... so, it's been a while. Let's move through this as quickly as possible:
I returned to the native land of snow and family-type quality time over the winter holiday season, returned to the Lovely Land of the Dean and found myself offered a job running a tutorial for the Film Department here at the University. Needless to say, me and my skint little wallet JUMPED on this opportunity. Funnily enough, I still haven't gotten paid for this position (paperwork issues) but I've found teaching my two sections of Intro to Film to be wildly, thoroughly and completely unexpectedly fulfilling. Who knew. I've tutorials that I lead on Friday mornings, a film screening in the afternoon, and compulsory lectures on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We show mostly decent, mainly interesting films like Apocalypse Now!, Vertigo, Once Upon a Time in the West and, (naturally) Braveheart. This last one I had managed to dodge seeing until this course. How is this possible, dear Miss Melville? you ask. Well, as I'm living in Scotland, I see no reason to muddy the waters with Mel Gibson's atrocious accent. I mean, really. Anyways... we'll talk about specific movies another time. My students run the gamut from Sid Vicious to Nancy Drew, but there are a few gems-- one young lad compares every (and I mean EVERY) film we watch to Die Hard. At first, I was mystified. Then, slightly annoyed. But then, honestly, it takes some work to draw the link between Rear Window and that Rickman classic. At this point, I figure it must have been a bet, and I'm totally giving him extra points for the legitimate effort and attention. I am now hip-deep in astonishingly sub-par essays and all of my grading is due in tomorrow... riiiiiiiight.
I'm still holding down my jobs with the Student Association and the Gentleman's Club. I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to guess which one I prefer. Again, more on these in separate posts.
Danger Muffin just got her acceptance letter to a masters' program at St. Andrews University yesterday, but I haven't seen her yet to take her out for a pint. I know, I'm an awful flatmate... This means I will be looking for a new flatmate for August, I'd imagine, but somehow I know that there will never be another quite like Danger Muffin.
And as for me... well, I turned 24 on Saturday last. It's strange, I don't know why this one is hitting me quite so hard. I've been aware, once or twice before, of the passing of time. Of wanting to slow it down to a bare minimum crawl-- looking at my parents, my siblings gathered in the kitchen, seeing how old we've all grown... it's strange. I tried explaining my feelings on the issue to Danger Muffin with the tired old perfume bottle metaphor: it's like you have a bottle of your very favorite perfume, you know full well that you will never acquire another bottle and yet you wear it every day because you love it so. And now you look at it and see the sum of all those little morning spritzes, liquid halfway up the little tube, the vacuum in the top of the bottle, and you know that it will never be full again, that you will reach the bottom. But you're going to wear it every day. See what I mean about a tired metaphor? I turned 23 on the 23rd last year and it was a bit of a show-- Kaypea was in town, it was quite the do. This year-- far more sedate. I don't feel like a kid anymore. I think, without consciously realizing it, I capped my youth and childhood with that Golden Birthday year, and now I'll never be 23 again. Not that I'm really lamenting this, not that I'd do anything differently with it. It's just the knowledge that I'll never have it back again. Strange. And a little disjointing.
That's enough for now. Ask me about Norway, the Club, the Dirty Diss, M3, Boston, the Almighty Mobile, fiction and Subliminal Unicorns in the near future.
Showing posts with label Monies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Monies. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Monday, October 27, 2008
Right, bullet time!
Okay, so I'm sorry, I'm a shit blogger and have been remiss in my updating. SO MUCH TO TYPE! Ergo, the wonder of spot editing!
- I'm living with a wonderful, delightful woman named Danger Muffin-- D-Muff for short-- and she's fantastic. She moved here from MI and, despite a failure to communicate for 6 years, has clicked back into my life like she never left it. We originally met through the MSF and have a mutual unhealthy relationship with Shakespeare and Arts Organizations in general. As it is, we're living at approximately the same speed. Which is the speed of light and sound. Together. Amplified.
- My student loans still haven't come through. This makes me a sad panda.
- I'm working too many different jobs. I can't keep them straight. And I haven't been in my office in ages. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something for the Ph.D., but for the life of me I don't know what. Good sign?
- I haven't heard from DS in ages. Again, sad panda.
- I've been cast in a production of Miller's Crucible at the University. And which character is little Miss Melville portray? The "death-haunted, embittered 45 year old woman" of course. Type casting? Please say no, I only look 35.
- My crossword addiction has hit record levels. The careers office is enabling me by saving all their old copies of the Herald and the Guardian. I still buy the Times on a daily basis and hit up the Washington Post online. Sick, sick puppy.
- I've rediscovered my love of white russians. They're delicious and way kinder to my tummy-lining. For a change up, I will order a vodka and cranberry, but only because I believe in the fight against UTI. I also drink gin and tonic because malaria is a bastard. Ergo, all my cocktails serve very strategic purposes.
- I think that Scotland is currently underutilizing my generous and nurturing side. I'll expound more on this at a later date if I get the time.
- Damn facebook. Yes, I use it and I love it and it's the only way people who know me in real time can reach me on a consistent basis, but it keeps telling me all sorts of disconcerting things. What things, you ask? Apparently everyone I used to know is either getting married or spawning. No joke. Entire photo albums of engagement rings, ultrasound pictures or tiny humans fresh out of their wrappers-- they're everywhere. I used to think my being perpetually between boyfriends wasn't that unusual, but apparently I'm a piraha. Still, better than being perpetually between husbands, right? Right?!?
- I really miss playing the tuba. Unfortunately, there appear to be very few of them in Scotland, and even fewer that belong to me. That number being zero.
- The roses down near the beach ballroom are still blooming.
- I still love Scotland.
- It no longer strikes me as strange that I'm here. What does seem strange is that I was never not here. Is that odd?
Enough for now. I'll finish writing and then backdate the rest of the Wedding entry, it's just too much for my less than nimble little fingers at the moment.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Working Girls and Girls Who Work
... There's a difference.
So, as most know, it's hella expensive to live in Aberdeen, as opposed to the States. On the surface, it looks like things cost the same, but then one must take into account the exchange rate, and if you happen to consider this while grocery shopping, your joints will grind to a halt and you'll find yourself completely unable to move, much less place that wedge of cheese in your basket.
Ergo, I work at just about every random job you can imagine, dear reader-- not because I like playing with cats or shepherding drunks, but because I need the money. Rent, groceries, the occasional pint: it all takes funding. Right now, I've got four basic part-time jobs, one of which is primarily seasonal. Firstly, (and most infrequently) I'm a house-sitter/child-minder/dog-walker/cat-feeder extraordinaire. No joke. However, it's only recently that I've been paid to house-sit, and that was a welcome improvement. I mostly provide these services for my faculty and related members of academia, and it provides a little pocket cash every once in a while, but it's hardly possible to depend on it. Secondly, I work with a photography firm that does graduation services around the north of England and Scotland. Again, this is all dependent upon when the services are and which contracts the company snaps up and all that. There will be another spate of them in the fall, but we're pretty quiet at the moment, which is too bad because it really is a good daily wage. Thirdly, we have the club. Now, there are two different establishments in this particular building, four bars in total with two seperate cash desks. I was originally hired to work the upstairs desk, the one leading to the 80s music review which allows teens and 40-somethings alike to dress ridiculously and groove to Prince and other vintage tunes. It's only open on Friday and Saturdays, and I only worked Saturdays-- this left Friday for general carousal and debauchery when I could afford it. More on this turn of events later. My fourth soucre of employment is at a wine shop. It's a nice little place, about 50 paces from the door of where I'm currently living, and all in all a good fit. I get on decently well with my co-workers and apart from once issue haven't had any problems with the manager (who is wound so tight, I think he irons his socks). The best part of the job is that it's close to the house and there's a staff discount. No joke.
But back to the club. Now, your friend Miss Melville has never denied being a bit of a prude. I like to think of it as being classy, but whatever. And I've been known to toss a few back in my day, I won't deny it. However, the number of drunk, lerching folk I've seen tumble in and out of the door of the club has been enough to really put me off the cheap booze recently. And then they went one better: I got transferred to the other cash desk. You see, children, the downstairs of this building, all owned by the same to men, is a strip club.
I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.
I know take a 6-pound cover from men who want to enjoy the poffered goods of what claims to be the premiere lapdance club in Scotland. Ah, goooooo, good sir. On the up side, I'm learning an awful lot about the industry and how it functions and a new subculture of foreign girls who barely speak english trying to make it here in the UK and sending money back to their families. As a sidenote, apparent the sharks to do send the money to Romania won't accept Scottish bank notes, and this is a perpetual issue. Inga is constantly asking me if I have English notes, and at first I was simply annoyed because it disrupted my counting system. I finally asked the assistant manager/bouncer about it, and he told me the deal. Now, I set them aside.
I've worked pleanty of scummy jobs in my young life-- most noteably, the third shift at the gas station in Michigan's Prison City. I chatted with hookers, brewed awful coffee, swept the lot, gave away day old hot dogs to bums and generally held down the fort through the long dark hours. But this is a whole new level of sleeze. I sorta understand the young bucks who come in for a stag do or with a bunch of buddies. It's the ones who come in by themselves, collar up and sober, who creep me out the most. Then there's the older guys who are in by themselves every day of the week. I was told yesterday that this place is open every night of the week, 365 days a year. Which means that good old Donna from Down Undah is bending herself around the pole on Christmas Eve, New Years Day and Easter Sunday. There's something that I find cripplingly sad in that.
Now, I just sit behind the desk and take money. I don't dress like one of the girls-- in fact, I pull my hair back and wear a fleece because it's cold by the open door. Yet, I still get harrassed. On Saturday night, the best man in one of the stag parties leaned over the desk, clasped my face and full-out laid one on me, and before I had time to react was out the door. Stunned. Who does that? Then there's the older guys to persist in asking if I'll walk them home. Usually the bouncers shuffle them along, but they usually have more dangerous things to see to, and I can normally take care of myself. But if they harrass mousey old me this much, what are they saying to the poor dancers? The manager, who is a proper hard nose, asked me how I felt about working behind the bar. Now, while I think it would be a useful thing to have some bar experience on my resume, I'm not sure that I want it at a strip club. And it would mean different hours AGAIN, and I'm sure the level of harrassment would only increase... I don't know.
And on top of all this hourly work, I'm supposed to be writing my masters thesis/dissertation. I'm not even done reading for it. Fortunately, I was talking to a fellow coursemate this past week and she's in pretty much the same spot, but anyways... Yeah. Let me tell you just how impossible it is to read Blanchot while listening to Back in Black by AC/DC and telling Veronicka once again that she has to have her commission money to Craig by 2 am. I finally finished the essay in response to Hersey's Heroshima Saturday night, but the combination of depravity in the club and the image of trying to pull washerwomen from a rising tide and having their skin come off like gloves in your hands was too much for me. I don't know how I'm going to balance this. Normally I'd have a drink and walk it off, but I don't have the time...
The work at the club desk is now both Friday and Saturday, and while the additional money is nice, I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. But I have a feeling my rent is about to jump, and I'm barely making it as it is. Le sigh... dammit.
So, as most know, it's hella expensive to live in Aberdeen, as opposed to the States. On the surface, it looks like things cost the same, but then one must take into account the exchange rate, and if you happen to consider this while grocery shopping, your joints will grind to a halt and you'll find yourself completely unable to move, much less place that wedge of cheese in your basket.
Ergo, I work at just about every random job you can imagine, dear reader-- not because I like playing with cats or shepherding drunks, but because I need the money. Rent, groceries, the occasional pint: it all takes funding. Right now, I've got four basic part-time jobs, one of which is primarily seasonal. Firstly, (and most infrequently) I'm a house-sitter/child-minder/dog-walker/cat-feeder extraordinaire. No joke. However, it's only recently that I've been paid to house-sit, and that was a welcome improvement. I mostly provide these services for my faculty and related members of academia, and it provides a little pocket cash every once in a while, but it's hardly possible to depend on it. Secondly, I work with a photography firm that does graduation services around the north of England and Scotland. Again, this is all dependent upon when the services are and which contracts the company snaps up and all that. There will be another spate of them in the fall, but we're pretty quiet at the moment, which is too bad because it really is a good daily wage. Thirdly, we have the club. Now, there are two different establishments in this particular building, four bars in total with two seperate cash desks. I was originally hired to work the upstairs desk, the one leading to the 80s music review which allows teens and 40-somethings alike to dress ridiculously and groove to Prince and other vintage tunes. It's only open on Friday and Saturdays, and I only worked Saturdays-- this left Friday for general carousal and debauchery when I could afford it. More on this turn of events later. My fourth soucre of employment is at a wine shop. It's a nice little place, about 50 paces from the door of where I'm currently living, and all in all a good fit. I get on decently well with my co-workers and apart from once issue haven't had any problems with the manager (who is wound so tight, I think he irons his socks). The best part of the job is that it's close to the house and there's a staff discount. No joke.
But back to the club. Now, your friend Miss Melville has never denied being a bit of a prude. I like to think of it as being classy, but whatever. And I've been known to toss a few back in my day, I won't deny it. However, the number of drunk, lerching folk I've seen tumble in and out of the door of the club has been enough to really put me off the cheap booze recently. And then they went one better: I got transferred to the other cash desk. You see, children, the downstairs of this building, all owned by the same to men, is a strip club.
I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.
I know take a 6-pound cover from men who want to enjoy the poffered goods of what claims to be the premiere lapdance club in Scotland. Ah, goooooo, good sir. On the up side, I'm learning an awful lot about the industry and how it functions and a new subculture of foreign girls who barely speak english trying to make it here in the UK and sending money back to their families. As a sidenote, apparent the sharks to do send the money to Romania won't accept Scottish bank notes, and this is a perpetual issue. Inga is constantly asking me if I have English notes, and at first I was simply annoyed because it disrupted my counting system. I finally asked the assistant manager/bouncer about it, and he told me the deal. Now, I set them aside.
I've worked pleanty of scummy jobs in my young life-- most noteably, the third shift at the gas station in Michigan's Prison City. I chatted with hookers, brewed awful coffee, swept the lot, gave away day old hot dogs to bums and generally held down the fort through the long dark hours. But this is a whole new level of sleeze. I sorta understand the young bucks who come in for a stag do or with a bunch of buddies. It's the ones who come in by themselves, collar up and sober, who creep me out the most. Then there's the older guys who are in by themselves every day of the week. I was told yesterday that this place is open every night of the week, 365 days a year. Which means that good old Donna from Down Undah is bending herself around the pole on Christmas Eve, New Years Day and Easter Sunday. There's something that I find cripplingly sad in that.
Now, I just sit behind the desk and take money. I don't dress like one of the girls-- in fact, I pull my hair back and wear a fleece because it's cold by the open door. Yet, I still get harrassed. On Saturday night, the best man in one of the stag parties leaned over the desk, clasped my face and full-out laid one on me, and before I had time to react was out the door. Stunned. Who does that? Then there's the older guys to persist in asking if I'll walk them home. Usually the bouncers shuffle them along, but they usually have more dangerous things to see to, and I can normally take care of myself. But if they harrass mousey old me this much, what are they saying to the poor dancers? The manager, who is a proper hard nose, asked me how I felt about working behind the bar. Now, while I think it would be a useful thing to have some bar experience on my resume, I'm not sure that I want it at a strip club. And it would mean different hours AGAIN, and I'm sure the level of harrassment would only increase... I don't know.
And on top of all this hourly work, I'm supposed to be writing my masters thesis/dissertation. I'm not even done reading for it. Fortunately, I was talking to a fellow coursemate this past week and she's in pretty much the same spot, but anyways... Yeah. Let me tell you just how impossible it is to read Blanchot while listening to Back in Black by AC/DC and telling Veronicka once again that she has to have her commission money to Craig by 2 am. I finally finished the essay in response to Hersey's Heroshima Saturday night, but the combination of depravity in the club and the image of trying to pull washerwomen from a rising tide and having their skin come off like gloves in your hands was too much for me. I don't know how I'm going to balance this. Normally I'd have a drink and walk it off, but I don't have the time...
The work at the club desk is now both Friday and Saturday, and while the additional money is nice, I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. But I have a feeling my rent is about to jump, and I'm barely making it as it is. Le sigh... dammit.
Friday, November 2, 2007
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.
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.
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