I put my new shoes on, and suddenly everything's right...

If you, my charming invisible reader, have not acquired the musical stylings of Paolo Nutini, I would strongly suggest it! Regardless, I hereby deliever to you the fruits of a particularly long bout of city center shopping: the new shoes.

I've been without a solid pair of black heels since the death of my last beloved pair in October. Yes, I have a penchant of stilletos, but these are the usual ice-picks that I pick up. And the good news is that I spent what converts to about $20 on them. I'm a relatively happy girl. I've really been trying to keep my consumerism to a minimum in this time of financial screwedness, but a girl needs black heels. I mean, honestly. I also tried on several coats that were on sale but didn't find one to my liking. I've still got a couple other stores to scout before I call off the search, and I want to try to take advantage of the post-christmas sales as much as possible. So after prowling the markets and making a quick trip to the supermarket, I returned home with hommus, cherry tomatoes, youhgurt, and two cadbury creme eggs and did this for a while:

Yep, just stared at them. It's a cheap thrill.

What a craptastic day.

Seriously. There were several occasions when today could have gone well, but decidedly did NOT. On the short list of things not going well, there was the Great Key Escapade of 2007 and the Kiesh Incident. Let me explicate...
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.

It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.



At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.

Christmas Day

As opposed to the immediately previous post, I would like to contend that I am NOT a whiny, mewling mammot. Honestly.


Today passed almost effortlessly. I didn't do a damn thing to celebrate, except for opening a handful of cards that my flatmates had shoved under my door before they took off for their respective homes. I think by doing absolutely nothing to mark the day actually made it easier. I called home in the morning before the crew left for mass, and they called back at two seperate points subsequent. All in all, a good day. I'm no longer filled with angst or homesickness, and the previous post seems disgustingly melodramatic. However, it was certainly how I was feeling at the time. Embarrassingly enough. Oh well.

Time to let the pup I'm sitting out one last time and then hunker down with the last few hundred pages of War & Peace. Expect a tender review when I finally finish it. :)

Christmas Eve

So, I'm still here in Aberdeen. For the holidays. Thousands of miles from my family and native home and snow and people I love and warmth and pine trees and my mother's kitchen. Needless to say, I'm having a bit of a tough time of it.
I've never been one for homesickness-- I went away to college, missed a handful of holidays and birthdays for assorted and various reasons, some of them good and some of them not. This isn't the first time I've been a long way from home, but I've never had such a hollow feeling in my heart as I do now.

Christmas music makes me irrationally hostile. My lips compress, my eyes narrow, and I dig my fingernails into the underside of the table before I even recognized the tune. If I hear Mariah Carey one more time I may smash something. Why? I was never a huge fan of modern christmas music, but I used to really enjoy hymns and traditional carols and some solid 1950s holiday ablums... now I subconsciously avoid street corners with loudspeakers, shopping plazas and the walks behind the chapel on campus where groups seem to be perpetually singing. Now that I think about, it seems simple enough-- it all reminds me of home, but I'm not at home and can't get myself there, so I'm ignoring the problem. Fair enough.

But why is this so hard now? Is it because, for the first time in my adult life, I've put myself in a situation where I can't physically get myself home via my own means? Before I always had my car, I could have just hopped into the driver's seat, put the fuel on the credit card and driven through the night, clawing my way from rest stop to rest stop if necessary. Now I don't have that luxury, and I'm just now beginning to realize what a luxury it was. I've always been conscious of my attachment and fondness for my cars (all two of them that I've ever had) and my dependance on them, but this just opens up a whole new level. They were my mobility, my freedom, my escape pod. I could always get myself back home.
Now there's a big ocean between Munith and myself, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I called home a lot in the past couple of weeks, and I even called today without crying. I've cried more in the past moth than I have in the previous 12 months combined. I'm not a weepy person by nature, I don't think, but everytime I would get an e-mail from home or I'd hear the girls laughing in the background as I talked to mom, I couldn't get around the catch in my throat. I'd muscle through the rest of the call, not wanting to make the pain more acute for my mother, who has been rather querrelous this season as well, if my sisters' accounts are to be trusted, and I know that me not being home at this time of year is as hard on her as it is on me. However, once off the phone, I'd curl up on my chair or bed and cry like a little girl-- I'm not okay with this. Seriously. Not okay. I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups are sometimes alone on national holidays. These things happen and nobody dies. So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?

I'm currently house-sitting for a lecturer of mine from this past semester, watering plants and keeping company with their dog, Muki, who is a lovely, loyal creature if there ever was one. As I write this she keeps pacing back and forth in and out of the room, sitting now at my feet and gazing up at me. She follows me from computer to couch to window to kitchen and then back to the couch again. We've been going on walks and she gets me out of bed in the morning-- all in all, a very good thing. I'm infinitely grateful not to be the only beating heart in this abode.

I called home again this afternoon, and the crackle in the connection only emphasized the distance. I didn't cry, and somehow that was worse. I spoke to M3, and his sister is visiting him for the season. He's surprising her with a two-day trip to Paris for New Years, and they sound so happy. He finally got the package I sent him with a copy of Anna Karenina and a collected works of Shakespeare that I mailed 6 weeks ago, so I suppose that works as an inadvertent christmas present. He said he was sorry that I didn't have any family with me. I shrugged it off. How could I possibly explain?

My sister put up pictures of the tree and the decorating process at home, the making of pierogies, general festivities on the homefront, and though I begged her to do it, I didn't tell her how they pain me. They all look so happy and I just feel cold, even in my sweater. But I keep going back to them, sort of like the way you rub at a bruise and make it bigger in spite of yourself. To spite your self.

I walked down the block and found a little corner store run by a family of loud Pakistanis, and on a tip from a friend, found some polish pierogie. I bought two packages and fried up the one for dinner this evening. You see, dear reader, this is one of the traditions that I just can't replicate in my single solitude. It takes a whole day and every member of my family to pull of the hundreds of cheese and potato pierogie that we make, then fry up with onions and eat on christmas eve and christmas morning. The smell and spattering grease get into everything, like laughter and snowflakes. These are the trappings that I miss. The pierogie that I fried this evening were cottage cheese and raisin, and despite not being anything like what I'm used to, were just fine. Very filling, and as close to home as I could really expect on this island. I'll save the other for tomorrow evening, which I'm sure will be equally delightful.

I didn't even really realize that today was christmas eve until I sat down at my computer and looked at the date. I remember driving home from midnight mass by myself in a recently past year, stopping to buy gas, and think that, without all the human interaction, there was nothing in the air that would have told me it was christmas. Nothing that seemed special or unique or out of the ordinary. I was utterly devoid of the "spirit of the season." I guess I still am, but now I'm also without the driving human forces of home. I didn't put up a tree or even a bush, no boughs festooned my door, no smell of pine, no lights in the window. I thought about buying a string of lights and hanging them over my desk or maybe in my one window, but then I thought about my deminished funds and the general lack of outlets. I decided against it for these very practical reasons without delving into the impractical, embarrassing reasons of lonliness and disenchantment.

I didn't find a vigil mass to go to this evening. To be honest, it's been a really, really long time since I've gone to church. Even longer since I genuinely prayed. I think I've read too much philosophy to pray well anymore. I almost tried a few nnights ago, but just couldn't bring myself to make an honest try. So I rolled over and manhandled my pillow into a new shape and tried to sleep.

But I brought two different red sweaters, grey pants and a pair of stilletos with me for tomorrow, google-searched a church that will be open. I think mass might be at 10 down near the city center, which means I need to leave here around 9. I'm going to try. At least I've made the effort so far, the lead up to actually going, so I can't use that as an excuse. If I decide against it later, it's a decision and not a consequence.

I need to go to sleep. Muki has given up on me. In the process of writing this, it's turned from christmas eve to christmas day. No one will come wake me up in the morning, no hurrying of little-girl-bare-feet-over-carpet, no jumping on my bed to wake me up and haul me downstairs, no mom in her robe turning on the coffee pot and christmas lights, no stocking over the fireplace. There's a fireplace here, in the house I'm watching for the season, and I've lit a fire the past two nights, but it's long out now. Muddy Waters sings to me through the speakers, I've got a cheap bottle of white wine and somebody else's dog leaning heavily against me.

So this is what it feels like to be a grown-up.

Forget your wild Irish roses...

... What I have for you are some hardy Scottish flowers!

All of these pictures were taken within the city of Aberdeen, Scotland. I took them within the past week on various long walks that I've been taking since the colsure of classes. Please bear in mind that we here on the coast of the North Sea have been withstanding gale-force winds that I would put up against anything I ever encountered in Sault Sainte Siberia. The sleet here is as common as snow back home, and yet these amazing doric flowers continue to bloom... I'm living in an enchanted land, that's all I can figure.


This lovely orange-yellow almost-peace rose bush is between the Queen Mother Library and a carpark on campus. The one bloom looks like it's been hit by a hard frost, but the others somehow withstood the nightly hoar-frosts.


This little pink flower is just one of a large bed on Gallowgate, heading towards the City Center.


White roses in Seaton Park, on my walk to Uni-- these have apparently magical greenskeepers who tend to them on a weekly basis, but mostly just nip dead flowers off the bushes and topiary-type trees.


A close-up of the white roses... I was impressed firstly by the flower and secondly by the thirty seconds of NO WIND that allowed me to take the picture... *gasp of shock and happiness!*


And what really gets me is that these are not old blooms that have been frozen and thus look fresh-- oh no. They're still budding and blooming!


A bed of pink roses, just to prove that these are not isolated, freak occurances!


Another cluster of white roses.


A pretty pink one on the far end of the formal gardens.


Amazingly red rose in the middle of December... you know, like you do.


One last pink rose just as you get to the top of the hill and are exiting Seaton Park.


A yellow rose on Tillydrone Avenue, I was astonished at how bright the yellow was, but the surrounding grey granite glistening under a hard frost and a bit of ice probably helped the overall impression.


In somebody's yard on Hayton Road. What you can't see are all the crushed beer cans and forgotten children's toys in the rest of the yard. These roses are definitely continuing to exist with no help from the human coinhabitants, and all this amazes me. Back home I wouldn't be able to get roses to look like this if I spent hundreds of dollars and 12 hours a day coaxing them. Here, people ignore and even trample them and they blossom all the more fully-- I love it.

Help!

So, what do you think??

What do you think?

Click on the title and help me out!

Not long at all...

Just a tiny little update. It's 6:44 in the morning here, I have yet to fall asleep. At midnight I decided to start a book I picked up a while back, called Water For Elephants. I just finished. This makes the second book in a month that I've read in one sitting... I don't know what that means.

In the past few days I've acquired a UK cell phone, or 'mobile' to sound authentic, and the peasants rejoiced. Here's to being able to text like the rest of the civilized world.

I had a meeting with Dr. Fynsk today-- the chair of my department-- to talk about Ph.D. work and what he thought about the general scope of my aptitude within the Center for Modern Thought. He seems to think I'm a bright, ambitious and scholarly kid who could do very well indeed. When asked about funding, he said that there might be some money in the department, but I should check out the Fulbright, the AHRC, and whatever else I could find online. Well, the application deadline for the 08-09 Fulbright is already past. I'm not eligible for ANY funding from the AHRC (Arts and Humanities Research Council (?) is the main source of funding around these parts) as I'm not a resident. Well, damn. I wish I were a resident... does that count? Somehow, I think not. I very much need to scout. I also bemoaned my lack of steady job, and he mentioned about being in need of a research assistant-- erm, yes. yes. and yes. please. He'll e-mail me the details. "I mean, it won't be all that much, not more than 10 pounds an hour..." I've gotten quite proficient in currency conversions in my head, and the idea of making roughly $20 an hour made me want to cry with relief. My credit card is basically maxed out at the moment and my bank account here STILL hasn't gone through. Ergo, I can't cash the $1500 worth of excess aid checks that are sitting on my desk. Buying groceries is an exercise in masochism. Dr. Fynsk offered to spot me a hundred quid, but I just can't do it. However, if goes on for much longer, I don't see as I'm going to have a choice.

However, I did get an e-mail response to a CV that I sent out some time ago, asking me to come in and meet with them. Unfortunately, I don't really remember who 'they' are and it's not so explicitly stated in the e-mail. I'll figure it out though, I'm sure.

I also got a call from M3 this morning, and we had a nice little chat. I have a copy of Anna Karenina to drop in the mail for him, and I even bought it at the Oxfam bookshop here in town. We were talking a while back, and he mentioned how he was really kicking himself for not picking up a collected works of Shakepeare that he'd seen on sale at a bookshop back in the Sault. Well, I also found a collected works at Oxfam, and got both tomes for the paltry sum of 5 pounds flat. I figure it will make a nice surprise for him.

On other fronts, I'm thinking about offering the olive branch one last time to the fellows in the flat adjacent-- it's Guy Fawkes Day on Monday, and the city of Aberdeen is hosting a bonfire down on the beach with a fireworks display and general good-timeiness for all. After all, we must remember remember the fifth on November... the anarchist within my skin wouldn't have it any other way. Also, Peter and the Greek showed up at our door on Tuesday with half a cake and an apology for being so lame last Friday-- I guess there were some ungodly long and important presentations that needed the full sum of their attention. Well, fair enough.

Well, it's no 7:00 and I should probably take a shower or something. Maybe I'll finally get registered at a doctor's surgery today... but most likely not. Leave that adventure for at least one more week.

Too Long

So very, very much has happened. Now when I sit down to think about it, it's hard to remember all the little bits that I wanted to recall here... where did I leave off? Where's my cast of characters? What the hell has been happening to me?!?

Well, let's start off with the basic dramatis personae: the girls with whom I live. There are seven of us now, all beds are occupied and you couldn't fit another stick of celery in the fridge if you tried. Our latest resident, Naimee, arrived from Nigeria two weeks ago now, and she seems quite sweet. She always speaks in a husky sort of whisper, but always comes by my door and waits for me to acknowledge her greeting before moving on. Being from Nigeria, she's basically surrounded by her fellow countrymen-- I really don't think there's anybody left in Nigeria, they're all in Aberdeen. Most seem to be studying things having to do with oil and gas, and the rest of the girls aren't so much a fan. But we'll get to that later. Okay, so, there's Naimee, Josephine (from Uganda? I think), Loretta (from Ghana), Elena (half Nigerian, half English), Nicolina (from Oslo, Norway) and Christine (also from Norway). Josephine and Loretta are both in law of some kind, and Loretta looks like she just stepped out of a premiere London firm-- she's always immaculately dressed, hair perfect, face pristine. I have no idea how she does it, and her english is amazing. Elena is married with two small children, and she misses them dearly. She reminds me a bit of my mother when she was younger. Nicolina is probably the friendliest out of all of us, as she bounces from room to room, visiting, complaining with good humor and generally commiserating. She's so pleasantly plump with amazingly clear skin and very dark hair. Christine is in the room immediately next to mine, and she's perhaps my favorite. She's this tiny little slip of a girl, blonde hair and blue eyes like the quintessential Norwegian, but when she was young lived for a year in Teaside, so she honest to god sounds like she's from Newcastle-- it's about the most bizarre thing possible, watching the native English try to grasp the fact that she's actually Norwegian.

Apart from the girls who live with me, there's Arrlah, Dawn, Raj and Sabrina. Arrlah is on the same course as Christine, also from Norway, and also amazing. Here english isn't quite as good, but she's so funny that it doesn't matter. She's incredibly tall and thin and gorgeously Norwegian anyways, but a lightweight. Dawn is from the Lake District, has a car (!) and lives with Arrlah. She's a bit more abrasive than the rest of us, but a good pub chum nonetheless-- she's also in Geology and keeps sweeping us along on her department's post-grad pub crawls, which makes for a good time. Raj is this tiny little Indian girl on the course with Christine and Arrlah, originally from London but went to Uni in Liverpool. Sabrina is from Berlin, she's 27 with white-blonde hair and the softest voice ever. We all went out clubbing exactly ONCE and i think we scandalized the hell out of poor Sabrina. Now, Raj is dating Jerry, who is from Ireland (Cork, to be precise) who seems like a genuinely nice guy. Both he and Nicolina are studying International Relations, but he doesn't come out with us much as he is inevitably the only guy. Poor thing.

Kids in my class: there are only FOUR OF US. In the entire program. Nowhere did the University of Aberdeen admit to the MLitt being so small. I mean, there are about 30 people in total, if you combine the MLitt in Scottish and Irish Studies, MLitt in the Novel, MLitt in English Literature, Masters in Visual Culture, and we few MLitt in Comparative Literature and Philosophy. Of there four, there's Warren, who is the only boy. He went here for his undergrad as well, but took Hispanic Studies, so he's a little rough on the philosophy. Siobhan also went here for her undergrad, but she was in English and French. Lena makes four, and she's from Germany. I'm not exactly sure of the details, but she told me that she's not actually finished with her undergraduate degree back in Germany, but that she'll take the last year when she heads home after completing this program. *scratches head* But then how did she get in? Who knows.



I'm enrolled in three courses currently, two of them being combined with all the other MLitts and the lone Visual Culture guy. Two of them are basically worthless and alternate Wednesdays-- Research Methods and Scholarly Writing and Presentation. For the past few classes in Research Methods we've been learning all about citation-- medieval manuscripts, the short title catalogue, calendar of state papers, database of national biography, the whole nine yards. Now, I know that citation is crucially important, but two hours of it is mind-numbing. And it's so ridiculously nit picky that I can't bring myself to feel confident in it. Our very first graded assessment was over just this bullshit, and lord only knows what they'll deduct points for, as the directions were a tad less than clear. Regardless, it's done. Unfortunately, Scholarly Writing isn't much better-- last week we spent two hours in a computer lab learning how to use PowerPoint. Yes, that's right. PowerPoint. I was slightly less than enthused. I mean, if you don't know how to put together a few slides, you probably shouldn't be in grad school. And there's a tutorial built in to the program! The single saving grace of this entire class would have to be the lecturer, let's call him the Academic Aussie (A2 for further reference). He's brand-new to the UK and the University this Fall, and he got the class dumped in his lap when the faculty who was supposed to teach it withdrew for unknown reasons. He didn't write the syllabus, he didn't pick the grading criteria, and he has the common decency to accept that most of us could skate backwards blindfolded through it. His field of specialization is medieval Icelandic and viking poetry, which I think is awesome. He's just young and awkward enough to be endearing. We have to submit a PowerPoint of 10 slides to him, along with a 5-minute presentation next week on the scholarly topic of our choice. I e-mailed him, asking if he wanted us to submit our topics to him "so as to avoid subjecting you to 30 presentations on the existential tendencies of Emily Dickinson's poetry," to which he responded, "Ahhh, the existential tendencies of Emily Dickinson! I can hardly wait! If you're worried about it, feel free to ask me or come by my office. You could come by the office even if you're not worried." And THEN, during that interminable course on PowerPoint, he kept pulling ED as the example topic, and I'd grin compulsively each time. After offering up that frequently it's easier to read white text on a black background in low lighting, he announced that his "esteemed colleague in the back corner..." and then told them exactly what I'd told him. *blushes furiously* He then quasi-walked me to my next class, and I say quasi- because I didn't realize where he was bound for, but then saw him walking back precisely the way we'd come after opening the door for me. I think he's probably just a genuinely nice guy. I'll drop by his office hours on Tuesday and ask if there's ever going to be an opportunity for him to talk to the class about how to locate and submit to reputable journals, how to tell that they're reputable, and how to find the good conferences, considering that's what I was hoping the class would be about anyway.
My third and by FAR the best class I've got is called "Encounters: Literature and Modern Thought," and despite the hokey title, I love it. We started out reading a new defence of the Humanities which I think every administrator and professor back at LakeState should read like gospel. What made it even better is that the man who wrote it, Dr. Chris Fynsk, was the one leading the class! There's just the four of us in the class, and so discussion is more like conversation, and the whole setting is just to intimate, I love it. Dr. Fynsk is the Head of the School of English, and also the leading authority on Maurice Blanchot, who was next up on the reading list. I'm coming to realize that I have a natural affinity to post-war French philosophy. I was the only one of the four to have read Hegel, who was heavily quoted in the text we read, Blanchot's essay, Literature & the Right to Death, and I felt a little special. Next we moved on to a new reading and a new lecturer: Jonathan Israel's Radical Enlightenment and Dr. Nesbitt. I like Dr. Nesbitt, he has the same vocal quality as Dr. Gadzinski back at LSSU-- all whispery and slightly hoarse. He's also fresh off the boat from the University of Miami-Ohio, and he called me out on my accent almost immediately. His concentration has mostly been on the Haitian Revolution, and he just sent his manuscript off to the publishers after 5 years of work. Needless to say, he's been in a good mood since then. They also just asked him to edit some new translations of the key figure in the Haitian Revolution (proves how closely I was listening, I don't remember the guy's name-- Toussant L'Ouverture, perhaps? I don't remember) and he's been floating since then. Anyways, we just finished up with Spinoza's Theologico-Political Treatise, and I was left questioning how we never read him in any of Dr. Swedene's philosophy classes? He's a RADICAL thinker, and basically dismantles Cartesian dualism, Hobbes, Locke and all of the Bible in a coherent system which is still impossible to completely refute. He postulates necessary mutation ages before Darwin boarded the Beagle, claims God OR Nature in his argument before Nietzsche announced the death of God, presented a singular essence of substance and postulated that motion is inherent in matter, in direct opposition to Newton, and we never even read an excerpt! I don't get it. And next week we're on to Diderot. I'm looking forward to it. What a sensation-- I can't remember the last time I was actually stimulated by what I needed to read for class.
On other fronts, we've made friends with the gentlemen who live in the flat directly next to ours. I guess this is going to require a little more naming... There are only 5 in their flat, all studying law, I'm told: Allistair is an older guy, I'd put him at just over 40, maybe? Grey hair, he was in the royal military for years and years, and he's got some crazy stories. His wife is holding down the fort in Glasgow, and he frequently slips away for the weekends down to visit. Peter is from Warsaw and vaguely fish-faced, his english is rather brutal, and he loves the Pixies. What an odd mix. Then there's Jack, who is not JUST French, he's Parisian. Lord, he's so, so Parisian. He's in real estate law and kept on about how he's really a citizen of the world-- yeah, okay. Alessandro or Alex, he's from Athens and is working on the first year of his Ph.D., but he received both his undergraduate and his masters here as well. For the sake of reference and continuity in most parts of my life, let's refer to him as The Greek. I have yet to actually meet the other guy, Allistair says he's from Egypt or perhaps Saudi Arabia, he doesn't really know. What makes all of this quite fun is that their kitchen window forms a 90-degree angle to my bedroom window, and while they can only really see the corner of my room and the side of my wardrobe, I can always hear when they're about. I keep my window open because I like to keep my room nice and cool, but the shower is also right on the other side of the wall, and there's a faint smell of moisture and mildew when the room is shut up tight. Occasionally I'll actually sit beside the window as there is a chair there (as it was when I moved in) and it gets nice afternoon sunlight. Yes, CB, there is sunlight in Scotland, it's our best-kept secret. But when I do sit there, I look almost straight into their kitchen. Just the other day, Allistair leaned out the window and, seeing my light on, called to me. We then had a very pleasant chat whilst leaning out our respective windows. It's a little strange and occasionally a little invasive, but I like it.
We first met them during a fire drill when some of the freshers in the flat below us decided that garlic bread would be AMAZING, but then proceeded to pass out without pulling it out of the oven... stupid drunk 18 year old boys. Anyways, Christine took the initiative and invited them over for drinks one Friday night, but they never showed! Well, at least not until we'd polished off all the wine and opened the door to head out to the clubs. Allistair then came over and begged forgiveness later the following week, explaining that Christine had talked to Peter, whose english isn't quite up to par, and he didn't tell them about the invite until an hour or so after she'd knocked. Well, no hard feelings, we'd try again. I decided to make some bruschetta and truffles, serve some hummus with celery and tomatoes and we'd all drink wine like proper adults. Allistair, Peter and the Greek all made it this time, and a lovely time SEVERAL bottles of wine were had. Somebody suggested heading out to the clubs, it was only 1 in the morning-- sure, why not? (Allistair later claimed that it was my idea, but I KNOW that it was not, Christine thinks it was the Greek, and I'm apt to agree.) We'd also picked up a girl named Bruna who is here doing her semester abroad from Brazil-- she's petite, charming and has an unusual lip piercing, in addition to being friendly with Jack. Well, the rest of the girls hung back because we'd made plans to head out to Braemar the next morning for a small weekender, but what the hell, I'd go. Then I found myself in a cab with people I'd known for about 3 hours-- Peter, Jack, Bruna and the Greek. We went out, danced, Jack and the Greek kept buying me drinks, all was well. Then the bars closed down and we headed home. The Greek slipped a small glass marble in my jacket pocket and left his arm around my waist-- Allistair had mentioned something about his having a girlfriend earlier in the evening when the Greek stepped out to answer a cell phone call, but I decided to ignore it. A nice thing to do? Certainly not, but it's what I did. We eventually caught a taxi and scavenged through their apartment and mine of cans of assorted beers and 1 1/2 bottles of white wine, and then headed out to the woods behind the housing so as not to disturb sleeping roommies. Jack brought his new Polaroid camera and took several pictures of trees in the dark, claiming he would put them in a frame and their juxtaposition would create beautiful meaning. Like I said, he's uber-Parisian. The rest of them gradually drifted away, and the long and short of this is that I wound up fooling around with the Greek while sitting on an old downed tree in the woods behind the residence. He's a talker, and just prior to kissing me told me that he and his girlfriend, Frederica, have been together for a year but he doesn't love her anymore, but it's so familiar and comfortable that he doesn't know how to leave her, and that it was she who had kept stalker-calling him earlier because she didn't want him in another girl's flat. With good reason, I suppose, in hindsight.
The thing is, the Greek reminds me a LOT of Luther. They have the same basic build and coloring, though Luther was a bit more pale. They shrug the same way. Their hands are startlingly similar... and I don't know what that means. I was also quite drunk, so try not to judge too harshly. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodnight, asked me to keep all this under my hat, and walked to his own door.
I woke up the next morning to go to Braemar, still drunk, leaves in my hair, and giggly as all hell. Christine took one look at me and squealed.
Braemar was beautiful. Dawn drove, and I must say that the Highlands are everything people say. I'm in love with this place. We walked around the village, saw highland cows, pronounced 'hey-lin coo', traversed shallow rivers, and basically had a smashing time.
Since then, life's been pretty quiet. My iPod, my baby, is sick-- she shivers and grinds and won't play, and I can't quite figure out how to remedy the situation. I finally got into town and found out the technical support number for Apple here in the UK because the website helped me not at all, so hopefully I can send the baby off and they'll fix her up right. My speakers also died, and I'm not so happy about that. I finally got my excess aid check, but it's going to take another 3 weeks to open a checking account so I can cash it. NOT HAPPY. *le sigh* It's just that it's taking so long. I also still don't have a cell phone, or a mobile as they call them here. Everyone is completely confounded by this-- how do I survive?? My loan officer called it "barbaric." I just shake my head-- it's not like I'm living on raw meat at the back of a cave, I just lack the ability to text-message. I think I'll finally break down and get one of the little pay as you go jobbies from T-Mobile, they seem to have the cheapest phones that will do everything I want. I have no desire to pay what will translate to $100 for a damn phone. Lord. I wince at paying $20 for groceries.
Speaking of groceries, I'm living on celery, cherry tomatoes and hummus. No joke. And I think that, in combination with all the walks up and down hills to school and back, is vastly helping my figure. I'm a fan of this. I also live on the third floor of my building, and that can't hurt.
I watched L'Auberg Espangole yesterday by myself, and both winced and laughed. I first saw it with Luther on his recommendation, and bought myself a copy a while later, but that was nearly 3 years ago. I hadn't seen it since then, and to watch it now, I realize that I'm living in my own spanish apartment. I don't know how it's going to turn out, but I'm okay with that,
Regarding my next bold move, I went to a wine and cheese reception with the College of Arts and Letters and had a very interesting exchange with Dr. Fynsk. He introduced me to the heads of the schools of Law and Business as one of the "excellent students" which I take to be quite the compliment. Dr. Fynsk is the one responsible for the creation of the Center of Modern Thought, which is on the cutting edge of interdisciplinary exchange here, and I think it's absolutely brilliant. There's no doing anything about the really big, important issues if you stay pigeon-holed in philosophy and refuse to talk to the earth science people, who in turn scoff at the economists, who discount the sociologists-- we've all got to talk together, and that's what the Center is all about. There's a big meeting on Energy here in the Spring, and I'm outrageously excited about it, but more on that in a different post. Anyways, Dr. Fynsk asked where I was from and I murmured something about it being a little, no name university in Michigan. He said, "What, like the University of...?" No, I didn't go to the University of Michigan. Bitch, please, they wouldn't let me in. He went on to say that I seemed most excellently prepared for the kind of discourse he wanted to foster and had I considered staying on for my Ph.D.? It seemed to him that someone like me could really flourish here at the University of Aberdeen.

SAY WHAT.

I'm in the process of scheduling a suggested meeting with him to talk about precisely this. The thing is, I hadn't thought to stay here for another degree-- you're supposed to go to a bunch of different schools, maximizing the number of people you know in academia and therefore vreating as large a network as possible. However, as the Greek put it, if you're happy here and they've got the best department around, why would you leave and go to a lesser institution? Why, indeed. It would depend on funding, honestly, as I can't really afford to say here for another three years, but the idea has more and more appeal the longer I think about it.
Speaking of the Greek, he was supposed to come over for another round of drinks with his flatmates just this past Friday, but I guess they just found out about a huge presentation they all need to work on and so bailed out. Unfortunatley, none of them thought to tell us... like Allistair says, their concept of punctuality is fluid. Time is irrelevant. We're still experiencing some gaps in culture, but I'm getting more and more used to it. The Norwegians are getting more and more frustrated by it, though-- their classes are dominantly populated by Nigerians who don't so much adhere to western ideas of courtesy or respect. I don't know about any of this personally, as I'm not in class with any of them, but their stories are pretty wild.
I'm getting used to my united nations spanish apartment. Starting at about 5 in the evening, people open their doors, there's a rotation of people in the kitchen, talking about your day, asking about lectures, relaxed visiting... I like it. There are still some shocks to be had-- Naimee apparently brought several whole dried fish with her from Nigeria, and she made one up the other night. They're all wrapped in newspaper, but she dunked it in a tupperware bowl full of water and popped it in the microwave. The fish, eyes, guts and all, reinflated and then popped, at which point she knew it was done. The smell of fish in the apartment was overwhelming... and she casually picked the meat off the bones. I was a little startled, but to each their own. Christine attacked the kitchen with a can of air freshner as soon as Naimee was back in her room, and all I could do was laugh. Also, I still hate the smell of fish.
Ohh, there's so much more to tell-- a disasterous tapas dinner with Dawn and her friend, Bosh, my first encounter with chips and cheese, mysterious bagpipes and drums on a Saturday morning, my new brown shoes, a box from home that made me cry-- but this post is too long already, and when you live at the speed of light, by the time you slow down to talk about everything, it seems so long ago that it can't be interesting. It was all just last week, but I'm already a different person than I was then.

I'll try to update this more often, I think that will help.

Long and Rambling...

...which is exactly how I like my flowerbeds, pathways, rivers, stories and updates.

I'm beginning to feel a little more at home here in Aberdeen. This past Sunday I struck out on my own for the grocery store with which I am acquainted, the local Morrison's. This required two separate bus fares, but now I have milk, cottage cheese and hummus. I spent less than I had thought I would, and won't really need to go back for another 10 days. A good deal all around, and while it might not seem like a milestone, it is for me-- I'm not a city-dweller by nature, and the bus system intimidates me. Really, all public transportation. I'm not really sure why, perhaps that's why I loved my car so much and why I miss it so dearly. I doubt I'd be able to actually drive here, what with the roads all being backwards and counter-intuitive and tiny, but I think I'd feel better about my situation. For me, my car is a really expensive security blanket: so long as I have it, I can always drive away, regardless of how badly I screw things up. Unlike Captain Sparrow, freedom, for Miss Melville, is not a boat but a car-- maybe it would be if I had a boat and lived on the ocean, but I don't. I'm landlocked, and as long as I have a car I don't have to rely on anybody else. Regardless, I'm without it and me braving the bus system is a big step towards becoming one with the city.

Moving backwards to Saturday, I made another significant move and took the train for the first time in my adult life. It was just a short little trip, down to the pleasant seaside town of Stonehaven, with its quaint charm and fish and chips shops. Despite how gray the picture looks, there was actually quite a bit of sunshine, and the constant breeze off the water smelled like oceans always do. I went with my three favorite Norwegians, and it was interesting to see how each had an additional bounce in the step as we came within sniffing distance of the sea. There were dogs running and playing in the surf, parents with babies in strollers walking the boardwalk, elderly tottering along hand in hand... all of this just reinforced my opinion that vast bodies of water are good for the soul. The surf and the moisture and the sand have a cathartic effect that I need more in my life. Something about the brine cleansing the soul. Additionally, I think I've read the opening of Moby Dick too many times. You know, the part where Ishmael says, "Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me." Yeah, one too many times.

Anyway, Stonehaven held more for us than just the pleasures of brine: Dunnottar Castle lay just outside it, not more than a good stretch of the legs, you might think. Well, it might look that way, but in fact it's a healthy 5 miles from boardwalk to portis, and it seemed like most of it was via the most rinky-dink goat path I've ever seen. Apparently the Scottish fail to see the merit in handrails, and while this is perhaps a way to thin down the wobbly end of the gene pool, I never did dream of falling off the side of a sea cliff as the way I would eventually go. Anyway, the climb out accomplished, the ruins themselves were breathtaking. The previous weekend had included the castle and whiskey tour, and while Ballindalloch is very nice in its own right, THIS is what I think of when I conjure up a castle. It was all rocky and forlorn and remote. For a nominal fee, one is allowed to scamper like a billy goat anywhere you can get to, with the occasional handrail installed on the walk up into the grounds proper and on the still fully-functional stone spiral staircase which provides access to the remaining upper stories of what used to be the tower keep. The views from the windows were spectacular with all the rocky, crashing surf and steep, green hillsides. I tried to imagine what it mist have been like, to live there, the might and the force that built it, maintained it... needless to say, my poor 12-volt imagination was hardly up to the task. I capered all over the grounds and snapped dozens of photos, though I fear my three compatriots tired of the grounds before I did. I found them standing next to the old well long before I was done exploring. If they were bored, they hid it well, and the hike back out was a pleasant one. I'm certainly not in the best shape, and the exercise in all the fresh air absolutely kicked my ass. Then again, my ass needed some kicking. I'm hoping with my student diet of apples, crackers and the occasional pint of beer, in combination with all the walking I'm doing to and from campus and the weekend outings I'm determined to take to Stonehaven, even if it's just to sit beside the sea, maybe I'll be happier with my physical self when I leave this lovely land than I was when I arrived. Anyways, the castle ruins were beautiful and I'm sure I'll be out there again. If and when you visit, my imaginary and ubiquitous reader, I'll take you there and we'll have a picnic lunch.

In other, more girly news, I've been in communication with M3. Yes, the one and only Minnesotan Mountain Man... oh my. He's playing hockey in France, and we're both on the wonderful and amazing skype, so... yeah. I don't know if he's still with that wretched girlfriend of his or not, I personally hope not, for his sake if no other reason. We talked for an hour and a half when he called the first time. He's dong well, though it sounds like he's bored out of his mind. The team isn't doing particularly well, and he's got a lot of free time on his hands, which he is filling with voracious reading. He finished War & Peace not long ago and wanted to chat about it... and I'm fine with that. I'm sending him my copy of Anna Karenina when I get the chance. I called him on Monday to see how his game this weekend went, and though he was on another call, he called me right back. I guess they got "schelacked" as he put it, 9-0, with a brutally long bus ride to and from. Poor devil. And he had another forever-long away game that required an overnight bus trip last night into today with the game this evening. Regardless, I don't really know where all this chatting is going, but it's nice to have a friend. A friend who reads, at that.

I got my box of books from home today, which is wonderfully good news. I just didn't feel right without my anthologies, my reference texts and, OF COURSE, my better homes and gardens. I know it's silly and 1950s housewife, but it's not my home without my cookbook. no two ways about it. Additionally, my mother sent me a post-it pad, some really nifty page-marker-flag-thingies, my battery-powered toothbrush, and a copy of Peter Benchley's The Beast that I'd found at the Book Exchange back home. I'd meant to bring it with my on the flight for some good, distracting, all-out-mind-rot reading, but accidentally left it in the back seat of my aforementioned much-missed car. Well, I got the box this morning at around 9:30 and spent quite literally until 4:00 this afternoon solidly reading. Now, I don't have lecture on Tuesdays, and I've only got 10 more pages of required reading left to do for my second lecture tomorrow (at least I think it's tomorrow, my prof said he would double-check and e-mail us, but I have yet to receive anything) and I didn't have any big plans. However, I wasn't planning on staying in bed all day with such a light book! I absolutely devoured it, no two ways about it. I didn't turn any music on, I didn't check my e-mail, I didn't even get up to use the facilities-- I didn't need to; I was completely engrossed in my fast-paced little thriller about renegade giant squid and economically depressed coastal towns and the possible dire perils of overfishing and knocking Nature out of its natural balance. To be honest, it wasn't particularly well-written, and the author's perchant for using the word 'for' instead of 'and' got to me a little (for example, " He could have found them five hundred fathoms closer on the south shore, for there the reefs ended and deep water began only a mile or two from land"). See what I mean? They also changed a LOT from the original book for that wonderful, wonderful movie that I know and love so well. Some names were altered, personal plot details, the whole love-interest angle-- everything but the Beast herself. Well, there's no baby Beast in the book, just lots of egg sacs. And they never really say if the Beast is a male or a female. Whatever, it doesn't matter. What does matter is the book was a brilliant way for me to while away the day, and the movie has William Petersen as an angry and noble fisherman who clings to a disappearing way of life and kicks the shit out of a evil, man-killing giant squid. Also, lots of well-knit fisherman's sweaters. What's not to love? (PS-- I'm still stalking the SciFi Channel schedule for the next time they are planning on airing the aforementioned movie/mini-series/4 hours of squid-filled goodness so that I can bootleg tape the hell out of it. Hopefully someone with such taping capabilities in the US loves me enough to tape said programming, transfer it to dvd and then mail it to me. I'm hoping. And I'll keep looking for a copy on Amazon and E-bay, though I hold out very little hope-- nobody else loves the Architeuthis dux like I do.)

Well, that's about all I've got for now. Stay tuned for some future discussion on how my lectures are turning out at all how I had expected but I still hold out hope for the program as a whole, and the adventures of prudent Miss Melville in the Special Collections Library!

Sitting by the River Don or; How I Spent My Day

After walking up to campus to pick my Student ID card, I decided to park my butt down my the river for a while. It hadn't been a particularly inspiring morning-- my throat hurt, I found a brand-new blister, I fought and lost with Adobe over how to fill out a form, and my ID is atrocious. I genuinely hope that, should I perish in some tragic tram accident, the officials would be unable to identify me from this picture. Completely wretched.

So I strayed from the formal gardens to the more rustic and natural riverside. Don't get me wrong, the manicured gardens are absolutely beautiful, but there's something in me that calls out for the wild and the rugged and the unkempt. (Not in men, just in landscapes.) So wander I did, and found a little dip in the bank leading to some exposed tree roots and a scholl of last years fallen leaves. I looked at one of the slightly sheltered level places and thought, "Yeah, that's about as wide as my ass," and began to billy-goat my way to the edge of the river. Briefly considering the possibility that my little flat shoes were not equal to the task of keeping me out of the river, I wondered what had happened to my sense of adventure. As it was, I made the descent in fine shape, and I flopped down and found myself completely isolated from the occasional passerby, with the path to my back and above my ears.

The river was beautiful. Peaceful, fast-moving, bubbling, cooling-- all of it. I watched the occasional leaf float by, saw people and their dogs come and go a little further down on the bank. I'm beginning to realize that this is sort of how my life is going to go: I'm going to find a beautiful perch, but I'm also going to be there alone.

I'm getting to be okay with that... It's just going to take me a while.

Proper Football and a Sore Throat

I had my very first encounter with honest-to-god Scottish Football last night at the match against (some Ukranian team... we were all very hazy on who they were, but it didn't really matter) it I think I'm a better person for it. My three Norwegian friends and I walked down to the stadium, where we were supposed to meet up with Michael and his roommates. This was a bit of foolishness on our part, as none of us had any idea how big the stadium was or how many thousands of people were going to be there. Needless to say, we never found them. We did meet up with another group that Christine (the girl in the room directly next to mine) had met in her orientation, consisting of an English-born Indian girl, Raj, Raj's boyfriend Jerry, and a German law student, Sabrina.
After finding out seats, the fun truly began. Now, admittedly I'm a big fan of organized sports-- I like the enthusiasm and energy people exhibit for them, I like the loyalty of the fans for their team, I like the feeling of unity in the stands, and I love the instant morality of officiating-- everybody knows the rules and the minute somebody breaks them, there is a set and standard punishment. Perfect. So, anyway, we're settling into our seats, and I look around-- the stadium isn't really packed, but there are a huge number of people there. Lots of families with young kids, college students, grandparents-- the whole lot. And they're all cheering for one team, their team: Aberdeen.
They had songs and chants and unified jeers. It was amazing to find myself absolutely surrounded by a sea of red. And in all this, I realized the difference between Scottish Football and American Soccer; it's not the name, it's the fact that Soccer has too much money and not enough heart, while my steadfast companions in Aberdeen have perhaps too much heart. A man sitting diagonally from us yelled "That's my boy!" when one of the players did something near him, and the player turned and gave a thumbs-up when the actions moved away from him. People yelled all night long to players named Jackie and Jamie, and I kept grinning.
During the half, a bagpipe and drum corps marched around the pitch. I won't deny it-- I giggled.
The second half saw a wide variety of scoring opportunities for Aberdeen, but they just weren't able to convert. It was hard to see a lot of the action, as we were all the way at the other end of the field, but the most shocking thing I did view was the crowd reaction to a man down on the field. Now, I know that players are sometimes prone to falling over and miming serious injury to perhaps get better field placement for a play. However, this one fellow rolled about so much that the field medics came sprinting out for him twice. Did he have a cramp? Did he catch a boot to the face? Who knows. The crowd certainly didn't care-- even I learned some new terms for the devil from their jeers.
Honestly? I was shocked. In the States, everybody on the field takes a knee until the injured player is seen to by the medics, and if he or she gets up and walks off, everybody in the stands cheers. In Aberdeen? Not so much. Even the little old ladies behind us were shouting things at the opposing player as he lay on the edge of the field. And then the ref came over and gestured with both hands to scoot off the field. THE REF. The crowd laughed and then cheered when, as the downed player did not scoot, the ref gave him a yellow card! I'd never seen anything like it before.
I'm not sure what the final score was, maybe 0-1. Aberdeen never scored, I know that much. Regardless, after the game we all walked back to Raj's apartment, where we shared some drinks and some stories. All in all, remarkably good times! They all laughed and said I was the most open-minded and plain-spoken American they had ever met, but, then again, I do respond to the 'Where are you from?' question with the answer, "The US, and I'm sorry."
We walked home from the afterparty quite late, and I'll be the first to admit that I was rather toasted. However, I can't figure out why my throat is killing me this morning.it woke me up twice in the night. I'm drinking lemon and honey water in an effort to shake it, and I'll buy some lozenges later, but that doesn't solve the mystery. I just hope it's gone before the Whiskey and Castle tour tomorrow!

Loving the Lovely Aberdeen

Well, I'm here. I'm alive. My baggage came through just fine. I'm starting to get the hang of all this.

We're all girls in my flat, which is on the third f-ing floor of my building... two from Norway, one from Uganda, one from Ghana and one from Nigeria. I'm still a little unclear on who the seventh is or even if we have one. Right now I have one plate, a knife, a spoon and several shot glasses that I brought with me. No forks-- the entire city of Aberdeen seems to be out of forks.

It hasn't rained all the time, just most of it. The sunshine comes and goes in bursts. I love it.
My housing is a 20 minute walk from the campus, and each time I've gone out I've gotten lost. The maps they give us are for shit-- there are few road names on ANYTHING, and no key that points to north! I did wander about on campus today and wait in a line for 2 hours to get my computer fixed. It needed to be calibrated or something. Oh well, it's worth it. I just ate a potato with some butter and a bit of applewood cheddar... a fine dinner for a college student! Some of the girls want to go out bowling tonight with Fresher's Week, but I think I might take a long hot shower and do a little reading. And if they decide to go down to the local pub ON CAMPUS, called the Watering Hole, I'm totally in!

The flight from DTW to Amsterdam was fine, just long. We had a strong tailwind, so we got to Amsterdam an hour ahead of schedule. I didn't sleep a wink-- those seats are so uncomfortable and i had my laptop bag under my feet. That, and I imagine I was still a bit nervous. The flight to Aberdeen was pretty bumpy, but I was sandwiched between a bunch of soccer fans coming back a little late from the game in France. Apparently Scotland beat the French for the first time EVER and they stayed to celebrate. I guess the "Tartan Army" is a huge deal over here. Regardless, they were all very friendly. When we went to exit the plane, it was onto one of the moveable ladders directly onto the tarmack, and the fellow behind me clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Welcome to Scotland! Hope you enjoy the weather!" I don't think I've stopped grinning since. There were people holding a sign with my name on it in the airport proper, and my luggage made it through just fine. There was a minibus to take us to Hillhead, and a very nice guy driving pointed out the campus as we flew past.
I met a guy named Michael at the Watering Hole last night and I guess he's all about taking me to my first proper FOOTBALL game. It's on Thursday, and part of the Scottish Premiere League. All I really know is that it's a pretty important match, I have to wear red, he's buying my ticket and a scarf, and there will be drinking beforehand. By the way, the translation of the Norwegian for Pregame comes out roughly as Foreplay... that made for an interesting conversation...

I'm going to try to straighten out my loans tomorrow, and as soon as my excess aid check comes through, I'll get a phone. Also, they're doing Tom Stoppard's Arcadia at the Arts Center, and I think I'll give that a go. I am going to put in my 3 pounds and sign up for the "Castle and Whiskey" tour for next weekend as well... it sounds basically perfect. And I need to e-mail the station manager at the Uni Radio Station and see if they have any openings, considering I'm outrageously qualified for that as well. All in all, things are looking pretty good for little Miss Melville.

Alive and Well in Aberdeen!

I'm here! I made it! I survived!

More details later, but I just thought I would pop in to let you know, dear imaginary reader, that things appear to be working out so far. All I need to do is find someone to help me with my wireless service so I don't have to come down to the computer lab every fifteen minutes...

Ciao!

23 days...

That's right, folks, I'm really going. Come hell and high water, makes no difference-- so long as planes can still take off and land, that is. I'm still not sure how I feel about all of this. I'm trying to add up all the expenses right now, and it looks like it's going to be just about as expensive as OB, just in slightly different ways. The main concern at the moment is the cash-flow issue between my departure time and the point where my loans come through and I get my excess aid check. Yeah, that might hurt a bit. It looks like I'm going to have about $150 to travel with-- not exactly flush, I know. But I'll be able to work through it, right? Until I get a job on-campus, right?

I've got the accommodation application and now I'm awaiting the arrival of my joining papers so I can get my official ID number to apply for housing. Everybody cross your collective fingers that I somehow get a place at Elphinstone Road. I really can't afford and do not want catered accommodation... and they say that money can't buy happiness, but it can buy an en-suite room and that's basically the same thing.

I'm waiting on the IRS to send me my tax transcript so I can finish filing my FAFSA and get the ball rolling there. They said that it wouldn't be an issue to arrive before all my funding goes through, so that's a good sign. I'm draining my meager savings to come up with the utility fees and deposit monies for the housing, but hopefully that will get me over the initial hurdles.

Despite the very good advice of some wonderfully wise friends, I'm taking my old columbia coat from LakeState, the same tennis shoes I've always had, a pair of rubber boots from the attic and as many sweaters that I already own as possible. I will get one more pair of jeans and MAYBE a heavy pair of khakis, but that's it. If I don't already have it, I'm not buying it. Oh, except for power adapters and a new battery for my laptop. THOSE things I do need. As far as a cell phone for once I'm over there, that will have to wait for the excess aid. All I can do is all I can do.

Cheers for CB, who has withstood the weight of my ignorance, my billions of questions and even sent me a book of current Scots phrases. My personal favorite so far is 'carfuffle', which means to cause an outcry or rukus.

I'll keep posting the winners as I discover them!

Scotland update: 29 days?

The devil is not only in the details, but also my stomache acid. I'm having regular anxiety attacks at 7:00 pm each day and have been unable to keep down solid food since learning that I've been accepted. I'm on one hell of a roll.

Also, I got another e-mail today from Dr. King, this one telling me for sure that I've been accepted, but I'm not one of her new pets-- she in charge of the Lit major, but I'm in the MLitt in Comparative Literature and Thought. I'm not quite sure what that means, other than that somebody else will be contacting me. Fun, fun.

I'm attempting to fill out my FAFSA, but in the mad move home from the undergrad, I have NO IDEA where the copies of my tax returns went. I don't even know if I made copies. I'm an idiot. Here's to hoping I can call the IRS and they'll actually help me. Somehow I think that's kind of a long shot.

I e-mailed both the accomodation office and the register's (financial aid) in the hopes that I will hear back from them tomorrow. I really want to get my loans squared away as soon as possible. Then I get to buy some plane tickets. But before I do that, I need to know when I can move in. Ahh, so many little steps. Damnit. And I'm broke.

Regarding my previous post freak out about the MSF, I talked to my boss, and maybe there's hope. some hope. Something about breaking up the job that I've got right now into 3 seperate positions and maybe making me the company manager... more on this at a later point. Like when I'm not tired.

DAMNIT. I can't find the sheet of paper I wrote the phone numbers on for U of Aberdeen housing. Maybe it's in my purse. Damn missing paperwork and my inability to organize!

Go Go Gadget Scotland!

I've been accepted into the MLitt Program at the University of Aberdeen.

... I think.

I got an e-mail from a Dr. King tellimg me that she's looking forward to meeting me, giving me the correct start dates for the fall semester (apparently the ones in the letter of acceptance are wrong *question mark*) and telling me that she's looking forward to meeting me. That means that they want me, right? right??

And for some unbelievable reason that I cannot begin to plomb, I have the worst sinking feeling in the pit of my stomache.

Is it because the dates are so much different? I'll need to be there by September 15 instead of the 1st of October, and it runs into the first week of June. THE FIRST WEEK OF JUNE. This means that I won't be able to come back and work here at the MSF next summer. I never thought I would be this bummed about this, but I've finally made a new friend who may be coming back here and... but the longer I think about it, maybe that's not it.

Maybe I've just grown so accustomed to working here, to knowing everything, to being the go-to girl that, despite complaining about it constantly and claiming to despise it, I actually love it.

Oh, god.

All of the shit. The horrible hours. The never sleeping. The living off of fast food sold in Vandertucky. The ridiculous actors. The nights of drinking cheap beer with equally miserable techies. The constant crisis mode. The twitching. I love it all, don't I? When did this happen? This isn't healthy at all.

Perhaps this sinking feeling also arises out of the realization of a long-fanciful dream. I've talked about going to Scotland for Grad School for SO LONG NOW that the idea of actually going in a FOUR WEEKS is ungodly unsettling. I am actually capable of this or is this another instance of me buying into my own hype? Holy shit, the time has come...

And I don't really even know where to begin. I've got my visa, but I applied for it with my acceptance to Oxford-Brookes-- do I need to revise that? (I'll write more about my charmed life and a magical trip to Chicago a little later on, maybe tomorrow.) I just got off the phone with the Dept. of Ed. folks, and they totally lend to people studying at Aberdeen, so I need to get a hold of the people at Aberdeen's Financial Aid office and see what we can sort out. Regardless, I'm not going to have to take out as much as I would if I were to go to OB. Somehow, that doesn't make me feel that much better. I'm not even entirely sure what the name of my program is-- it's an MLitt in English Studies, but I think the actual specific designation is something about comparative thought. I think. And I need my application number to eRegister like they've asked me to do, but I don't have it yet. AHHH!

Another gut-wrench comes from the realization that I've built Scotland up so much in my head, wanted to go so badly for so long, that now I'm dearly afraid that the North Atlantic won't be as cold and blue as it is in my dreams.

I'm scared to death.

Tagged

Got tagged by CB (quite some time ago now) to do this charming little meme. Sorry it's taken me so long, but such is life.So here are 8 things about me you, my darling imaginary reader, probably didn't already know:

1. I was born in a house in southern Michigan with a dirt foundation and no insulation.

2. My favorite translation of Homer is by Richard Lattimore. The Lattimore texts were also the first I ever read of the ancient greeks-- I was in the fifth grade.

3. I have a distinct aversion to Busch Light, all stemming from one very unfortunate night my freshman year of college.

4. I didn't have a cell phone until 3 days ago.

5. My mother made snapping turtle soup and served it at my high school graduation open house.

6. I always eat new england clam chowder and ritz crackers on the morning of the first snow.

7. I own two tobacco pipes, but only use one of them.

8. I still blush when I go to the movies and people kiss on screen.


In regards to tagging, I think that's a little pointless.

So...

... just a thought: I'm so sick and tired of being the nice girl with the funny story who goes home alone.

I don't really know how to put it any other way.

Recently I've been hanging out with a handful of the technical crew with the MSF and while that has been a wonderful diversion, I'm still spending the majority of my evenings either at work or at home. I can't remember the last time somebody took me to dinner and a movie. Not to be shallow, but it's been a very, very long time since I've actually thought that some fellow held the door open for me so he could look at my ass and then smiled about it. I miss that.

Right now, I'm verging on side-show. Particularly with the way work has been lately, I'm the one who tells the amazing story about her day, people hoot and guffaw, but invariably somebody pats me on the head and I wander home alone. Boo, I say.

I know I'm too busy for a serious relationship right now, and I'm leaving the country soon. However, whatever happened to the summer fling? More to the point, what happened to MY summer fling? That enchanted stretch of time when everything was exquisitely superficial and the lightness of non-existent expectations made things so simple... oh, wait. Now I remember.

In the end, I'm officially announcing to you, my imaginary reader, that I'm looking for a simple free-time buddy. Maybe we'll catch an occasional baseball game, play a couple hands of poker, drink cheap beer while standing in a kitchen, picnic, and relieve some of my tension. No strings attached. I will not leave work early for him, I won't call him every night just to talk. He won't want to introduce me to his friends, he wouldn't meet my family. Just nice and simple. I'd appreciate a sweet guy who just wants to hang out and maybe some meaningless, good-natured physical contact-- does that every happen? To anyone?

What really irritates me is that the gentlemen I'm spending the most time with are either very, very married and yet adorable or (most likely) hitting something right now that I watched unfold right in front of me earlier tonight.

Which is why I'm writing this and debating drinking more and writing less or writing more and spending less. Goddamn toss-up, if you ask me.

Miss Melville is GOING TO GRAD SCHOOL!

Yes, that's right-- I read the e-mail right around noon, yelped and called out, "Oh My God," and promptly found myself on the verge of tears. I could hardly believe it. I just had the telephone interview on Monday, and now...

I've been accepted as an MA candidate at Oxford-Brookes University in Oxford, England.

Me. Going to the UK as a Grad Student. I still can't believe it.



[WARNING: self-analysis of psyche impending]
I know that I'm a decent student and I'm pretty fond of my own turn of phrase, but I guess I never really thought that I would get in anywhere. I mean, my BA is from a tiny, no-name state school with no real claim to fame, and my grades never were PERFECT. They were decent, I've done some unusual stuff, and I interview pretty well, but none of that really compensated in my mind. I'm not the BEST student, I'm not the BRIGHTEST person on the planet, and I never really believed that I was good enough for this. How could I be? I'm just a girl from a podunk town in Michigan who kinda liked to read. Getting the rejection letter from St. Andrews was tough, but it only confirmed what I'd always secretly thought-- that I was pretending to be an adult and a good student, and my bluff had finally been called.
But now... now I get to go. I get to sit in lecture halls again and read challenging texts and speak my mind and be both right and wrong. Oh, god, how wonderful...


Now, to be honest, Oxford-Brookes was not my first choice. In fact, it's still not. If I were to be accepted to either Aberdeen or Edinburgh, I'd head there. Regardless, the best part is simply knowing that I'm not shit out of luck come the end of August, left to nothing better than sitting in my parents' basement, twiddling my thumbs and trying to repay my loans.

I'm still in shock, I think.

Worst. Luck. Ever.

It's true. I've officially earned the title. I don't know what deity I offended or puppy I kicked, but I'm reaping the sorrowful oats now. But let's start at the beginning...

I work full-time in the summers for a residential theatre company that does only summerstock, and normally I'd say that I've got it pretty good. I've an unbelievably understanding boss, a solid assistant, I'm comfortable with the duties, and I have a computer with internet access. However, there are a couple weeks which I have learned to rue, and this past has been one of them: the week of move-in for the company. Our actors and technical staff come from all over the place, and we provide housing for many of them. This year, there are six full houses to furnish with beds, tables, chairs, couches, lamps, end tables, vacuum cleaners, coffee tables and everything else their little hearts desire. Every year this is more and more of a headache, not to mention backache. We make use of community service labor, but it's still a helluva day. This year, it didn't start off well.
No, this year, my mother decided that I was an alcoholic the morning of the move.

Now, I do occasionally drink. In fact, I've been known to toss them back with the best of them. I drink red beers and stouts, cheap vodka and expensive scotch. I enjoy the good drink at the end of a long day. However, my mother has gotten it into her head that because I keep a well-stocked alcohol shelf in my living area, I must be an alcoholic. This is supremely unfortunate and resulted in a lot of shouting.

After duking it out with my mother, I proceeded to the U-Haul station here in town to pick up the truck. We were supposed to be getting a 17' hauler, but the one that they had for us had some problems-- the TRANSMISSION had FALLEN OUT when the last customer returned it. So what did they do? They gave us the 24' truck at the same price.

A good deal? Sure. However, a 24' truck is basically a TRANSPORT. A Semi-trailer. A BEAST. And I got to drive it. Oh, be still my beating heart. I not usually an easily-daunted individual. There is not much that I will generally shrink from due to intimidation, but this truck was ENORMOUS. However, there was nothing doing other than to climb up into the cab and throw the old beast into gear. The workers were all decent, and the moving went well enough. The crew from community service, the friendly felons, if you will, could only work until 4 pm. That was fine, most of the heavy lifting was done by that point. After we released them, my assistant, let's call him Eeyore due to his general attitude and standard vocalization, and I picked up four more couches and a couple arm chairs from the local St. Vinny's and hit the road again.

Of COURSE there was significant construction on the roads leading to one of the houses, but I only picked off one construction barrel-- I consider this to be a badge of honor in a truck of such ungodly proportions. After that, we came to discover that one of the houses has the most narrow doors in all of America, and there was NO WAY we were getting a couch into the living room. So, we threw the couch back into the cargo bay and I put the key in the ignition. Turn the key.

Nothing happens.

Let me repeat that-- NOTHING HAPPENED. The giant-ass truck DID NOT START.

The battery had died. Eventually a neighbor who somehow knew Eeyore offered to give us a jump. Luckily that worked out, and we continued distributing our remaining couches. I was so flabbergasted that I had a laughing fit. What U-Haul dies on the road? Apparently, the one I touch.

We finally returned the U-Haul to its home on the lot, and I headed home myself. I was pretty proud of myself for driving the damned thing, and I wanted to preen a little for the family and have them acknowledge my automobile superiority. However, it was not to be. Not only was my mother still fixated on my supposedly-doomed liver, but my sister wasn't home, my father was busy with something, and my brother could best be described as an asshat. After a disgustingly humid day of hauling mattresses and couches, at least I could take a soothing bath, right? WRONG. My brother had decided to replace the shower head in the downstairs bathroom, and so I was thoroughly thwarted. I came back to work the next day feeling bruised and abused, but the work didn't end the day before. No, there were still dishes to distribute and lightbulbs and shower curtains and regular curtains and ironing boards. I basically worked the weekend and into Monday getting things around, and the actors attempted to arrive on Sunday.
I say "attempted" because the splatter pattern of their arrival times was a work of postmodern art. It stipulated in their contracts that they arrive between 1 and 5 on Sunday. This TOTALLY did not happen. Which brings us to Monday...

Monday was the company picnic. Monday morning, somebody needed to be checked in at 9. After that, is was to the rental place to pick us a 20' by 30' tent and tables and chairs for 60 people. We managed to fit this all in a minivan, and off to the back yard of a certain board member to set it all up. The people at the rental place said that setting up the tent would be no big deal, that children put up this tent all the time. I don't know who those children are, but I'm guessing they can trace a straight line to Attila the Hun. The tent spikes were easily TWO FEET LONG. When I asked the previously mentioned board member for a sledge hammer with which to drive these spikes into his year, he rummaged around in his three car garage and eventually gave me not a sledge hammer, but a MALLET HAMMER. For those of you unfamiliar with the Hammer family, the Mallet is the wimpy, rubbery illegitimate cousin of the Sledge. This mallet hammer had an 8 inch handle and a hard rubber head. Riiiight. If I were a CLOWN, I might have been able to drive a spike with it. As it was, I can only say that Eeyore did an amazing job driving those spikes.
Two-thirds of the way through driving spikes in 90-degree+ heat, my boss called and ORDERED me to abandon the tent and go out to housing to Lysol some beds, kill some mold, and greet two of our big-time actor/director types. Fine, fine. Eeyore soaked the beds in Lysol, and I swept. We welcomed our peoples and headed back out to the picnic site to assemble the tent.
I think I'm the only campfire girl left in the universe. Or at least the only one who remembers how to tie a barrel knot. My legs and arms hurt from carrying the tables, my back hurt from the beds and couches, and the rope made short work of my hands. By the time I finished the tent and my boss finished yelling about how none of this was my job and I needed to be working on assembling the program, I noticed that the aforementioned board member's THREE GROWN CHILDREN were sitting in his living room WATCHING Eeyore and I struggle in the oppressive heat to get everything set up. Just SITTING THERE.
Once at the picnic, one of our directors who I'd greeted earlier in the day informed me that he was ALLERGIC to the bed Eeyore had so recently lysol'd. In fact, he'd broken out in hives. Well, shit. I don't exactly have beds here there and everywhere, but I would see what I could do. This resulting in spending $160 that we DO NOT HAVE to buy him and new bed. But what you do for one child, you must do for the next, and the actor who lives near him decided that his bed must have been soaked in urine at some point and he needed a new mattress. FINE. I understand not wanting to sleep on those beds, but by this point-- I'm never touching a mattress with the intention of moving it for the REST OF MY LIFE. From here on out, I'll sleep in a hammock like a good little pirate.
Then, on Wednesday, I found out that the Driver's Responsibility Fine that I had been assessed LAST YEAR was in fact a TWO PART FINE and I owed the Michigan Department of Treasury another $200 or they'd SUSPEND MY LICENSE. And I needed to pay it asap. Or else. Yeah, about that-- like I've got that kind of money just to throw at the government. Boo, I say.

And yet, as soon as I'm out of hock regarding the STUPID responsibility fine, I get pulled over for SPEEDING. Me. Speeding. As it was, I was on my way to work from home, and looking around at how GREEN the trees looked in the early morning heat. I came around a curve too fast and there he was-- the cop was actually pretty nice to me, and I'm appealing it in the hope that they'll tell me to pay my fine but not put the points on my license which would jack my insurance through the roof. Why can't I seem to stay out of trouble?

Now I'm working 12 to 13 hour days at the Festival, not just because the Program has hit the Do-Or-Die line, but because the Family Show was short a Stage Manager. Yes, that's right: I was moved by the plight of the kid's show director and said I'd help out. This means that I am at the office from 9:30 or 10 in the morning until at least 10 each night. Monday through Friday. GROSS.

My most recent bit of bad luck is particularly disgusting, so I will officially advise my squeamish imaginary readers to avert their eyes now:
Speaking of eyes, I woke up yesterday morning and realized that they HURT. Now, I'm not shrinking violet when it comes to pain, I don't whine about blisters or paper cuts and I've been known to walk off some serious sprains, so when I say that my eyes hurt, they HURT. I got up and walked to the bathroom, rubbing at them to remove what I thought was sleep-sand. Boy, was I wrong.
Apparently, at some point during the night, my eyes had begun to BLEED. My hand was red as I pulled it away from my face, and my cheekbones and hair were caked with dried blood. I looked like something out of Hunter S. Thompson's flashbacks. I tried to wash out my eyes myself, and then stumbled upstairs to call the doctor. When i pulled down my lower eyelid, my eyes OOZED. [I told you this was gross and not for the weak of constitution.] The bleeding stopped before I left for work, and I had an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.
As it turns out, my body is expressing stress in new and exciting ways. Things are crystallizing in my lymph nodes again, and the blood vessels in the tissues of my eye sockets BURST. Hence, the bleeding. When the nurse asked, "Are you a worrier? Do you have anything big in your life right now that you're worried about?" I lost it-- I had such a laughing fit that I almost fell out of the chair. Seriously.
So, now I look pink and puffy about the eyes, kind of like a mole rat. I'll keep applying the cold compress, but I don't hold out much hope.

I write about the one bright spot in my life next time, I promise. However, I don't feel like such a thoroughly miserable post should be marred by highlights.