First Day of School Jitters
It’s not really even the first day of school-just Registration, the first of three that I must attend. I always have nightmares about what can go wrong. Not to scare the general public but these are the top few recurring calamities I envision (not just for school but a new job, first date, new apartment, new bar, first metro trip of the day…):
-Oversleep
-The first day was yesterday
-Going to the wrong building
-Going to the wrong classroom and not recognizing it until lecture/presentation has started
-Pushing instead of pulling, thus looking like a kid from the short bus
-Tripping, falling, stumbling, lumbering (I often feel that I lumber), skidding, sliding, or any other active verb that describes a motion not synonymous with WALKING CALMLY TO YOUR SEAT
-Have wardrobe malfunction a la Janet Jackson or Earl the Plumber.
-Spillage (books, latte, emergency stash of girl items) that will of course roll all the way down to the front of the hall
-Having to stand up and announce name and place of residence and major
-Having voice misfire and end up too high, low, throaty, airy or just plain odd (or pull a Ross Geller and affect a Brit accent that I will have to use for the next eleven months)
-Sit next to cute guy and not say anything therefore looking like a bump on a log
-Sit next to weird guy who assumes that you are dating for the rest of term

It’s really quite amazing that people like this achieve anything. So the outfit is all laid out, heels are in the bag and all that I’m missing is a bag lunch packed by Mama, but Pret a Manger will fill in nicely. The first outfit says a lot-you don’t want to stand out too much but it’s important to project an air of “You really REALLY want me in your study group and not just because I’ll know all of the answers.” Why go to such trouble? Because we judge. Judging someone by the appearance is instinctive, particularly when no one is a native Londoner and fashion must become the instant equalizer. I might be screwed here.

Crisis #1: I have just found out that I must take not one but TWO statistics courses in addition to my other classes. TWO MATH COURSES THAT I CANNOT PASS. Math, what’s math? I majored in English with my biggest math dilemma being word count, iambic pentameter and what the thickness of the parchment or sheepskin said about an author’s sexual proclivities at the time. MATH! I took Calculus II to AVOID statistics-are these people crazy? The above note about study groups? I’m going to do anything necessary to get in the one with the Stats major-I don’t care if I have to go to his Youth Rock Out for Moral Fiber concert and sing karaoke to Jars of Clay or something-I need help!

Crisis #2: I have enrolled in a program that might attract serial killers. Having just watched Hannibal in the dark and vowing for the third time to never do so again, I have canceled all immediate plans for a study date in anyone’s apartment. People are crazy! Why do you think there is an advanced degree in spotting the crazy people??? And we’re back to why if I see someone with the keys to a gold VW Bug, I’m running screaming for the exit.

Crisis #3: I can’t exactly understand British English. Sounds stupid, right? Fine, tell me what in the bloody hell a bunger has to do with European football and corruption. What’s a bunger? It’s not just the words but the inflection; please God don’t let my Stats prof be Chinese or Russian or Flemish or German (nightmares). Apparently Americans sound Australian at times as well, which the Brits frown upon as being lower-class or something. Or Americans all love Bush-shit, I’m totally screwed.

Crisis #4: I have stupidly signed up to attend a university where I know no one. The Southern Good Old Boys Network might work for flats, dates and social outings but I have to go alone. What if I have to eat lunch alone in a corner? It’s like middle school all over again! There’s always that moment. You stand frozen in place, your lunch bag or tray quivering like a nervous animal in the crosshairs of the predators already seated along the windows and near the exit. Nervously you dart your gaze about, desperate for friends, family, even that geeky guy who was your lab partner to sit with and appear as though you too belong in the lunch area. As the prospect of salvation dims your lunch trembles violently as though already imaging the inevitable trip and plunge into the ground. Ahh, an empty seat! The eclectic mix of seemingly normal strangers beckon until your approach frightens them away like woodland animals. Suddenly it happens-you are alone, sitting in full view of the world, naked to their speculation on your solo journey. You strive to look nonchalant and unhurried, perhaps leafing through a novel or playlist, writing a list of duties or a letter to Mom and Dad while swallowing entire entrees without chewing in an attempt to end the awkward meal. Perhaps some other lost dove flies in for a landing but you are too far gone into your façade of uncaring that conversation is stilted and you lose a future lunch buddy due to perceived snobbery. As the meal ends and you escape back into the hall for class, you then realize that your nightmare has just begun-you must now choose a seat in the auditorium.

This is why people become criminals! The stress of finding a lab buddy, a study buddy, a running buddy, a lunch buddy, a partner in crime (no pun intended) in new environments is simply too overwhelming for the human soul. Noah should have shackled those damn animals together from the start and to hell with inbreeding! At least they’d have each other and their four-eyed webbed footed children.

I will report more on how the events go but for now it’s time to turn in and dream about being thrown out of the university for being from the South. You see, the train of logic is as follows: I’m from southeastern America, a.k.a Texas, a.k.a W’s hometown a.k.a. I really love his politics and want him to stay in office forever and I kill innocent civilians in Iraq with my own bare hands (you laugh but I’ve gotten this statement at bars). I swear to God, if I made similar leaps in logic about the British and their colonization policies dating from well before the Revolution…oh this could actually be quite fun sometime.

Cheerio! AoY

Find the Brits!
As mentioned previously, last week was for bar hopping and making new friends.
Saturday found just such an occasion. After a failed outing to the Churchill Arms, flatmates threw themselves into a taxi and ask to be taken to a fun bar opened past eleven somewhere in Kensington. Ended up at Art Bar and Bardo, where the crowd was eclectic Euro, the drinks were EXPENSIVE but free poured and the music finally good and techno. PLUS, we actually were allowed to cut in line and just enter Bardo on the basis of being cute girls needed to break up the sausage fest inside. At the last bar we randomly run into, well let’s just call them Greg and Matthew. Two Brits recently arrived from a wedding at St. Paul’s, they were happily content with their girlfriends and just looking for some fun conversation. It was actually really fun. I found out that you never call a girl ‘spunky’ as this implies that she is actually full of…well let’s just say she gets around quite a bit shall we? Greg was very nice, not college graduated, but loving his job on a loading dock and being back in England. Matthew was very impressed with his Eton education, his family’s name and money (which in the sake of being a rebel he fled to Australia for 6 years to find himself), which is among the oldest in London, has his own business in Canary Wharf, and likes to sail, ride, shoot etc. Can we say ‘TRYING TO IMPRESS!!!!’ But they were great fun and ended up taking T and I to a club in Chelsea called Malanji. Now two things happened here-A) We walked to Chelsea from Kensington, which is quite a hike. B) Matthew’s girlfriend suddenly appeared to drop off the map the further into his cups he got. After haggling to get us in free, it soon became very cler that one of us was to leave with Matthew and thank him profusely in ways that are most likely still illegal in Alabama. Girlfriend? Was she Swedish or Scottish? It kept changing.

T and I ignored the increasingly familiar hands and just danced the early morning away. When “Sweet Home Alabama” came on, you can guess the predicted results from AoY. Since flatmates were the only bar in the club who probably new every single word, nuance and inflection, we felt pretty cool. More great music and dancing, one failed attempt to pull AoY out the door into a waiting cab by Matthew, and we sent them on their merry way. Nice boys but unavailable. A quick twenty dollar cab ride home, a bowl of cereal and fun London night is over!

The exploration into the English world continues. Although a bit foiled by an inability to establish the Internet legally before Halloween due to an apparent backlog in requests, T and I have made do with hanging out of a second-story window and attempting an Advanced Lotus position to receive stolen signals. It also took a few days to get our TV set up so until then it was a bent wire hanger stuck in the receiver. If duct tape and tin foil had been available they would have been used as well. The AoY felt right at home in such surroundings. It was almost like driving down back country roads and seeing someone with a $35,000 trailer putting up $5000 worth of Christmas lights, complete with Santa drinking a Jax and reindeer copulating on the front lawn. I can’t wait to see what we jury-rig next in our attempts to be more civilized.

Thus far the British going out scene has been I-N-T-E-R-E-S-T-I-N-G. With no school no job, no Internet, no cable TV, no bank account and very little knowledge of the social scene, we’ve been all over London scouting out the best beer joints in town. Wednesday it was the local pub (mostly visited due to the free Wi-Fi) where we chatted up seamy locals from Kensington. Thursday was Tower Hill/Borough Street with a friend of T’s who later accused her of trying to set him up with all of her friends. This was not the case but little boys must have their dreams….fun night standing in the middle of the street drinking SoCo and Diet Coke (by the way, don’t order SoCo-they have no idea of the abbreviation; and careful when asking for Jack-use full names to avoid confusion and a 48 oz. glass of CocaCola, known as a ‘jack’ in some bars). Maybe AoY has been single too long but there seem to be loads of cute guys in pinstripe suits well over six feet out for the evenings. But I digress.

Friday found flatmates out again with good buddy G from the States in WAY East London to celebrate his birthday. Much to my delight he had brought provisions in the names of a friend from Charleston, friends from London and co-worker from Charlotte who happened to know a great many of the same people as myself. Small worlds colliding all over the place. Tried to go late night to Bujouis (or something like there) where apparently the Prince likes to hang with ugly girls and be hassled by bouncers. Trying to stand and look cute and adorable at 1:30AM while the blond bouncer who looks like a Dawson’s Creek reject quickly summarizes that you are not in fact important in the slightest is quite lowering. After a few too many minutes of trying to convince the guy it was a night bus for home. The AoY has a fairly simple policy when it comes to covers, long lines and bouncer with a head-stuffed-up-ass problem: don’t bother me with it. I have yet to run across a club worth standing 45 minutes inline, being scrutinized by a 20 year old brick-stupid Neanderthal who examines who as one would a horse or potential prostitute (cellulite is a no no, as is cotton, J.Crew or natural hair color) and then paying between 15-45 dollars for the pleasure of standing around (tables are an extra $500-1500 plus bottle service) in what will basically be a regular looking bar or club. That being said, been there, done it, can be fun but always make sure you are with a VIP.

Last Day Before Takeoff!

Ahhh, the joys of packing! Or in my case, the joys of it being 11PM and I have not packed the first thing. To be fair, jewelry, make-up and passport, rent check and plane ticket are all packed, just nothing else. A girl has her priorities. It's been a hectic few days the AoY. Down to South Carolina to watch the Shamecocks lose to UGA (complete with WAYYY too much BBQ, pimento sandwiches, mini pigs in a blanket, egg salad, cheese ring, more pimento cheese, venison, Charleston BBQ, SC BBQ, more venison, Chik-Fil-A, something else with cheese, cookies, and S's (in)famous "chicken juice" whose main ingredient appears to be alcohol). If you cannot identify any of the above items, well that's a shame. We polished off an afternoon of socializing, shagging (US version!), and stuffing with a rooster's crow followed by a shot of Fighting Cock.

Ahhh, Fighting Cock-A cross between the rotgut sailors used to drink, moonshine, paint thinner and nitroglycerin, FC is guaranteed to warm you on a winter day, cut through any surface including concrete, and render you fighting mad and itching to beat up on Clemson fans. Its amber color lulls the unsuspecting into thinking they are partaking of whiskey or sweet tea only to emerge from their glass with watery eyes and curly hair. It has been known to make grown men gag and shudder and the ladies are inevitably the only ones who take their dose without complaint. After this parting 'shot' (no pun intended) it was back to Mama's for more unpacking, shrimp Creole and French Silk Pie (yet more food, apparently Southerners fear the next siege at any moment). One walk with Holly later and it was time for the post-loss nap.

It has been a lot of good byes in a very short amount of time. As I mentioned to my old roommate this evening, everything happening lately has been good but that doesn't make it any less hard. If ever I felt a gap between my friends at home this weekend uncomfortably shined a spotlight on the fact that I will never slide seamlessly into the Saturday tailgate extravaganza much less Columbia life. Would I want to? Probably not but it's one more good bye I wasn't planning on. Saying goodbye to Holly, my puppy dog of 10 years, was definitely one of the hardest because I couldn't explain why I was leaving. She always knows when I'm getting ready to go again because she will not leave my side (this gets awkward when the shower curtain is nosed aside while your back is turned), will steal things from my suitcase, and in general lets her ears droop down to the vicinity of her jowls, which are still bulging with my mascara or hair band. Then she tries to really behave, as this will stop me. Finally, as I lug my bags to the door she stands there and just leans into me as I hug her without jumping, crotch-sniffing or using her windshield-wiper-sized tongue to clean my face off (her ways of expressing love I guess). But this time she just stands there and lets me hold on and the very lack of annoying habits makes it even harder to let go. My biggest fear is that she'll do something stupid like run in front of a bus or get sick before I make it home the next time (do all pet owners feel this way?).

The weekend before in DC meant more hugs and toasts (some I'd like to forget I think) but every since I've been gone new buildings have gone up, businesses have shut down and roads have developed new craters near the Memorial Bridge (just for fun). Tonight in Charlotte was a quiet dinner at home and I of course compensated for the mix of sadness/panic by acting a tad bitchy and snarky (sue me, I'm a little blue-mea culpa).

Ok! Maudlin sad time over! Let the weird shit begin! On the Top Five for the past few days:
1. Found out what "mews" are-small neighborhood type areas. Am seeking confirmation.
2. Was asked out on a date by CMPD. How? One word: FedEx. I went to pick up my visa/passport from transit hell and was vainly trying to remember my 12 digit tracking number and simultaneously explain to the FedEx agent, who bore a VERY striking resemblance to James Gumm from Silence of the Lambs, that I really REALLY needed my passport to leave the country when a voice behind says: "Well there goes my plan to ask you out for Tuesday." Thinking he was joking (it was too much like something out of a mediocre chick flick novel) I turned and spotted the pretty cute guy I had eyeballed upon his arrival a few minutes previous. As I called home for the third time to confirm my tracking number I heard him relay that he was picking up the package for his mother (how CUTE!), correction (mother-in-law, what?!?!) because his sister-in-law (ahhh, okay-his brother's wife's mother, CUTE again!) was at work. For ID he showed his CMPD badge (face it ladies, if a man must be in good physical shape as part of his job requirement, he gets bonus points off the bat). As the two of us finally confirmed that while FedEx might say "Pick up package from FedEx office" what they really mean is: "You weren't there, will deliver again the next day, don't bother coming to the office as your package will be back on the truck for you to not be home, AGAIN, and we can do this for three more days" we did the "well, if you're ever back in Charlotte"/"too bad I'm leaving" awkward goodbye between two strangers who have just survived a traumatic event together (eg-package retrieval-no THAT kind, gutter brains!) he walked out (yes I looked, he clearly runs, a lot). Ahh, unrequited post office love. Onward!
3. As a sidebar, I must mention that the reason for the pseudo-date solicitation was probably due in a large part to the postage stamp sized skirt I had worn that day (I was one of THOSE people, the ones that clearly do not own a 3-way mirror allowing them to see every bulge of cellulite that would then convince them that no, thank you very much, your miniskirt days are O-V-E-R). This became much more funny when I went to the doctor's office and at some point (probably between one of the 3 waiting chairs I sat in to get a tetanus shot) one edge of my skirt tucked itself up into my unmentionables (in simple language-I partially mooned 3 nurses). Do I notice a draft? Of course not. A nurse walked up and handed me a note that read: "It appears that a piece of your skirt has gotten tucked into your underwear. Thought you might want to know." While I appreciated the discretion my face quickly approached searing temperatures as I attpempted to slyly re-adjust without falling off the slippery vinyl. I really, REALLY wanted to run from the building and not show my face in public for a week but at the mature age of 24 decided that while yes, I will be THAT GIRL for the next year or two, hopefully no one will remember me by name or face (please God. I'll let ya'll know in 9/2007).
4. As if #3 weren't odd enough, I had to get a tetanus shot. Now my friend W. got one for her trip to India and swore that it didn't hurt as badly and I didn't remember my last tetanus shot hurting at all. I think I've figured out the mystery. Body Fat Index. I have more body fat and God is punishing me. 3 days post-injection and I still have a walnut/hot spot at the injection site. It was super-fun hauling around furniture and clothing when I couldn't raise my arm over my head. Add to that Mama pounded me on my right arm no less than 3 times in one evening, making me think that she had been waiting for that shot for years as a small payback for chipping her tooth as a toddler (it's brought up every time she applies lipstick in a mirror near me; ask her about saddle shoes, she'll replay the story).
5. It's now midnight-I leave in about 20 hours and I STILL haven't started packing. But I do have my address cards ready to go, my CDs organized by genre and my lists of things to do all in order. Oh, I have #5 1/2-I'm flying on September 11. My friends have literally all decided that I am insane and this is further proof that I should be chased down with a butterfly net and tranquilized before I harm myself. I LAND on September 12 people!
Night ya'll-tomorrow I'm London-bound, waiting to bestow good cheer and Southernisms upon the hapless residents of Philbeach Gardens (new home)!!!!!!!

SCREEECH Change of Plans!

Obviously, my initial ramblings are totally without merit as I am moving to London in one week. One week! 7 days, 168 hours, ummm 10,080 minutes-point being, so much to do, so little time!!! My major problems at the moment (I have been told I'm prone to drama and exaggeration but these are REAL!):
1. My passport and visa have not arrived. Apparently "Send all correspondence to Charlotte, NC" really means in British "Send hapless passport to old VA address and thereby cause unnecessary alarm." I think that they are just bitter about the War. Yeah, that one.
2. No place to live. Okay, so my roommate is working on that one. Thus far we're thinking Earl's Court which is apparently a cross between an ethnic developing neighborhood, a gay zone, a posh trendy area, a convention center, a bar scene, and a Muslim/Polish/Italian/Kiwi area. Oh yeah-2 girls from SC, we'll blend right in.
3. No suitcases. I was in the airport this weekend and noticed that the trend of "Oh, I'll just tie a red ribbon on my black rolling suitcase and that way NO ONE will mistake my bag for theirs" has morphed into either "I'll just buy a beige suitcase" or "ha! I'll use GREEN ribbon". Nametags people-USE NAMETAGS! Trust me, some random stranger already has your passport and the tube of deadly lip-gloss you were forced to leave at your old residence anyway. Give in gracefully.
4. No cell phone-Tricky but soon resolved with a little help from Vodaphone. Now if only I could keep straight when then bloody 0 (which is in parentheses) needs to be dialed. Gulp.
5. Not packed-Have you met me? I've never packed early a day in my life! Why, as soon as everything is rolled neatly and bundled away in it's own little safety storage bag you'll need it. I also always get freaked out when TSA leaves one of those "We've searched your bag" cards (I'm up to a collection of 9 or so at this point). Did they just peek? Nose around? Sort out my whites for laundry? I'm sure that's not the worst job ever but I swear that the agent at DCA-Reagan is slowly amassing a collection of my gym socks, nail clippers, rubber bands and oddly, my spare change that rolls around annoyingly.
6. Ha-Must go back to school. I went into Office Depot last week for some computer paper and strolled down the old school supply aisle. When did a 2nd grader start needing a PDA, laptop, cell phone, Filoflex, and 7 subject notebook? 2 words: Trapper Keeper. Apparently they are retro. Me, I just stole my supplies from work. Okay, it was more of a Lend-Lease situation that I have no intention of rectifying. Sort of like Oil for Food. Okay, not really but I felt like I was supposed to insert the obvious satirical and bitter joke about Bush, the Republican party, the demise of our status as a leading power of the world or something. Political alliances? Can't say as I have any which means I can call out stupid mistakes whenever I feel like it!
7. I don't speak the language. Silly girl, you think, the Brits speak English! Umm, WRONG! I mean, yes, I'll probably be able to muddle along but here is a partial list of words I'm bound to misuse, not use, or not know what in the hell they mean (I can add to this as I get going).
-Shag: US-This is the South Carolina state dance that I have known since birth and will probably go to my grave doing the pretzel and dreaming of Buzz from Shag: The Movie. UK-What every boy wants to do; it's a noun, verb, adverb, and adjective.
-Mews: What the hell is this? Does it involve Cats (will Andrew Lloyd Webber be there?)?
-Kiwi: US-Fruit good for you and full of antioxidants. UK-New Zealander (I'm not 100% sure, but I think you do not refer to an Aussie or a South African as a kiwi-I'll let you know)
-I just ran across a website that I NOT endorsing for anyone who is not a 22 year-old frat boy but it's londonslang.com. Seriously vulgar and I don't even comprehend some of the terminology.
-Fanny: US-A rather old-fashioned or polite (if not odd) term for a backside. UK-According to my American source, don't say this while buying a Christmas in cold weather ('I'm freezing my fanny off in this cold!') This apparently refers to something else entirely and is an EXTREMELY crude way of putting it. Location hint:Head due East of the U.S. Fanny. Or West.
-Pants: US-Trousers, slacks, seersucker. UK-Panties (I'm not sure if it's only for women though)
-Public school is a private school in England (Hmmm)

Seriously I could be in real trouble here at lecture!

Had a fun weekend visiting the old stomping grounds up in DC. People were like "Oh, you left?" Celebrated yet another summer birthday and general chaos and shenanigans ensued at Adams Mill and the Angry Inch. People watching at it's finest although apparently (in what is becoming a really horrible habit) I popped into the men's room at one point because no one was waiting and the girl's line was out the door. I made sure not to touch ANYTHING (ewww) but as I left a waiting guy (fine, so a dude had to wait 10 seconds! 10! You try putting on pantyhose just once!) was like, "Hey, Is this the men's room?" I just sort of let him think that the bathrooms went co-ed after midnight (worked in college). So after a LONG shower involving Clorox and germ killers it was back to Charlotte via Detroit. The man next to me "borrowed" my pen for 1 hour and ten minutes of a 1 hour and twenty minute flight (thus depriving me of Sudoku-yes I have an entire book). I tried reading Cosmo but I was stuck between a woman who looked just a bit too much like my mother and this gentleman. I couldn't bring myself to read up on "101 Sex Tips you MUST Try Before You Die (or die trying)" and risk one of them learning about what you can do with ice, a feather and some Saran Wrap-I'm still working that one out in my head.

But back to the guy: So he releases my hostage pen and then proceeds with the following conversational opening gambit: "I'm both a liberal and a conservative and I say that the way to knock out the terrorists is racial profiling. Just profile them. I can tell you aren't one of them and the grandmother across the aisle isn't but some people-you just know." As we were sitting in the middle of the plane I tried the "I swear, this guy is SO not with me" glance of desperation at the Indian, Iranian, Korean and African-American people sitting within ten feet of this guy and politely hummed a response. Score One for political correctness I guess. Maybe I will write my dissertation on it. Come to think of it-I've been pulled a bunch for special screening. According to Mr. UN I'm either A) A terrorist and they should be extra-cautious that my monogrammed Vera Bradley and Longchamps does not hold dangerous articles. B) The Atlanta and Frankfurt TSA agents thought I was cute or C)I don't look like the type to run screaming to the ACLU. Ahh, screw 'em. Although there are new machines at the airports so be prepared; they are extra slow and send puffs of air all over you. It takes about 10-15 seconds to complete the scan so allow for the frightened toddler that runs screaming through the area and will most certianly be on your plane, the granny who has to hobble since her dangerous cane is on the X-ray belt or the snarky business man who needlessly bitches out agents and incredulously inquires if he honestly looks like a killer. I love people-we're so kind and forgiving of the problems of the world ;)

I'm sure something else disastrous will go on this week but for now it's lights out :)
-AoY