Operation Golddigger

So, my adoring public (read: 2 people) has been clamoring for a new post, and since so much has changed in my life over the past couple of months I feel it's only fair to give the people (read: those 2 aforementioned people) what they want.

You may recall from my last post that I was unemployed, living in the ghetto, and on the verge of full-blown alcoholism. Well I am happy to report that I have got two out of those three things sorted! That's right, I have moved house and am now in gainful employment. Hurray! I'm working (on a temporary but indefinite contract) as a research secretary in the Forensic Psychiatry Unit of Queen Mary University of London/St. Bart's Hospital. It sounds fancy but really, I am just the Unit Bitch. It's fine though, because achieving employment meant I could finally (re)-fulfill one of those all-important Milestones to Adulthood (no, I haven't got a dog-- there will probably be skywriting and a press release when that happens); but I am once more LIVING ALONE. And loving it. A stupid amount. Going back to living alone has done for me what Ecstasy does to drunken ravers: made me want to hug everyone I see, and then drink lots of water. Haha! Kidding about the water part. But anyway, after sacrificing my personal space (and a great deal of my sanity) in order to afford London for the first year and a half that I lived here, moving back into a place of my own has been a dream come true. I found the perfect little studio/one-bedroom in one of my favourite neighbourhoods, and am currently in the process of making it into The Cutest Flat Anyone Has Ever Seen.

I am also in the process of doing all the boring, tedious things associated with moving house, like waiting around all day for a furniture delivery (it never arrived), and registering with my local GP. The latter I did this morning, and in the process discovered a whole new area of London that I am obsessed with. As I walked up the street perpindicular to my flat, I could feel the atmosphere around me getting incrementally more posh with each step, until I started seeing houses that weren't attached to each other, which in my London mind is pretty much equivalent to the height of luxury. Then, I started seeing chandeliers through the windows of front rooms and I heard a small voice in my head whisper "You belong here." As if that weren't enough, halfway up the road I ran into a woman walking her beagle-- BEAGLE-- and I had my Revelation of the Day: I was going to be a golddigger. It really seems to be the way forward in these uncertain economic times, and besides, I like older men. Unfortunately, about a block later I discovered a fly in the ointment: I may be too picky to be a golddigger. There was a gentleman walking on the other side of the street and I thought, "Aha! My first prey!" ...Until I came up alongside him and realised that his look just didn't really do it for me-- his hat was just a bit too red and didn't really go with his three-piece suit. So for now, I guess I'll just ensconce myself in my little one-bedroomed Moroccan-themed nuclear bunker (did I mention I live in a basement flat?) on the edge of Poshville and wait for someone wearing a three-piece suit sans red hat to come along.

Why pink, not unemployment, is my color

Unemployment is NOT a good color on me. Practical reasons aside (needing to pay rent, buy food, and pander to the UK's ridiculous notion of what a visa application should cost *cough* £550 *cough VOMIT*), it turns out that having no structure to my days-- no deadlines, no one relying on me to show up anywhere, no external expectations-- is a death sentence to my personal motivation, personal hygiene, and overall personal well-being. Unfortunately, watching my bank account dip lower and lower doesn't motivate me into getting off my ass, it paralyzes me into a fetal position in my bed, watching TV in the vain hope that producing as little movement as possible will result in needing to eat less, which will result in needing to buy less food, which will result in less damage to my sad, sad bank account. Even less fortunately, this bad logic isn't entirely unfounded, seeing as how faffing about in my pajamas all day whilst watching unlimited free TV online does in fact save on tube/bus fare and avoids shopping temptations.

This positive reinforcement (spending less money) of a very negative idea (becoming a house-bound, occasionally-showering, alcoholic sloth) does not help me in kicking my all-too-quickly-formed bad habits (drinking wine at 3 pm after sleeping til noon and watching 7 episodes of Cougar Town). I seem to lack the self-motivation to get out of this unflattering rut because even though I want to not be the girl that sleeps til noon, eats crisps for breakfast, and watches bad TV for 9 out of the 10 hours she's up, I somehow wake up every morning and am still her. So unfair. I can't seem to make myself change, so I grasp onto any shred of outside assistance that might break the pajama-sleep-wine cycle. I find myself actually agreeing to meeting with friends before 11 am (GASP) simply because I know it will at least force me to shower and slap some makeup on my despondent face. I schedule unhelpful meetings with recruitment consultants because hey-- at least they'll judge me if i show up inebriated at 1 pm, thus forcing me to have a normal lunch of a sandwich and juice. If I can't make myself do what's good for me, maybe someone else can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go finish watching Piranha 3D and drinking my Kronenbourg 1664.

Sometimes you leave your gloves on the Night Bus...

...and end up crying about it for twenty minutes straight. And sometimes, about 7 minutes in, you realize you're not actually crying about your gloves. Sure, it's sad that you lost them-- after all they were your favorites, and they were pink, and they kept your hands nice and toasty in the damp London winter-- but it turns out you're not ACTUALLY expending all your emotional energy on weeping for a pair of hand accessories. It turns out the losing of the gloves was just what you needed to unleash that pent-up wave of sad you'd been storing since you found out your grandfather had a heart attack and your little doggie nephew passed away.

This is what happens to me fairly often-- traumatic things will occur in my life, I'll seemingly take them in stride, and then something that is for all intents and purposes unfortunate but inconsequential will happen and the DAM WILL BURST. It's happened so many times now that I almost expect it. Okay I don't *almost* expect it, I *do* expect it; in fact, I can very nearly predict when one of these dam bursts will happen-- it's just that I can't ever exactly predict *what* will make the dam burst. This time around I knew I was due for one, but I could've sworn it was going to be something dumb and boy-related that set it off; instead, it was dumb and accessory-related. Who knew? What I do know is that these dam bursts, while perhaps apparently insane, are not in fact unhealthy. They are what my emotional self needs in order to experience catharsis, deal with it, and then move (slowly) on. I'm not saying that after one of these expected yet unexpected floods I am totally and completely healed; there are usually still little cracks in my soul, and sometimes the cracks scar over into permanent marks. But through these natural disasters I somehow expel the biggest essence of the tragedy that my soul was experiencing, and when I come to the other side I am more able to cope with the aftermath. And then I pick myself up and go to Primark and buy some new gloves.

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!! :)