What's Your Name? Where Am I?

[Give the people what they want: Scottish West coast sunsets mmm ooooh]

You know those weeks where you wake up on Friday and think, “Really? That was fast” -- and I don't mean that you are confused because it happened so quickly, but that you actually can't remember the last four days. Then you think "man, I hope I didn't blog anything stupid while I was blacked out" and you look and you didn't. Phew. This was one of those weeks for me.

The thing is, as I grow older and start doing things like "working" and "standing in line at the post office," the blog becomes harder to write. Life in Scotland is at times exotic and hilarious, but lately it's been frustrating and monotonous. Turns out working part time at a difficult job while being a full-time masters student is not the tiptoe through a rose garden I thought it would be. And I want to give you rose gardens! I want to make you laugh! Trouble is, a desk job and a pile of reference books won't cut it.

The truth is, I work all the time. When I'm not working I am reading, and when I'm not reading I am sleeping uncomfortably on public transit, and when all of that is finished I collapse into my Ikea bed and start all over again. Last year I had time to teach myself to play the banjo, curate a folk museum, throw dinner parties, travel to far-flung places, swim in the North Sea at 4 o'clock in the morning, and write (what I considered might be) humorous entries about my new life in an odd little country where the men wore skirts and the traditions were baffling. And it was fun! It was so much fun.

Bottom line: now, as I wade through the detritus of my postgraduate life, sometimes I just don't feel funny. Sometimes I feel anxious, or overwhelmed, or exhausted, or nostalgic, or homesick. And none of those things are amusing.

Here are a few posts I could have written this week:

Monday: Today I Said Goodbye To Scott

Mood: Gutted

Tuesday: Today I Worked

Mood: Anxious, Gutted

Wednesday: Today I Went To Class

Mood: Bored, and a little disenfranchised

Thursday: Today I Ate a Whole Bell Pepper

Mood: Cheerful; maybe it was the ranch dressing

The good news is that in the absence of spontaneous dinner parties and mysterious jet-setting I have managed to find a decent equilibrium. I am well rested, my clothes are washed and folded, and I'm getting ready to go see a movie with a group of good and rather hilarious people. I continue to love my life here despite its pitfalls and as my dad always said (though I think he pilfered it from Tom Hanks): "it's the hard that makes it great; if it was easy everyone would do it." So: onwards and upwards! And here's one more image... let's call it a nightcap:

Because Fitness Is Next To Godliness

I went to the gym. And not just any gym; a Scottish gym, and it was hilarious.

The illustrious Jo T, international event planner to the stars, gave me and Nancy two leftover gift bags from a recent job. Included in the bag was a free pass to The Scotsman gym, newly built in the centre of town and rumoured to be something of a fitness mecca.

Where do I begin? Ok. Let me start by saying that I used to work at a gym. Many of you remember my long days of lifeguarding for cardiac patients at the Wellness Center, and a select few of you used to sneak in the back with me on my days off to frolic in the steam rooms and sip smoothies on the indoor track. The place was as sleek and polished as a robot arm and there are days when I really miss it. With warm memories of Wellness fermenting in my belly it was with some excitement that I climbed the long flight of iron stairs into the lobby of the Scotsman to meet Jo and Kirsty for a swim.

The first thing I saw was a man with a lower back tattoo; or, as we say in NC, a "tramp stamp." He was completely nude except for a whisper of blue swimming trunks and was eating what appeared to be a chicken leg. As we passed the weight room, I spotted another gentleman lifting weights while wearing what was most likely a cardigan sweater embroidered with festive sprays of flowers. It was with some trepidation that I realized we weren't in Meadowmont anymore. This was no robot arm.

Turns out the gym -- just like the schools, the bars, the banks, the post offices, the public transportion, the grocery stores, and everything else in this little country -- is decidedly Scottish and dammit if they aren't proud of it just the way it is. What did you say, American? You want clearly demarcated lanes in your lap pool? And a few underwater lights so you don't run into the wall? Not in Scotland, you don't. And that's the way it is. We'll set about you. Oh, we'll fool you with the juice bar and the free hair products in the showers, but don't forget that this is still Scotland and things that are supposed to be relatively easy are reduced to twisted maelstroms of confusion for absolutely no reason at all.

Whoa, I didn't mean to go there.

However: after the initial adjustment period where I laughed a lot and said things like "WHAAAT? FOR REAL?" we had a pretty great time paddling around the murky blackness of the swimming pool (I wasn't kidding when I said there weren't any lights) and jumped happily from the sauna to the steam room to the arctic shower and back again. I left feeling renewed and refreshed, just as if I had been at the Wellness Center. I guess you don't always need personalized fitness plans, free cardio bar class, and an endless supply of kiwi fruit to have a good gym experience. Turns out any old pool will do, as long as it's with a few good friends. (Cue triumphant synthesizer).

Like Lady Lazarus

There's only one thing that can keep me away from the blog for so long. And no, it's not Cracker Barrel; it's the love of a really good man. Scott and I rang in Thanksgiving '07 with bread and cheese in the park. For dessert we had original compositions and lame black and white photography by yours truly.

You can't beat that with a stick.

Hey, What Did You Do This Weekend?

We mostly shook our faces.

Pour Myself A Cup of Ambition

This week is reading week at St Andrews, which means we get a week off from classes to "study," and since I don't have any exams to be reading for I have decided to fly to the Seychelle -- wait, no, hold on... oh that's right, I'll be working 40 hours.

I have a formidable mound of valuations to work through, so I'm feeling a bit relieved to have so much time at my disposal. Perhaps I will be able to take tea breaks and eat lunch slower. My God, has it really come to this? Am I really writing about how thankful I am for 40 hours of spine-crushing work? What is at the bottom of this slippery slope? Financial security, personal fufillment and job satisfaction OR mental burn-out, self loathing and that sneaking suspicion that no one really wants to talk to you at the pub, because all you talk about is oh my god work and more work and so much soul-obliterating work? Here is a picture of me at my desk holding a gun. I'll let you decide:
[I realize that the most worrying aspect of this photo is that wretched pashmina -- spare me, the building is drafty. Also: check out my sweet headphones. I'm listening to the mannered, dulcet tones of Charles and drifting in and out of consciousness.]

The real point of this post was to talk about TV licenses and the fact that I don't have one. I feel like I may have explained the TV license at some point, but here's the refresher: British cable is always piped into your house, it's just a matter of hooking up your TV and tuning in. The catch is that you have to pay a yearly fee of something around 150 pounds to watch legally. How do they monitor that? you might ask. In a nutshell, the TV licensing authorities drive around in a big black van and if they see in their records that you haven't paid up, they wait until a big rugby game or the Big Brother 8 finale is on and they shoot you in the neck with a poison dart. Ok maybe not. They use some kind of Orwellian radar gun to measure whether or not your TV is on, and then they read your thoughts.

Anyways, I live in fear of the TV licensing brigade. Having heard horror stories about large black-coated men banging on the door of your flat at 7 AM on a Sunday, I keep my TV permenantly unhooked and stashed in the corner. I've received one warning letter so far; two more and I'm a goner. When they come for me -- because it's not a matter of IF but WHEN -- I have my arguments ready. Basically it is this: I only get one channel, and it's not even a good one. BBC2 Scotland is not worth 150 pounds a year. Would YOU pay 150 pounds for Hollyoaks and I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here? Biff.

Today Was Big Fun

This photo of Nancy is possibly the greatest photo of all time. The people of Fife didn't know what hit them. And yes, that hoodie has eye holes and says "New York Legend."

Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me

I was speaking to my mom on the phone this morning and said the phrase "I have to go now if we're going to make it before the shop shuts." Is that a British thing to say? I don't even know anymore. What would we say in the US? "I have to go now if we're going to make it before the place is closed"? Before the store closes? Shop. Shuts. Cannot compute.

There must be other things I say that are similarly British. My contact with pureblood Americans is down roughly 89 percent this year. I am in an immersion situation a majority of the time. The point of this post is to say that I'm past the point where I realize I'm doing it, so please don't think I'm being pretentious.

This is what a British person might say:

Cheers for the fag old bean, I've got to pop round the shop before ringing mum; will you be having your tea at mine this evening?

Translation:

Thanks for the cigarette big guy, I gotta run to the store before calling ma; you wanna have dinner at my place tonight?

... Ok, maybe they don't always say old bean but a girl can dream.

Because Sometimes My Gran Likes To See Pictures of Me

Nancy took this photo of me at work today. Scott says I look tired. I have to admit that it was snapped during a moment of profound exhaustion, but I like to think I look pensive and complex. Come, lose yourself in my far-away gaze.

Editor's note: I am not wearing a wig.

Blessed Are the Cheesemakers

I'm writing a masters for my sins.

I was appointed postgraduate class representative a few weeks ago. I didn't ask to be, nor did I especially desire the position, nor do I even live in St Andrews, so it all seemed like one terrific charade to me. That is, until today, when I had to go to my first meeting.

I consulted my planner during my morning lecture and saw "TLA MEETING 1PM, ROOM 7" scrawled across today's block. I don't remember writing it, but that is neither here not there. The real mystery was, and remains to the time of writing, what TLA stands for.

Possibilities:
Teacher Love Assocation
The Last plAce you want to be
don'T faLl Asleep
The Largest pArade of egos

I considered raising my hand and asking, but everyone who is anyone was there, and frankly those people have quite a lot of say in whether or not I can graduate, so instead I continued to work quietly on my list of possible acronyms.

In the past, once or twice, I have been called easygoing. The phrase "laid back" has been thrown around quite a few times. The truth is, I am simply not a person who is going to swagger into a meeting like that with my guns blazing. That is, until people start being idiotic.

The issue of the short loan system was on the table. Professor Nameless was professing his shock and horror over the fact that sometimes -- gasp -- first year students will decide to simply skip out on assigned reading when faced with navigating the treacherous waters of the short loan system at the library.

[Editor's note: the St A's library is wretched. Aside from being architecturally grim, the collection is limited, the IT resources atrocious, and the photocopiers cost too much. Plus it shuts at odd hours and there aren't enough tables or plugs for laptops and the carpet is the color of cat pee. In a word, it is unusable. And smells of cat pee. DON'T GET ME STARTED ON SHORT LOAN.]

He was getting awfully worked up about it. One by one the student reps were attempting to explain to him why the prospect of checking a book out for four hours and then having the option of either spending a week's worth of food money on photocopying or sitting in cat pee and reading it straight through was not appealing. He could not see the problem from waaaay up on his high horse, you see, so I said evenly:

I think the real issue here is that you only require your students a passing grade of 5 in the first year. Raise the stakes and you'll get them reading.

[crickets]

Professor Nameless: I'm glad we have the postgraduate opinion, would anyone else like to weigh in?

Oh, the silent fury. I could have bent metal with my mind. See, this is what happens when I blaze my guns (does that even make any sense?) -- it's such a fruitless effort. I felt like I was on student council all over again, only with even less power, and the meeting was much longer and none of my friends were there.

In short: it was Totally LAme.


[ps: this post is dedicated to Bridget, former class representative, and someone who probably knows the real acronym]

The People; They've Taken to the Streets

You may remember my post a few months back about weird British holidays. Well, imagine my surprise when I left work late this evening and walked outside to find what appeared to be an angry mob burning a man alive in Princes Street Gardens. Having had my sense of horror forever warped by The Blair Witch Project in seventh grade, I wandered idly by, stopping only to take a photo before hopping on the bus.
Turns out it is Guy Fawkes Night. I would hazard a generalization and say it is a celebration somewhat similar to our July 4th -- only with a significant lack of bunting -- but that would no doubt anger my British readers.

Allow me to rub old AP History neurons together and attempt an explanation of Guy Fawkes day: back in 1605 a handful of Catholics decided they would teach James I (Mary Queen of Scots' son by Henry, Lord Darnley) a thing or two, so they buried a large quantity of gunpowder underneath the Houses of Parliament with the intent of igniting it and reducing the surrounding buildings and their contents to Protestant-loving rubble. It was a poorly conceived plan which led to inevitable discovery and some good old fashioned torture in the Tower of London for the conspirators. Guy Fawkes was the hapless soul found guarding the combustibles, so naturally his effigy was the one I saw on top of the bonfire tonight.

The deliverance of the King and his family from certain death is celebrated with bonfires and fireworks (as the cacaphony outside my window might suggest), as well as a few slightly off-center traditions including THIS fabulous custom straight out of Ottery St Mary in Devonshire -- CARRYING THE FLAMING TAR BARREL. As far as traditions go, that one is pretty BAMF.

On a related note: this morning at work someone shouted wistfully 'Always remember the Fifth of November!' and I was completely baffled. 'What?' I thought, 'because the December catalog paste-up is due today?' It's odd to live in a place where sometimes you don't have a clue about what's happening until they're burning people in the streets.

And The Dundie Goes To

GARRETT MUNCE for the most amazing Halloween costume of all time: Tammy Faye Baker.

Just look at him! Glorious. I'm glad they're teaching you something at Parsons.

A close second is Ben McGlaughon as Miss Gently Pounding Rain:

Snaps of me as Amy Winehouse pale in comparison to these illustrious creations. PALE!

Winter Pollen and the Mannerless Monster

If last year's theme was "see everything, even Latvia" then this year's theme is "stay within driving distance." Last weekend was a trip through Perthshire ending at Loch Tay. Those two little kids are the best in Scotland. We chucked rocks and talked about Nessie.