In a few weeks I hop on a plane to start teacher training in England. In the meantime my mother has been barging into my room about five times a day screaming about some errand we need to run before September. Everything is an emergency to her, like she has no concept of time or of importance: "DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH SOCKS FOR ENGLAND?! YOU NEED SOCKS! WE NEED TO GET SOCKS TODAY!" I tell her that I have a lot of socks, but I could get some more in the next couple of weeks. "YOU REALLY NEED TO GET THIS DONE!" Okay, I tell her, but even if I completely forget it's not like they don't sell socks in England. Then my mom calms down for about five minutes, after which she flings open my door and starts screaming her concerns over whether I have enough underwear.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Some thoughts on Jane Austen
So this week I've been reading a bit of Jane Austen. See, every now and then I descend into a mood where I just want to lounge on the couch in my underpants and have a good cry, and a few days ago a period drama film seemed like the perfect side dish to complement tears and snot dripping out of my nose.
It's healthy, I promise.
Anyway, I settled on "Mansfield Park," which turned out to be pretty enjoyable. Well, MOST of it turned out to be pretty enjoyable, except the parts that kept awkwardly insisting that the characters address the issue of Britain's role in the slave trade. I hadn't yet read "Mansfield Park," but I had to assume that this was a creative liberty taken by the screenwriter/director, an assumption which inspired me to read the book. Because, even though I'm all about the abolition of slavery, let's just be honest for a second: Jane Austen's books are about who danced with who, who eloped with who, and who violated some kind of code of propriety that you as a modern reader don't fully understand and need to have explained to you by the Internet--I'm not calling these books shallow (and in fact I would agree with those who say that Jane Austen seemed to deeply understand people's characters), I'm just saying that when you try to turn a Jane Austen book into a cinematic commentary on the slave trade, you're just מפגר.
Anyway, my point is that over the past few days I've been reading "Mansfield Park" and loving it. But I have two other points to make:
It's healthy, I promise.
Anyway, I settled on "Mansfield Park," which turned out to be pretty enjoyable. Well, MOST of it turned out to be pretty enjoyable, except the parts that kept awkwardly insisting that the characters address the issue of Britain's role in the slave trade. I hadn't yet read "Mansfield Park," but I had to assume that this was a creative liberty taken by the screenwriter/director, an assumption which inspired me to read the book. Because, even though I'm all about the abolition of slavery, let's just be honest for a second: Jane Austen's books are about who danced with who, who eloped with who, and who violated some kind of code of propriety that you as a modern reader don't fully understand and need to have explained to you by the Internet--I'm not calling these books shallow (and in fact I would agree with those who say that Jane Austen seemed to deeply understand people's characters), I'm just saying that when you try to turn a Jane Austen book into a cinematic commentary on the slave trade, you're just מפגר.
Anyway, my point is that over the past few days I've been reading "Mansfield Park" and loving it. But I have two other points to make:
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Quick, Stéphanie, Consuela and Niamh, pee on the nearest man you can find--the Americans have arrived!
Any American woman who has spent any time abroad can tell you that foreign women are (in the case of the horsier European women, literally) chomping at the bit to pee on their men. And no, I'm not talking about the prevalence of some really fucked up porn in certain parts of Europe, but rather the significant percentage of foreign women who feel threatened by us American gals. Sure, it could be that they just don't like us, but I noticed that their coldness tends to significantly intensify when we're in the presence of a male, in the same way that my Australian cattle dog was a sweet old thing but used to get seriously heated when anyone else tried to get near HIS tree, the tree that he had lovingly coated in piss.
Let's get one thing straight: not once back home in America has another girl EVER treated me as a threat. And frankly I can see why they don't. My hair looks like shit, I have glasses (and, to top it off, they're never clean), I have a stomach the size of a medium-sized planet, and the homeless man who lives outside the Subway shop by the freeway has nicer clothing than I do. I can't recall a single time a stranger has ever tried to approach me or hit on me in the US.
Abroad, however, things are quite different, and whenever my Yankish roots become apparent (usually when I talk too loudly in fancy restaurants, try to communicate with foreigners by speaking SLOW AND LOUD ENGLISH, or just wear bright white sneakers), it's like someone beat me with a sexy stick. (Never thought I'd be able to say that about myself). I don't know if these men are enchanted by my American eternal cheeriness and pioneer spirit or if they're just desperate enough for a green card, but they seem to make a beeline for me and my fellow American girls, carelessly mowing down tons of sexy local girls on the way, and they are apparently oblivious to the fact that I'm fugly and could also stand to buy a better fitting bra.
So I guess that sort of answers my question about why foreign women get so territorial over their men. And I guess I shouldn't complain about the fact that my sex appeal is going to increase tenfold when I move to the UK, and instead use it as an opportunity to bag Prince Harry.
Let's get one thing straight: not once back home in America has another girl EVER treated me as a threat. And frankly I can see why they don't. My hair looks like shit, I have glasses (and, to top it off, they're never clean), I have a stomach the size of a medium-sized planet, and the homeless man who lives outside the Subway shop by the freeway has nicer clothing than I do. I can't recall a single time a stranger has ever tried to approach me or hit on me in the US.
Abroad, however, things are quite different, and whenever my Yankish roots become apparent (usually when I talk too loudly in fancy restaurants, try to communicate with foreigners by speaking SLOW AND LOUD ENGLISH, or just wear bright white sneakers), it's like someone beat me with a sexy stick. (Never thought I'd be able to say that about myself). I don't know if these men are enchanted by my American eternal cheeriness and pioneer spirit or if they're just desperate enough for a green card, but they seem to make a beeline for me and my fellow American girls, carelessly mowing down tons of sexy local girls on the way, and they are apparently oblivious to the fact that I'm fugly and could also stand to buy a better fitting bra.
So I guess that sort of answers my question about why foreign women get so territorial over their men. And I guess I shouldn't complain about the fact that my sex appeal is going to increase tenfold when I move to the UK, and instead use it as an opportunity to bag Prince Harry.
Monday, July 4, 2011
This is why you shouldn't do drugs, kids.
Just listen.
If there is one lesson that I learned from spending half a year marooned in a laundry room where no one spoke English, it is simply to listen. I'm not saying I'm totally cured of my former illnesses (talking for the sake of talking or trying to constantly crack jokes instead of actually listening), but spending that much time in an environment where any response on your part requires two weeks of advance notice to ensure all the tenses match really makes you weigh the importance of any statement you make. And more often than not you realize that what you have to say is not worth what you could be listening to.
Well apparently no one taught this lesson to Ivy League graduates. Because, based on my experience during a 4th of July party, they are incapable of shutting the fuck up for any moment longer than it takes to take a sip from their glasses of wine. I see occasional silent moments as a welcome moment to catch my breath and reflect on the conversation so far. They, on the other hand, seem to consider occasional silent moments as welcome as loud farts in polite company. I suppose I shouldn't judge them for not listening, because with their constant, loud ramblings the problem is actually that they don't even hear--actual active listening would be too much to ask for.
If there is one lesson that I learned from spending half a year marooned in a laundry room where no one spoke English, it is simply to listen. I'm not saying I'm totally cured of my former illnesses (talking for the sake of talking or trying to constantly crack jokes instead of actually listening), but spending that much time in an environment where any response on your part requires two weeks of advance notice to ensure all the tenses match really makes you weigh the importance of any statement you make. And more often than not you realize that what you have to say is not worth what you could be listening to.
Well apparently no one taught this lesson to Ivy League graduates. Because, based on my experience during a 4th of July party, they are incapable of shutting the fuck up for any moment longer than it takes to take a sip from their glasses of wine. I see occasional silent moments as a welcome moment to catch my breath and reflect on the conversation so far. They, on the other hand, seem to consider occasional silent moments as welcome as loud farts in polite company. I suppose I shouldn't judge them for not listening, because with their constant, loud ramblings the problem is actually that they don't even hear--actual active listening would be too much to ask for.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Akimba Revisited.
A couple nights ago I went to my high school reunion. To begin with reunions are pretty awkward: experiencing a solitary night of friendship with people you chose long ago not to stay in touch with? Yeah... My big complaint, however, was that reunions are only fun if one of your former classmates has gained a shit ton of weight and now looks like he/she has his/her own gravitational pull. Unfortunately, I'm that classmate. But I bet no one noticed it too much since I was fat in high school too. [*Fist Pump!*]
It wasn't that bad though. I had fun being intentionally vague about my future plans, drinking way too much, and laughing at some boys who grew extra hands when drunk and others who took the reunion's open bar as an opportunity for a nice long sob.
But the most memorable part of the evening was hands down a hug I received from a fellow classmate. I don't remember it because of the poignancy of a reunion of two dear friends, but because of the dread I felt when I saw her coming in for a hug while completely and utterly (and obviously) akimba.
It wasn't that bad though. I had fun being intentionally vague about my future plans, drinking way too much, and laughing at some boys who grew extra hands when drunk and others who took the reunion's open bar as an opportunity for a nice long sob.
But the most memorable part of the evening was hands down a hug I received from a fellow classmate. I don't remember it because of the poignancy of a reunion of two dear friends, but because of the dread I felt when I saw her coming in for a hug while completely and utterly (and obviously) akimba.
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