It means that I fell hard on the sidewalk while I was walking into town today, and then nearly fell again in the road while crossing the street. Luckily I'm not aged or frail, because if I was, I'd probably have shattered my knee and be in hospital now, causing crazy work overloads in orthopedics, where the GD is employed at the moment.

So, yes, this weather is unprecedented, Ireland (and World), but guess what? It's not getting any better from here. So take a page from Minnesota's book and invest in some snowplows, and please, for the love of god, bring back the salt!

*The premise sounds really selfish on the king's part, and I'm pretty sure it was, but I think there was also some further point to all of this which I am now forgetting.

^†In moderation.

Hello, Sligo

2010-01-07T16:57:00.003Z

The plumber laughed at me when he saw me assembling the new bookcase with a screwdriver: "I'd wager you'll be at dat all day. You need an electric drill for dat!"

Well, it only took me half a day! My right arm got a much-needed workout, and now we have a place to store our books and CDs. In our old apartment, they were stacked on the fireplace. We didn't have room for extra furniture.

We're in Sligo, and it's not even a terrible place. In fact, it's pretty beautiful. We found a gloriously large 2-bedroom, 2-bathroom, 2-story townhouse (staircase!) for less that we were paying in Dublin for our 1-bedroom, 1-bathroom, 1-living room + kitchen-closet apartment. The town is, of course, much smaller than Dublin, but I'm liking that at the moment. The youth are calmer, the centre is quainter, and the junkies are non-existent. I feel safe walking alone at night, and the weather has been unusually cool and crisp (as opposed to dark and rainy) with a sprinkling of snow, which makes me feel like I'm living in an idyllic snowglobe land.

We are settling in with the GD back at work and me trying to make work for myself. Comedy tour pending.

Writing as an exercise in writing

2009-12-16T01:53:00.004Z

Catching up:

1. I am intimidated by my prolonged absence. The longer I put off writing, the longer I put off writing.

2. I won a stand up comedy contest in mid-November. I was/am stoked. I did a six-week workshop which was basically a way to force/motivate myself to write material and show up rehearsed every Wednesday night. We had one end-of-class showcase (mostly friends in the audience) that went really well, and then I got a gig for the following Thursday night. I didn't know it was a competition until I showed up. I wasn't supposed to be in it but someone dropped out. It was audience vote, and everyone was allowed to vote twice (to try to neutralize people only voting for them). And I didn't even have any friends with me! Just my boyfriend and he almost forgot to win! And I tied with this girl!

We dubiously agree to split the 50 euro prize.

That's right, out of two women and eight men, the two women tied. Pretty awesome to be so hilarious.

3. My new dream is to someday fly first class. I recently had a rather harrowing journey from London back home to Portland involving delays, missed flights, rescheduling and an un-reimbursed night in a Washington, D.C. Best Western. As I finally boarded my homeward bound flight, I nearly fell over in pure exhaustion into one of the fully-reclinable, semi-private, entirely exclusive seats of first class. My body just wanted it. Instead, I squeezed into a middle seat with shared luggage space under the seat in front of me and tried to make myself enjoy 7 hours of mediocre film.

I wanted to recline. All the way. I wanted to make my own little bed and sleep in it and for flight attendants to offer me warm things like towels and peanuts.

Maybe one day I will be seated next to a dangerous detainee and his guards and a flight attendant will spot me there and say to me, "Excuse me, Ms. Zander, I think you'd be more comfortable if you would just follow me." And I would be. I would.

Neglect

2009-10-27T18:25:00.002Z

I went on vacation and then I was going to write about it, but then I started a knitting course instead. Check out my new project!

Split focus = hopefully I'll someday tell you about Sweden.

Ireland, Get Out The Vote!

2009-10-02T16:45:00.003+01:00

It's voting day in Dublin, and the Lisbon Treaty is the hot issue.

Source: ft.com. Check out the full slideshow of images here.

When I first started seeing YES and NO to Lisbon signs about a month and half ago, I thought they were voting on whether to allow Lisbon into the EU. Yes, it seemed a bit weird that they'd vote on a city rather than, say, the entire country of Portugal, but I'm just American, I don't know about this stuff.

As it turns out, I still don't know much about it, but I did educate myself enough to know that it's a Treaty that was voted on in 2007, and that Ireland voted against it. So, basically, there's now kind of a 're-vote' happening, and people are really, really divided on the issue. The No People are like, WTF, didn't we already vote against this? And the Yes Folks are all, Maybe we should stick with the European Union on this one?

More interesting to me than the issues, however, are the campaign tactics. It's a pretty hilarious contrast.

The 'Yes to Lisbon' campaign is ridiculously upbeat and cheesy. The street signs are simple enough: big YES FOR WORKERS and YES TO EUROPE posters stuck on street poles, each with a person of a different ethnicity leaning against a wall, arms crossed with a knowing smile, or looking up as they wipe their hands on their apron on a break in the local diner. That kind of stuff. A bit cliché, but harmless. The video campaigns, however, as this article and several internet forums aptly point out, are just plain patronizing.

I went to see Julie & Julia last weekend (great movie, adorable, teared up several times) and Away We Go the week before (a little meandering, but got better as it went). So, just like the effing 'Twenty' that we have to sit through in the states, there are advertisement that run in Irish cinemas before the previews start, and now included among them is a pro-Lisbon (cleverly disguised in flashy cartoons and a friendly, female Irish voiceover) ad called 'what's this eu thingy doing for me?' The nice lady proceeds to tell you, Not to worry, the seats you're sitting in right now are measured the the standards of European comfort! That popcorn you're eating isn't from China (okay, my words, not hers)! And gosh, no matter which 'exotic' European location you want to travel to, no need to worry about the price of souvenirs, 'the Euro will sort you out'!

The most patronizing thing about it, though, is the repeated used of the word 'thingy,' as thought the Irish use it all the time because they're too stupid to use real, accurate words and that the word is the best way to explain a complicated treaty that would change the way the EU elects its officials and other EU processes and thing(y)s.

But the No campaign is even more (darkly) hilarious.

Source: indymedia.ie

It's basically fear-mongering, and from what I've read in 'non-biased' articles, a lot of it is based on false claims. But I don't vote here, so again, I don't care much for the real issues. It's the posters that really crack me up.

One features a tiny man in a hardhat, about to be stomped on my a giant, steel-toed workers boot, his arms flung desperately in front of him as though they will somehow protect him from this enormous foe: FOR WORKERS, NO TO LISBON. This theme of people being crushed or bulldozed or otherwise physically harmed by large objects or beings is recurring in the No campaign, as though there's some clause in the treaty that will finally allow Giantland to join the EU and its citizens to lumber in and annihilate all the Irish.

Leprechaun syndrome, anyone? I think the Irish are a bit sensitive about feeling small.

My favorite No poster, however, doesn't involved direct depictions of violence and it only went up a few days ago, just in time to really impact the vote. IRISH DEMOCRACY 1921*-2009? NO TO LISBON is written across the top half. Pretty straight forward message; a yes to Lisbon is a no to democracy. Covering the bottom half of the poster, however, is a picture of a tearful, green-eyed, creamy-skinned, Irish girl. That's right. Vote yes to Lisbon and you will make adorable, Gaelic children cry! It's completely incongruous, but brilliant. I'm sure some poor old lady changed her vote because of it.

In conclusion, politics are much the same everywhere. It's the image that counts, not the issues.

*I'm not too sure about that date, but that is the year that Ireland became an independent state. I wish I had had my camera to take a picture of the poster.

More cards

2009-10-01T12:00:00.004+01:00

And also, some new toys.

Also...

2009-09-30T11:39:00.007+01:00

I had a dream last night that the GD was away and Bret and Jemaine came to visit me, only at my mom's house in Vancouver, WA. Jemaine wasn't around much, maybe he's just a more devoted husband slash father and so he had better things to do. Too bad, because he's actually my favorite (no offense, Bret, if you're reading this, I'm just attracted to awkward and kind of weird looking). Anyhow, I tried to pass Bret off as the Good Doctor so my mom wouldn't ask any questions, mostly by hiding him so she couldn't see that he wasn't actually the same Kiwi boyfriend she had met just months earlier. She came into my room once as we were setting up my childhood trundle bed (that's right, I wasn't actually going to cheat on the GD with Bret-- we slept in separate, nestling beds), but a fortuitous blinding ray of sunlight came streaming through the window and prevented her from getting a good look. Whew! Anyhow, then Bret and I had kind of an awkward slumber party. I drew a picture.

My sister used to sleep in that thing.

Then, back in real life, the GD woke me up to say goodbye, he was going to work. I told him what I was dreaming about. He whispered, "Go back to them. Go back to sleep."

What new music should I buy?

2009-09-30T11:31:00.002+01:00

It just occurred to me that I haven't bought a new CD in over a year. I am bad at keeping up with new artists in the States, but when I'm abroad, I don't listen to the radio at all and (apparently) don't hang out with people who know about new music. I am sick of my iPod and the Good Doctor is in the same boat.

Suggestions? Dissuasions? Food for my starving artist?

On fashion: the tracksuit

2009-09-28T13:15:00.003+01:00

Ireland is not (ahem) at the height of fashion, but it really, really wants to be.

There are the knackers (not my term) who are unwavering in their determination to make the tracksuit an outfit for all occasions-- shopping; eating fast food; weddings; running drunkenly into oncoming traffic; celebrating 14th birthdays with tall boys on the top story of a Dublin bus; cursing; pick-pocketing a woman in broad daylight and then denying it when that woman and her friends follow her, demand the wallet back, and finally call the Garda (this really happened to someone I know); and probably, in a tasteful black, funerals.

I do not, as a rule, wish to make sweeping generalizations about a population. "Knacker" began as degrading term for "travelers," those living in mobile homes and trailer parks and generally viewed with the same disdain as the Romanian Gypsies are in Italy. I don't like using it (though the Irish pull it out without censor) because it is, in essence, a discriminatory slur. There is also the more severe term "scumbag," which was developed to describe a smaller subset; those who might pull a rusty needle out of their own arm and stab you with it if the heroin isn't doing its job yet.

Things have become a bit more simplified.

Knacker = any boisterous, drunk, track-suited person with a gelled mullet (man) or scrunchied ponytail (woman) who is openly breaking the law (e.g. drinking in public, running against a traffic light, screaming at the Gardaí who pulled them kicking from the restaurant where they were causing a stir); age does not make a difference, but the majority seem to be between the age of 13 and 20; annoying, but generally harmless (just watch out for the purse-snatchers).

Scumbag = junkie stabbing. You do not want this.

It's a bit of a square, rectangle situation. A scumbag is a knacker, but a knacker isn't necessarily a scumbag.

So I've moved to Ireland, learned some degrading words for the locals, noted that track suits really aren't a good look on anyone (I felt this way several years ago when J-Lo popularized the pink velour version); drinking is not an organized sport, folks, you don't all need to look the same.

No!

Not everyone here is strung out or an alcoholic, so how to explain the overwhelming bad taste? When the GD first moved to Ireland, he was working in A&E (that's Accidents & Emergencies, a.k.a. the E.R., for all y'all Americans), and I think, for a time, he did believe that every Irish person had a serious addiction problem. But those were the only people he ever saw. And I, despite seeing people shooting up or smoking heroin on our street on nearly a daily basis, know that this is not everyone. Just the ones who think that a doorway is a secret hiding place to do drugs.

What's really to blame? Well, I think peer pressure is always a part of bad fashion choices, but the cyclical nature of the fashion world is always what astonishes me most. I remember when I had to stop wearing leggings because they were not cool anymore and I had enough other reasons to be picked on (I know you can back me up on this, J). So yes, I am moving away from the tracksuit, and on to Ireland's secondary fashion crime: a full return to the 80s.

I know that hipsters in the States have been moving in that direction for years-- the skinny jeans (guilty) eventually had to lead back to the source, right? A return to leggings was inevitable. People really started re-embracing them around my junior and senior years in college, but only the really cool, skinny girls could pull it off, and I secretly thought they looked ridiculous. I will wear skinny jeans. I will wear leggings under a dress. I will not wear leggings with a tee-shirt that exposes my bum and makes me feel as though I'm wearing nothing at all.*

I think the irony of the whole hipster movement was lost long ago, really as soon as it because a cultural phenomenon and Target started selling those fake leather stretch pants (the worst!). But in Ireland, there is no irony. There never was. There are just throngs of teenage girls who maybe never saw Sixteen Candles and don't realize that what they are doing has all been done before. The neon colors are back and the bad, bright make-up with it (though I think the orange shellac as foundation never went out of style in some circles). Some of the more daring girls have "edgy" haircuts-- short! asymmetrical!--, salon-styled and product-filled as ever. The longer-haired ones make sure that their ponytails are good and frizzy; no one thinks you just rolled out of bed, honey, your eyeliner would be on your chin if you went to sleep like that.

So maybe I sound mean, or just plain bitter. Maybe I am longing for my own days of legging innocence, before I tried on my first pair of jeans and thought Horrible! Stiff! Who would wear these? The result? Years of wearing wide-leg jeans (again, long after they were in fashion), more awkwardness and being ostracized by peers. Or maybe I just want these young women to realize that they don't have to wear a tracksuit or leggings to fit in and be cool. In fact, it doesn't really look cool at all.

*I may some day eat these words.

I'm making business cards

2009-09-27T15:16:00.002+01:00

Attempt number one. Later versions are tidier and more regular in size.

Amsterdam: Disneyland for Grown-ups

2009-09-23T11:45:00.011+01:00

Just off the train, Amsterdam wasn't much to look at. The station was surrounded by some construction, and as the GD and I wandered down a ramp towards the office of tourism that seemed to be housed in super-portable lifted from my high school and dropped on that vacant lot, I thought, At least I'll be stoned tonight.

We bought a map, got directions, and after I led as a little bit the wrong way, we were soon heading down the right street, into the Red Light District where our hostel was located. As soon as we got off the main road, I started to see the beauty of the place (no, I'm not talking about all the dildos in the shop windows). Amsterdam is a maze of canals. For every two or three streets crossed, there is a canal to walk over as well. I was getting more and more excited as we entered the heart of town. Porn cinemas! Cannabis! Beautiful old architecture! Sparkly water! And at last, our hostel!

We had managed to book a private room for out first night, but night two would be a different story. The room was awesome (St. Christopher's), though it had cost a pretty penny. Accommodation is pricey in Amsterdam, which is why we had decided to go the hostel route, but a private room was still well over 50 euro a night for both of us, and the second night in an 8-bed mixed dorm put the total over 100. In any case, it was a cool room with lots of weird art on the walls and though there was no smoking allowed in the rooms, I imagined it would either be a really awesome or really creepy place to come back to after a festive evening. Or afternoon. Whichever.

Amazing, futuristic, gigantic library of Amsterdam.

First order of business: dinner. The hostel was in a perfect location, just off the Damstraat, a great street for food, perpendicular to the Damrak, a main road leading to the train station, and right on the edge of the Red Light District. There was no window prostitution on our street, which was kind of nice, but you only had to go around the corner to see it. But we were hungry. We headed down Damstraat and found a Mexican restaurant. I still marvel at the fact that I can eat Mexican in Europe after living in France for seven months, where they don't seem to have gotten the memo.

There's always something just a bit off about about European Mexican, as though something was lost on the trip across the Atlantic. When my mom tried to order a vegetarian burrito in Edinburgh, the waiter said, "Okay, we will invent a new one for you!" When the GD and I ordered a guacamole appetizer in Amsterdam, the dip was delicious, but where there should have been delicious, fresh tortilla chips, there were Dorito-style, red-flavored chips from a bag. Oh well, you can't win 'em all. My tacos were delicious.

It was probably a bit counterintuitive to eat Mexican before getting stoned, but we were hungry, and we needed fuel before setting off in pursuit of a café. The search did not take long. We stopped into a nearby seed shop and asked for the recommendation of the woman working there. She pointed across the canal. "The Green House is very good." Awesome. After a bit of a trial*, we got some cash and headed to our destination.

The man with the weed was super friendly and helpful. And British! He told us about all the varieties of cannabis available and their different effects. For walking around (as we were planning to do) he recommended one that had the highest levels of... well, whatever it is that makes you high (giggly, energized, talkative) rather than stoned (vegged out in front of the T.V. popping JuJu Bees). Twelve euro for a gram. Five euro bought enough to roll a joint.

Let's just say that my stoner days are more or less behind me, and while I'm at it, let me remind everyone that this is not an incriminating post as everything we were doing was legal, but I do still take pride in my rolling. If I were I smoker, I'd definitely roll my own cigarettes. I am a premo joint roller. And I put my skills to good use to roll myself a pure one, as well as a a spliff for the GD (he's a half-tobacco kind of man).

We lit up and walked out. We wandered into the heart of the District, and it was a bit grim. I don't know why, but I expected window prostitution to retain an element of class and glamour. I guess I was picturing French lingerie, seductive poses, elaborate hairstyles. The reality was a stark contrast to my suppositions. All the women looked the same. Well, not actually the same, but they were all wearing bikinis, bad make-up and tans glowing under the red, florescent light over their window, and most of them were having fake conversations on their cell phones. Most of the women were standing in front of staircases, presumably leading to other rooms and other prostitutes; some, however, were standing in a bedroom. We were stoned, and the whole thing was pretty surreal to begin with. These were real women; this was their job. We saw a lot of people milling around, but no one went in. The GD wanted to go back to the hostel. So did I.

Monday morning we woke up and checked out of our room. We hired bikes to see Amsterdam like the locals see it. It is an amazing city for biking. Not only are there bike paths everywhere, but the bikes are well-integrated into and respected by the general car traffic. It was a sunny day, the canals were shining, and it could have been the weed, but I truly felt like I was riding through a magical chalk drawing from Mary Poppins. It was all too beautiful! We rode to the Van Gogh museum, which I highly recommend. We rode to the gigantic, architectural wonder that is the Amsterdam library. Technically, the GD's week off was study leave, so he got in a couple of hours of anatomy and physiology while I wrote and then explored the building.

We went back to the hostel to check into our new room, the mixed dorm. I was the mixer. Six men, the GD and me. We didn't stay to chat. Studying out of the way, we went back to the Green House to use up the remainder of our supply before our flight out the next day.

We explored a bit more, walking past several theatres with live sex shows. Suspiciously, most of them had the same pictures on the marquee outside. There must be a standard set. We went back to the hostel, had a quiet evening and were asleep before the roomies got back. Two of them were up around 6 a.m. to check out and probably couldn't have taken longer or applied more spray-on deodorant in the process. By midday we were at the airport and then on a plane back to Dublin; back to the Fringe for me and a start on some real studying for the GD. We'll miss you Amsterdam. Until next time.

*Apparently, on a Sunday night in Amsterdam, all of the cash machines are empty. We kept coming across machine after machine that was out of order. We finally stopped into a cash exchange kiosk to ask what the deal was and where we could get money. He explained that the only safe bet was the train station, that everything else would be sucked dry. We were heading that way (quite a walk), when we saw a line of about ten people waiting for what turned out to be an ATM. We crossed our fingers, got in line, and made it to the front before the supply was depleted.

Belgium in two days

2009-09-22T12:05:00.006+01:00

The GD and I flashed through Belgium in a day and a half. An early flight Saturday morning, in Brussels by 9:30 a.m., drop the bags at the train station, wander around town for the day and on an evening train to Bruges. Check in to hotel, sleep, shower, repeat. Brussels and Bruges are both lovely towns to walk around, which is good, because that's about all we had time to do. Brussels is on the cusp of the Flemish and French regions, so I did bust a couple of second-language moves, but Bruges is Flemish, all the way. Of course, everyone is like trilingual, so it's no problem for us English-speaking tourists, but it was cool to see the signs changing from predominantly French to Flemish as we rode the train north. Saturday night, once in Bruges, we indulged in some highly-recommended, traditional Flemish food.

The Good Doctor rocks the main square in old Brussels.

The GD and I wove down the cobble-stone streets to the hole-in-the-wall restaurant where our hotel had booked us reservations. We were early, so we popped into a hotel bar just up the road. We were the only ones there and had a great chat with the extremely friendly (multilingual) bartender. When we asked what was good to drink, he handed me a very fruity drink and said, "The ladies like this one." I explained that I like beer, despite being a "lady." After this initial misunderstanding, he was very eager to offer us Belgium's finest, or you know, strongest.

A bit buzzed, we made our way back down the road to the restaurant and squeezed inside. We didn't have to wait long for our table, which was fortunate because there wasn't really anywhere to stand except between two tables of people already enjoying their meals. We sat down, redeemed out champagne vouchers, (thanks Martin's Brugge!), and both settled on the beef stew. Now when they say beef stew, they mean beef stew. No veggies, no nonsense, just beef. It was delicious and served with hot applesauce and fresh fries. That was not a typo, fries are Belgian, not French, and a nice waiter literally carried around a pot of bubbling oil from which he extracted the hot fries directly and placed them on our plates. I took seconds on the fries even though there was no way I could finish my first round, let alone the beef stew, just because they were so good hot. And that was the culinary highlight of Belgium.

We missed our waffle window. I thought about getting one from a street vendor, but we really wanted fresh waffles, not sat-out-all-morning waffles; we wanted the experience Belgium through waffles, as waffles, by waffles. We waited too long.

Canals are funny! I am chilly!

It was Sunday afternoon. Trains run every hour two minutes before the hour to Amsterdam, but we were aiming for the 13:58 train. We spent the morning exploring the canals, walking through a flea market (smaller than the awesome one we had seen in Brussels) and being too full from breakfast to stop for waffles. We'll get some on the way out of town, we thought. No problem, we thought. There's loads of restaurants with waffles, we thought.

We grabbed our bags from the hotel and headed to a square with several promising restaurants, and settled on the first one that listed waffles on their menu. Rosy-cheeked from our walk, heads filled with visions of days in Amsterdam ahead, we walked in, anxious only to have a real, Belgian waffle before moving on to our next destination. Then everything fell apart.

A woman came to take our drink order (tea), but wouldn't take the waffle order. Around seven minutes later I finally wrangled in a waiter who had walked past us at least five times and made the long-anticipated request: one Belgian waffle with lemon, please. Easy enough, right?

At this point it is about ten past one. Our train is in 48 minutes. The station is a good fifteen to twenty minute walk from where we are. We think, It'll be close, but we'll make it. How long can two cups of tea and one waffle take? Too long. Too long. After (I kid you not) 15 minutes, they had not even brought out our tea. Mind you, there were maybe three to five other people in the restaurant, and we had ordered the tea nearly ten minutes before the waffle. It was nearing half past, and we started to wonder weather we were going to have to leave without eating. The GD stopped our waiter and explained that we had a train to catch, and Is there any way to get our tea now? and possibly know weather our waffle has been started? thanks.

The waiter was not impressed. We should have told him at the get-go that we had a train to catch, then they would have made our waffle first. Never mind the fact that when we had arrived 40 minutes earlier, we hadn't thought time would be an issue. He berated me a couple of more times, and I began the transformation into ugly tourist. Where was the customer service? The Belgian charm? The man brought out our tea immediately --two cups of hot water and two tea bags, how hard was that?-- and said he would check on our waffle. We sipped our tea and watched as the precious minutes left between us and the train station slipped away. We were about to leave when another waitress plopped the waffle down in front of us. My building anger and frustration was channeled into my knife as I cut off a bite. I put it in my mouth. It was mediocre at best and-- wait, is this possible?-- still frozen in the center!

I lost it. Well, lost it as much as I lose it in a public place in a foreign country. A waitress was passing me, speaking to another woman in another language. "Is this waffle from the freezer?" I demanded. She looked confused, then said, "Um..."

"It's still frozen in the middle," I retorted. She wasn't even our waitress, but I was pissed. I had completely interrupted her while she was dealing with another customer, I was raising my voice in English, and I may as well have been wearing a shirt that said American asshole, but I didn't care. We were so out of there. We were already grabbing our bags, desperate to pay and try to make our train. There was some confusion with the bill and I left fuming before I hit someone, but the GD said they didn't charge us for the waffle. Damn right, they didn't.

We hauled ass toward the station. I had only looked at the map once before "lunch" to plan our route, but it was not the moment to be slowed down by such cumbersome things as directions. I was peeling through the crowds with my rolling suitcase, the GD a slightly more relaxed ten paces behind me. We got to the main road the station was on with about seven minutes to go, and I suddenly realized we were very much on the wrong side. We were on the same side of the road as the station, but it split in such a way that we would have to veer away from our destination or cross several lanes of traffic without a crosswalk. The GD reminded me that it wasn't worth running in front of a semi. I resignedly slowed my pace, stopped, waited to cross the street.

We had missed it. We were still minutes away and there was no way we were going to make it. I hated Belgium. I hated waffles. I still really wanted one, but I hated waffles and most of all frozen waffles. At our new, defeated pace, we rounded to the corner to the entrance of the station. As we crossed the threshold, the giant, official clock told us it was 13:55. Three minutes. My eyes locked with the GD's and we exchanged a look that said, Let's do this thing. We made a b-line for a ticket counter, miraculously line-free. "Two tickets to Amsterdam, please!" I said. My politeness had returned. "Sure," she said, as she took thirty painful seconds to collect our money and print the tickets.

The GD turned to me. "Now it might be worth it to run." We ran: to our platform, up the stairs, and into the first car with two empty, adjacent seats. I let out of a breath of relief as we sat down. Yes! We did it! Fuck you, Belgium, we're going to Amsterdam! And so we did.

Facebook: Lifting the Feminine Mystique?

2009-09-11T10:09:00.004+01:00

None of my good friends are married and none have kids, but this is the beauty of facebook: people from high school send me friend requests all the time, and I'll usually accept it if, after ten minutes of reflection, I can remember at least one class we had together. In this way, I have been unwittingly (if not unwillingly) immersed in the new culture of early motherhood: the facebook status update.

I am fascinated by this phenomenon of the moment-to-moment, unabashed blurt from the minds of new mothers. When one can send mobile updates to one's page at any time of day or night, the realities of parenting are no longer blended together as in a book like What To Expect When You're Expecting*. It's no longer a general overview. Motherhood (as the updates are nearly always written by the stay-at-home moms) is neither glossed over as nothing but sunshine and baby burps nor completely written off as drudgery, loneliness and sacrifice; the update provides a window into the ever-vacillating reactions and emotions of the young mom.

I have been following a particular former classmate of mine for the past few days. She, of course, does not know this (further beauty of facebook) and wouldn't have time to care if she did, as she's taking care of a 2-week old. Let's call her S. In one update she writes, "S... loves her little [girl] more with each passing moment. I may die from cuteness overload!" This post is beautiful, and perhaps typical, but it comes nearly a week after the baby is born. Obviously she loves and is in awe of her baby, but the six previous days of updates include exhaustion, pain, breast-feeding, exhaustion, no sleep, diarrhea, love, gratitude, and more sleep deprivation.

Two days after the "cuteness overload" update she writes, "fussy baby, 4 hours sleep, no one around to take her. *Sigh*," then the next three days are all sleep-status updates. On Tuesday she wrote, "[Baby] had a rough night and I have to [be] at work at noon. Ugh." Her friend (also a mother) responds, "I can't believe u have to work. Well what am I saying I want to go back I am sick of being home alone."

And this is the thing: all of her friends seem to be moms. Or maybe all of her other friends simply have nothing to say on the topic of "baby explod[ing] out both ends." Nearly everyone who has written on her wall in the past two weeks is either a relative, an in-law or a fellow new mom. The page is overrun with profile pictures of babies, mommies and babies, and the rarer family portrait. One young woman has a baby and suddenly her facebook page becomes a forum for any young mothers she knows or may have met once and added as a friend.

The remark about being "sick of being home alone" really stuck with me. Of course, these women aren't home alone; they're home with an un-intellectual, undeveloped being that demands all of their time and energy, but that being is still someone and the expectation is that to the mother, the baby should be everything and time spent with the baby should be enough. This, of course, is not the case, and I've seen it expressed elsewhere on facebook. Another former classmate of mine wrote a really interesting blog during her pregnancy following her preparations for motherhood that went as far as a detailed description of a fight with her doctor over the question of episiotomy; she didn't want one. Since having her baby, she has been very open about the ups and downs of early motherhood. I have seen her write, on more than one occasion, "I love this baby, but..."

I admit that I found this attitude to be shocking, at first. I am not a mother, and the idea of being one (some day in the far and distant future) excites and terrifies me, partly because I'm afraid it will drive me nuts to be at home (alone) with a little blob of life all day. Since the birth of her child, the pregnancy blogger has blatantly expressed her desires to get out of the house, spend time with "real" people, and recently, go back to work. The whole phenomenon of mommy updates puts me in mind of Betty Friedan, of the isolated, lonely housewife, and how little "housewife syndrome" has changed since The Feminine Mystique was first published. What is incredible and completely different, however, is that a: women feel free to air their grievances about motherhood as well as their joys, and b: that facebook has become a forum through which young women can reach out to each other and commiserate and celebrate being moms together.

But is facebook simply the new drug of choice? Is it just another way to end the monotony of being "home alone"? Where there was once a steady flow of sedatives and anti-anxiety pills a woman can now find a constant stream of information: photos, updates, moment-to-moment windows into the lives of others. She can share pieces of her own life, she can seek pity and congratulations from her cyber-network of friends and perhaps gain a sense of fulfillment and community that she cannot find at home.

I know that I have spent hours of my own life quelling boredom by spying on people I have not seen in years and secretly taking pleasure in the failures of people I didn't like in the 10th grade. I was uncomfortable and even a bit aggravated when I saw the first wedding album of someone I knew on facebook. If you're getting married, isn't it time to be a grown-up? I thought. Isn't it time to delete your page and be a wife or career-woman or mom or whatever? I had a similar response to the first baby photos. Get that child out of your profile picture! But motherhood seems to be the great unifier on facebook, and I am not on that page.

And what of these children who are growing up in an online community? Long before they can give consent, their images are all over their parents' walls, their first steps are documented for any friends, family members or stalkers from sophomore-year biology (ahem) to see. Kids just ten years younger than me are spilling their guts on youtube to anyone who will listen. When I was their age, the blog was the great, new act of exhibition: a journal of your deepest thoughts, fears and desires that anyone is cyberspace can read! Kids ten years before that didn't have the internet. What will these featured facebook babies being doing in ten years' time?

*I've never actually read this.

Loss of a Legend: Ellie Greenwich

2009-08-27T09:14:00.012+01:00

Ellie Greenwich, an eminent songwriter, producer and singer who made her mark in the early heyday of pop and girl groups, died yesterday of a heart attack at the age of 68.

Image courtesy of last.fm, where you can sign up for free and listen to Ellie Greenwich Radio

Greenwich co-wrote several of her early songs (including "Leader of the Pack" and "Going to the Chapel") with her then-husband, Jeff Barry. The couple collaborated with producer Phil Spector to churn out hits like "River Deep - Mountain High," "Da Do Ron Ron," "Then He Kissed Me," and "Hanky Panky."¹

When her marriage to Barry fell apart after just a few years, Greenwich had difficulty reconciling the idealism of her songs with the reality of her own failed love life. She said:

"… well, the disillusionment, you can imagine: the person who wrote 'Doo Wah Diddy' and 'Chapel Of Love' has gotta be devastated. I realized, those words, 'Till death do us part,' they don't really mean anything. Through the good times and bad times - what happened to that? We're having bad times - why should this be over?"²

She suffered a nervous breakdown after her divorce³, but went on to produce and write more hits. She helped discover Neil Diamond when he was "'down-and-out songwriter,'" as he put it yesterday, and "'... was one of the most important people in [his] career.'"¹ Greenwich's life was made into a Broadway musical, The Leader of the Pack*, and she was a member of the Songwriters Hall of Fame.

Most importantly, Greenwich was a prominent woman in an industry overridden with and run by men. She broke into the biz not as a singer (though she was one), but as a writer and producer, a rarity at the time. She simultaneously believed in a kind of fairy-tale romance and proved herself a force to be reckoned with in man's world.

Tracie, over at Jezebel, has put together a particularly wonderful youtube compilation of Greenwich's "impact... on pop culture." This Manfred Mann video is my favorite, but they are definitely all worth checking out.

Maracas! Apathetic drummer!

Ellie Greenwich wrote songs we have probably all sung too loudly in our cars or into a hairbrush in the privacy of our bedrooms; her lyrics are with us forever.

*Incidentally, one of the first musicals I saw. Annie was the first professionally-staged musical I went to as a kid, but my neighbor (infinitely cool just by virtue of being a teenager) growing up was in her high school production of LotP, and I remember clapping so hard at the end that my hands hurt. It definitely turned me on to theatre in a big way and made me want to do that when I grew up, or, you know, got to high school.

¹The New York Times: Ellie Greenwich, a writer of 'Leader of the Pack,' dies at 68

²Jezebel: Legendary Girl Group Songwriter Ellie Greenwich Dies At Age 68

³NPR: Legendary '60s Songwriter Ellie Greenwich Dies

Basically the same thing

2009-08-26T16:45:00.003+01:00

Sandwiched between the FOR HER and ETIQUETTE sections at Chapters, my favorite kill-two-hours bookstore? FEMINISM. I'm pretty sure the one copy of Simon de Beauvoir's The Second Sex comprised about a third of the section. The thing is hefty, no doubt, but it didn't stand out much amongst the likes of To Hell In High Heels and The Naughty Girl's Guide To Life.

Chick lit. Sigh.

Finny Finn Finn

2009-08-20T18:42:00.005+01:00

So my bf, being a New Zealander as well as a Good Doctor, has introduced me to some pretty awesome/classic Kiwi tunes. If you're going to have a conversation about music that includes New Zealand, you can't really avoid the Finn Brothers. In fact, I think that might be the whole conversation.

Neil and Tim (Finn) have played together, fought, broken up, and reappeared in many musical incarnations as New Zealand's chart-toppers (all this before the introduction of my true favorite Kiwi musicians, Bret and Jemaine). So I guess I kind of knew that one song by Crowded House, but I didn't that realize Neil (younger bro) had started the band after the disbanding of Split Enz (Get it? nz? Like New Zealand? Thanks, Wikipedia), Tim's much less commercially successful endeavor*. Just check this out.

So Neil was all, "Thanks for letting me be in your college band when I turned 18, bro, but now I'm on to better things!" They sort of re-collaborated in the early 90s, again under the name the Finn Brothers, but then Neil kind of took the songs they had written together and gave them to Crowded House and then had to let Tim in the band because he worked on the songs and it would be awkward (slash copyright violation) otherwise. But then Tim peaced out when they were on tour in Europe. Brotherly rivalry much? I'd be pissed, too, if my younger brother was a better song-writer and knew how to play an instrument.

I think that's what I love most about that Split Enz video, though. Tim is knee-bending and two-stepping his way around that weird makeshift set (I wonder if that was their university theatre department?) and his elbows seem to be anchored to his ribcage as he "dances" with his arms; then, right at the end, Neil bops up behind him on a guitar and they harmonize and you're like, "Who's that cute, bouncy guy seems way less awkward than the guy singing?"

I do legitimately like that song, so no diss on Tim. I also enjoy that New Zealand, or, you know, just its music scene from the 80s and 90s, has some kind of a dramatic history. Yeah, yeah, there was other dramatic history in how the English tricked the Maori people into signing over all their land and rights (silly mistranslation of documents), but there's no grainy 80s footage of that exchange, and it doesn't make me smile. I'll stick with the Finns for now and leave the evils of colonialism for another day.

IMPORTANT ADDENDUM: I was totally wrong. The singer in that video was Neil not Tim; Tim came bopping up at the end. So I guess Neil was even more openly upstaging big bro than I thought. Lead singer in Tim's band! What gumption. I still like that video, though, and the song.

*I guess they were actually quite successful in New Zealand, Australia and Canada, but who even goes to those places?

The Birds

2009-08-18T14:53:00.003+01:00

I. Hate. Pigeons. For similar familial opinions on the topic, check out my sister's post on las ratas del aire.

We have a history. I don't like them and they don't like me. Much like the results of my futile childhood attempts to interact with horses, my fear and annoyance seems only to amplify their bad behavior and general distaste for me. That's right, I also don't like horses much.

But horses are pretty and majestic and so I'll let them live on their farms or in open meadows or wherever; pigeons are filthy and stupid, eat anything, shit everywhere, and have a propensity towards dive-bombing my head. On at least three occasions, I have narrowly escaped getting a face full of high-velocity pigeon. Once I ducked so late in the game that the stupid thing grazed my hair. I tried not to think about where it had been.

My latest battle, though, has to do with excrement. Let me lay in a little background for you. The GD and I live in a large apartment complex (ha, you thought I was going to say 'large apartment') that's comprised of four five-story buildings surrounding a courtyard. Because the apartment is not big and it's built with maximum Irish efficiency, our washing machine is under the microwave in the kitchen (leaving us exactly one lower cupboard for trash and no drawers), and (as in many European homes) there is no dryer.

None of these things are particularly problematic. We keep the silverware in a tray on top of the microwave, we squeeze in when one person is doing dishes and the other wants something from the (counter-height) fridge, and we conveniently have a small balcony and drying rack for laundry. Again, no complaints.

Our courtyard (besides being a daytime hang-out for kids and nighttime location for loud drunks) attracts a particularly precious combination of gulls and pigeons. Particularly at night, the seabirds seem to fly in from the coast in Hitchcockian numbers, screeching at a level that almost drowns out the thumping base from the bottom corner apartment. This is annoying and a little alarming (I always think of Jessica Tandy and my own impending doom at having left the window open), but it is still not what drives me crazy.

I have probably done laundry about 6 times since I have arrived here, and 3 of those times (including the first day I was here), a bird has shat on my drying clothes out on the balcony. The first time, it was actually the GD's stuff that I had washed, but the second it was my jeans which take forever to dry and I was personally offended. The third time was yesterday. I had washed all of the bedding and painstakingly found places and creative ways to hang everything up so that it would have a fighting chance at drying before bed time, and just when the sheets (outside) were nearly dry and I was about to switch out the comforter cover (hanging on balcony door), I witnessed a pigeon stop by just long enough to take a big crap on one of the sheet. The bottom sheet. The one we need to sleep on so we're not directly on the mattress. I cursed my luck and threw it back in the washing machine.

The thing that really drives me nuts is that the GD was living here a month before I moved in, and this never happened to him. He has (of course) done laundry since I arrived, and it's still always my loads that get dumped on. This is just like the three or four times that a horse, beloved by and loyal to my sister, tried to throw me as a child.

The whole thing leads me to believe that I have some kind of anti-Snow White complex. Come to think of it, all of those Disney princesses loved wild animals. Sleeping Beauty had those bird friends who'd dress up as a prince for her so she'd have a dancing partner in the woods; Jasmine had an effing tiger for a pet; and no one would even hang out with Cinderella except for some very talented singing/talking mice. I think maybe wild animals don't like me because I don't buy into all that being-rescued-by-a-prince crap-- I think they don't like me because I'm a feminist!

Well, pigeons, if it's my principles you're after, I guess you'll just have to keep crapping all over my laundry, because I'm not backing down. You just keep coming around with your tiny little heads and beady eyes, I will keep thinking about (but not actually testing) how much Raid it would take to get rid of you. And I will not sing to you or dress you up as my boyfriend just so we can have a quick waltz around the balcony; I'll be inside with the windows shut, reading Jezebel.

"Not right now, maybe next year?"

2009-08-17T16:58:00.006+01:00

Oh, the attempted humor (or is it just the language barrier?) of the non-native-English-speaking man in the library from the gym who asked me out.

Yeah, things really start to happen when I leave the apartment.

We met first at the gym, just one week ago. Me, the only woman in the weight room, trying to do bar squats in the least evocative way possible; him, a Latin American man in street clothes, his shiny black curls slicked back off his face. A woman! he must have thought, What is she doing with big, heavy bar?

He asked if I needed help. I did not.

Apparently my rebuff was too subtle, because he was back in a matter of minutes, this time saying, "I want to do some of these with you." As my mind raced, trying to untangle how two people could do squats at the same time with the same bar without the situation taking a horribly wrong turn, I set the bar down and said, "Um, okay."

It turned out he wanted me to spot, but does a man stronger than myself need little old me to spot him with a 20kg bar? No, he needs me to spot him, to feel faint at the sight of his flexing thighs and flashing green eyes. I was not up to the task. I looked at the ceiling, out at the pool, and generally tried to make myself unavailable in the case of a weight emergency. I did not ask him to return the favor and made sure not to smile as he walked away.

He returned for one more set, but I put on my best apathetic face and didn't make eye contact when we passed on the way to the locker rooms; and so, I thought we had parted ways for good.

I guess my sweat-drenched men's gym shorts were too sexy, my general odor too enticing, and my one-word responses too seductive, because when I happened to pass him on the steps to the library today, he recognized me immediately and went in for the kill. "You got lost?" he asked, laughing at his own joke. What? Like, on the way from the gym last week?

"No."

"You are looking very good."

"Okaaayyyy huh."

I thought that perhaps my extremely uncomfortable laugh paired with a sudden increase in pace followed by my intense absorption in a library computer would be enough of a hint. It was not. He was persistent.

"I just need one minute. Honestly you are looking very good and I need to see you again or I will die. Can I see you?"

Wow, for someone who speaks such weird, broken English (I am not doing it justice in my transcription), you really have the topical stuff down.

"No."

"Why?"

"I'm busy." This is not a reason, folks, but no means no.

"Not right now, maybe next year?" Another chuckle at his own brilliant comedy.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm busy all the time."

He thought that was funny. "No. Why not?"

I pulled out the big guns. "I have a boyfriend."

"It is not enough." He lingered until finally (the desired effect), he wandered away, still chuckling to himself in disbelief.

But wait, what? "It is not enough?" What is not enough? One boyfriend? Or it's not enough of a reason? And more importantly, why did it take me saying that I was with another guy for him to leave me alone? I find that to be the most frustrating point. He only abandoned the pursuit when he found that I might be "taken," because a single woman refusing him was just too much to wrap his big, shiny head around.

*Woman's smile = open invitation to men

I'm the doctor!

2009-08-17T14:54:00.016+01:00

I was roused from my internet stupor Saturday afternoon by the following text message* from our neighbors K and the OGD (Other Good Doctor):

"Hey, our friends we were supposed to see tonight were at a mansion party last night and aren't up for anything, so now we've got all this food and wine and only you, me and [the OGD] to eat/drink it."

I can't say that I found anything to complain about in her misfortune. I have never turned down a challenge involving excessive food and drink, and in this case, the fewer the merrier (er, drunker); plus, plans for Saturday night! Awesome.

I realized it was already 2:30 and hopped on the DART down to Dun Laoghaire (pronouned Dun Leary, silly Irish language) to catch a puppet show I had been reading about at what seems to be the only puppet theatre in the area. I was pretty excited about it, imagining Bread and Puppet-/In the Heart of the Beast-style antics. I had read about the founder and lead artist of the Lambert Puppet Theatre and he seemed like an interesting guy. They had staged puppet adaptations of Oscar Wilde!

The place was flooded with kids. I was the only one there without a small brood in tow; in fact, I was the only one there solo. I tried to exude Artist! as an explanation of my presence to the surrounding families, but I think Weirdo! was the more probable read. When Lambert himself came out and started an Abbott and Costello-style routine with a stuffed dog, I knew I was at the wrong show. The kid behind me (two, too young) was kicking, and the kid next to me (ditto, ditto) was covering what kid one couldn't hit from the side. I stuck it out for the Billy Goats Gruff (just ask me to sing the Trip, Trop song!), but skipped out at intermission, missing out on the Three (Tree! - Irish) Little Pigs. So, I kind of accidentally found myself at a show for preschoolers, but I did pick up a pamphlet on the International Puppet Festival - Ireland 2009. The brochure looks sweet--acts from Russia, Spain, the Czech Republic, France and Italy--and the festival is much more in line with what I was looking for. One of them in a Spanish puppet adaptation of The Miser, only "it is no longer money that everyone covets, but water." The puppets are made out of faucets and stuff! I'll definitely be there for that one.

Free of the tots, I hopped back on the DART and headed home, then across the courtyard towards the promise of wine and company. What I got was champagne (fancy), cheese (French), wine (check), dinner (penne bolognese), more wine (check, check), drunk (duh), a TV (more later) and a rousing game of Operation. Yeah, this one.

Doctors love money!

Predictably and (hopefully) due to my level of inebriation, I completely failed. The OGD was ridiculously good. Apparently there's something about being a real doctor (dexterity, nimble fingers, concentration under pressure) that carries over to extracting ice cream cones, pencils and butterflies from a red-nosed, buzzing man. K also kicked my butt. I can only presume this is because she owns the game and (therefore) practices constantly. I got the wrench-- $100, a poor showing.

A second game was vetoed (that final butterfly really took it out of all of us), and we all piled onto the fold-out couch to watch Spinal Tap, which I barely managed to stay awake for. It was 11pm. I thought about pulling a similar stunt as earlier in the day and skipping out half-way through, but a combination of pure laziness and pride (bruised by my recent defeat) kept me glued to the couch and my eyes (mostly) open. Plus I wanted the OGD to carry over the promised extra TV (again, pure laziness), and I thought there would be a higher chance of that happening if I stuck it out. The movie ended and the OGD's proposal of an outing was mutually shot down by the women; just the same, he did bring over the TV (which is sitting on a chair, untouched and unplugged), for which I was grateful.

Sunday was a bit quieter (a little more hung-over-er) with the GD arriving home from work in the a.m. Apparently my drunk dial(s) had not been too disruptive, but I did effectively get the Operation jingle stuck in his head all night (I did not sing it, he just made the association). At least it was thematically appropriate.

In other news, I continue to be under-worked and under-paid. I have some rehearsals starting up next week (I'm and extra!), at which point I'll just be regular-worked and under- not paid. In the meantime, I'm thinking I should buy Don't Break The Ice, practice at least an hour a day and then invite K and the OGD over for dinner. Best to have some wine on hand, as well.

*I accidentally deleted the original message; this is a close approximation.

So you just stay home and play synthesizers*

2009-08-13T13:29:00.005+01:00

Or – When you’re unemployed, there’s no vacation (except when your bf has a week off work).

The Good Doctor stole the internet today (or, you know, he took our little Broadband To Go stick to work), so I am forced to hang out in a café for the free Wifi—not a terrible consequence, as it turns out, and on track with my goal of getting out of the apartment at least three times a day.

Last week was gloriously full of oversleeping and riddled with evidence that the GD and I are both very set in our ways. TP over the front or back of the roll? Lasagna foiled or unfoiled? Front and foiled, obvs, but one must pick one’s battles when one is living with someone with whom one wishes to continue living. I learned this lesson repeatedly by picking as many battles as possible (compulsively and without intent of harm) during the GD’s week off and then feeling like an ass about it immediately after the fact. But, come on, put some foil on the lasagna so it doesn’t dry up. Right? Am I right?

Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one making an ass of myself in week one of the Living Together Adventure (LTA), and we’ve come out of it stronger than (and as stubborn as) ever. Don’t worry, we didn’t spend the entire week arguing about who was going to do the dishes (that’s right, we both wanted to do them in our respective ‘right’ ways). We didn’t go far, but we did manage to get out of the city on several occasions last week. We went out to Howth (pronounced like a frat boy chanting "Hoath!") on the train and walked the peninsula to the point where some actual hiking trails started and a downpour forced, er, allowed us to turn back to town for a pint. We took the bus to Sandymount, a lovely little suburb that’s also right on the water and made me happy to be living by the ocean again.

Howth!

On Saturday, we took a windy and slightly hung-over coach ride out to Glendalough (which is part of Wicklow National Park) and (after an emergency 40-minute sandwich detour), we ‘hiked’ one of the trails through the park. The first part of the ‘nature trail’ sure had a lot of pavement and noisy European teenagers, but one we broke off onto the ‘Ramble,’ things cleared out a bit. That’s right, the trails were ranked Easy, Moderate, Ramble and Hill Walk. How is a Ramble harder than Moderate? (It’s not.) Also, Hill Walk? How much more lamely could you phrase that? Moving Your Feet Forward On A Slight Incline? Anyhow, we totally would have done that one, but it was supposed to take 4+ hours and we didn’t have that kind of time; plus, there was an alarming warming sign by its description on the map depicting a man falling off a cliff, and I found that to be off-putting.

Alas, the weekend ended, the GD went back to work, and I decided to create a less ridiculous sleeping schedule for myself. I have to pretend I have a job by saying things in my head like, “Anne, you are due at the gym by 9:30am. You have a very important meeting with the treadmill,” and, “The servers at Taste of Emilia^† are waiting for you to order your coffee and write for an hour in their café.” So far, dividing my time between things like this and the general pursuit of domesticity (doing dishes and laundry; elaborate meal-planning and baking projects; finicky tidying and rearranging of furniture) seems to be an effective way of killing a day. I’ve also secured myself a spot as an extra in a Dublin Fringe show from Argentina, and I’m trying to become a volunteer with the Fringe Festival, itself. Pretty productive, right?

The only real tragedy I’ve suffered in the last week is the half-death^‡ of my ancient iPod. The thing is still kicking, but the headphone jack has crapped out. I can still listen to it on the GD’s dock in our living room, but alas, no more trips to the grocery store with the world around me completely drowned out by Girltalk. I think the damage may be a result of The Dropsies at one of my important gym meetings, but I drop that thing ATT, and this is the only serious injury it has sustained. I refuse to let it die completely, though, because I cannot afford to replace it with one of those new-fangled ‘color screen’ iPods with a million GB of space that I could never use. MyPod will serve out its final days honorably: as the soundtrack to my confined life of poverty and small domestic tasks^§.

*FOTC: Inner City Pressure

†Amazing little Italian place right around the corner. Apparently Emilia is a place in Italy, and most of the food and drink is from that region, including the little sample platters of parmagianno with balsamic they give you when you’re drinking a delicious glass of red wine! Also, bomb cappuccinos. The only place in Dublin they don’t put chocolate on top.

‡Not the correct use of the term ‘half-death.’ I think it has something to do with cells, or maybe that's half-life. I do not claim to know.

§That one guy from The Stepford Wives would like to watch.

Time, time, time and not a thing to do

2009-08-03T16:13:00.004+01:00

The past few days have been pretty quiet around here. I'm settling into the apartment, the GD has been working crazy hours this weekend (one week of annual leave starting after his nap today!), and I'm doing my best to get into the habit now of audition-searching and looking for ways to make connections here in Dublin. I have (already) managed to eke out a friend; that is to say, the gf of one of the GD's friends (and former co-worker) is similarly unemployed and bored out of her mind, so we've joined forces. Her situation as an unemployed writer (who came from a good job in Australia) doesn't really bode well for me and my artistic job-seeking plans (having come from a series of short-term, non-commital jobs, myself), but I hope we can find some kinship in the excessive amount of freetime we share. She seems to enjoy drinking, so in that regard she's got my vote, and she and the OGD (Other Good Doctor) live in an apartment directly across the courtyard from ours. Convenient? I think so.

I called my sister last night to ask her what that one website was where you could find tv shows watchable outside the U.S. She pulled through for me and I entertained myself with several hours of 30 Rock hilarity last night while I went into a bit of a cleaning frenzy on the stovetop. Yeah, it's good to have the GD home from work. It will be even better when I have people to call when he's not around. Maybe I'll take out a personal ad:

WF available most afternoons for baking, margaritas, light manual labor. Seeking daytime platonic companion to share in activities, crack jokes, generally be entertaining. Dance background a plus. Or, you know, employment. I'd take employment, too.

Needs a little work. Don't worry, I've got time.

Dual Citizenship!

2009-07-31T21:14:00.004+01:00

I can't believe I forgot to tell you, but I'm Canadian!

Thankfully, my WIG Lauren mentioned it in her blog, which reminded me that I had recently made a trip to the Canadian embassy in Seattle. I think I mostly forgot on purpose because the whole process of printing a card with my picture on it as proof of Canadian citizenship is going to take about a year (serious backlog), and I was trying not to fixate on the awesomeness that will ensue when those 12 months are up (in an effort to make that time go by more quickly).

So, my mom is Canadian by birth, thanks to my Scottish grandparents who moved there en route to the US. (So international, I know!) Anyhow, my mom only lived there until she was two, but her birth certificate gives her citizenship, and after some recent inquiries on my part, I found out I'm in, too. I just have to fill out this form (done), drop it at the embassy (done), and wait a year while the people in the one office in Canada who process all the applications from all over the world shove mine to the bottom of the pile and ignore it for about six months until they finally get around to processing it (doing).

But that's it! I will totally have two passports. This confuses me, by the way. I read a pamphlet about it in the embassy, and they were mostly like, Make sure the dates of entry and exit are in the same passport for each country you go to! Also, some countries don't want you if you have two passports. But I don't want them either. I just want access to all the former commonwealth countries, which I will have with my fancy new Canadian passport-- in 10- to 12-months time plus 2 to 4 weeks to process the passport application. So there.

Dublin Invasion

2009-07-31T13:44:00.003+01:00

Folks, I am back in the game-- the game being Europe. After a brief two-month stint working as a file clerk in my mom's law office (thanks, guys, for always giving me a job) and a week of mayhem (ish) in the Twin Cities, I've broken a little higher than even and arrived in Dublin with enough money in account to live here very, very humbly for as long as they'll let me. Luckily, the Good Doctor has a place, so I only have to pay a fraction of the rent I would if I was trying to get a place on my own.

So, at the moment, I'm chillin' to some Salt-N-Pepa while the GD works a 24-hour shift, planning some errands (mobile phone! kleenex!), and generally plotting (legitimate) ways to stay in Ireland for longer than the three months allotted to me by the very kind, but very stringent Garda officer who let me in. He looked up the GD in the system! He took my picture! Anyone know someone in Dublin who's hiring?

In the meantime, I'm just working on adjusting to the time difference. I think I may have slept 11 hours last night? To be fair, I didn't sleep at all on the red eye, and my four-hour nap yesterday afternoon just did not cut it. I forced myself out of bed around 11 am (just five short hours after the GD had to get up for work), but I would have had no trouble sleeping another five or so. I am going to use the same technique shortly, however, to force myself off this couch and out into the streets-- just for errands, don't worry.

Also, apparently I only blog when I'm in Europe? Or maybe it's just that I only blog when I don't have a job, or don't have a job that takes up more than twelve hours a week. Here's to more of that, at least as long as my credit card balance stays low and my bank account high. Cheers.

Back in the Yu Ess uv Ey

2009-06-20T19:05:00.003+01:00

I'm over the initial culture shock and back into the routine of living (temporarily) with my parents, and suddenly instead of feeling like I've been back for three weeks (which I have), I feel as though I never left. Frightening.

In May I was in London, Paris, Càdiz, Granada, Madrid, Paris, Edinburgh, Dublin, Prague, Krakow, Budapest, Vienna and Paris. Yeah, I know I said Paris three times. That's how many times I was there. And, okay, I was only in Dublin for 12 hours (would have been shorter if the GD and I hadn't missed our original flight to Budapest), but it still counts. My job ended April 30th, and I was on a train out of Flers the morning of the 1st. Never looking back.

Early on, I think I was pretty good about blogging. That is, I vaguely remember writing stuff about being in London with my sister. Then, as my internet access got spottier and spottier and my schedule involved fewer nights in each city, I found myself becoming lazier and lazier about keeping my (huge) reading public up to date on my travels. Then I got back to the states and was jet-lagged and mostly just felt like sleeping (or not, depending on which was less convenient) and that got in the way of blogging. Then I just hadn't blogged in so long that I felt overwhelmed by the idea of starting up again. And that's where I am now.

I saw more places in a month than I thought I would see at all in Europe, got to feel inadequate in numerous languages, bickered and made up with my mom at least 17 times, and enjoyed a well-mediated birthday dinner in Edinburgh. That is to say, the GD met my mom and managed to cut the tangible tension (after two weeks of mother-daughter travel) with pleasant, engaging conversation. I made it to (surprise, birthday destination) Budapest despite missing the aforementioned "plan A" flight by the second of three overnight trains the GD and I took in our travels.

And now I'm here, wondering if any of that just happened. I'm pretty sure it did. I've got pictures.

Càdiz

2009-05-10T19:15:00.004+01:00

This place is amazing. My activities today included (but were not limited to) getting up after 11, walking out to the plaza to use the free wifi, spending several hours on the beach, and filing my nails. Yeah, it's rough here. I can see why my sister might not want to, like, stay home and do her homework.

Tomorrow we're taking a ferry to the nearby town of El Puerto de Santa Maria, which is supposed to have beautiful beaches and some kind of celebration going on. Yesterday we took a day trip to Sevilla. The weather was a bit drizzly, and two-thirds of what we went to see was closed for the day (the Cathedral and the attached tower) but getting to see Alcazar (which I hear is similar to the Alambra in Granada but on a smaller scale) was pretty awesome. I'll fill you in on the comparisons (if I feel like it) after our stay in Granada Tuesday night.

I don't want to leave the beach! But I guess Paris* will be okay too. Again. Quel dommage.

*I am afraid that I have not been making any kind of an effort here with the language, and even more afraid of the state my French will be in after a week and a half of English.

The Rain Train in Spain

2009-05-08T15:39:00.004+01:00

Is awesome and spacious. It has way more leg room than any I've taken in France, and possibly three times as much as that available on any Ryanair flight. Plus, they show movies! At least the one I was on from Madrid to Cadiz did, although it was confusingly both dubbed and subtitled in Spanish, and what they were saying wasn't always the same as what was being displayed at the bottom of the screen. Plus it was written and directed by David Mamet (Redbelt, 2008), so I might have found it a bit hard to follow in English anyhow.

After a couple of days in Paris, speaking mostly English (hooray for American friends visiting!), I spent one night in Madrid, speaking mostly French. I managed to avoid talking to anyone as I navigated the metro to my hostel, and I totally caught someone trying to pick my pocket! Er, purse. That sucker was going for the outside pocket, where I only keep a notebook to write down travel information. I saw his fingers reaching in there out of the corner of my eye, and when I turned to look at him, he totally pulled his hand away and acted like nothing had happened. I wish I had known something clever to say to him in Spanish. As it was, I hardly spoke any Spanish at all that night. The first girl I met at my hostel was French and spoke Spanish way better than I did. We went out for a tortilla (a Spanish omelette) and I totally let her do the ordering while we chatted away en français.

My Spanish is in a pretty embarrassing state, considering I did study it for a couple of years earlier in life. Though to be fair, the Mexican Spanish I learned in school is pretty different from what they speak here, and I've been speaking French for the past seven months. So every time I try to reach back five to six years in my brain to find a Spanish verb conjugation or the correct direct object pronoun placement, I always come up with the French first.

But, hey, I'm in Càdiz (a.k.a. beachville) for the next four days, so I should just get over any embarrassment and enjoy it. And as long as I'm hanging out with my sis, she should be able to communicate on my behalf. And did I mention my mom is here? Yeah, it's a regular ladies only family reunion. My mom wisely brought along a friend to travel with, whose second purpose (I suspect) is to shame my the three of us out of bickering in front of a non-family member. So far I'd say the success rate is at about 60%. I don't have much shame.

Sistertime, and who is the superior visul artist?

2009-05-04T10:31:00.009+01:00

Work is officially over, I will probably never catch up on Italy blogging (basically Sienna, Florence and Venice were all awesome, but I got sick at the end of the trip and spent most of Venice in bed in the hotel room), and my sister and I just spent an awesome weekend in London. We only bickered a few times and we made a good showing at the pubs all three nights. Yesterday we hung out pretty much all day with out second cousin Billy, getting up in the London Eye in the morning and starting a long day of drinking around noon. I started out the afternoon with a meat pie, so things didn't get too ugly. At some point after we had met up with some of Billy's friends to continue the debauchery, I decided to draw mustachioed men on the hands of anyone who was willing. This was the result.

I would also like to take this opportunity to share with you some of my favorite depictions of myself as illustrated by my former students in good-bye cards.

I love this one a) because it's one of the more accurate depictions of my hair and b) because everyone in this class clearly copied the same sentence as given to them by their teacher that spelled my name wrong, but then most of them also spelled my name correctly somewhere else in the picture. Also look at the size of my arm! Or is it a flashlight beam?

I was drawn as a blond in at least five cards. Wishful thinking, I suppose. This was also a very popular spelling of "bye bye."

And finally, this isn't me, but what a crazy/trippy drawing! I love it.

The robot is almost as awesome as the heart-/ex-eyed yes and no characters.

I'll probably share some more when I have a little more time, but I'm about to check out of this hotel in London and take the train back to Paris. Coffee is in order.

Pisa

2009-04-28T08:24:00.007+01:00

[Just pretend I'm writing this in real time.]

I got into Pisa on Tuesday (4/14) a little later than desired (this after the bank card debacle in Lucca), but that was okay because all I was really planning on doing was checking into the hotel, taking a nap, and waiting for the Good Doctor's* flight to get in. I accomplished all of these things, plus I went and found a pizza to eat. I was told the hotel had a car service (for only 3 euros!) that went to the airport to pick people up, so disoriented as I was when my alarm went off at 11pm, I went to meet the GD in person.

Pisa was really just a meeting point for us, but we got up and went to see the one, important thing the next day before heading out of town. The Tower! Look how leaning it is!

Amazing! Just kidding, I totally tilted my camera for effect. In case you couldn't tell by the nearly equally leaning buildings in the background. This is what it actually looked like, from the other side and further away.

Still impressive, and the church and dome right next to it were (although standing vertically) quite impressive as well, possibly even more ornate and interesting to look at than the tower itself.

Pisa is fairly small (compared to Rome and Florence), but if you get into the older part out town (nearer the tower), there's a good mix of chilled out cafés and tourist traps. Our hotel was right across from train station, which was very convenient, but meant we were in a kind of crappy part of town. It was only a twenty minute walk, however, to the Tower, and since there isn't much else to see, it wasn't a big deal.

After our big morning seeing all the, er, sight, the GD and I grabbed some panini sandwiches and beers and high-tailed it out of town, this time without incident at the train station. Next stop, Sienna, for some camping!

*I can't take credit, this is what my dad calls him, but I like it and I'm sticking with it.

High Self-Esteem: Take Two

2009-04-27T20:21:00.007+01:00

So this is my last week at my job here in France, and no I haven't been laid off in the recession, my contract just ends April 30th. This means I show up with final lessons that involve singing and candy, and my kids present me with more awesome notes telling me how nice and beautiful I am. I work in four elementary schools teaching English, and I had my last day at my favorite school today (mostly because that's where I work the most hours). This is the booty I raked in:

My favorite is the card that says I love you because she actually wrote it in lipstick and it is quite sticky. I even got a note from the boys this time! Mind you, they sort of frantically noticed that all the girls were giving me cards and quickly huddled together to bang out (in 2nd grade French), "We love you a lot see you soon ANNE THANK YOU FOR HELPING US." Then one of them wrote, "Signature:" and they all signed it. Later in the day, after one of my other classes, one of the boys came up to me with a more eloquently written note (still from all of them, still in French, I didn't teach them that much):

Dear Anne,

We thank you for having taught us English so well.

and having been so kind with us.

I hope that you won't forget us.

We will miss you.

we hope that you will come back soon to see us.

See you soon Anne.

They didn't call me beautiful, but pretty much all the girls did, so I'll forgive them. Plus I'm sure it would have been a serious blow to their 8-year old reputations to write such a thing. I am not going to miss this town, but I am going to miss my students. Even the crazy, loud ones. Especially them. Here's the best picture I was able to get with them. By best, I mean no one's eyes are closed and they are mostly looking at the camera.

Pretty cool, yeah? Now on to worrying about finding a new job in this shaky economy, and trying to move to Dublin, and being a serious actor/writer instead of a teacher! I don't think I'll be getting too many admiring notes like this in the near future, but if I'm feeling low and battered by the world of auditions and submissions and constant approval-seeking, I know exactly where I can go: right back to Flers.

Lucca

2009-04-27T08:24:00.009+01:00

More catching up on travels in Italy.

Lucca is a pretty awesome little city just northeast of Pisa. The main part of the city is completely surrounded by a big, broad wall (that they've now turned into a park which is awesome for biking and walking), and at some point in Roman history, the town was some kind of cultural center of Rome. Or it was important. Okay, I wasn't really paying attention to the history, I was too busy biking. You can read the wikipedia page if you want, but I'm too lazy.

I took the train from Rome to Lucca (changeover in Florence) on Sunday (4/12), and then had to grab a taxi at the station to the much smaller town I was staying in about 12 kilometres away. At this point, I had been devouring my little French-to-Italian phrasebook in an attempt to seem less like an Amercian jerk, and I (sort of) told the driver where I was going in Italian. The great thing about Italians (outside of Rome) is that if you speak even a little bit of their language, even really badly, something clicks in their head and they're like, Oh! This person speaks Italian just as well as I do! and then they just launch right into it. Whatever it may be.

So my cab driver launches into this explanation of how much it's going to cost, and I understand enough to get that this is what she's talking about, and that she comes up with "Maximum 20," and so I agree and get in. When she's driving me there someone calls on her cell phone and in the midst of asking this person if they know exactly where in Santa Maria del Giudice she might find Marta guest house (where I'm staying), I also understood her saying that I "understood her" because I "spoke Spanish." Sure! I did take some Spanish in high school.

I ended up booking at Marta Guest House by chance, because the only hostel in Lucca proper was listed online as booked out (though I later found this to be untrue). In any case, it was a magical and fortuitous find. Marta, yes Marta herself, runs the show, and she is the image of hospitality and kindness. She welcomed me in and personally showed me up to and around my (amazing!) room.

With a balcony!

Marta was very worried that there wasn't a shower in the room, even though I had booked a room without a private bathroom and it surprisingly came with a sink and toilet. In true Marta style, she offered me the use of her own shower (she lives downstairs), and gave me some fancy orchid shower gel. She then made me coffee, and I sat down and had a great little chat (mostly in English) with her and a friend of hers (Rosarita, I think?). It was wonderful. Marta called all the restaurants in (the very small) town to find out who would still be open for dinner on Easter Day, and I had a delicious pesto and calamari pizza that evening.

In the morning, Marta served up a homemade, four-course breakfast, including some delicious ricotta chocolate cake. I had asked her if there were any buses running into Lucca, and after she called only to find out that they weren't running until the afternoon she said, "Anneh (she adorably pronounced the e at the end of my name), my friend will take you into town." So, true to her word, her friend (a middle-aged man who spoke no English) saved me a 20-euro taxi ride and drove me into town. And thank god I had been such a dork about reading my phrasebook and writing down new things I had learned to say, because that man wanted to have a conversation; and have a conversation we did. He told me about how he was too old to learn English, about his honeymoon in Spain, and we talked about how traveling in April was ideal (my contribution). He also asked me lots of questions about myself that I was only able to answer in broken sentences, but he was happy to fill in the blanks for me.

Lucca itself is a pretty little town. The hostel I stayed in was huge and clean and more like a hotel in feel, except for the fact that there were 6 of us in the room. I hired a bike at 2.50€ an hour and rode around the wall.

I had clearly rented the cheapest bike available (I didn't pay the extra euro or two for a mountain bike or a road bike) because you could hear and see me coming without any kind of bell (though I had one). The thing was neon green and rattled to the point that I actually stopped to make sure nothing was falling off.

I spent a day and a half in Lucca and that was plenty. There aren't many cars that go inside the walls, so the streets are mostly full of bikers and pedestrians. It's a cool place to walk around, and there are some important churches and towers that I admired, but didn't bother to learn anything about. Mostly I ate more gelato, did some laundry, and had a Bloody Mary (with limoncello!) when I wasn't just wandering the streets.

On Tuesday, I went to the train station to buy my ticket and head to Pisa, and my French bank card was eaten by one of the ticket machines. The women working at the train station were completely unhelpful saying they didn't have a key and I would have to call the machine company. After much arguing (in bad Italian by me, bad English by her), one woman finally found me the number, but refused to make the call, herself.

By this time, I was already embarrassing myself by crying in public, and someone else had told me I should go to the police station to report the card lost. This didn't really make sense, but thankfully while looking for the station I stumbled upon the office of tourism, and the nicest man ever who worked there made multiple calls to the machine company for me, finally relaying the message that they're based out of Florence and they couldn't come until tomorrow or the next day at the earliest, but that they needed the train station to call and report the problem. He tried to call the train station, but no one was answering, so I walked back to try to tell them they needed to report the incident, but the women again refused and said the man at the office of tourism didn't know what he was talking about (even though he had talked to someone at the company). Long story short (sorry, I already told the long story), I had to cancel my card and borrow money from my dad until I got back to Flers and received my new one.

Conclusion: Lucca is beautiful, but Santa Maria del Giudice is even more so. If you're in Tuscany, stay with Marta, rent a car and take day trips around the area. Don't put your card in the ticket machines in Lucca, and people in the service industry are grumpy, no matter what country you're in.

Sarah Haskins is my celebrity WIG*

2009-04-26T21:55:00.003+01:00

*Were I Gay (and were she) I would totally imagine us dating because you don't actually get to date celebrity crushes. Don't worry Lauren, you're still my real life WIG.

No Means Yes

2009-04-26T15:10:00.009+01:00

I recently decided that if I ever want to actually be an artist, I need to get my act together and start making shit. For me, this means getting past the point where I have a really good idea, go to write a story or outline or script, and then immediately allow my voices of doubt to tell me that what originally seemed really cool is actually stupid and that I'll never be able to make it work. I start to write and my internal critical voice points out how obvious my jokes are and how unoriginal my premise is. My new friend* Jay was struggling with a similar problem back in Dec of 2007, and seems to be working through it again with his recent commitment to the Morning Doctrines.

Good questions Jay! And I know that cycle so well! But it's actually just really helpful to hear that I'm not the only one. Sometimes I skype up my friend Guy (master knitter and funniest person ever) just so we can lament the fact that we are not being productive enough, listen to each others' ideas, genuinely find them to be awesome, and encourage each other to write and dance and perform and generally just do the shit we talk so much about doing.

I've been trying to take inspiration anywhere I can find it. Inspiration to do, I mean, not even inspiration for what to do. Like look at this lady!

She is 83! I can't do that! But do you know what? Neither could she 50 years ago. And the reason that I know I can't do that is because in Winter 2007 I enrolled in a break-dancing class. My interest in hip hop had been growing for several years, and when I finally acted on my long desire (overcoming years of doubt/procrastination) to make some sort of a return to dancing (which I had quit at 16), I found that the studio where I worked and took modern and hip hop also offered break. After standing outside the door of class during my work study shift for the entire Fall Session, and watching how all the other awkward white women kept coming back week after week, slowly improving, I signed up for the next round.

Here's something I don't need to tell you: break-dancing is hard. I'm not talking about windmills and headspins, I just mean teaching your body to be comfortable in a constant squat and learning to do a six step without tripping over yourself and dancing in 30 second spurts 4 or 5 times in a row (freestyle was required at the end of each class) without collapsing. And I looked pretty stupid and sweaty doing it (thanks to the wall mirror for that constant reminder). But I got better. (And by the way the mirror was integral in that process.) I taught myself how to stand on my head (weeks and weeks of yoga freeze to tripod to falling over every day until I got it). I learned to do a baby freeze and side freeze, and my six step is still relatively slow, but that's probably because I haven't worked on it enough.

I can't do a cradle freeze yet (what Granny is doing there above), but I couldn't do any of that other shit before. I kept it up until the end of last summer, when I moved to France. Shockingly, the tiny town I live in has a hip hop class, and I made myself go. It wasn't really my style (a little too much Christina Aguilera, a little too little floor work) and the teacher was a pretty sleezy guy who hit on all the high school girls in the class, so I stopped going after a month or two. But I'm working on handstands now, and I should really pick up the speed on my foot work.

In a recent whirlwind of creative productivity, I wrote a 25-page first draft of a script and submitted it to the Dublin Fringe Festival with accompanying images (drawn by me!) and songs (recorded by me!) all based on an idea that I had and didn't let die! So even if Dublin doesn't want it, I have a solid jumping off point, I have project collaborators, potential rehearsal space for this summer.

There are a few important (and obvious) things that teachers and other more experienced people have told me over the past few years that I have to constantly beat into my psyche when the doubt cycle begins.

Never edit as you write†. I always do, and it really slows me down. Draft writing and editing are meant to be two separate steps in a process. Editing is when your critical voice is aloud and welcome, but if you let it in during the creative process, you get stiffled and spiral into doubt. Or at least I do. (Gleaned from every creative writing class ever)
No means Yes. Okay, well not exactly, and never would I say that in any other context (obvs.), but I take the idea from a teacher I had recently at a weekend workshop at the London International School of Performing Arts. He talked a lot about the voice in your head that says "No" to everything. "No, don't do that you'll look stupid," "No, that's not good enough," "No, you don't know what you're doing." What Jay would call the little hater. Every time it says No, you have to say Yes. Sometimes even outloud. Even if it makes you look like a crazy person. (Thomas, founder and head of LISPA)
Hang out with kids. Adults become creatively blocked because we've had years to develop our finely tuned level of self-consciousness, but kids are crazy. I mean, young kids. They just do and say anything and can just sit for hours and make up conversations between their toys, without caring what anyone else thinks. At least, that's what I did as a kid, but we didn't have cable. So just watch them. I mean, don't get arrested or anything, but notice how kids do things that adults think are outrageously funny without meaning to. Adults were always laughing at the things I said as a child, and it pissed me off because I didn't get it, I wasn't in on the joke. Now I wish I was still so free from self-judgment. (More advice from Thomas)
See your future. Another video courtesy of ill doctrine. KRS One is amazing.

So I think this post has been at least a little self-indulgent, and possibly self-congratulatory, but I needed to write it for a couple of reasons. One, writing helps me work things out. Two, if I write to everyone that I'm going to start being a more proactive artist, I hope that's just one more reason to actually do it.

*Not actually my friend. I just wish I could hang out with him and his cat.

†I don't apply this rule to my blogging as I tend to write entries in one go. This is more of a creative writing tool.

When Men in Rome

2009-04-26T11:34:00.009+01:00

Do as the Romans do. They wear headbands! Because how else are they going to keep those flowing Italian locks out of their eyes?

My opinion on men with long hair is made strictly on a case by case basis. Perhaps, as a lady who has rocked super short hair for some years now, I should be more lenient and accepting overall but guess what? I'm not. Because I've seen some pretty terrible ponytails on some dudes. Number one rule: Don't, don't, don't grow out your hair if you're balding. Even if you're in you're twenties and in denial about it, just don't. Because that top bit will never, ever catch up, and you will look like a fool.

That being said, I totally had a sight-only crush* on a ponytail guy all through college. Mind you, he had great, fluffy, wavy-ish hair, and his ponytail was very small. He was also the first dude I saw rocking the man headband (cloth only), so I'm not totally unfamiliar with the concept.

Even though I (kind of) tried not to notice, Roman men are (generally) pretty good looking. So I was okay with them growing out their hair, and I completely support their use of plastic headband to secure it in place. Like, this kind of plastic headband:

Only not on Nikki Cox. On a dude.

Or maybe this kind:

"Mine's funky!"

I was in Rome for three days, and believe it or not, I did more than just ogle the men. I also saw pretty much every important tourist/historically important thing to see, ate some really good and slightly less good gelato, bickered with my sister, stayed in the worst hostel ever, used my phrasebook to speak broken Italian, embarrassed my sister by bickering with her in front of her friends, and went on a pretty decent pub crawl. Rome is, as imagined, spectacular and full of more things to do than one visit allows time for. The only thing I didn't make it into was the Vatican itself. I went into the Vatican Museums, which includes the ridiculous series of signs that look like this:

So you're like, Oh! I must be close to the Sistine Chapel now! But then there's like 17 more of those signs and it takes you 45 minutes to an hour to actually get there. And then you're finally in, but you're not aloud to take photos! And even though everyone around you is sneakily doing it anyway as the guards are yelling "Silence! Silence!" to the crowds, you decide to just admire quietly and move on. At least, that's what I did.

The Sistine Chapel was beautiful and impressive, especially Michelangelo's use of perspective against the curves of the ceiling, but I have to say after all the signs and winding through other parts of the museum, it was a bit anti-climactic. Like, if that weren't the most packed room in the Museum, I might not have even known it was the Sistine Chapel, because the whole building was decorated with ceiling and wall frescos. And by the end of it, I was too tired and hungry to make my way over to the real Vatican, which my sister and her friends had gotten up at 6am (morning after the pub crawl) to go see without a line.

If you do make it to Rome, I would definitely get out to Villa Borghese, a huge park in the northwest of the city. There are several museums and a zoo around the edges of the park, and I highly recommend the Galleria Borghese, which has The Rape of Prosperina by Bernini, a pretty impressive sculpture with that oh-so-common Roman theme. There are also several locations to rent bikes, which I regrettably didn't do, and ride around the park.

Rome is full of history (obvs), and if my sister is right about European fashion, its also full of America's future. So look out for plastic headbands on the heads of men everywhere come next Spring, and be warned, men in Europe where purses as well.

*It's not that we didn't have the opportunity to converse, it's just that every time I had the chance to speak around him, I would completely freeze up. I was so afraid of saying something completely inane like, "Table," that I just didn't say anything at all.

This is how we do it

2009-04-26T00:06:00.004+01:00

I was out at our favorite Flerien bar tonight, the Why Not? and as usual, they were showing awesome 90s music videos. Do you remember this? Because I forgot about it until tonight.

I love the random ~~multi-cultural~~ renaissance fair dance party and erotic consumption of fruit.

Canned Heat

2009-04-25T18:23:00.005+01:00

Oh man, I really hope I look like this all the time when I'm dancing.

Like maybe I'm just doing a quick smell check? But still looking really cool. Unfortunately, I think I probably more often look like this.

Like a really sleepy zombie. That's probably what I felt like too.

Jay Smooth

2009-04-25T16:08:00.009+01:00

Okay, as usual, I'm the last one to find out about anything on the internet. That is to say, I'm not a very aggressive blogger (note the weeks of absence), and I'm pretty useless when it comes to finding new blogs to read. I love me some Jezebel, and my WIG Lauren's blog is always a source of witticism and insight, but I think a combination of laziness and lack of internet savvy keep me in the dark. Oh, and as proven by my recent discovery, anytime I find anything new and awesome to read/watch, I tend to just sit down and do that for hours and hours instead of doing, like, anything else.

It was the Jezebels (as usual) who led me to ill Doctrine: a hip-hop video blog with a post on the whole Miss California v. Perez Hilton debacle. That's right, I may be in France, but I am mostly up to date on shit. Mostly. Anyhow, I watched Jay Smooth's take on the whole thing, and I was like, Who is this guy? And who edits his videos?

I still don't know the answer to that second question, but answer one is he's the host of the longest running underground hip-hop radio show in NYC, and he makes video blogs that at least make him seem like he knows what he's talking about. Plus he's adorable and energetic.

[Update: the embedded video doesn't seem to be working, so here's the link.]

See? Also, I watched that episode of Oprah, too. I usually watch Oprah because it's effing formulated to make you cry and fight it as I might, it pretty much works every time. That's right, I usually watch Oprah to exploit other people's horrific stories for a good cry, but this particular time, I had just stumbled upon it while channel surfing. I was similarly annoyed by the episode, particularly the division which pitted a panel of dudes representing "hip-hop" against a group of young women representing "feminism." I found it problematic that only men were representing the voice of hip hop (although they were really representing the voice of the industry), and that the women were made to seem whiny for not wanting to be called a bitch or a ho. But I wasn't able to deconstruct Russell Simmons' argument the way Jay Smooth did, and I am grateful to him for laying it out for me.

So in conclusion, ill Doctrine = my latest internet obssession and Jay Smooth = my new internet crush. Now to catch up on more videos and also back blog on my last two weeks in Italy. Whew. When will the madness end.

Dear France,

2009-03-22T18:25:00.003Z

Sidewalks are for walking on, not parking your effing cars right in the way of pedestrians or MAKING U TURNS on narrow roads.

Side. Walk. For walking on the side. In French? Trottoir. Not put-your-car-on-me-all-the-time-oir.

Also, I really appreciate how your sidewalks are low enough for cars to pull up onto without popping a tire, but just high enough to be handicap inaccessible. Even at corners and driveways. Bastards.

-Disgruntled Pedestrian

Ew, gross

2009-03-21T15:46:00.005Z

Some things are delicious, but should not be made available in canned form. Like this*:

Mushrooms. Blech.

This reminds me of when I used to go to Kindercare† and they made us eat all our peas before we were allowed to go play, only they were peas from a can and I seriously had to suppress my gag reflex every day forever that I ate lunch there. Canned peas are not the right color and I'm pretty sure stored in some kind of preservative syrup to make them not only last longer but be swallowed more easily by babies and the elderly. Gross. Mush. Gross.

*From my roommate's shelf in the food cupboard. Silly Germans.

†We switched to Kindercare after the assholes at La Petite did mean things like not let my sister give me a hug when I got there after school. And then yelled at her when she cried. This event seriously influenced me when I worked with kindergarteners last year. I always let them hug their siblings in the hall or the cafeteria, and tellingly, this was not an uncommon request. This has been a long side note.

New Conchords

2009-03-19T21:17:00.007Z

Okay, I mostly love this song for the first line.

FOTC is putting out some good stuff this season. I think the music is a little bit less congruous with the episodes than it was in the first season (obvs because they're writing all new songs, rather than having years of previously-written work to choose from), but you can't not love Sugar Lumps. The dialogue continues to be amazing. I love Murray.

No sleep til London

2009-03-17T21:14:00.004Z

So, the adventure started late Friday afternoon when my plan was to go straight from work to the train station (okay, with a leisurely beer stop-off on the way, I had an hour!), but then I realized on the way to work that I had forgotten my passport. An essential item for international travel. So I had to trek the 20 minutes back home after all was said and done, though this did give me time to make some delicious garlic sausage sandwiches for the journey. They made my bag so stinky! But it was worth it.

Back to the train station I went, an uneventful ride into Paris followed, and then BAM, the metro happened. That is to say, it's always an adventure in trying to make it somewhere on time*. This time, there was some kind of medical emergency† one stop down the line I was on, so everything was super delayed. Luckily I had hours until the overnight bus from hell, which I obviously wanted to be spending underground anyway since Paris is boring and ugly. Right?

La la la, finally make it to the bus station, wait around for a while, read some Tolkien, check in, get on, and have a seat to myself. That is, until an older man comes by and asks if anyone is sitting next to me. So I was forced (out of kindness) to give up the dual-seat luxury and allow this man to sit down.

This is what followed/what I hadn't considered beforehand. The seats seemed really comfortable because they reclined back to, like, 45 degrees. But then the person in front of me leaned back my knees were trapped. We had to get off the bus for border control. Luckily, I had brought the address where I was staying this time so they didn't give me any shit. We got back on the bus for about half an hour then had to get off on the ferry. Oh, right, Anne, you have to take a ferry when you're on the bus, it doesn't just float accross the English Channel. I got my only solid hour of sleep on a couch on the ferry. Then we got back on the bus and I was pretty sure I hadn't slept the rest of the journey.

Pretty sure. Except that I must have been asleep because at a certain point I woke up (therefore was sleeping, but dreaming about being on the bus), and dude next to me had his jacket spilling over onto my lap. So, annoyed, I toss it back over on him and OH MY GOD HIS HAND IS ON MY UPPER THIGH. This only could have happened if I had been sleeping. I am talking, fingers practically in my crotch, upper-thigh grope. I picked up that pervy old man's hand and flung it at him like a dead fish. He didn't wake up. Needless to say, I didn't sleep at all the rest for the rest of the bus ride.

Saturday morning, I got in early and went to my cousin Billy's for a shower and some breakfast, then headed out to day one of the workshop. Which was awesome. But I won't bore you with the details of my frustrations at not being open and playful enough to accomplish in one weekend what performers struggle for years to get past.

Saturday evening, instead of going straight to bed as my brain probably would have appreciated, I had some beers with the dudes I was staying with (friends of the Kiwi Doctor) and played some dice game I had never heard of before. It was ridiculously fun, and I was so good at the game until the alcohol very quickly took its effect on my fatigued brain‡ and I became a much worse at bluffing. They conveniently went out around 9, at which point I immediately fell asleep and stayed that way for the next ten hours.

Sunday, was a bit of a repeat, except minus the drinking in the evening, and with another bus to catch home. I did not get groped this time. Thankfully. I got back to my apartment in Flers for just long enough to brush my teeth and change my underwear before I had to go to my first class. I must have looked a sight, my hair all greased into whatever position I had (not) been sleeping in all night, and I'm pretty sure I probably sounded drunk at moments. I hope it wasn't too weird when I showed up again that afternoon, all showered and well-fed.

So that was my weekend. Met some awesome people at LISPA, and definitely a place I might try to go sometime in the distant-ish future for their two-year program. If I can get over my crippling voice of analysis and self-doubt. Working on it.

Sorry I was too lazy to find pictures for this post, and also that all the links are just to other stuff I've written. I just really want you to read it, because, like, I wrote it.

*Though I still maintain that le métro is far superior to the tube.

†They tv screens actually said, 'Someone is ill,' but I can only imagine that there was some kind of heart attack happening. I hope they wouldn't have stopped the metro over a cold. But maybe someone just barfed.

‡This is my official excuse.

High rollin'

2009-03-13T11:06:00.002Z

Hey Kids,

Not that I ever seem to need an excuse to not blog for several days in a row, but I just wanted to let you all know that I'll be jetting off to London for the weekend, so I probably won't be posting anything. And by jetting, I mean sleeping on buses for two nights, on the way there and back.

But it will all be worth it! I'm going to a Collaborative Theatre Workshop at LISPA, which is a school that I'm super interested in if I ever decide to stop being so lazy and get my MFA. Also, I feel that this is a first step in my movement away from being a (fake) teacher, and towards being an artist of some merit. Second step, get off my butt and submit a piece to the Dublin Fringe. This is totally going to happen, folks.

So, anyhow, think of me tonight (or, like, midafternoon if you're over on the other side of the world) as I am trying desperately to catch a few minutes of sleep on the 8-hour ride of discomfort. And then get up and move all day for two days.

Adventures to follow,

Anne

Effing Amazing

2009-03-10T16:57:00.008Z

Look what I got in the mail today:

Yes, that's right, my ridiculously talented* friend, Guy, knitted a doll of me!! Or rather, of me as the character I played in this† sketch:

Do you see the remarkable similarities? I mean, other than the fact that Guy's craftmanship is much finer than my own. But the doll even has the same problems with top-heaviness that I had when I was wearing that giant, paper-maché head!

Guy is an amazing knitter. Without his permission, I am going to show you some other things he's made.

Eggplant!

Skull!

I know, ridiculous. If you want something professionally knitted, he's your man. Only you might have to be his bFF‡ to get it.

I'm just glad that this guy finally has some company.

Also, I think I am in grave danger of becoming one of those adults who has lots of stuffed toys. I'd better keep myself in check.

*His other talents include being super hilarious, choreographing 20th-century drama into dance, and growing a really sweet mustache.

†They effing disabled the audio on our video! Just imagine some Green Day and then Aretha Franklin in the background...

‡better Friend Forever

Highest Self-Esteem Ever

2009-03-09T20:30:00.005Z

One of my students (age 8) came up to me in class today and handed me this note:

On the envelope:

"Je t'aime Anne de la par à Chahrazad mon prénom anglais es KETE"
"[Translation mine] I love you Anne from Chahrazad my English names is [wrong conjugation] KETE [it's actually Kate]*."

On the other side (in case I missed the first one):
"Pour Anne de la par à Chahrazad Tu es trop belle et trop gentilles"
"For Anne from Chahrazad You are too† beatiful and too kind [plural adj]"

On the outside of the note:
"Pour Anne de la par à Chahrazad Je t'aime beaucoup Tu es trop belle Je t'aime tu es trop belle De la par à Chahrazad"
Need I translate? Plus lots of hearts.

The note itself:
"tu es trop belle Anne
Chers Anne
vous êtes trop gentille et trop jolie vous êtes la plus belle englaise que je connaise du monde. tu es trop gentille et tu es parfois rigolote mes dans ton sourire tu es trop belle. et dès que tu es heureuse je suis heureuse. mes dans tes yeux je sais que vous êtes sinsère. Chahrazad"
Translation [ignoring awesome 8-year old spelling]:
"you are too beautiful Anne
Dear Anne
you are too kind and too pretty you are the most beautiful Englishwoman I know in the world. you are too kind and sometimes funny but in your smile you are too beautiful. and as soon as you are happy I am happy. but in your eyes I know that you are sincere. Chahrzad"

So despite (or probably a little bit because of) the numerous mispellings, the repetition, and random changing from the formal to informal "you," not to mention that she thinks I'm English and that I'm probably the only one she knows, this note made me infinitely happy and amused. I am too beautiful and too kind. Who else will ever tell me that?

*This was actually kind of helpful because I don't know any of their real names. They all have fake English names. But she handed the note to me, so I totally knew which one she was.

†Typical French exaggeration. Everything is too good or too delicious, but I like to think it was sincere. Just like my eyes.

The one that almost got away

2009-02-28T14:25:00.005Z

... or, you know, almost got out of meeting me.

So, the running joke on Saturday night with Billy was that John (his brother) did not exist. I met up with Billy, and he was all like, 'Oh, John says he's really sorry he can't come out, but he hurt his back and he hasn't been off the couch in four days.' Uh huh, likely story. Anyhow, in order to perpetuate this myth, I totally forgot to take any pictures of John or his awesome wife, Mei, when I met them on Monday night. Whoops!

To make up for it, I'm going to say some really nice things about them both, and then plug John's record label. I met John at the record shop where he works in the Islington area of London, a cool neighborhood. It was pouring rain, and I got off the bus (unknowingly) way earlier than I needed to, so I was pretty much drenched when I got there. John was, in fact, walking with a limp (due to a pinched nerve in his back), so I had to admit that a. he existed, and b. he was injured.

We walked to a nearby pub where we met up with his wife. Again, great conversation, again, mostly about music. We had several rounds of beer, some pizzas, and increasingly enthusiastic (slash inebriated) discussions. Mei took off, and I was thinking I should probably go, too, so I bought us one last round. But then John offered one last, last round, and I couldn't say no. I was having too much fun. I had a very pleasant(ly tipsy) bus ride home.

So here's the deal, John is so cool that he has his own record label, Here And Now Recordings, and you should definitely check it out. So, download his newest release for FREE (the best price), listen to other songs released on the label, and if you like it, buy some shit and tell other people about it. This is good stuff, people. Have a listen.

I did get to meet John and Billy's parents on Tuesday, as well (their dad is my mom's cousin, so I think that makes him my first cousin, once removed). We had a lovely lunch in a pub, where I ate my first delicious meat pie! Colin, my mom's cousin, expressed severe regret when I said that I liked Indian food, as apparently that would have been his first choice. I had pretty much eaten Indian food for every other meal in London, though (that is so the opposite of a complaint), so I was fine with a more English meal. Plus why would I not want a pastry full of meat and gravy on top of mashed potatoes? Billy came, too. He had just woken up.

Oh fer cute.

My mom's other cousin, Judy, and her husband, Andy, graciously put me up in Leamington Spa for three nights, which was awesome. A full size mattress on the floor was quite a luxury after several nights of hostels. I also got to see my Great Aunt Pat (Judy's mom) again, as she was staying with them (in the real spare room) while I was there.

Anyhow, my eyes are going to fall out of my head if I spent any more minutes (or hours) in front of the computer screen, so I need to go find something else to stare at for a while. Like a book. Or Jemaine on my Flight of the Conchords poster. Or Bret when I get tired of looking at Jemaine. Thanks for the poster, Dad.

We are family!

2009-02-28T13:10:00.008Z

I got all my ~~sisters~~ second cousins with me!

Doesn't quite have the same ring to it... but it's true, I met all two of my second cousins while I was in London, and it was ridiculously fun. Like, probably against many odds, I think I would be friends with these people in real life. By that I mean, I've been to family reunion(s) before where I've been forcibly subjected to hugs from people I've never met before, and I'm like, 'Why do I have to hug you? I don't even know you.' But I did it, because they are my family and I'm supposed to hug them. This was not like that.

Billy and I met for drinks on the Saturday that I got into London. We both brought reinforcements in case one (or both) of us turned out to be awkward slash creepy. So, with assistant friends A and M in tow, I set out from the hostel to meet the boys near Oxford Circus. We were staying quite a ways out of central London, on the District Line which (we later learned) is pretty much one of the shittiest, more unreliable tubes lines ever. We waited for a train. And we waited. About 17 trains went by on the other side of the track towards Cockfosters. We cursed Cockfosters.

Cockfosters! Why! (Implied fist shaking)

Finally, finally, a train came, but it wasn't even going all the way to our stop. So we had to get off and wait again. Ridiculous. We did (about an hour and a half later) make it, at which I called Billy for directions to the pub from the station. This was our conversation (summarized):

Billy: Where are you?

Anne: Just leaving the station, okay, I can see TopShop.

B: TopShop? Okay, walk away from TopShop, and away from the Station.*

A: Okay, wait, away from the TopShop. I see an H&M, too. Should I walk away from the Station between TopShop and H&M?

B: Um, walk away from both TopShop and H&M.

Needless to say, we were not going the right way, and this conversation was, in fact, spread over two or three conversations. We decided to just meet in front of TopShop, which was good, because we were very much walking away from the pub where we were supposed to meet. Luckily, just getting there turned out to be the most painful part of the evening.†

It was great. We talked about music, the arts, nerdy stuff. Billy is a drummer/drum teacher (I guess there must be some kind of artistic gene in the family), and I think there were only one or two awkward pauses in conversation, initially. We had to leave the first pub around 11... because they were closing! Wtf, London? Gruff (Billy's friend) got us into this 'member's only' club thing. We got into the upstairs, which was a pretty small, crowded room, and all of the seats were taken, but they were playing some pretty awesome music. At this point, A and M were fading fast, so we just had one drink, and headed out.

Then we faced the catastrophe of getting home, which I described in a previous post. But look how happy Billy, Gruff and I are while we're waiting!

L to R: Gruff (real name Gareth), me, Billy

It was a ridiculous wait, ending in a bus ride and taxi home, and I was forced to exhibit my limited break dancing skills as entertainment. I thought I was being all clever when I said, 'I can't do anything on the sidewalk without cardboard.' But then some shopowner had put out a big box of cardboard right behind us. So I had to.

This entry has gotten really long. I'm going to start another one to talk about second cousin numero dos, technically brother numero uno.

*He did give some specific street names at this point, but I don't remember what they were, and it proved useless in any case. Why? Because you can walk in, like, 8 different directions "away from the station."

†Save, trying to get home after midnight on a Saturday night in London.

Edinburgh > Flers

2009-02-26T21:39:00.006Z

Yeah, so I know you guys have all been just dying to know what I did with my last couple of days in Scotland, so I'm going to tell you.

First of all, did I mention that Edinburgh is the bomb? For real. Beautiful, big city, right next to this cliffy, mountain thing. So, it's basically everything I love in a city (old buildings + things to do*) and also lots of beautiful nature and parks. And bikes everywhere! Check this out:

Traffic lights just for bikes! I love it. Even more bike lanes than Minneapolis.

So yeah, it basically didn't even matter that I was struggling to understand everyone for the first-- well, for most of the time I was there. This only proved to be extremely frustrating on the night I arrived, when the bus directions I had written down for the hostel proved inadequate, and I had to ask for directions like 17 times. Because every time I asked (usually requiring at least one repetition), I would just sort of be like, "Um, okay left? Thanks." Because that would be the only word I would understand.

This was, however, nothing compared to the broadness of the Scottish highlands accent. On Friday, I took a 12-hour coach tour up to Loch Ness, which was mostly awesome for all the stuff we saw on the way up. Oh, and our super-opionated/seasoned tour guide/bus driver. There was also, unfortunately (for her) a very motion sick Spanish girl with her Spanish friends on the bus. I tried to help translate for her friend when she was looking for a train back (to avoid further motion sickness on the ride back), but I've been like speaking French a lot? And my Spanish is pretty remedial and Latin American to begin with, so I think I just made things more ridiculous.

See? Pretty! I don't know who that person is.

So after that 12-hour adventure (sorry, I didn't see Nessie), I decided to go to an Improv show in Edinburgh. I miss theater. Like, doing it. It was all games (I prefer long form), but fun in any case. Plus the crowd was really into it, which is always good to see. Did I mention I got the last ticket? Because I did. I tried to go with this other girl I had met at the hostel, but we got there and there was this long line and only three tickets left! Apparently two people took two of them, and then no one in front of us wanted to go alone. I braved the awkwardness of the crowded lobby full of socializing Scots to see the show.

On Saturday I did some more wandering around Edinburgh, then took the train over to Glasgow. I saw a show there called Defender of the Faith, set on the Irish border during the Troubles. The play started out with an unfortunately cast child actor (I couldn't make out a think he was saying, and neither could anyone around me, judging by the way they were leaning in), but luckily his character "goes away for the weekend," and then it got better. I would give a detailed review, if I weren't so lazy.

Saturday night, I stayed in Kilmarnock with another assistant who lives there, and we flew back to France at the ungodly hour of 6:45 the following morning. Just a quick hour-long bus ride from the airport to Paris, a hop or two on the metro, a long wait for the train, and a two and a half hour train ride back to Flers!

Boy, it's good to be home.†

*One part of this equation is missing from Flers.

†I do not actually consider Flers my home. Also, that was sarcasm.

How..?

2009-02-22T20:07:00.005Z

Um, I just dropped my tweezers down this drain.

How is that even possible? Aren't you supposed to use tweezers to extract objects from such a drain under such circumstances? I don't have enough pairs of tweezers for that kind of operation!

My eyebrows will suffer the loss in the days to come.

Oh yeah, so I'm back home in Flers.

A little more better*

2009-02-19T09:42:00.004Z

...rested.

Phew. It was really nice to get some sleep last night. I'm staying at this really nice, quiet hostel in Edinburgh, and despite the ridiculous difficulty I had in finding it last night, it's actually quite close to the center of town. I'm going on a walking tour in about an hour, and (don't worry, Neely) I plan on checking out the Parliament building later today.

As I breifly mentioned in my last post, I had a long day of travel yesterday. I took the train up from Dublin to Belfast (beautiful), then the ferry from Belfast to Stranaer, then the train from Stranraer to Glasgow, and finally a train from Glasgow to Edinburgh. I (believe it or not) did this on purpose. The last time I was traveling, I was doing a lot more flying, and it got to be a pain in the ass. It 'saves time' to fly, but I hate the lines and the disorganized airports that ryanair flies out of. So I made and epic journey. Here is a map of where I've traveled so far:

View Larger Map

A. Paris

B. London (arrived by Eurostar train, via the Chunnel, which was just dark and unexciting)

C. Leamington Spa (stayed with relatives, arrived by train)

Day trip to Warwick Castle
Day trip to Stratford-Upon-Avon

D. Holyhead, Wales (arrived by train, just there long enough to catch the ferry)

E. Dublin (arrived on Irish Ferries, cool look out deck for arrival in Ireland)

Weekend trip to Kilkenny, Ireland

F. Belfast (arrived by Iarnród Éireann [Irish Rail] train, really pretty trip)

G. Stranaer, Scotland (arrived by Stena Line ferries, nicer interior, but less outside viewing space)

H. Glasgow (arrived by ScotRail, changed trains at Glasgow Central)

I. Edinburgh (finally arrived by train!)

Tomorrow, I'm planning a day trip up to Loch Ness, and Saturday I'll need to get back to Glasgow to catch an early flight out.

Europe is awesome! Hopefully I'll have time soon to write about some culturally ridiculous things I've observed in my travels. Thanks for reading, folks.

*See BSB debut album, circa 1998

Edinburgh

2009-02-18T20:29:00.004Z

I am so glad not to be wearing my huge, yellow biking backpack at the moment.

I started off the day (early morning) in Dublin, and now I'm (finally) in Edinburgh. I kind of got lost trying to find my bus to the hostel, but the train-ferry combo was the bomb, and shockingly cheap.

More to follow, but only minutes of free internet left at the hostel.

In the meantime, look at this map and try to figure out where I've been in the last week (I'll fill you in later).

Dublin

2009-02-17T15:19:00.008Z

Hey, folks, I'm in Dublin again, and this time I took pictures! I just can't seem to stay away from the UK (and The Republic of Ireland, unaffiliated), and as soon as I get home to my cra-- I mean, quaint little town in France, there will be much uploading of pictures.

In the meantime, I will tell you that I met some more distant relatives (well, you know, second cousins and stuff), which was awesome, and that I totally fell in love with London and am seriously considering moving there in the not-so-distant future. Although if those customs agents gave me so much shit for a short visit to London, I'm a little worried about the interrogation I might have to undergo for something longer term. But there is totally a temporary work - creative and sporting visa, the juxtaposition of which kind of cracks me up. They're basically like, 'If you want to come to England and be famous, apply here!' I like this requirement the best:

"Before assigning your certificate of sponsorship, your sponsor must have an endorsement for you from the governing body for your sport, which confirms you meet the governing body's requirements to give their endorsement."

Yeah, I like this because it's right in the middle of the combined creative/sports section, and they don't really mention the creative bit. I'm hoping the explicit 'governing body for your sport' part means it doesn't apply to me. Otherwise I'd better brush up on my monologues and get over to the consulate for an audition.

Promised posts to come upon return to life-of-way-too-much-free-time:

Cool family members I have met
A review of the art in the National Gallery in London
Pictures that I have been taking
Probably something snide about how everywhere I go, I see at least two French people a day and I always kind of want to punch them for speaking French all the time

I see London, I see Fra-- London...

2009-02-09T17:48:00.005Z

I am sitting in a very expensive internet cafe ready to share with you (in the next 20 minutes) everything I've learned about London.

1. The British Customs Officers are a mean, nasty bunch. I had to go through customs in Paris before catching that Eurostar train (don't worry, folks, they totally had things up and running again on Saturday after that dire weather emergency), and they had some real, live snotty English people to help me through the process. The woman I dealt with gave me so much shit about the fact that I didn't have the address of where I was staying (even though that would have been like 12 places) and told me it was "grounds for refusal." Then she made it all personal and was like, "If it were me trying to get into America there'd be no argument. You have to know the address." Listen, lady, I'm not the effing INS, I don't make the rules, just let me go on my vacation. And she did. After much further badgering.

2. The Tube. What's the big, fucking deal? I know some (snobby) people who studied in London and were all like, "Oh, the Tube is soooo much better than anything we have in America." There were two lines closed this weekend for repairs, and (as we later found out) both our hostels were located on notoriously slow lines. They're supposed to come every seven to eight minutes, but we often ended up waiting upwards of 20 or 30 minutes. Which leads me to point three.

3. The bus = mostly more reliable than the Tube + lots of things to see out the window + crazy late night adventures. The first time we had to take the bus was on Saturday because the Tube closes at 12:30! On a Saturday! The bus we were actually waiting for seemed to be indefinitely delayed, so we took a different one and ended up having to pay a cab to get the rest of the way home, in the end. But while on the bus (in heavy traffic), a very drunk man fell on (not to be confused with stepping into the vehicle), accompanied by his slightly less inebreated friend. This second guy proceeded to try to speak in many foreign languages with the other (foreign) bus passengers and set A up with some guy sitting accross from her named Mohamed.

Today our bus driver hit a pedestrian. Hit someone. She wasn't bleeding or anything, but we all had to get off and walk the rest of the way into town.

4. Big Brother lives here. The whole damn city is monitored by CCTV, there are cameras in all public areas. [Awesome and relevant photograph of grafiti to be added later]

Added. I love that this was painted under surveillance.

Now my time is up and I don't want to be charged more than half an hour! But I'm actually having an amazing time. More to follow.

A belated note on Obama

2009-02-04T14:13:00.004Z

Don't worry, guys, just because I'm in France doesn't mean I've totally lost touch. I know that Obama is the new president, and I even watched the inauguration on youtube after the fact. I tried watching it on TV, but the French dubbing was bad and annoying; I mean, one of the many refreshing things about Obama is the fact that he has a nice voice and that he's an eloquent speaker. I got tired pretty quickly of straining to hear him beyond the voiceover. But like I said, I watched the speech, and he was awesome.

And can I just say that Michelle and Barack are the cutest thing ever? They were totally making eyes at each other the whole time he was being sworn in.

Okay, so, maybe not in this picture, but doesn't she look so proud!

Thank you to Jezebel for this video clip of their first dance at the Inaugural Ball. Are they not just so in love?

And Beyoncé is the shit. She totally brought it, and I totally teared up.

Global Warming, anyone?

2009-02-04T12:06:00.006Z

So, first I get emails from all of my friends and family around Christmas reporting ARCTIC BLAST 2008, the cold front that hit the Pacific Northwest in December. Keep in mind, when I was a kid (and I'm pretty sure this still holds true), a quarter of an inch of snow could seriously shut down every school district in Vancouver, WA. This is a photo (courtesy of my mom) of her front yard/the street in front of the house.

They got 18.9 inches of snowfall! And then it snowed again in late January. I can't tell you how unheard of this is.

And things are no less bizarre over here. Ten people have died in Spain and France due to extraordinarily high winds, there has been serious flooding all over the south of France, London was shut down on Monday by a cold snap, and it's snowing in Flers. Just look.

Normandie: France:: PNW: USA*

This is extremely unprecedented. Are there really still people out there who don't believe we are in the midst of some serious climate change?

I'm supposed to be taking the Eurostar train to London on Saturday. All of this morning's trains from Paris to London have been canceled. Did I mention that London was totally paralyzed by snow? Like, shut-down-all-the-airports-and-stop-running-trains paralyzed? This had better all be cleared up in the next few days. I'm not spending my vacation in Flers.

*Remember analogies and how many you had to memorize for the SAT? Okay, probably for the GRE, too, I wouldn't know.

Some Classic Moments

2009-02-03T16:50:00.011Z

baiser /be'ze/ (n. masc. French)
1. a kiss

baisser /be'se/ (v. French)
1. to lower
2. to turn down

baiser /be'ze/ (v. French)
1. to screw
2. to fuck*

I probably don't need to explain any further, but I will.

A few nights back, I was drinking with the other language assistants, and we started recounting all of the stupid/embarrassing things we've said by accident in French. One of the German assistants, A, we'll call her, suggested we start a list, for posterity. I thought, Why not? It's always good to look back and laugh at yourself.

So, let me just start by saying, pretty much everything in French seems to have some kind of sexual connotation. You know, the kind of second meaning they don't teach you about in school. One time H, the other German assistant said, 'Oh, ça me fait envie!' which should just mean, 'That makes me want to do it/try it!' (whatever 'it' might be in the context). But apparently, in France, they say this when they really want to do it. You know? Do It? A co-worker of hers kindly explained this after she had already said it to someone else.

My favorite stories, however, have to do with the misuse of the above-described, very delicate word: baiser. Both A and I have fallen victim to this trap. But her story is funnier, so I'm going to tell it first.

So A is a competative badminton player (I know, could she get any more German?) and she practices at a club here in Flers, although apparently nobody is as good as her what with her being a competative player (German)† and them just being silly French people who are out to have a good time. They probably drink wine instead of water during the practice, I don't know.

Anyhow, she was complaining to us one night about the French tradition of kissing people on the cheek, whether you know them or not, both upon arrival and departure. She was like (in French), 'Yeah, I was at practice, and I only know one person there, and I was already sweaty and tired, but before I left j'ai baisé tout le monde!' 'I screwed everybody!' she said. Priceless. The best part was that she didn't realize her mistake until the rest of us were falling out of our chairs laughing. But at least she just said it to us. It could have been worse. She could have asked them all if she had to screw them all before leaving.

My story is milder, but slightly more embarrassing, because I did say it to a stranger. I had to go to the dermatologist a few weeks ago because my skin was getting super dry and making my eczema unbearable. So, anyhow, he told me some interesting stuff about humidity‡, gave me some creams, and told me to take colder showers. What he actually said was, 'Il faut baisser la température de vos douches,' or, 'You need to lower the temperature of your showers.' So, there I was, trying to be all confident and conversational, so I responded, 'Oui, je sais, mais c'est difficile à baiser la température pendant l'hiver.' 'Yes, I know, but it's difficult to fuck the temperature during the winter.' The man didn't bat an eyelash. I suppose it's a good thing I told him I was foreign. And of course I didn't even realize what I had said until it was too late to go back and correct it.

So there you have it, a lesson you (or I) will never forget in French; don't say fuck when you really mean lower, and especially when you really mean kiss. Especially then.

*Okay, so technically, in real, written, dictionary French, it also means 'to kiss,' but no one ever, ever uses the verb in this way.

†A is an awesome, hilarious person, and if she ever reads this, she should know that all of the racists generalizations I'm making are, in fact, entirely in jest.

‡So, people in Normandy are always complaining that it's so humid because it's raining all the time, but the humidity here is actually like 20% lower than it is both in Washington and Minnesota. So that's why my skin was freaking out. Silly Frenchies.

Mondotek-Alive vs. Teletubbies

2009-02-02T23:21:00.004Z

Omg this is so weird but I love it and it totally cracked me up. First go back and watch the video in the tektonik post, if you haven't already.

I swear I've been traveling and stuff, not just watching youtube all the time.

Not all the time.

Hey, read this

2009-01-15T17:14:00.002Z

Read my sister's blog.

She's in Spain.

It's good stuff.

(She's also much better about updating than I am and has possibly inspired me to be better.)

French film, in review

2009-01-07T21:49:00.006Z

Dear Faithful Readers*,

I apologize for my long absence. I have been busy enjoying some European travels during my excessively long vacations and doing my best to get out of my current living situation with the crazy French family. But those are stories for another day. Or, you know, another night when I don't have to work tomorrow morning at the unheard-of hour of 9am. Ridiculous.

For the moment, I would like to simply dispel a rumor that has been circulating for (what must be) ages, and this is it: that French cinema is good. Okay, so we Americans see Amélie and we're like, 'Oh the french are so quirky and imaginative!' Okay, so maybe Jeunet is quirky and imaginative, and maybe that's what we think of as 'typically French,' but that so isn't even his best film. (Plus he does way better with Caro at his side.)

So, anyway, blah blah blah, one or two well-known and French directors†, and that's what we think of as French cinema. Only it's not. French cinema is pretty much just like so much Hollywood crap only more (overtly) racist and sexist.

Case(s) in point:

1. Agathe Cléry

"She is white. She is racist. She is going to become black."

This film was wrong in so many ways. The woman on the poster is in blackface! Not just blackface, black body! The movie is supposed to be a commentary on racism in France. This racist woman delevops some rare 'skin disorder' and slowly starts to become black. She then begins to suffer all of the disadvantages that a black woman in France would (she loses her job, which was basically marketing cosmetics to white ladies, and almost loses her apartment), and that's about as far as the so-called commentary goes. Luckily, a young black female doctor (did you even know they had those?!?) takes her under her wing and shows her how to dress, talk and walk more 'black,' complete with hair salon muscial number. Oh, and did I mention it's a musical? It's a musical.

Other highlights: an hommage-to-Michael-Jackson dance number in which the actress most definitely has a body double and that body double is most probably a man; second solo dance number (post-full-black transformation) in a dance club where Agathe (as a black woman) finally lets loose and it turns out (now that she's black) she's a really great dancer (further use of body double)!

So then guess what? She (after loosing her old job) finally gets a job at this office where they only hire people who aren't white, and her boss is this black man, and they immediately start sleeping together! Because they're both black and so obvs they're totally going to be into each other. Does anybody seem to notice that he's her boss and that their affair might cause some kind of, like, business vs. pleasure conflict? No. Because it's France. They take their business with their pleasure here.

Anyhow, blah blah blah, harmony, blah blah blah, she becomes white again, conflict ensues (will her black boyfriend dump her? will she lose her nonwhite job?), resolution: they get married and have an improbable amount of children as she is in her 40s (but this is probably made possible by his virility).

So, basically, a racist movie about racism.

2. De l'autre côté du lit (From the other side of the bed)

"Give me your place and take mine."

Um, did you see the poster? So, she's a busy mom and he's a workaholic and he's all, Why hasn't the worker finished renovating this room yet! You have one thing to do and you don't do it! And she's all, What?? One thing!! Let's trade places! And there is some hesitation and fighting, but then they do it. Also she punches him in the face.

So guess what, she just takes over his job! It doesn't matter that she doesn't have any training, she just shows up in a low-cut business suit and doesn't even have to give an interview or anything! And guess what else, she's really bad at it and it makes her cry! And he can't cook! Or do their daughter's hair! What a disaster!

But then they both kind of get better at it (You mean a woman can open it?), but of course she cracks under the pressure first, because women are all emotional and shit. Also, for some reason they both have to cheat on each other in really predictable and traceable ways (he takes pictures with a polaroid camera), but you know, they're French, so it doesn't seem to bother anyone for too long.

Anyway, she tries to sabatoge his homemaking (conniving womenfolk), but then he kicks her out for cheating on him with someone at the office, but then he wants her back, but then she finds the polaroids (no doy). Resolution: he is arrested over accusations relating to a program she launched in his place (but he's still technically the boss), he takes the blame, and she comandeers a police car whose radio is conveniantly broadcast in all the rooms of the police station; she professes her love/apologies while driving into/over half a dozen police officers who are trying to force her exit from the vehicle. She wraps it up, gets out of the car, and no one even tries to arrest her.

Okay, so maybe those are the only two movies I've seen in theaters since I've been here (besides Madagascar 2, but that doesn't count), and maybe the posters should have been enough to put me off, but I'm bored, okay? I don't have a lot to do, and at least the poor quality of the French cinema inspired me to take up the keyboard once again.

*Um, I mean, Mom

†My knowledge of French directors is clearly so vast.

I can (maybe) make a difference!

2008-12-06T11:17:00.004Z

Franken Scores: More Ballots Found In Democratic Stronghold

Thanks to The Huffington Post (and like the closest Senate race/most elaborate recount in Minnesota history), I now know that my absentee vote might actually count! Oh, I really hope mine was one of those in the newly discovered stack of 133 missing absentee ballots. Although, would that mean my Obama vote didn't count? I guess it's fine if it means that slimy Norm Coleman is off the scene. Also (for a laugh), check out the video in question in the Norm Coleman ad contraversy. His wife lives in LA and it's so clear that there's some serious green screen action going on here.

Omg have you seen this?!!

2008-12-05T16:53:00.005Z

No words.

So many people just got Rick Rolled. I love people who are in on the joke that is on them. I can only assume he is.

Just one more thing I missed by being in France for Thanksgiving.

Always A Lady

2008-12-04T12:58:00.007Z

As a direct response to my post entitled The sleezy, sleezy Frenchman, and in no small way inspired by reading the WIG's blog and her link to this post on pandagon.net*, I have created this short (and hopefully terribly useful) guide on how to not get hit on in public.

1. Dress appropriately. You know, like a nun or whatever. You shouldn't want to look good for you if you don't want someone to leer at you and tell you how good you look. Don't think about what clothes you're putting on unless you want a man to try to talk you out of them.

2. Don't smile. At anyone. At any time. Having fun with your friends, laughing, smiling, these are all signs that you want strange men to approach you. Your smile, no matter whom it may be intended for, is an open invitation, nay an order, sent out to all surrounding men. You are asking for it.

3. Um, be a lesbian? But not the sexy kind. The really mean kind. The feminist kind. Cut your hair short but don't take care to shave anything else.‡ But, if you are a lesbian, and you are in public with your partner, whatever you do do not engage in any PDA. If you want to express your love out in the open like that, you have to accept that's it's totally cool and normal for a man to get in the middle of it. Like, that's his god-given right. So be a mean, ugly, feminist, single lesbian.

Me disguised as a nerdy man. Disguises can be very important when trying the ward off the advances of the opposite sex.

4. Say something smart. It doesn't matter what, it doesn't even matter if it makes sense. If a strange man approaches you, try to launch immediately into a discussion of the gender binary or just use the words "dichotomy" and "facism" in the same sentence and watch how far they run. Intelligent women are the opposite of sexually appealing. And they hate sex. Like you.

5. Stay home and read your scriptures, you prude. If you detest the "uninvited attention" of men so much, you must hate sex and men and fun. (Didn't you read number 4?) You can't possibly be both an intelligent woman who does not want to be accosted by strangers and someone who likes flirting and feeling attractive.

So there you have it, five simple rules to live by, ladies. If you break them, it's your own damn fault.

*Dear god, I wish I could force my sexist host brother to read this, but I am WAY too lazy to translate it into French.

‡Having short hair on your head and long hair in your armpits does not a lesbian make. However, you should expect to be taken for one, if this is your style.

You have to promise never to tell anyone...

2008-11-29T12:33:00.011Z

About Ghostwriter!* (Kudos to my friend The 7th Grade Poet for reminding me that this show existed.)

If you don't know about this show, you were obviously not alive from 1992 to 1995, or maybe your parents just didn't restrict you to public television viewing the way mine did, but I was totally the target audience for this show at ages 7 to 10. Like, I totally believed in Ghostwriter. At the age when most kids were writing Dear Diary, I was writing Dear Ghostwriter, I feel sad. Please find out if Shane likes me? (If I were not in France, I would find my old diary and pull a direct quote, but I swear that is not far off.) Also, I kept a casebook where I would write down evidence (of what? I have no idea, I seemed to think there were potential mysteries to solve) and interview questions, in case I ever found anyone to interrogate. Plus I totally bought one of those pen-on-a-string necklaces that Jamal would give you when he made you promise never to tell anyone about Ghostwriter. Oh, Jamal.

Classic Ghostwriter moment. Jamal was so cool for having that computer!

I think I just felt like I had a lot in common with the Ghostwriter crew. They were growing up in the mean streets of New York in mostly middle-income families, I was growing up in the White Bread suburbs of Vancouver, WA; Gabby and Alejandro had to work really hard in their parents' store, I really wished my parents had a bodega for me to work in; they used a computer that pretty much only displayed large text on the screen, we had a computer for word processing; sometimes Samuel L. Jackson would guest star as Jamal's dad, I have a dad.

Also, there was this one episode where Gabby steals money from the till at her parents' store to buy this coat she wants because her friend tells her she can say there's something wrong with it and get a refund. But it was on sale and there is a sign that says NO REFUNDS ON SALE ITEMS and then she's screwed because she didn't read the sign at first and then she's out fifty (of her parents') bucks. Anyhow, it really reminded me of the time I was in Fred Meyer with my mom (when I was like 5) and I found this broken porcelain animal on the ground (I think it had fallen off the shelf) and I picked it up and took it home. But then I realized that I had stolen it (!) and was so overcome with guilt that the next time we went grocery shopping, I took it back and put it in the same spot on the floor of the same aisle. Gabby and I were pretty much the same person.

If you have as much free time as I do (and you shouldn't), take the time to check out some videos, they're pretty amazing. And then wonder to yourself, who decided to make Ghostwriter look like a floating period with two eyebrows right on top of each other?

*¡Fantasma escritor, en español!

The sleazy, sleazy Frenchman

2008-11-21T09:15:00.010Z

draguer /dRa'ge/ (v. French)
1. to dredge
2. to chat up, hit on, flirt with

It figures that the primary definition is "to dredge," because I swear to god, that's how hard these men are trying and they have certainly made it their life's work.

The other night, I was trying to explain the merits of feminism to my visiting 20-year old host brother (that was hilariously frustrating), and he retorted that he didn't like feminists because they didn't want to talk to him. I tried to explain to him that being approached in a bar can be creepy for a woman, but he felt it was "unfair" that he shouldn't be allowed to talk to a woman he found interesting. I pointed out that it's hard to know if someone is interesting just by looking at them, and that there are appropriate ways of approaching a woman. That we know if you just want to get in our pants. He was baffled, and continues to think feminists "want too much." But then again (as he put it), he's only seen them on TV.

So for any Frenchman who is still confused, I've compiled a list of inappropriate ways to interact with the ladies:

EXHIBIT A: Creepy old man doctor I had to see for my mandatory medical visit. Was it really necessary that I be in my underwear the whole time? Even for the medical history and the eye exam? Are you sure? You may have done this with everyone, but I still deem it inappropriate.

EXHIBIT B: Hip hop teacher (not the 14-year old). You are, in fact, 30 something, so why do you persistently flirt with the 16- and 17-year olds in the class. I'm glad that I'm too old for your taste, or are you actually picking up on the serious EW vibes I'm sending out? I appreciate some good, old fashioned flirting, it happens to be one of my favorite pasttimes, but let's keep it appropes, okay?

EXHIBIT C: The countless men in the street (teenaged to middle aged) who deem it necessary to yell things at me. For realsies, Messieurs, that knowing grin and those suggestive comments just make me want to barf, not talk to you, and definitely not sleep with you. Inappropes.

EXHIBIT D: Our favorite cartoon skunk.

That cat is so not into you, Pépé. Note the way she is using both her arms and her legs to push you away? No means no, Monsieur Le Pew. No means no.

So here's the deal, Frenchies: It's not your god-given right to tell me whatever you're thinking about me in the streets, in a bar, or outside my home, and I'm certainly not obliged to respond in any way other than to ignore you, or possibly say things to you in English that I only wish I knew how to say in French. Basically, I'm just not into you, so for goodness sake, give it a rest.

More comedy

2008-11-19T13:34:00.004Z

I've been pretty bad lately about writing substantive posts, but I've been distracted by youtube, okay? Allow me to share with you my latest viewing obsession. How could I have forgotten the glory of Kids in the Hall? (Thanks to Lauren for the mustache link, leading me to hours of KITH viewing.)

Oh right, I have a job.

2008-11-18T16:01:00.005Z

And I actually kind of like it. Shocking, right? I find myself enjoying the company of small, Frenchy children, inspiring (or amusing) them with my animated gestures and explanations. I think that (possibly) my ridiculously stressful job of last year (might have) actually prepared me for this year, may have made me a better teacher. Or, it prepared me for enjoying the ease of a 12-hour work week. That's right, I said 12. My stipend this year is only slightly larger than my AmeriCorps pittance, but I'm working like a third as much, probably less.

Besides the fact that I only technically work 12 hours, there are an absurd amount of vacation days here. For example, a week and a half for Halloween? Ridiculous. Last week I had Tuesday off because it was November 11 (Veteran's/Armastice/Rememberence Day), and this week I have Thursday off because the teachers are striking*. And I always have Wednesday off. There is no school on Wednesday, and they used to have school on Saturday instead, but that has also recently been banned. So it's pretty sweet.

And what do I do with all this free time? Go places. Like, places in France. And soon, places in other countries. Why? Because it's Europe and I can. And also I drink and eat pizza and hang out with people I know. (Big improvement, right?) So, except for those moments (after my two and a half hour lunch break) when I just don't feel like going back to work, life is pretty awesome. Though I could really go for some Taco Bell.

*Today the train stations are striking and tomorrow it's the post office. Did someone forget to tell me that it was national strike week?

Humorous Diversions

2008-11-08T16:30:00.003Z

For moments when humor is the best medicine.

Found this little FOTC gem. I've been getting more into their live shows (well, not live for me, but you get the idea). If only Jemaine and Bret would visit me and sing to me all day long.

I was also remembering recently how much I love the Electric Company. I mean, Bill Cosby, Rita Moreno, Morgan Freeman, what other children's show in history has had such an all star cast? Judy Graubart is also a comic genius, though I've never seen her in anything else. I really wonder if she was on some serious drugs during the filming of that show, or if she's that weird. I can't believe that she actually memorized any lines, it all seems so improvised. I couldn't find any of my true favorites on line, but this one has my four favorite cast members (unfortunately couldn't embed it. I love that Morgan Freeman and Judy Graubart are totally breaking up by the end of it.

This is the amazing Moreno/Freeman combo. I wish I could find the original Hey, You Guys with Bill Cosby as the milkman. I love a woman who is willing to make herself look ridiculous.

Oh, BBC Periods Dramas

2008-11-07T14:28:00.004Z

So, I had had to go back to work in the middle of this week (that's right, I have a job), and to console myself after two whole days (okay, one and a half) of working with noisy kids, I watched YouTube clips of period dramas all afternoon. Nothing puts me in better spirits than nuanced dialogue and stiff, emotionally-closed men in lacy collars. For realsies. Por ejemplo:

"Poor, plain, obscure and little!" Oh, Jane Eyre, stop being so self-deprecating, he loves you!* Mmm, Mr. Rochester, I love it when you break through that cold façade and tell us how you really feel. Too bad your crazy wife is still locked in the attic and when Jane finds out she's going to run away and get amnesia and almost marry a crazy missionary (spoiler alert!). But it's classic British literature, so they'll make it somehow, even if that somehow is with Mr. Rochester all maimed and blind.

I watched a lot of Bleak House clips, too (starring hot, hot Gillian Anderson). My WIGgy friend Lauren and I went on a period drama binge this summer, and I think those were two of our faves. It started innocently enough on Netflix, but then we just stopped waiting for the next disc in the four-part series of (fill in the blank) to come in the mail and took to renting/watching four to five hours of witty bantor and parlor games at a time. The summer came to a tragic end when, long after I had cancelled my Netflix subscription, our local independent video store closed. By that time we were both moving, though, so it didn't matter much.

Wow, that was a bit more naustalgia than I was aiming for. A word to the wise though, the contemporary BBC dramas suck! by comparison. Apparently I've erased the name of the one we watched from my mind, and even 30 minutes of googling didn't get me anywhere, but it's probably for the best. We watched ALL FOUR discs of this terrible series (c. 1993?) about this doctor who "falls in love" with the older woman who hires him at the hospital when he has to go home to take care of his father. But get this, at first they hate each other! And, she's married! Maybe we were drunk, I don't know, but at least we didn't rent the sequel (disc 5). I'll take Mr. Jarndyce or Lady Dedlock over that shit any day.

*Also, look at how they kiss! It's hilarious, and this is how they do it throughout the entire film (okay, until they make out in the grass way later...) Like real lip to lip contact would just be too much, they just slide right past it.

So, I'm pretty much famous now.

2008-11-06T10:16:00.006Z

That's right, if you don't hear from me for a while, it'll be because I'm enjoying my new celebrity status. I was interviewed about the elections, photographed, and published in the local newspaper.

Don't worry, you wouldn't be able to read it anyway. Plus she made me sound way better in French than I really am.

Yeah, I scanned that. Why, you might ask? Because this local newspaper is so exclusive that it's not even available online. I assure you that at least 20 people will read this article and ask for my autograph on the street.

OBAMA!

2008-11-05T16:31:00.003Z

So I totally slept through the election results, but I loved the emails I received this morning re: election results. I voted a month ago, and I couldn't really follow the closing of the polls with the weak wireless signal in my room, so the whole thing was a bit anti-climactic for me.

Minnesota went Blue (woohoo! and thanks Mom for the email in the middle of the night informing me). My friend WIGgy* friend Lauren wrote this simple, but beautiful account of the progress in Ohio, where she lives.

Needless to say, I'm excited. More to come on the fact that I was interviewed by a local newspaper today on my views on the election.

*Were I Gay, as in Were I Gay (and were she), we would totally be involved. Credit to E. Purcell for the term.

Oh, excessively long vacations

2008-11-05T11:05:00.011Z

Dear (7) Readers,

I think that's probably an enthusiastic estimate. I know you have all been wringing your hands, wondering what I have been up to and when I would return to feed your insatiable appetites with stories of the past two weeks. Well here I am, back and more irked than ever to be in such a small town with such weighty responsibilities. That's right, I've been on vacation, and now I have to go back to my normal, everyday French living (boo hoo) as an English assistant.

So, Paris, that was awesome. I left two Fridays ago by train, a mere 2 hour 20 minute excursion from my garage bedroom. I arrived late-ish (after 8), made the métro trip across town to my hostel, and did my best to look cool while I sat alone in the bar/restaurant for dinner, which turned out to be (what I'm pretty sure was) a reheated chicken burger. I had my little notebook, and I think I was doing a pretty convincing job of looking really deep in thought. Everyone probably thought I was some kind of tortured writer, come to a hip hostel just to mock the frivolity and torture myself some more. Anyhow, that got old after about 45 minutes, and I ended up sitting down at a table with some normal looking people speaking English. I am so brave.

These people (a Canadian guy and two Australian dudes), were, in fact, harmless. I didn't talk much, but I did get to hear tell of the previous night's pub crawl and the shenanigans that ensued as a result. Mostly, "I think that girl you were with had a boyfriend back home!"

"No, dude, that was the girl you were with!"

"Really, I dunno. I was just sitting there and all of the sudden she was holding my hand."

"Yeah, I didn't really sleep much last night. She wouldn't leave my room! I like having my space when I sleep!"

I made fun of them a little bit at that point. For not knowing which girl was which, for having been such "unwilling victims," for sharing a tiny, single hostel bed, for hooking up with people in a room with lots of other people! They didn't seem to mind. Plus, they were pretty much all leaving the next day, so I didn't need to make any kind of a lasting, positive impression.

Day one in Paris, I hung out with K, another language assistant from my region, and his friend who lives in Paris. We went to the Bon Marché, "just to look around." This, if you don't know, is a frickin' huge department store home to high fashion and higher prices. I was just looking around. My companions, however, decided to make it into a real shopping trip. I don't even like low-fashion shopping. I was being asked my opinion on colognes (I have none) and jeans (way too expensive). Luckily the day ended well with a trip to the neighboring biggest grocery store in Paris (La Grande Epicerie). Now that's something I can appreciate. We bought some delicious snackies and sat by the Seine as the sun was setting. Ah, Paris.

I met another girl at the hostel that night, and we attempted to go on the aforementioned pub crawl, but we had bad information, and we ended up just doing our own (2-)pub crawl. Despite not staying out too late and not drinking to excess, I woke up the next morning to face the Hungoverest Walking Tour of Paris Ever. I managed to make it through, though, and even came back for the night tour of Montmartre and the (real) pub crawl that followed. Needless to say, I took it easy.

On my final full day/night in Paris, I managed to go to the Eiffel Tower twice: once in the morning, after a magical breakfast of everything omelet and freshly pressed orange/grapefruit/lemon/raspberry juiced, and then again at night. I was looking forward to a Night Bike Tour, but it was all rainy and crappy and I opted out. Instead, I convinced an Australian woman, a

Russian guy, an English bloke, and a Kiwi dude to accompany me to the Tower as it lit up on the hour. Of course, we missed our first attempt by a minute and we had to wait around an hour or so, but I took an awesome, sideways video I took when it finally lit up again!

It was kind of tragic leaving Paris, but surprise, I found out my vacation was actually a week and half long, not just a week, and so I headed off to Nantes, where I conveniently had a host-cousin to stay with. I hung out with the Kiwi from Paris and we got to see things like, the Jules Verne museum and the town that Gauguin liked to hang out it. Mostly we just drank lots of Leffe, which is, by the way, my new favorite thing ever.

But, alas, here I am, back in Flers, and I actually have to go to work tomorrow. Bummer. I totally could have lived that way forever.

On American Politics

2008-10-22T20:49:00.007+01:00

So, I've been pretty disconnected from the whole presidential race thing (mostly by choice), and I tend to get most of my political updates from SNL. I know. I'm lovin' Tina Fey as Palin, and I watched the Couric/Palin interview (SNL version) the other night when I probably should have been sleeping. As I was watching, I thought to myself, Why, maybe I should check some news websites and see what Palin is doing in real life. So I did. I watched the real Couric/Palin interview and OH MY GOD they didn't even have to write that sketch! Palin is that ridiculous is real life! I know this is old news for everyone else, but she is really speaking gibberish! Just look:

Awuh? I think she changed the subject at least three times per sentence! Of course, then there's also the classic I'll Get Back To Ya moment, and Palin not being able to cite another Supreme Court case besides Rowe v. Wade. I DON'T GET IT, WHY DO PEOPLE LIKE HER? No, not like, love, worship. For answers, I turn to Jezebel.

There has been a lot of Palin coverage on this feminawesome website, and you should definitely do some poking around if you haven't been keeping up, but I particularly like the efforts that are being made to call out Palin for putting up with (and encouraging, it would seem) a culture of sexism and degradation at her ralleys. Hortense gives us this gem on the obsession with Palin's hotness. She points out that Palin has been given a lot of guff for tolerating offensive remarks being yelled about Obama at her ralleys, but that Palin should also be held responsible for allowing men to yell her "Marry me, Sarah" from the croud and exploiting her looks as a campaign tactic. Obviously, Palin is no feminist, and she blasphems each time she uses it, but how could anybody think she is when this is the norm? She's running on hotness, and the people who notice (you know, the men who go to her ralleys just to look) don't seem to care! In fact, they love it! Why why why why why????

I have already voted. I mailed in my absentee ballot two weeks ago. If McPalin is elected, I'm staying in France.

My hip hop teacher is 14.

2008-10-22T20:05:00.003+01:00

Yeah, as in 1, 4. I thought it was gonna be this guy (Amar), and technically it is that guy, but this 14-year old is doing some kind of internship, and he is teaching the classes. So, technically, Amar is there, watching making sure everything is going well, but in fact, he only stayed half the time, and then things kind of disintegrated. Because, you know, that's what happens when there's a 14-year old in charge.

So let me just say, I was advised to go this class today by Amar when I met him on Saturday, and when I got there I was super nervous. It was clear that I was going to be the oldest (I think that the second oldest was 18), and the class mostly consisted of adolescent girls. I feared they would all be better than me. If only that had been so. The first half of the class was fine. We sort of learned a routine, or tried to. I got it easily because it was all stuff I had done before, but Kid was really moving too fast for beginners. Amar intervened a couple of times. Then we took a break for an indeterminate amount of time, Amar decided to leave, and Kid was left in charge. So, he shows off for a few minutes, while we're still resting or whatever, then asks what we want to do, saying he has no idea how to finish the class. And thus, things devolved into most of the girls sitting around, and me showing some of them how to do some freezes and six step. Kid was helping a bit, but mostly just trying things himself. So, yeah, I was teaching things that I hardly know myself, but in the end, it was kind of awesome. Like, I'm gonna go back. I just felt bad for the 7 girls sitting on the wall, feeling like they had nothing to do when Kid told everyone to practice freezes. I'm totally unqualified to teach this stuff, but these girls seemed to think I was the shit. Which is good, because I'm old, and I wouldn't want to be that lame, old person in the class.

Also, before he left, Amar asked me to show him all the freezes I knew and some other stuff, and it was as though he was testing me for something, but I don't know what. Maybe it was just amusing for him to watch me try. In any case, it was an adventure, and even if I don't learn anything new from Kid (and I think I will), it's a good way for me to keep practicing what I know. And to be admired by throng(s) of teen girls.

I had plans last night!

2008-10-19T15:10:00.012+01:00

Last week, I had my work coordinator leave my phone number with the high school so that the language assistants there could (if they wished) call me and be my friends. You see, I'm the only primary school language assistant in my town, and although my host family is great, I'm a bit isolated from the world of 20-somethings. Mostly because I don't think it exists in Flers. Anyhow, I had heard tell of these mysterious "other native language assistants" who worked at the "middle schools" and "high schools," so I decided to investigate. And by investigate, I mean ask my coordinator if they truly existed, and if so, how I might contact them. And thus we arrive at yesterday afternoon, when I was trying to leave the house again to (once again) set off in search of the elusive hip hop class and its potential promise of registration.

The phone rang. My host mother answered and you cannot imaging my surprise when she said it was for me. It was Nela (though I didn't know it then), the Spanish language assistant at the high school, and she invited me to dinner at her apartment, with all of the other assistants. It sounded too good to be true! Would I really meet four new people, all in one night, all vaguely my age and doing the same kind of work I was? Oh, life was too sweet. I hurried off to find my dance class, which I did (eventually) and communicated (after a long wait) with the teacher, who told me to come the following Wednesday. I could totally do that.

That evening, Nela and Andrea (German) came and picked me up in a car! And to think, all this time I've been walking everywhere! We got to their apartment, right by the high school, just as Samantha (British) and Hannah (German) were arriving on foot. We said our hellos and went inside. It was kind of ridiculous how easily we all fell into conversation with each other, and in French, which of course is none of our native language. We ate dinner and drank cider and griped about our problems with the program and laughed about the errors that students made in each of our respective languages. It was absurdly fun. Just look at us! We're already taking pictures of all of us together with one person whose in the photo holding the camera!* We're so adorable and diverse! BFFs, obvs.

Around 11:30, we decided to go out and see if anyone was still awake in Flers, though we highly doubted it. The streets were, as we had imagined, pretty empty, although we did get verbally accosted by some gentlemen outside a bar that we decided not to got into (but whyever not?), and Andrea suggested that we all insult them in a different language. Unfortuanately, I was the only one who followed through.

We came to one bar that seemed pretty happenin', but decided that the animal-print bench seating was not so much our style. The bar was called the Why Not? Like, literally, no translation. We could think of a few good reasons. So we carried on, undiscouraged, and found La Taverne, a much better scene (in my opinion), with normal tables and plenty of room in back. And thus commenced my first night out in Flers. It didn't last long, as we had already been eating and talking and drinking for several hours, but it was important. It meant something. Plus, the girls who ordered cocktails totally got glow-in-the-dark sticks in their drinks. We only stayed for one round, and then made our way home. As I was being accompanied to my house by my four new friends, we came across this little treasure:

Translation: PRIVATE CLUB, The clientele who come to this club must

be accompanied by a person of the opposite sex.

This sign was outside of (what seems to be) the only discoteque in Flers. I'm assuming they made this rule because they were getting too many desperate male clientele, but come on! Really? Andrea made the point that it would have been no problem for us to go back to the bar find some people of the opposite sex to accompany us, but why would we want to? Needless to say, the adventure of the Discoteque lies ahead, but I went to sleep last night with visions of friendship bracelets and toenail painting dancing through my head.

*We actually took five of these pictures. One for each of our cameras.

Latest TV Obsession

2008-10-17T22:28:00.006+01:00

So, every Friday night, channel 9 airs three episodes in a row of Kyle XY (dubbed, of course). And, as I am not yet in the habit of going out on Fridays, I've been staying in and watching it with host-sister (9) and host-brother (10). Yeah, I'm awesome. Anyhow, as it turns out, I'm super addicted to the show, and (in a strange turn of events) I'm going to Paris next weekend to attempt social skills and interactions with people my own age. What does this mean, you might ask? It means I'm going to miss the next three episodes of season two of Kyle XY!

So, dork that I am, I decided to see if I could buy those episodes on iTunes and watch them this week. So, I'm browsing iTunes, trying to figure out which episode I watched last, watching some free 30-second clips and oh my god his voice is totally different in English! Like, shockingly. Observe. Here is a clip from a dubbed episode (as I originally knew his voice):

Now, here is the same clip in English (spoiler alert, they kiss!):

Awuh?? In French, he's all, "Oh, I'm so sad and worried all the time and kind of whiney!" I thought he was all innocence! In English, he's like a man trapped in a boy's body! Where did that voice come from?! I don't know if I can watch it in English. I mean, don't get me wrong, I think he sounds better with his own voice, but I just can't quite adjust to the reality. You are a different character, Kyle XY, a much sexier one, and I don't think I want you that way. Matt Dallas, I thought you were a pretty boy. As it turns out, you're a pretty man.

Tecktonik

2008-10-15T19:41:00.009+01:00

So, this is the shit in France, right now. According to my host sister (18), this is the only kind of dance anyone is doing in the clubs. I wouldn't know, of course, because I just sit at home and dream of friends.

Lili Azian totally reminds me of a dancing, Belgian V-Mars. You know, she's adorable and I imagine her to be sassy beyond belief. And I bet she and Jey-Jey could totally solve crimes together! I almost couldn't chose between this video and dude alone in his garage, but then I realized that d.a.i.h.g. is totally Jey-Jey in his home videos before he got famous and got to be in a real music video! Or maybe after. Who am I to say?

Okay, new goal: learn tecktonik, find Lili Azian and Jey-Jey, and start a Dancing Private Eye(s) service. I think maybe if I was really French, I wouldn't even have to learn, I would just know. Oh, to be French.

P.S. - This video is awkwardly too big, but you know, I'm not very good at this crap yet. Also, did you notice how the black dude (whose name I admittedly missed) was featured like, 0.7% as much as the other two? Hmm...