My dissertation may be the final nail in my coffin of madness...

Things I have consumed in the last 24 hours:

Leftover Chinese takeaway (for breakfast)
Banana smoothie
Sea Salted popcorn (for lunch)
2 mini doughnuts
Half a marzipan chocolate bar
1 packet crisps
Half a can of chickpeas
1 miniature bottle red wine

That's right ladies and gentlemen, I am in the middle of yet another essay-writing/procrastination-crisis. Only this one is unlike any of the others before it, for this one is an epic, 15,000-word full-on Dissertation Crisis. If I thought being cooped up in my room for 3 straight days on a 6000-word law essay bender was bad, I found myself completely unprepared for the hostage situation that is my dissertation. I (and many of my coursemates) have found myself teetering on the brink of insanity for weeks now as I waffle between wanting to get my thesis done SO BAD that I just word-vomit whatever comes into my mind, and being so completely overwhelmed that I stare at a blank Word document for hours on end in the middle of the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies library while other, more competent, students around me type away breezily on their laptops. (Dear More Competent Students: I hate you.)

This delusion slash denial manifests itself in odd ways, sometimes popping up in the form of maniacal procrastinatory shopping sprees (WHOOPS), and other times making itself known through spurious and superfluous (KA-CHINGGGG, two 50-cent words in one sentence!) email exchanges like the one below, between myself and a (freaking hilarious) coursemate:
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From: Jocelyn James [in response to a job posting sent out for which I did not qualify]
Sent: Tue 17/08/2010 13:49
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:

i like that you have to be a national of a commonwealth country... how rude... they are just angry because america threw off the shackles of commonwealth-osity... xxxxxxxxxxxxx

ps i miss you

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From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Tue 8/17/2010 2:03 PM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:

they are! I have the EXACT conversation with my boss/the queen everyday. I tell them that its about time they got over it, and that its a stoopid redundant term anyway... and thats why i probably ain't getting my contract extended. Cool.

Hows it going anyway love?

I'm at work today and have somehow managed not to do a single stitch of work! i'm sort of proud..?!

I got my dissertation bound last week, it went down a storm in the academic circles field so i'm just in talks with Penguin publishing house who want to turn it into a collection of short stories on hate speech.

p(loppy)s(hit) - i miss you tooooooooo!!!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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From: Jocelyn James
Sent: Wed 18/08/2010 00:51
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:

so glad to hear you've got your dissertation done and dusted. when i heard you hadn't finished it by last month i was beginning to panic on your behalf.

i of course had mine done before the course even started. as a matter of fact, i came out of the womb with a tiny dissertation in my hand, and i've just been expounding upon it in the intervening years. i'm just waiting to hand it in til they invent the exact proper paper on which to print it... i'm thinking something eco-friendly, pink, and lightly scented, possibly with small sustainably-mined gold flecks in. plans are in the works by 2 leading paper companies and i'm just waiting to see which finished product i prefer.

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From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Wed 8/18/2010 10:09 AM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:

I was up till 3 in the morn watching shows about fat brides and now at work... meant to be writing stuff about human rights in zambia but all i can see is very very very large women in wedding dresses weeping. and it just doesn't feel right..

hugsssssssssssssss!!! xxx

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That's right, I/we have now resorted to delusional projections of camaraderie with royalty, fabricated ramblings about early dissertation completion, and voyeuristic reality TV show viewing in an attempt keep the sheer terror of our September 3rd hand-in date at bay. So to all of you out there who find yourselves occasionally thinking, 'Hm, a Masters degree might be a fun way to pass the next year/two years/three years of my life', please consider yourselves warned. Unless you are prepared to get up close and personal with all kinds of your own crazy, cherish that Bachelors degree/high school diploma/GED/adult learning certificate as though it were your own offspring and consider the fact that although you may not be able to put 'Masters Degree' under the 'Education' portion of your CV, you will most likely be able to truthfully put 'clinically sane' under 'Qualifications.'

Brussels: Where fashion goes to die

First of all, I have to apologise (that's right, sometimes I spell things in British-ese now) to my adoring public for having been so neglectful of my blog... no posts for TWO MONTHS?? Unacceptable, I say. And I'm sure you say the same. Who cares if I had two 6000-word essays, a dissertation abstract, and a 3-hour exam to deal with in May and June?? That's no excuse for Blog Silence. So here to rectify that is this lovely little reflection on Brussels (crimes against) fashion...

I recently took a little jaunt across the Channel to meet up with the legendary Stephen Gire in Brussels as he was on his way back from a little two-month sojourn in rural Congo (ask him about it, he *loves* the food on offer-- goat kneecap was a favorite). Needless to say, after two months of mosquito nets and river fish, he was ready for some good old European food and fun. (And of course I am *always* ready for some good old European food and fun, that's why I live here.) What neither of us was ready for was the tragic fashion (shit)show that is Brussels, Belgium. Last time I checked, Brussels was situated pretty squarely in between London and Paris, which are both pretty much Awesome Fashion Central, so imagine my surprise when I found that Brussels had somehow not got the memo that it too should be fashion-conscious like its fabulous neighbors. The thing is, it must have got SOME sort of memo filtered down from its fashion-forward sister cities because you can tell that people are TRYING to be trendy. But unfortunately something got lost in translation because they are failing oh-so-miserably. At one point I mentioned to Stephen that I found it strange there weren't any American Apparel stores in Brussels-- after all they are pretty much EVERYWHERE (I think they may have just opened one in rural Congo, right next to the goat kneecap restaurant). Stephen's response: "Yeah, you're right... wow, it's a really tragic day when an American Apparel would be an improvement on local fashion." WELL SPOTTED, Stephen, well spotted. Don't get me wrong, I love me some American Apparel-- but please note I said *some* American Apparel-- like their t-shirts and the occasional dress. You're fooling yourself if you don't think they've got some fugly stuff for sale up in that store, so you know the situation is dire when putting in an AA would be like setting up a fashion mecca for the poor misdirected Brusselians (Brusselese? Brusselers?).

One of the best (read: worst) contributions to the fashion arena came from a woman who wandered in to a bar where Stephen and I were enjoying the most expensive water of our entire lives. (8 euros for two bottles. YEP.) Anyway, this 35-to-40-ish-year-old woman walked in with her 8-ish-year-old daughter in tow and at first I didn't think anything of it as I was too busy having a small stroke over how much I had just paid for water. It wasn't until the woman got up from her table to take a picture of her daughter that my fashion sense (and indeed my common decency sense) got the wind knocked out of it. The woman was wearing TIGHTS (you know, those semi-sheer things with a CROTCH PANEL) as TROUSERS. Now, it's bad enough when I see girls sporting leggings with a short little t-shirt that comes nowhere near covering their ass, but at least I don't get a money shot of their undies. But this woman had it all on display-- undies, crotch panel, the whole nine yards. (I guess I should be grateful that she was at least WEARING undies.) It was appalling. I couldn't stop talking about it the rest of the week. We'd be out to dinner and I'd say with a shudder, "Ohhhh, remember the woman with the tights?? What was she THINKING??" And I came to the conclusion that she must have been thinking one of two things. Thought Process Number 1: "Hmmm, I've seen people wearing legging-type bottoms and tunics, and it looks really cute. Oh look, I have some like that! [finds tights buried in wardrobe] I'll pair these with that loose waist-length cotton top I got at the Moroccan flea market and it'll be the exact same look! And while I'm at it I definitely won't look at myself in the mirror from behind before I leave the house." Thought Process Number 2: "Hmmm, I want to wear something kind of trendy/sexy today. Ooh, I'll wear these form-fitting semi-sheer tights! And to balance them out I'll wear my loose-fitting cotton shirt on top-- don't want to overdo the sexy! Ooh, look at me from behind-- there's just the faintest hint of undies. Perfect!"

Thought Process Number 1 makes me sad as two sad things because she's just utterly oblivious to the fact that she's flashing everyone some ass cheek and if she found out she'd probably be unbelievably embarrassed. And Thought Process Number 2 pains me equally because if that is her definition of trendy/sexy then something has gone terribly wrong somewhere along the way, probably due to an absentee father, or watching some really bad fashion shows. So Brussels, here's my advice to you: stick to what you know (waffles, beer, chocolate) and leave the trend-setting to the people that know you shouldn't leave the house when we can all get a good glimpse of the floral pattern on your Hanes Her Ways. And if you're from Brussels and you're reading this, please don't come and kill me in my sleep for insulting your fair city's (lack of) fashion sense.

Media Project

So our most recent affliction in terms of course assignments was a 'media project.' Sounds interesting, right?? I thought so. In fact, part of the reason I chose not to drop this particular module during spring term was because I thought this assignment sounded 'creative' and we ALL know I have no trouble with creative. Well, turns out ye olde media project was just another way to get us to write about human rights in development (not like I hadn't already written a 2500-word essay on that last month), and not the arts-fest I was hoping for. Strictly no paintings allowed (how discriminatory!). So I kept it boring and wrote an article for my internship on child rights because I really couldn't be bothered to do any of the other (two) things we were allowed to do: make a video, or create a podcast. You know what those things are code for? Thinking you're taking the easy way out and then realizing halfway through that you are totally screwed. The thought process is something like this: "Hmmmm, write another bajillion words, or pick up my camera and make a video of something?? VIDEO PLEASE!!!" At least that is how it's gone for me in the past. But due to these past experiences, I know that despite what I may think at the outset, writing a bajillion words will actually take me a lot. less. time. than trying to put together a decent video. So as mentioned, I took the boring road more traveled and threw together a charity blog post. But my clever and lovely friend put me to shame and made an amazing and creative video... check it out here!

Somebody needs to tell the British...

...to stop being so G-D polite. Because it is making it *way* too hard for me to figure out what people are thinking. And by 'people' yes I mean boys. See, in America, if a guy doesn't want to see you, or isn't interested in you, he will simply IGNORE YOU. I used to think this was annoying. I used to do the typical "ohhhh, why hasn't he called meee," the whole tragic waiting-by-the-phone scenario, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, and of course it used to bug the crap out of me. UNTIL, that is, I moved here and realized that at least when a guy just doesn't call, you KNOW he's 'just not that into you.' There is very little decoding to be done aside from "Do you think he isn't calling because my hair was flat that night, or because I sang Little Mermaid at the top of my lungs in the bar?" And so after a few days go by, you delete his number from your phone and you stop waiting for the call that isn't coming.

Not so the British!! The British are faaaaar too polite to just NOT CALL. That would be positively appalling. The Queen might get word of it and rescind her invitation to tea! (P.S. Queen, if you're reading this, I'm slightly offended that I haven't received my invitation yet-- for heaven's sake I've been in the country for six months!) Anyway, British boys feel the need to text you/call you/say polite things to you even when they wish you'd bugger off to Australia (or in my case, they're probably just praying for my extradition back to America).

Example 1: A couple of months ago, I met a lovely fellow (let's call him Shmyla) with whom I was quite taken. I figured I had nothing to lose (pride? dignity? what are those?), so I got his number and gave him a call. He didn't answer, so I left a nice little voice mail. NOW. In America, the uninterested party would get the voicemail, think to themselves "Oh crap I've got another psycho on my hands," delete said voicemail, and not return the call. But in ENGLAND, I don't even KNOW what they think to themselves because what happens is they return the call, leave a message containing some vague reference to being a bit busy at the mo, but so as not to appear rude they tell you to GIVE THEM A CALL BACK. For an American, that is Mixed Message Central. It's like-- on the one hand, you're being given the typical 'oh sorry so busy' line, but then just when you're about to give up hope, they throw out the 'oh but give me a call back to chat!' line and resurrect your hope-osity. And when you DO call them back, they tell you the same thing they told you on the voice mail: that they are ever so busy and couldn't possibly squeeze you in. At this point you FINALLY realize you're being turned down, but you wonder WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH they didn't just let you realize that a LONG-ASS TIME AGO by ignoring your call?? Or-- and this one is REALLY crazy-- just SAYING SO??

Example 2: And you thought I'd just have one rejection story! How sweet. So this time I meet a friend of a friend (let's call him Shmalex), we are all getting drinks and having a grand old time, and Shmalex and I are having a bit of a flirt. Shmalex seems quite interested, until it is time to go home and he doesn't even OFFER to walk me back to make sure I don't die along the way (WHERE WAS YOUR PRECIOUS POLITENESS THEN HMMM??? the Queen would be so disappointed.) Anyway, the next day I get a text which says the following:
"I'm pretty booked for a while now-- but yeah after I'm done it would be nice to meet up... Kind regards, Shmalex."
Yep, Shmalex signed off his text with 'Kind regards.' ARE WE WRITING A CV?? Carrie from Sex and the City once said, "My point, Billy, is that there is a good way to break up with someone, and it doesn't include a Post-It." So let me just say, "My point, Males of Britain, is that there is a right way to tell someone you're not interested, and signing off with 'Kind Regards' is not one of them." Nor is saying yes, maybe when you mean a big fat NO.

And yes, I wrote this post instead of writing the 3000-word essay on Iraqi genocide that is due tomorrow... You've got to have your priorities!! :)

Dear Law Case Essay...

...I hate you. Therefore, I am taking a break from the whopping 700 words I have so far managed to force out and writing this blog. (Hmmm, there seems to be a theme here in these past couple of blog entries...) Oh hold the phone- just did a word count and I've actually got 800 words- LOOK OUT WORLD. Anyway, I and the three glasses of wine I have so far consumed this evening thought it would be an appropriate time to fill in my public on the ridiculous (but oh-so-typically-Jocelyn) events of the last ten days...

Well as many of you know, I spent my Christmas here in London. Please don't start getting all pathetic and feeling sorry for me, because it was actually quite fun. It was my first 'grown-up' Christmas, and I cooked [vegetarian] Christmas dinner for myself and two friends, and it wasn't a complete disaster (a miracle by itself given the sad state of British ovens), and we drank wine and had a grand old polenta-with-goat-cheese time. I did, however, get to head to America right after Christmas to spend a little QT (that's Quality Time for you uninitiated) with my Stateside fam and friends. This was, of course, uber-fun and awesome (my parents are adorable and parent-y as ever, my sis and her husband still think I'm lovably insane, my tiny canine niece and nephew are still so cute it makes me want to cry, Stephen still puts up with me and my semi-alcoholic needy abandonment issues, and all my other Boston friends are still fun and fabulous and make me miss them when I leave), but the real adventures happened during the travels to and from London.

Now, I will give anyone ten dollars if they can guess who I sat behind en route from Heathrow to Los Angeles (I won't actually, but it's a good way to start a fun guessing game)... Anyway, it was FABIO. Yes, *the* Fabio of male-model-romance-novel fame. Naturally I had to strike up a conversation with him, but I couldn't just be one of those sad desperate people that ask 'Excuse me, are you so-and-so???' and whip out their camera and autograph pad. I am [obvi] much too sophisticated for that. So instead I lent Fabs a pen when he needed to fill out his landing card, and this led to several hours of chat. Turns out he is super-nice, and has four dogs, and gave me money so that I could call my sis from a payphone when we landed late in LA and I missed my connection. Quel gentleman! We also got talking on the subject of food (he was horrified that I'm a vegetarian), and he offered to take me to Nobu (that super-expensive Japanese restaurant that I can't afford because I'm a humanity-saving human rights student) if I was ever in LA or he was in London. So I can't seem to get a boyfriend like any other normal person, but apparently I have no trouble getting asked out by Fabio on international plane rides.

And lest you think my adventures ended with my flight to the States-- fear not! My flight back to London, while in itself uneventful, was the beginning of a 7-hour-long saga of trying to get back to my flat. My plane from Boston landed at Heathrow precisely on time at 9:00 p.m. No worries, right? I still have plenty of time to get through immigration and onto the Tube before it closes at midnight, right?? WRONG. Who knew I could be so wrong about so many things in this lifetime?? Anyway, after landing on time, our pilot informed us that we did not currently have access to a gate because of delays due to 'weather.' I looked out my window and wondered what on God's beautiful earth he was talking about because the sky was clear and there was only about half an inch of snow on the ground-- and NONE on the runway. If they thought this was 'weather', I kindly invite them to stay awhile in my not-so-well-heated loft apartment in Boston in the middle of January. Anyway, due to this supposed 'weather', we were forced to laze about on the runway for an hour and a half until the rest of the planes cleared out of the way and it was our turn to have a gate. Sweet relief! right?? WRONG. AGAIN. Upon disembarking from my aluminium bird of a prison, I walked directly into the most heinous immigration line I have ever encountered in my LIFE (and I have encountered some HEINOUS immigration lines in my little 23-year-span). This was like the Dowager Empress of all immigration lines. It snaked around and around and out the damn door and up the stairs of the corridor... When I saw it, a little part of me died inside. In typical American fashion I thought, "SURELY this isn't my line!! Surely we Americans have a special line where we don't have to wait!" Silly, over-privileged, American Jocelyn. I had to wait just like every other person on that plane (except the UK/EU nationals-- they DO IN FACT have a special line that goes about 14 times as fast as the "All Other Passports" queue). Anyway, I resigned myself to the hideous entity that is Heathrow Immigrations and proceeded to wait in queue for THREE HOURS. At one point, an immigration officer came round asking if anyone had small children-- if so, they were allowed to move to the front of the line. I and the man in front of me briefly considered temporarily kidnapping a toddler across from us just to preserve our sanity, until I realized that the line was so long we could probably just get married, get me knocked up, and birth our own child in the time it took us to reach the front (though we opted against this option as well).

What seemed lifetimes later (but was, as aforementioned, three hours), I exited Heathrow (or as is now fondly referred by me, Deathrow) and undertook the task of getting back to my flat. OF COURSE the Tube was closed. It closes at midnight, and due to my interminable wait in Immigration it was now 1:30 a.m. This meant that I had to navigate the ridiculously confusing and always unreliable Night Bus system, which naturally had no direct routes from Heathrow to my flat. Instead, I deduced that I'd have to take a bus from the airport to Trafalgar Square in Central London, and from there to my neighborhood in Northwest Central. Now, if you've ever had to take the Night Bus from anywhere besides Central London, you know it stops approximately every five feet and therefore takes about a hundred years to get anywhere. My bus was no exception. It took me an hour and a half just to get to Trafalgar, whereupon I attempted to switch to my local Night Bus which would take me home. But last time I checked I was in fact the Queen of Drama and Things Not Going As Planned, so of course my situation had to be further complicated by the fact that I had run out of money on my Oyster Card and the bus I was trying to get on didn't accept cash. Oh-- and the ticket machine at the bus stop was broken. I shit you not. Given that at this point it was three in the morning, you might think the bus driver would take pity on a poor lonely soul like myself, obviously just trying to make it home after an exceedingly long night of travel. YOU WOULD BE WRONG. The bus driver basically shouted at me to get off the bus, and the two police officers standing just outside were equally as sympathetic and helpful. I was told by all three gentlemen that I would just have to walk to the next bus stop where the ticket machine was working, and get a bus from there. NEAT. If you thought I was walking another FOOT at three in the morning and in an unfortunately sober state of mind, you had another think coming. I proceeded to step in front of the bus and hail a lovely, convenient, taxi cab which transported me home in a matter of minutes (with me weeping in the backseat due to Travel Complication Overload). Never have I been so thankful to a cabbie, and never have I been so thankful for my tiny, single-sized bed.

But lest you think all is tragic and my life a mess, worry not-- I've just gotten an e-mail from my new BFF Fabio telling me he's probably going to be in London in March and would love to see me. Clearly, my life is all glam...