As I begin typing this post, I am sat in the departure lounge at Dulles International Airport, Washington DC. It is much like any other airport lounge. The same rows of black less-than-comfortable chairs, the same shitty little kid banging his plastic toy on the back of my seat while simultaneously screaming at an exhaustingly passive-looking mother (who says men can't multi-task?!), the same elderly couple nibbling biscuits, you catch my drift. Though despite all the sameness, everything is about to change for me - again. Or I suppose it's more a return to my former normality. But it's still change nonetheless.
Of course in the intervening time since my last post I had a visit from a certain someone I've been missing a lot from my general life. The day Graham flew out I was both highly excited and really rather nervous. Kinda like how I felt as a kid at the thought of a fat, bearded man creeping into my room on Christmas Eve and nomming on the sweet treats I'd left by my bed. Obviously as soon as he walked through the arrivals doors all that crap disappeared and I was just inanely, disgustingly happy to see him. I may have even cried. Though if you tell anyone I'll deny it.
We had a tremendous holiday together. Definite highlight being the Segway tour of DC on my birthday. Never have I felt and looked like such an enormous twat and had such a good time. And obviously NYC was brilliant as always. It looked a little glum, lots of scaffolding had been erected in the wake of the whore who shall not be named (Sandy I'm looking at you - I'm pretty much convinced it was the spirit of Olivia Newton-John inflicting her anger at being forever typecast upon the American population), but other than that it was still pretty special. So much good food, so much good drink and a great city. And that was it really for my entire US adventure. Apart from packing. Much packing and sweating. Packing, sweating and panicking.
So back at Dulles; as I walked onto the tin can that would soon be carrying me home, masquerading as an airplane but really concealing its true identity as a poisonous gas canister, filled with a lethal cocktail of stale farts, vomit and chemically inferior coffee, I reflected on my time in DC, and what I would be leaving behind.
I'm proud of what I achieved there. I learnt a lot in my job and had a great time with my colleagues - who really made it for me at the office. I gained loads of new chums and besties from all over the US - widening my net of people whose couches I can crash on while I steadily take over the world. I'm privileged to have met these crazy bastards; and goddamn I fell in love with them. Hard. All my Greystone homies. And of course, Apartment 1117. :)
I remember being terrified when I first made the trip out for my six month stint. I'd never done anything like that before and I had absolutely no idea what to expect. But now I really know the true meaning of bittersweet having left DC. Driving past all the monuments in my way to the airport served as reminder after reminder of everything great I've done here and all the once in a lifetime experiences I've had.
I have absolutely no regrets. Not one. Well maybe apart from picking my used napkin out of the crotch of the older businessman next to me on the plane just now.
Anyway. My flight to London is being called. See you later, buddies.
Ciao,
Xxx
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
We're all Going-slash-Went on a Summer LOLiday.
It was a warm day in late summer. A gentle breeze caressed the air and ruffled the leaves, like a peeping tom under a lady's petticoats, as she made her way out of the house. The intrepid traveller caught a train, then another train and then a bus to get to her destination. Even though the trains were, inexplicably, as hot as a fat man's armpit and the bus was as cold as a witch's nipple she did not mind. For today she would see her parents for the first time in years. OK well, not years per se. But four months feels like a pretty fucking long time. Especially to someone like me who has a maturity of fortitude similar to that of a baby panda.
When I saw them come through the doors into the arrivals hall, I can't deny I got a bit teary. My oestrogen levels must have been through the roof. I honestly felt like I was some bewildered extra in a scene that had been cut from the end credits of Love Actually. Mum was running toward me; I was running into pillars and railings due to the watery blur forming in my eyeballs. It was all very straight-to-DVD family movie.
So we pulled ourselves together, reigned in our emotions like excitable sheep back in their pens, and headed back into DC. We spent the first few days going around DC, seeing all the sights; me acting like some kind of dubious tour guide from Slovenia who'd learnt about America from ancient episodes of Friends and Cheers; "...And here we have the Lincoln Memorial..." "Chlo I think that's the Jefferson Memorial." Womp. In my defence DC has so many bloody memorials it's pretty frackin' difficult to keep track, OK? These people surrriously heart their presidents.
We did a tour of the Capitol building, visited the National Museum of American History, the White House, Jazz in the Garden at the National Gallery of Art where I got pretty bungalowed on a few glasses of sangria (I think my mother was rather disappointed that she had somehow bred a daughter who couldn't hold her liquor satisfactorily) and my parents inevitably whipped out their (questionable) trademark dance moves. We did the Air and Space Museum - outside which Dad had one of the most difficult and perplexing experiences of buying a Diet Coke at a McDonald's that anyone has ever had, and I showed them my office and Georgetown.
We only had three days so couldn't fit everything in, so the time for us to pick up our hire car and hit the road came around fast. I somehow landed the role of navigator to our first stop in Front Royal, Virginia where we would join the Skyline Drive through Shenandoah National Park. This was perhaps an unwise choice considering my debatable ability to read a map. I eventually got us there after a lot of excitement about being on 'Route 66' (I even played the song and everything). Though we later came to realise (mostly through singing along with the song and it dawning on us that none of the place names were correlating, rather than actually having any tangible evidence) that 'Route 66' and 'Interstate 66', the latter of which we were using, are two different roads. *sadface*.
After a night spent in Front Royal, we hit the Skyline Drive which was beautiful. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how much of a scaredy-cat you are) we saw no black bears; the promise of which had previously hung oh-so tantalisingly in the air. We were rewarded only with a couple of deer on the side of the road - which Dad insisted he stop the car and photograph, despite England not actually being that short of deer itself. But apparently according to my father's somewhat abnormal rationale Virginian deer sightings are a rarity akin to spotting a puma loose on Tooting Broadway.
After the Skyline drive we went onwards to Williamsburg, one of the original British colonial towns back at the beginning of (American) time when we, the British, basically gave the yanks life all those 400 years ago (pfft...you're welcome, guys. Try being 1000 years old). It was a beautiful little place, full of people wandering around in old colonial dress and greeting each other as if they were actually still living in the 17th century. Makes for a somewhat incongruous experience trying to take a picture of them with your iPhone while they're doing needlepoint and making old-school jam in a big vat to choruses of "Good morrow, sir!"
Then it was onwards to Delaware for beaches and shopping. Unfortunately the weather had begun to take a turn for the worse so we were sceptical as to whether we'd get any opportunity at all to burn our pasty English bods in the fiery East Coast sun (unfortunately this doesn't apply to Dad who just turns an annoyingly nicer shade of brown, Mauritian chump). But miraculously, we had one day of perfect, cloudlessly sunny weather, and I was suitably burned enough to be satisfied with my UV exposure. So we spent the next couple of days shopping and chilling. The promise of sales tax-free goods was just too tantalising to ignore. And we rejoiced in the fact that if something was marked as being $8.99 - it actually fucking WAS $8.99. Heavens above and joy of joys. The bane of my FREAKING existence over here is repeatedly that prices are not what they first appear, and then suddenly you're that foreign arsehole holding up the queue scrabbling for extra quarters at the cash register. Oh and BY THE WAY, all American coins look EXACTLY the same, I have no idea how these people survive. For one - 5c coins are bigger than 10c coins - WHERE IS THE LOGIC IN THAT? Plus why there is no coin denomination above 25c is just beyond me. Is it only me who is stupefied by this? Or am I just going steadily insane? I guess we will never know - until I have tied a bag of those nonsensical coins to my feet and thrown myself in the ocean.
OK I've calmed down a bit now. A good rant will do that, I'm also pretty sure I've shed a few pounds of molten anger.
In summation, it was a wonderful holiday and I was really sad to see the parentals go. Now I'm seriously counting down the days until Graham gets here and we can have my 24th birthday/reunion celebrations. Everything is booked. The hotels, the trains, even the 3-hour Segway tour round DC. Oh yes, people. If you are having trouble imagining a scenario in which Graham and I are let loose on what are, essentially, motorised wheelbarrows - I refer you to the below documentary footage...
When I saw them come through the doors into the arrivals hall, I can't deny I got a bit teary. My oestrogen levels must have been through the roof. I honestly felt like I was some bewildered extra in a scene that had been cut from the end credits of Love Actually. Mum was running toward me; I was running into pillars and railings due to the watery blur forming in my eyeballs. It was all very straight-to-DVD family movie.
So we pulled ourselves together, reigned in our emotions like excitable sheep back in their pens, and headed back into DC. We spent the first few days going around DC, seeing all the sights; me acting like some kind of dubious tour guide from Slovenia who'd learnt about America from ancient episodes of Friends and Cheers; "...And here we have the Lincoln Memorial..." "Chlo I think that's the Jefferson Memorial." Womp. In my defence DC has so many bloody memorials it's pretty frackin' difficult to keep track, OK? These people surrriously heart their presidents.
We did a tour of the Capitol building, visited the National Museum of American History, the White House, Jazz in the Garden at the National Gallery of Art where I got pretty bungalowed on a few glasses of sangria (I think my mother was rather disappointed that she had somehow bred a daughter who couldn't hold her liquor satisfactorily) and my parents inevitably whipped out their (questionable) trademark dance moves. We did the Air and Space Museum - outside which Dad had one of the most difficult and perplexing experiences of buying a Diet Coke at a McDonald's that anyone has ever had, and I showed them my office and Georgetown.
We only had three days so couldn't fit everything in, so the time for us to pick up our hire car and hit the road came around fast. I somehow landed the role of navigator to our first stop in Front Royal, Virginia where we would join the Skyline Drive through Shenandoah National Park. This was perhaps an unwise choice considering my debatable ability to read a map. I eventually got us there after a lot of excitement about being on 'Route 66' (I even played the song and everything). Though we later came to realise (mostly through singing along with the song and it dawning on us that none of the place names were correlating, rather than actually having any tangible evidence) that 'Route 66' and 'Interstate 66', the latter of which we were using, are two different roads. *sadface*.
After a night spent in Front Royal, we hit the Skyline Drive which was beautiful. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how much of a scaredy-cat you are) we saw no black bears; the promise of which had previously hung oh-so tantalisingly in the air. We were rewarded only with a couple of deer on the side of the road - which Dad insisted he stop the car and photograph, despite England not actually being that short of deer itself. But apparently according to my father's somewhat abnormal rationale Virginian deer sightings are a rarity akin to spotting a puma loose on Tooting Broadway.
After the Skyline drive we went onwards to Williamsburg, one of the original British colonial towns back at the beginning of (American) time when we, the British, basically gave the yanks life all those 400 years ago (pfft...you're welcome, guys. Try being 1000 years old). It was a beautiful little place, full of people wandering around in old colonial dress and greeting each other as if they were actually still living in the 17th century. Makes for a somewhat incongruous experience trying to take a picture of them with your iPhone while they're doing needlepoint and making old-school jam in a big vat to choruses of "Good morrow, sir!"
Then it was onwards to Delaware for beaches and shopping. Unfortunately the weather had begun to take a turn for the worse so we were sceptical as to whether we'd get any opportunity at all to burn our pasty English bods in the fiery East Coast sun (unfortunately this doesn't apply to Dad who just turns an annoyingly nicer shade of brown, Mauritian chump). But miraculously, we had one day of perfect, cloudlessly sunny weather, and I was suitably burned enough to be satisfied with my UV exposure. So we spent the next couple of days shopping and chilling. The promise of sales tax-free goods was just too tantalising to ignore. And we rejoiced in the fact that if something was marked as being $8.99 - it actually fucking WAS $8.99. Heavens above and joy of joys. The bane of my FREAKING existence over here is repeatedly that prices are not what they first appear, and then suddenly you're that foreign arsehole holding up the queue scrabbling for extra quarters at the cash register. Oh and BY THE WAY, all American coins look EXACTLY the same, I have no idea how these people survive. For one - 5c coins are bigger than 10c coins - WHERE IS THE LOGIC IN THAT? Plus why there is no coin denomination above 25c is just beyond me. Is it only me who is stupefied by this? Or am I just going steadily insane? I guess we will never know - until I have tied a bag of those nonsensical coins to my feet and thrown myself in the ocean.
OK I've calmed down a bit now. A good rant will do that, I'm also pretty sure I've shed a few pounds of molten anger.
In summation, it was a wonderful holiday and I was really sad to see the parentals go. Now I'm seriously counting down the days until Graham gets here and we can have my 24th birthday/reunion celebrations. Everything is booked. The hotels, the trains, even the 3-hour Segway tour round DC. Oh yes, people. If you are having trouble imagining a scenario in which Graham and I are let loose on what are, essentially, motorised wheelbarrows - I refer you to the below documentary footage...
Stay tuned folks...I promise not to be so unacceptably tardy with my post next time.
Lots of love xx
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Sing When You're Bi-Winning
So last night I gave my vocal chords the first proper exercise they've had in a long time. I mean apart from gargling my way through Beyoncé's back catalogue in the shower (one time I was so physically emphatic during a bathroom performance of Déja Vu that my foot gave way and I came pathetically close to having to learn the alphabet again).
One of my colleagues and I both love to sing. We were both in a cappella groups and loved it. A LOT. So when she told me that there was a bar in D.C. that did karaoke every Wednesday night with a live band (the Hill Country BBQ, for anyone interested), I was like the proverbial kid at Christmas, wriggling about in bed in a Rudolph onesie. I love singing with a band, always have - and I couldn't believe I'd never really heard of karaoke being done this way before. Seemingly in England we prefer our karaoke to a soundtrack of wailing, synthesised saxophones and trumpets that sound more like a fart than a musical instrument.
Somewhat predictably though, as soon as I had signed up to sing, I began feeling somewhat trepidatious. I hadn't sung in front of a crowd in a really long time. And the crowd in this darkly lit, over-crowded and frankly rather large bar was intimidating. Curse my execrable nervousness! Plus, not to blow my own horn or anything, but I'm not a bad singer and I refuse point blank to ever let myself do a shoddy job of singing to a crowd - so enter the additional fear that the audience will share one collective thought: "Who the fuck does this chick think she is?"
Having said this, the atmosphere in the bar was unbelievably good. Everyone's inhibitions were suitably lowered from the copious amounts of alcohol being served in what can only be described as large Nutella jars, which in turn led to some hilarious, if not technically classed as 'good', performances. A particular favourite was the nerdy man in inexplicably high trousers who got up and shouted Hey Soul Sister. It was also a tad high for him so his voice would crack periodically, making him sound like a choir boy who's bollocks were dropping at that very moment.
But anyway, two beers down the line it was almost my turn. Adeline went up before me and did an awesome cover of Don't Stop Believing. I was so impressed. Plus the entire bar erupted and was singing along. I was fully expecting to go straight after her, but of course, unlucky as I am, they chose Adeline's song as the final one before the intermission. And so my nervous wait continued a while longer. I was also beginning to regret my choice of song. I had decided to do Etta James's 'At Last', but everyone else was doing these up-tempo numbers. Cue additional fear number 3: Destroying the mood of the room with my slow, serious song. Plus my mouth had gone dry. The world, it seems, was working against me.
Finally it was my turn. In my haste I essentially threw my handbag at Adeline but retained my beer in a manner not unlike a plane-crash survivor to an inflatable ring in the ocean. I half-ran to the stage - spilling a girl's drink in the process and ambled up in front of the band. The bassist convivially made fun of my accent when I told him what I was singing and then they started to play. Obvs in those first few seconds during the intro I was terrified but when I sang the first two words of the song and the audience realised what I was singing - they cheered and I felt so much better. I enjoyed it a ridiculous amount. I'd forgotten just how gratifying it is to sing in front of a great crowd. I managed to stay in key and even get in a couple of trills and licks in that didn't go too badly. There was a couple that even got up and slow danced, catering to my misguided fantasy that I was Beyoncé singing at Obama's inauguration.
The relief and excitement that I experienced during and after the performance was totally worth the nerves, even though I want to punch myself in the ovaries for even experiencing karaoke nerves in the first place. Safe to say I will definitely going back in the future. They even specialise in BBQ and apparently it's awesome. Could a better place ever exist? I don't think so.
Now I'm off for a tour of the Capitol, given by my lovely Elizabeth and then some delicious Chick fil-A. They don't like the gays but apparently they make GREAT chicken.
Laters, baby. xx
One of my colleagues and I both love to sing. We were both in a cappella groups and loved it. A LOT. So when she told me that there was a bar in D.C. that did karaoke every Wednesday night with a live band (the Hill Country BBQ, for anyone interested), I was like the proverbial kid at Christmas, wriggling about in bed in a Rudolph onesie. I love singing with a band, always have - and I couldn't believe I'd never really heard of karaoke being done this way before. Seemingly in England we prefer our karaoke to a soundtrack of wailing, synthesised saxophones and trumpets that sound more like a fart than a musical instrument.
Somewhat predictably though, as soon as I had signed up to sing, I began feeling somewhat trepidatious. I hadn't sung in front of a crowd in a really long time. And the crowd in this darkly lit, over-crowded and frankly rather large bar was intimidating. Curse my execrable nervousness! Plus, not to blow my own horn or anything, but I'm not a bad singer and I refuse point blank to ever let myself do a shoddy job of singing to a crowd - so enter the additional fear that the audience will share one collective thought: "Who the fuck does this chick think she is?"
Having said this, the atmosphere in the bar was unbelievably good. Everyone's inhibitions were suitably lowered from the copious amounts of alcohol being served in what can only be described as large Nutella jars, which in turn led to some hilarious, if not technically classed as 'good', performances. A particular favourite was the nerdy man in inexplicably high trousers who got up and shouted Hey Soul Sister. It was also a tad high for him so his voice would crack periodically, making him sound like a choir boy who's bollocks were dropping at that very moment.
But anyway, two beers down the line it was almost my turn. Adeline went up before me and did an awesome cover of Don't Stop Believing. I was so impressed. Plus the entire bar erupted and was singing along. I was fully expecting to go straight after her, but of course, unlucky as I am, they chose Adeline's song as the final one before the intermission. And so my nervous wait continued a while longer. I was also beginning to regret my choice of song. I had decided to do Etta James's 'At Last', but everyone else was doing these up-tempo numbers. Cue additional fear number 3: Destroying the mood of the room with my slow, serious song. Plus my mouth had gone dry. The world, it seems, was working against me.
Finally it was my turn. In my haste I essentially threw my handbag at Adeline but retained my beer in a manner not unlike a plane-crash survivor to an inflatable ring in the ocean. I half-ran to the stage - spilling a girl's drink in the process and ambled up in front of the band. The bassist convivially made fun of my accent when I told him what I was singing and then they started to play. Obvs in those first few seconds during the intro I was terrified but when I sang the first two words of the song and the audience realised what I was singing - they cheered and I felt so much better. I enjoyed it a ridiculous amount. I'd forgotten just how gratifying it is to sing in front of a great crowd. I managed to stay in key and even get in a couple of trills and licks in that didn't go too badly. There was a couple that even got up and slow danced, catering to my misguided fantasy that I was Beyoncé singing at Obama's inauguration.
The relief and excitement that I experienced during and after the performance was totally worth the nerves, even though I want to punch myself in the ovaries for even experiencing karaoke nerves in the first place. Safe to say I will definitely going back in the future. They even specialise in BBQ and apparently it's awesome. Could a better place ever exist? I don't think so.
Now I'm off for a tour of the Capitol, given by my lovely Elizabeth and then some delicious Chick fil-A. They don't like the gays but apparently they make GREAT chicken.
Laters, baby. xx
Monday, July 30, 2012
This is our kiddie pool...
Look how delightful it is.
(Credit to Elizabeth for an excellent photographic capture)
(Credit to Elizabeth for an excellent photographic capture)
Friday, July 27, 2012
Hiatus Terminus
What-up bitches?! I apologise for my blogospheric absence. I can sense you have missed me. I know that you have been simply unable to continue with life under the burdensome pressure of anticipation for my next post. Well fear not, I am back with an incandescently intellectual and amusing post to illuminate and soothe the raw void I have so carelessly left in my trans-Atlantic wake.
So, what have I been up to since my last post? Well, many things.
First off: I have entered into a volatile love/hate relationship with the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. I am currently part way through the second book and I will say that critics didn't brand it "mommy porn" for no reason. It feels as if the content was plagiarised in its entirety from the tear-soaked libidinous fantasies of frustrated suburban housewives. Plus the writing style is so awkward it detracts completely from what could be some pretty decent sex scenes. At random points the author will shove in some incongruously brainy word which I then have to look up, like 'avuncular' or 'querulous'. It pisses me off and is so jarring against the otherwise shoddy quality of the writing. The persistent references to Elena Lincoln as a 'pedo', overuse of the phrase "holy crap" and Christian exclaiming; "You are Aphrodite, Anastasia." at her while she is naked all make me do a little bit of sick in my mouth. And if she refers to his "just fucked" hair one more time so help me I will punch a bitch. Plus I absolutely hate Ana. She is a hatefully wimpy human being with what seems to be a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia. She'll veer spectacularly between plucky and spirited to neurotic, whiny and clingy. So basically she's that girl you always avoided at school and parties. Then again - I realise I have no grounds to really complain as it is a dirty book and I'm just gonna keep on reading the shit out of it. Ana is therefore rendered inconsequential. If Christian is really as beautiful as he is described (*AHEM*Ryan Gosling*AHEM*Christian Bale) then I don't give no fucks. She is no more than an empty vehicle through which I vicariously experience these lascivious affairs. One might even say I am guy-winning.
On a slightly less debased note my inaugural 4th July celebrations were indeed, wonderfully American. Festivities began on the 3rd with a shin-dig at my workmate Lindsey's house. Everything was delightfully red white and blue, even the rice crispy treats and cocktails! The night then gradually descended into furious games of Articulate and playing with various (real, though unloaded) guns. The epically phallic shotgun and WW2 rifle being highlights. So thank you to the kind gentleman (whose name has slipped my mind) who literally took me to the gun show. On July 4th, my house mate had invited me to her aunt's house for a BBQ. It really was the most wonderful spread ever. SO much food and SO much beer. The ultimate combination, which was then topped off which a tequila shot and a Stars and Stripes cupcake. Standard. On we staggered to Elizabeth's office, right next to the Capitol building to watch the fireworks over the National Mall and drink yet more beer. No bad thing. It was particularly moving/hilarious when the fireworks ended, and the entire balcony erupted into a beer-fuelled chorus of "U-S-A!! U-S-A!! U-S-A!!" I would have joined in but but I am neither cool enough nor American enough to pull that off. It would have just been awkward if I had - considering the very nature of the day. In fact, throughout the evening, several people heard me speaking all Bri'ish 'n' that and then proceeded to ask me if it was kind of awkward to for me to be here on Independence Day. My immediate reaction was to go, "What? Of course not! Why would it be?! Bitches be cray-cray." Then gradually as I thought about it I realised; yes, it probably is a bit, considering they are celebrating independence from the British. And I, as a British person, represent the shackles that oppressed them and the grievous fervour with which they longed for freedom from the Empire. So I began muttering about how they just wish they had invented Cornish pasties and apologising profusely for the Boston Tea Party (not really).
So what else have I done recently? Highlights have included visiting the Smithsonian Air and Space museum TWICE when it has been closed to the public. Once to see the director of NASA Charles Bolden give a lecture, and the second time for the midnight première of The Dark Knight Rises - a film about which I am now obsessed. Like, really. Though I did find it hilarious that essentially everyone from Inception was in it except poor old Leo De-Caff. Oh and Ellen 'MightBeaHermaphroditeButIStillLoveHer' Page. Suffice it to say I cried like an 8 year old mama's boy at the end and am now badgering everyone I know to take me with them if they go so I can see it again in all its cl-IMAX-ical glory.
It's a bit of a weird time at Greystone, everyone is starting to think about packing up and going home - as their summers are coming to an end. Whereas I am going NO PLACE FAST. The idea that I will be here till DECEMBER is freaking me out for shiz. It still seems like such a long way away. It is also a long time to continue to deal with sinks piled high with dirty dishes and smelly bins and fridges. I'm guessing that by September I will have added to the mess with the splatter of my brains all over the cheap, filthy cookware. Yeah, I'm dark now.
Anywho, I'm off to attempt not to sweat. An exercise in futility if ever there was one.
xx
So, what have I been up to since my last post? Well, many things.
First off: I have entered into a volatile love/hate relationship with the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy. I am currently part way through the second book and I will say that critics didn't brand it "mommy porn" for no reason. It feels as if the content was plagiarised in its entirety from the tear-soaked libidinous fantasies of frustrated suburban housewives. Plus the writing style is so awkward it detracts completely from what could be some pretty decent sex scenes. At random points the author will shove in some incongruously brainy word which I then have to look up, like 'avuncular' or 'querulous'. It pisses me off and is so jarring against the otherwise shoddy quality of the writing. The persistent references to Elena Lincoln as a 'pedo', overuse of the phrase "holy crap" and Christian exclaiming; "You are Aphrodite, Anastasia." at her while she is naked all make me do a little bit of sick in my mouth. And if she refers to his "just fucked" hair one more time so help me I will punch a bitch. Plus I absolutely hate Ana. She is a hatefully wimpy human being with what seems to be a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia. She'll veer spectacularly between plucky and spirited to neurotic, whiny and clingy. So basically she's that girl you always avoided at school and parties. Then again - I realise I have no grounds to really complain as it is a dirty book and I'm just gonna keep on reading the shit out of it. Ana is therefore rendered inconsequential. If Christian is really as beautiful as he is described (*AHEM*Ryan Gosling*AHEM*Christian Bale) then I don't give no fucks. She is no more than an empty vehicle through which I vicariously experience these lascivious affairs. One might even say I am guy-winning.
On a slightly less debased note my inaugural 4th July celebrations were indeed, wonderfully American. Festivities began on the 3rd with a shin-dig at my workmate Lindsey's house. Everything was delightfully red white and blue, even the rice crispy treats and cocktails! The night then gradually descended into furious games of Articulate and playing with various (real, though unloaded) guns. The epically phallic shotgun and WW2 rifle being highlights. So thank you to the kind gentleman (whose name has slipped my mind) who literally took me to the gun show. On July 4th, my house mate had invited me to her aunt's house for a BBQ. It really was the most wonderful spread ever. SO much food and SO much beer. The ultimate combination, which was then topped off which a tequila shot and a Stars and Stripes cupcake. Standard. On we staggered to Elizabeth's office, right next to the Capitol building to watch the fireworks over the National Mall and drink yet more beer. No bad thing. It was particularly moving/hilarious when the fireworks ended, and the entire balcony erupted into a beer-fuelled chorus of "U-S-A!! U-S-A!! U-S-A!!" I would have joined in but but I am neither cool enough nor American enough to pull that off. It would have just been awkward if I had - considering the very nature of the day. In fact, throughout the evening, several people heard me speaking all Bri'ish 'n' that and then proceeded to ask me if it was kind of awkward to for me to be here on Independence Day. My immediate reaction was to go, "What? Of course not! Why would it be?! Bitches be cray-cray." Then gradually as I thought about it I realised; yes, it probably is a bit, considering they are celebrating independence from the British. And I, as a British person, represent the shackles that oppressed them and the grievous fervour with which they longed for freedom from the Empire. So I began muttering about how they just wish they had invented Cornish pasties and apologising profusely for the Boston Tea Party (not really).
So what else have I done recently? Highlights have included visiting the Smithsonian Air and Space museum TWICE when it has been closed to the public. Once to see the director of NASA Charles Bolden give a lecture, and the second time for the midnight première of The Dark Knight Rises - a film about which I am now obsessed. Like, really. Though I did find it hilarious that essentially everyone from Inception was in it except poor old Leo De-Caff. Oh and Ellen 'MightBeaHermaphroditeButIStillLoveHer' Page. Suffice it to say I cried like an 8 year old mama's boy at the end and am now badgering everyone I know to take me with them if they go so I can see it again in all its cl-IMAX-ical glory.
It's a bit of a weird time at Greystone, everyone is starting to think about packing up and going home - as their summers are coming to an end. Whereas I am going NO PLACE FAST. The idea that I will be here till DECEMBER is freaking me out for shiz. It still seems like such a long way away. It is also a long time to continue to deal with sinks piled high with dirty dishes and smelly bins and fridges. I'm guessing that by September I will have added to the mess with the splatter of my brains all over the cheap, filthy cookware. Yeah, I'm dark now.
Anywho, I'm off to attempt not to sweat. An exercise in futility if ever there was one.
xx
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Arresting Development
A few things have developed recently:
Number 1: In a turn of events that would shatter the foundations of all people know and believe about me; I am turning into a country music fan. Not the sad 'got-my-face-kicked-in-by-the-cows-on-the-farm' shitty stuff, but the happy, yodel-tastic 'hackey-sackin-by-the-swamp' stuff. In particular Keith Urban. That guy shits all over the genre; in a lovely way. Does this mark the official beginning of my convergence to all things yank (yeah yeah I know; Keith is technically Antipodean)? I don't think so, so I wouldn't wet your pants just yet. It'll be a bit of Kool Keith to lighten the mood then swiftly followed by Frank Turner profaning with his signature poetic eloquence about the merits of being English.
Number 2: I find myself now really hamming up my English accent, talkin' all proper an' that in an effort to remain interesting and exotic. My US buds seem to love it, and I remain the (probably misguided) authority on the ways of the Brits, teaching the yanks of our excellent ways so that our cultures may co-exist peacefully in the warm glow of understanding. I have proffered knowledge on everything from how the royal family works and the prevalence of London gangs down to why we call 'panties' knickers and 'graham crackers' digestive biscuits (a revelation that has horrified my house mates, though from a purely semantic standpoint 'biscuit' is far more appropriate than cracker, crackers are SAVOURY for God's sake). I do worry that the novelty of my accent is wearing off though, so I have (somewhat desperately) started to swear in an overtly British manner. "Shitting fucksticks" and "bellend" are particular favourites. You may glean from this that I'm just as classy in the States as I am at home...
I am witty here in the ol' U.S. of A. Honest. More so than I feel I am in the UK. The other day I even made an excellent pharma-related joke about strawpedo-ing (we were having a work happy hour out on our terrace by the canal - so it wasn't just me being my usual booze-obsessed self). Needless to say to an audience of fellow pharma-marketers I believe it was a great success. Though it could just be my narcissism flaring up again.
Actually an odd thing happened the other day. My desk is outside the CEO's office, and I was innocently having a jovial chat with one of my colleagues. The CEO came out and told me that he was listening to me talk, and that I reminded him of Brynn (aka Matt Lucas's half-witted sister) from Bridesmaids. I wasn't entirely sure how to take that. I pray that he wasn't drawing any physical comparisons. Otherwise I might have returned home and impaled myself on one of the Stars and Stripes lanterns we have stuck in the ground in our front garden. On the flip side; even if he was referring only to the way in which I spoke, I wondered if; from my conversational manner, he was simply drawing the conclusion that I am a flaming imbecile and was too polite to state it outright.
Number 3: I am becoming increasingly and more intensively distraught by having to conform to American grammar and spelling in the workplace. It just feels wrong, and dirty. No, Microsoft I DON'T want to exchange my 's' for a 'z'. Yes, technically it is more phonetically-friendly but we English are cleverer than having to resort to spelling words as they sound. No, Microsoft 'humour' has a 'u' in it. I don't give a shit what you say, stop being afraid of real orthography and trying to dictate my life with it! *sob* *bash head on desk*. But unfortunately, my internal protestations are in vain. I write for a US audience, thus I must bend over and take it. Metaphorically speaking...
Well, off to battle some more with my inner grammar Nazi; you know, write 'er' instead of 're' , turn aluminium into a four-syllable word; the usjj... (if you see on the news that a British girl has thrown herself into the Potomac river, you'll know why.)
Baiii xx
Number 1: In a turn of events that would shatter the foundations of all people know and believe about me; I am turning into a country music fan. Not the sad 'got-my-face-kicked-in-by-the-cows-on-the-farm' shitty stuff, but the happy, yodel-tastic 'hackey-sackin-by-the-swamp' stuff. In particular Keith Urban. That guy shits all over the genre; in a lovely way. Does this mark the official beginning of my convergence to all things yank (yeah yeah I know; Keith is technically Antipodean)? I don't think so, so I wouldn't wet your pants just yet. It'll be a bit of Kool Keith to lighten the mood then swiftly followed by Frank Turner profaning with his signature poetic eloquence about the merits of being English.
Number 2: I find myself now really hamming up my English accent, talkin' all proper an' that in an effort to remain interesting and exotic. My US buds seem to love it, and I remain the (probably misguided) authority on the ways of the Brits, teaching the yanks of our excellent ways so that our cultures may co-exist peacefully in the warm glow of understanding. I have proffered knowledge on everything from how the royal family works and the prevalence of London gangs down to why we call 'panties' knickers and 'graham crackers' digestive biscuits (a revelation that has horrified my house mates, though from a purely semantic standpoint 'biscuit' is far more appropriate than cracker, crackers are SAVOURY for God's sake). I do worry that the novelty of my accent is wearing off though, so I have (somewhat desperately) started to swear in an overtly British manner. "Shitting fucksticks" and "bellend" are particular favourites. You may glean from this that I'm just as classy in the States as I am at home...
I am witty here in the ol' U.S. of A. Honest. More so than I feel I am in the UK. The other day I even made an excellent pharma-related joke about strawpedo-ing (we were having a work happy hour out on our terrace by the canal - so it wasn't just me being my usual booze-obsessed self). Needless to say to an audience of fellow pharma-marketers I believe it was a great success. Though it could just be my narcissism flaring up again.
Actually an odd thing happened the other day. My desk is outside the CEO's office, and I was innocently having a jovial chat with one of my colleagues. The CEO came out and told me that he was listening to me talk, and that I reminded him of Brynn (aka Matt Lucas's half-witted sister) from Bridesmaids. I wasn't entirely sure how to take that. I pray that he wasn't drawing any physical comparisons. Otherwise I might have returned home and impaled myself on one of the Stars and Stripes lanterns we have stuck in the ground in our front garden. On the flip side; even if he was referring only to the way in which I spoke, I wondered if; from my conversational manner, he was simply drawing the conclusion that I am a flaming imbecile and was too polite to state it outright.
Number 3: I am becoming increasingly and more intensively distraught by having to conform to American grammar and spelling in the workplace. It just feels wrong, and dirty. No, Microsoft I DON'T want to exchange my 's' for a 'z'. Yes, technically it is more phonetically-friendly but we English are cleverer than having to resort to spelling words as they sound. No, Microsoft 'humour' has a 'u' in it. I don't give a shit what you say, stop being afraid of real orthography and trying to dictate my life with it! *sob* *bash head on desk*. But unfortunately, my internal protestations are in vain. I write for a US audience, thus I must bend over and take it. Metaphorically speaking...
Well, off to battle some more with my inner grammar Nazi; you know, write 'er' instead of 're' , turn aluminium into a four-syllable word; the usjj... (if you see on the news that a British girl has thrown herself into the Potomac river, you'll know why.)
Baiii xx
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Hot Woman in the City
Sunday was a momentous day.
Sunday marked my 31st day in the country. And for those of you who aren't familiar with how days of the year work; that's a month. Which also marks the longest stretch of time I've spent away from home on my own. Pretty lame for a 23 year old I know, but everyone's different yeah? So shut your cake-hole, you judgmental bum-nugget.
I feel somewhat obliged to discuss the weather here at this juncture. So forgive me for the banality of the forthcoming paragraph. Today, it's disgusting. It's overcast and muggy, has begun to rain, and yet manages to maintain a stupefying level of heat. Basically this city is on a mission to keep me in a constant state of perspiration. Not 30 minutes after I had stepped out of the shower and out of the front door, I felt damp and disgusting. BLEURGH; as the less articulate might say. Though yesterday and over the weekend it was gloriously, brilliantly, skin-scorchingly hot. The poor ceiling fans in our house struggled to keep up with the overbearing demands of a flaming ball of fire in the sky and thus left myself and my housemates slumped in a prolonged state of heat-induced lethargy on the sofas. It's cause for much conversation in our household just how shitting HOT it is downstairs (they keep talking about it being 80 degrees - being English I have literally no idea how to compute that), and if you are unlucky enough to land one of the leather chairs in the living room you may as well have thrown your thighs and buttocks into the oven to convection bake.
Anywho, onto matters of a more emotional nature. As much as I am having an awesome time over here - I have settled into my job, my neighborhood and my house: I miss my family, my friends and my boy. No I haven't suddenly spawned an illegitimate child, I of course refer to my boyfriend (information for the negligible readership of this blog who may not actually know me personally). I miss Graham, the buffoon. It has turned me into that person who witnesses couples embracing in the street and curses them for their idiotic, exasperating happiness. They're just so inane about it. Stupid bastards. That being said I make absolutely no apologies for any over-the-top and frankly rather inappropriate public displays of affection when GeeBo finally rolls into town in November.
The lack of a mobile phone is also not helping. People want to get in touch with me, I mean - I'm pretty important. And it would be nice to be able to shoot my parents and friends a text every now and again, be able to access emails/Facebook/Twitter/Google Maps while I'm out and about. In my fevered state of total smartphone addiction I may as well have gone cold turkey crackhead-stylee and/or have been launched back into the stone age where the only form of communication available was carving messages into cave walls or smoke signalling. Part of me wishes the mobile phone market had never evolved beyond the first Nokia 5510 handset I ever got. It was enormous, comforting, disproportionately heavy for its size and allowed me to talk, text and play Snake. This is all one needs from a mobile phone. These days I find myself literally organising my thoughts into the form of a Facebook status. I'm no expert but I'm almost certain that's a bad sign. Hence why I am loving blogging at the moment, it's somewhat cathartic to be able to articulate my thoughts and feelings into more than 140 characters. It's an art in itself to explore and elaborate, to digress and discuss through extended prose, rather than the literary wasteland of choice (Twitter, I'm looking at you) for the ADD sufferers that are celebrities and the great unwashed alike these days. Wow that was unexpectedly elitist of me, kinda not sorry though. There is too much emphasis put on the sporadic "Quick! Here! Now!" emissions of information these days; no one is in it for the long haul any more.
Woah, got a little deep there. Totally far out. In any case, for those of you who are missing me - and if you are not you are simply excellent at lying to yourself - here is a terrible picture of me that Julia took in beautiful yet death-defying high heels during our epic visit to Nine West in Union Station. See how comfortable (*cough* AWKWARD *cough*) I look?
Sunday marked my 31st day in the country. And for those of you who aren't familiar with how days of the year work; that's a month. Which also marks the longest stretch of time I've spent away from home on my own. Pretty lame for a 23 year old I know, but everyone's different yeah? So shut your cake-hole, you judgmental bum-nugget.
I feel somewhat obliged to discuss the weather here at this juncture. So forgive me for the banality of the forthcoming paragraph. Today, it's disgusting. It's overcast and muggy, has begun to rain, and yet manages to maintain a stupefying level of heat. Basically this city is on a mission to keep me in a constant state of perspiration. Not 30 minutes after I had stepped out of the shower and out of the front door, I felt damp and disgusting. BLEURGH; as the less articulate might say. Though yesterday and over the weekend it was gloriously, brilliantly, skin-scorchingly hot. The poor ceiling fans in our house struggled to keep up with the overbearing demands of a flaming ball of fire in the sky and thus left myself and my housemates slumped in a prolonged state of heat-induced lethargy on the sofas. It's cause for much conversation in our household just how shitting HOT it is downstairs (they keep talking about it being 80 degrees - being English I have literally no idea how to compute that), and if you are unlucky enough to land one of the leather chairs in the living room you may as well have thrown your thighs and buttocks into the oven to convection bake.
Anywho, onto matters of a more emotional nature. As much as I am having an awesome time over here - I have settled into my job, my neighborhood and my house: I miss my family, my friends and my boy. No I haven't suddenly spawned an illegitimate child, I of course refer to my boyfriend (information for the negligible readership of this blog who may not actually know me personally). I miss Graham, the buffoon. It has turned me into that person who witnesses couples embracing in the street and curses them for their idiotic, exasperating happiness. They're just so inane about it. Stupid bastards. That being said I make absolutely no apologies for any over-the-top and frankly rather inappropriate public displays of affection when GeeBo finally rolls into town in November.
The lack of a mobile phone is also not helping. People want to get in touch with me, I mean - I'm pretty important. And it would be nice to be able to shoot my parents and friends a text every now and again, be able to access emails/Facebook/Twitter/Google Maps while I'm out and about. In my fevered state of total smartphone addiction I may as well have gone cold turkey crackhead-stylee and/or have been launched back into the stone age where the only form of communication available was carving messages into cave walls or smoke signalling. Part of me wishes the mobile phone market had never evolved beyond the first Nokia 5510 handset I ever got. It was enormous, comforting, disproportionately heavy for its size and allowed me to talk, text and play Snake. This is all one needs from a mobile phone. These days I find myself literally organising my thoughts into the form of a Facebook status. I'm no expert but I'm almost certain that's a bad sign. Hence why I am loving blogging at the moment, it's somewhat cathartic to be able to articulate my thoughts and feelings into more than 140 characters. It's an art in itself to explore and elaborate, to digress and discuss through extended prose, rather than the literary wasteland of choice (Twitter, I'm looking at you) for the ADD sufferers that are celebrities and the great unwashed alike these days. Wow that was unexpectedly elitist of me, kinda not sorry though. There is too much emphasis put on the sporadic "Quick! Here! Now!" emissions of information these days; no one is in it for the long haul any more.
Woah, got a little deep there. Totally far out. In any case, for those of you who are missing me - and if you are not you are simply excellent at lying to yourself - here is a terrible picture of me that Julia took in beautiful yet death-defying high heels during our epic visit to Nine West in Union Station. See how comfortable (*cough* AWKWARD *cough*) I look?
Until next time, I'm off to blog myself into oblivion (for work purposes only from now on).
Love xx
Friday, June 1, 2012
Bigger. Better. Tastier.
OK so: the bakery across the road from my office (Baked & Wired; for those of you who are interested) has quickly become the epicentre of my universe. This can only mean one thing: BAD Chloe making BAD choices.
S'not my fault, though! Everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) that I try in there tastes like it was baked (or brewed, as the case may be) in God's own personal Aga. Coffees, cakes, brownies, oh MY! Currently I'm drinking a chai latte and nibbling on an onion and goat's cheese scone to supplement the hasty banana I ate this morning while running for the bus. Suffice it to say I'm in a hazy food coma of pleasure.
This is in addition to the divine experience I had in Whole Foods yesterday. I know we have them in England but I've never really bothered going in until now. It was a veritable visual feast: the fruit was neatly arranged in beautiful organically-grown rainbows (somewhat predictably I ended up buying almost one of each thing, making my basket look like a gastro-version of Noah's Arc), the vegetables piled into plump little mounds, the organic bars of handmade soap glistening like a pastel rock face under a waterfall. I felt how I imagine a pervert would feel walking into a brothel.
The only problem with this was that the Whole Foods I visited was near my work, so the divinity of the event was somewhat attenuated by the fact that I then had to lug two heavy (albeit posh brown paper) carrier bags home in the fiery heat of hell. Honestly it was hotter than Satan's ball sack out there. So I arrived home, drenched in sweat from my armpits to my wrists where the weight of the bags had clamped my arms to my sides (yeah, that might be TMI, but watch me not giving a shit) and tenderly laid my precious purchases in the fridges and cupboards. And just like that I was happy again. Especially when I started munching on the chocolate pretzel balls I'd bought. Oh yes.
I hear what you are thinking; it sounds like this girl has an unhealthy co-dependency problem with food. Well; you are probably right. Again: watch me not-care the shit out of that issue. I have cheesy popcorn and succulent watermelon; you don't.
This past week in DC has been a good one. Steadily falling in love with my housemates (yes, I'm talking to you Kenzie, Paige and Elizabeth) who are all crazy loveable bitches. We helped Paige make dinner the other night while she project managed us (which more often than not probably felt more like attempting to control a bunch of excitable three year-olds off their tits on strawberry laces), and I believe it to have been a triumph. Though I may have gotten a bit overexcited with chopping the cheese and thus stripped the meal of its 'healthy' credentials.
There are two new girls who have moved in towards whom I am currently ambivalent. I feel they will need to do a little more work to gain my affection. As obvs it's completely worth the effort. Love me and I will (sometimes) love you in return. That's my morally ambiguous motto.
The highlight of the week was most definitely the fleeting visit I received from Ms. Julia 'Dodgy-Man-Magnet' Root-Gutteridge. Within minutes of arriving in the city and without even exiting the station she had purchased two pairs of beautiful shoes, and I had been offered a job by the extremely camp but lovely store manager at Nine West ("You're cute and fashionable and British; customers will love you!") despite my protestations that I already had a full-time job. After receiving some bar recommendations from the male cashier who was clearly hoping for an invite but where none was forthcoming; we eventually left the station and grabbed some lunch in an Irish pub, ordering what can only be described as a savoury French Toast sandwich. Mega yum.
After returning to my house to shower and freshen up, we headed off in the direction of the nearest bar in Adams Morgan. It turned out that Jules was harbouring a fervent desire to bar-hop - as was I. And bar-hop we did. Starting out with cocktails on a twinkling fairy-lit rooftop at Perrys, then onto a relatively empty karaoke bar, and onwards to a sports bar so Jules could watch the end of the 6'ers game. Needless to say I was placated by her generous purchasing of buffalo wings and nachos. Then onto the Towne Tavern for a spot of boogie-ing and finally a jam-packed club where Jules once again demonstrated her unique and uncanny ability to attract any North-African man within a 20-mile radius.
The next day consisted of a delicious brunch at Clyde's in Georgetown, a spot of shopping along busy M Street, and all too soon there was a mad dash for Jules to catch her train back to Philly. It was truly wonderful to see her and it lifted my spirits immeasurably to have had a little piece of home with me here in the States. Countdown now to my parents' visit in August! Happy days. :)
It's almost the end of the working day now so I'm off to go and get plastered at a nearby bar with some of my brand new friends.
Y'all have a nice day! (I use that salutation ironically, of course) xx
S'not my fault, though! Everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) that I try in there tastes like it was baked (or brewed, as the case may be) in God's own personal Aga. Coffees, cakes, brownies, oh MY! Currently I'm drinking a chai latte and nibbling on an onion and goat's cheese scone to supplement the hasty banana I ate this morning while running for the bus. Suffice it to say I'm in a hazy food coma of pleasure.
This is in addition to the divine experience I had in Whole Foods yesterday. I know we have them in England but I've never really bothered going in until now. It was a veritable visual feast: the fruit was neatly arranged in beautiful organically-grown rainbows (somewhat predictably I ended up buying almost one of each thing, making my basket look like a gastro-version of Noah's Arc), the vegetables piled into plump little mounds, the organic bars of handmade soap glistening like a pastel rock face under a waterfall. I felt how I imagine a pervert would feel walking into a brothel.
The only problem with this was that the Whole Foods I visited was near my work, so the divinity of the event was somewhat attenuated by the fact that I then had to lug two heavy (albeit posh brown paper) carrier bags home in the fiery heat of hell. Honestly it was hotter than Satan's ball sack out there. So I arrived home, drenched in sweat from my armpits to my wrists where the weight of the bags had clamped my arms to my sides (yeah, that might be TMI, but watch me not giving a shit) and tenderly laid my precious purchases in the fridges and cupboards. And just like that I was happy again. Especially when I started munching on the chocolate pretzel balls I'd bought. Oh yes.
I hear what you are thinking; it sounds like this girl has an unhealthy co-dependency problem with food. Well; you are probably right. Again: watch me not-care the shit out of that issue. I have cheesy popcorn and succulent watermelon; you don't.
This past week in DC has been a good one. Steadily falling in love with my housemates (yes, I'm talking to you Kenzie, Paige and Elizabeth) who are all crazy loveable bitches. We helped Paige make dinner the other night while she project managed us (which more often than not probably felt more like attempting to control a bunch of excitable three year-olds off their tits on strawberry laces), and I believe it to have been a triumph. Though I may have gotten a bit overexcited with chopping the cheese and thus stripped the meal of its 'healthy' credentials.
There are two new girls who have moved in towards whom I am currently ambivalent. I feel they will need to do a little more work to gain my affection. As obvs it's completely worth the effort. Love me and I will (sometimes) love you in return. That's my morally ambiguous motto.
The highlight of the week was most definitely the fleeting visit I received from Ms. Julia 'Dodgy-Man-Magnet' Root-Gutteridge. Within minutes of arriving in the city and without even exiting the station she had purchased two pairs of beautiful shoes, and I had been offered a job by the extremely camp but lovely store manager at Nine West ("You're cute and fashionable and British; customers will love you!") despite my protestations that I already had a full-time job. After receiving some bar recommendations from the male cashier who was clearly hoping for an invite but where none was forthcoming; we eventually left the station and grabbed some lunch in an Irish pub, ordering what can only be described as a savoury French Toast sandwich. Mega yum.
After returning to my house to shower and freshen up, we headed off in the direction of the nearest bar in Adams Morgan. It turned out that Jules was harbouring a fervent desire to bar-hop - as was I. And bar-hop we did. Starting out with cocktails on a twinkling fairy-lit rooftop at Perrys, then onto a relatively empty karaoke bar, and onwards to a sports bar so Jules could watch the end of the 6'ers game. Needless to say I was placated by her generous purchasing of buffalo wings and nachos. Then onto the Towne Tavern for a spot of boogie-ing and finally a jam-packed club where Jules once again demonstrated her unique and uncanny ability to attract any North-African man within a 20-mile radius.
The next day consisted of a delicious brunch at Clyde's in Georgetown, a spot of shopping along busy M Street, and all too soon there was a mad dash for Jules to catch her train back to Philly. It was truly wonderful to see her and it lifted my spirits immeasurably to have had a little piece of home with me here in the States. Countdown now to my parents' visit in August! Happy days. :)
It's almost the end of the working day now so I'm off to go and get plastered at a nearby bar with some of my brand new friends.
Y'all have a nice day! (I use that salutation ironically, of course) xx
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
WhileUWait
Just to tide you over until my next hilarious and well-written installment; here is a picture of 'Public Transport Kanye' that I took this morning.
 |
| "Jesus g'on walk right off this bus" |
Friday, May 25, 2012
Apparently, our drugs are good for you?
Hi-de-hi campers!
So, I am learning from the two short weeks that I have been here in the US, that yanks luuuurve meetings. I mean they LUUURVE them. I have never been invited to so many in my entire (albeit diminutive) working life. Meetings to brainstorm, meetings to discuss the brainstorm, meetings about meetings, meetings where they set up more meetings. It's insane. But I am also learning that Americans are ridiculously articulate. Well, the ones I work with anyway.
I've always thought that (when not in one of my many rioja-induced hazes) I was a relatively eloquent speaker; no Stephen Fry, but at the same time no Wayne Rooney. Turns out that, in this office: I'm actually a blathering nitwit. Perhaps it's because I'm still finding my feet here, not just in the US but also in the field of pharmaceutical marketing. I tell you what - there is a reason the UK does not advertise prescription drugs, and now I know why. It's a veritable smorgasbord of rules and limitations: how not to structure your website, what you should NEVER do, what you can SOMETIMES do, the endless ways in which the FDA says you could detract from ISIs and PIs (Important Safety Information and Prescribing Information) by using the wrong colour or a graphic that's too animated. It's so overwhelming and complicated I have begun to feel like the best way to deal with a particularly difficult client brief would be to lodge a bullet in my cranium. The only thing to reassure me that life is worth living is the chocolate and sweetie basket on the reception desk, although most of the time it's full of Hershey's, which I maintain is basically the reformed and reshaped contents of a dog's bowel (rather comically, Blink 182's 'I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass' just started on iTunes).
Anyway, my tangential ramblings are rather appropriate given that I can't seem to be able to articulate my thoughts in a manner any more sophisticated than would a 2 year old. I think my problems are two-fold: 1) The lingo is ridiculously hard to pick up - especially after only two weeks (the endless acronyms on their own would warrant hours of memorisation) and 2) I have absolutely no idea about pharma marketing, as it's (literally) a foreign concept to me. The same can be said of the exploding hot can of crazy they call their healthcare system. It's so fucked it's unbelievable. Essentially if you don't have a job in the US - you have no healthcare insurance whatsoever. Another win (aside from better chocolate) for the Brits on that front; as the NHS may not be glamorous but at least it gets the job done and we don't have to worry about astronomical medical bills after we've been treated. Let's hope B'Obama sorts that out if he's re-elected.
But ANYWAY. Rant over. In other news YET MORE crazies have been flying about like bees round the proverbial honey pot (i.e. me). I thought I had dropped my Smartrip card at the bus stop yesterday and the (yes, black) man at the stop said "Don't worry ma'am (WHEN DID I BECOME A MA'AM?!) you haven't dropped nothin'." I pretended to ignore the double negative and continued to scrabble around in my ill-advised cavernous handbag for the bastard thing while this man continued to attempt to engage me in conversation. Clearly he did not pick up on my signals, instead clocking my accent and asking me if I was from London, coming to sit next to me on the bus and launching into a story about how he has never visited London and would love to show me around DC. He then continued on to the merits of cricket versus American football and the crazy weather we've been having. I was less than enthused and spent most of the conversation frantically working out a way to get out of it politely, especially since his breath smelt like he had recently ingested a rabid cat. Turns out; there is no polite way, so I was shackled into this conversation for the long-haul.
So basically what I learnt from this not-so-brief encounter was that his name was Henri ("with an i!"), he claimed to be a theatre teacher, invited me to come and watch a production of Macbeth he was 'directing' and tried to take my phone number. I managed to tell the truth and say I didn't have a US number yet but he still insisted I take his. Sigh. There's a number I won't be calling. Why is it never an attractive doctor or sexy musician that strikes up a conversation? Why the creepy middle-aged drama teachers? Perhaps that is my lot in life and I must accept it.
Anywho, long Memorial Day weekend to look forward to now. And a certain Frisky Chick is winging her way into town! Happy days! I'm off to celebrate like a cool kid with a hot chocolate.
C xx
So, I am learning from the two short weeks that I have been here in the US, that yanks luuuurve meetings. I mean they LUUURVE them. I have never been invited to so many in my entire (albeit diminutive) working life. Meetings to brainstorm, meetings to discuss the brainstorm, meetings about meetings, meetings where they set up more meetings. It's insane. But I am also learning that Americans are ridiculously articulate. Well, the ones I work with anyway.
I've always thought that (when not in one of my many rioja-induced hazes) I was a relatively eloquent speaker; no Stephen Fry, but at the same time no Wayne Rooney. Turns out that, in this office: I'm actually a blathering nitwit. Perhaps it's because I'm still finding my feet here, not just in the US but also in the field of pharmaceutical marketing. I tell you what - there is a reason the UK does not advertise prescription drugs, and now I know why. It's a veritable smorgasbord of rules and limitations: how not to structure your website, what you should NEVER do, what you can SOMETIMES do, the endless ways in which the FDA says you could detract from ISIs and PIs (Important Safety Information and Prescribing Information) by using the wrong colour or a graphic that's too animated. It's so overwhelming and complicated I have begun to feel like the best way to deal with a particularly difficult client brief would be to lodge a bullet in my cranium. The only thing to reassure me that life is worth living is the chocolate and sweetie basket on the reception desk, although most of the time it's full of Hershey's, which I maintain is basically the reformed and reshaped contents of a dog's bowel (rather comically, Blink 182's 'I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass' just started on iTunes).
Anyway, my tangential ramblings are rather appropriate given that I can't seem to be able to articulate my thoughts in a manner any more sophisticated than would a 2 year old. I think my problems are two-fold: 1) The lingo is ridiculously hard to pick up - especially after only two weeks (the endless acronyms on their own would warrant hours of memorisation) and 2) I have absolutely no idea about pharma marketing, as it's (literally) a foreign concept to me. The same can be said of the exploding hot can of crazy they call their healthcare system. It's so fucked it's unbelievable. Essentially if you don't have a job in the US - you have no healthcare insurance whatsoever. Another win (aside from better chocolate) for the Brits on that front; as the NHS may not be glamorous but at least it gets the job done and we don't have to worry about astronomical medical bills after we've been treated. Let's hope B'Obama sorts that out if he's re-elected.
But ANYWAY. Rant over. In other news YET MORE crazies have been flying about like bees round the proverbial honey pot (i.e. me). I thought I had dropped my Smartrip card at the bus stop yesterday and the (yes, black) man at the stop said "Don't worry ma'am (WHEN DID I BECOME A MA'AM?!) you haven't dropped nothin'." I pretended to ignore the double negative and continued to scrabble around in my ill-advised cavernous handbag for the bastard thing while this man continued to attempt to engage me in conversation. Clearly he did not pick up on my signals, instead clocking my accent and asking me if I was from London, coming to sit next to me on the bus and launching into a story about how he has never visited London and would love to show me around DC. He then continued on to the merits of cricket versus American football and the crazy weather we've been having. I was less than enthused and spent most of the conversation frantically working out a way to get out of it politely, especially since his breath smelt like he had recently ingested a rabid cat. Turns out; there is no polite way, so I was shackled into this conversation for the long-haul.
So basically what I learnt from this not-so-brief encounter was that his name was Henri ("with an i!"), he claimed to be a theatre teacher, invited me to come and watch a production of Macbeth he was 'directing' and tried to take my phone number. I managed to tell the truth and say I didn't have a US number yet but he still insisted I take his. Sigh. There's a number I won't be calling. Why is it never an attractive doctor or sexy musician that strikes up a conversation? Why the creepy middle-aged drama teachers? Perhaps that is my lot in life and I must accept it.
Anywho, long Memorial Day weekend to look forward to now. And a certain Frisky Chick is winging her way into town! Happy days! I'm off to celebrate like a cool kid with a hot chocolate.
C xx
Friday, May 18, 2012
Attack of the Crazies
So, update:
The rule of attraction regarding the crazies seems to be holding firm.
On my way home from work on the bus yesterday, a VERY drunk man staggered on in an alarmingly horizontal manner. I actually thought he had fallen down; being stationary and horizontal and all, but it turns out he was just attempting to pick up his shoebox (?!) and bag in his bungalow-ed stupor. Once he had finally arranged all his belongings at the feet of another female bus passenger on the opposite side of the bus (who managed to pull off looking confused and annoyed all at the same time), he sat down, joy of joys, in front of yours truly.
Once he had arranged his alcohol-scented self into an acceptable seated position; he began to mutter things under his breath. I couldn't make it out at first, even though I had stealthily put my iPod on pause but retained the earphones (I should have been a spy). However, it seems that, in a serendipitous twist of fate and a harmonious aligning of the universe; he read my mind, and the decibel level of his mutterings increased to that of a full blown rant. A rant misguidedly aimed mainly at the innocent woman he was sat next to, who I believe he thought was his ex-wife. He continued along the lines of "*garble garble*...throw me out on the street...tell me never to come back *garble* never see my kid again...*swig from hip flask* I woke up and she was gone...*garble*" At this point I began to feel quite sympathetic towards him. He'd obviously been through a lot and it was just unfortunately spewing out of him in an intoxicated soliloquy on public transport. When the unsuspecting female passenger finally reached her limit and stood up to complain to the driver, the man immediately started on the offensive, "Oh so you g'on call the poh-lice on me? Well let me off yo' goddamn bus. You call the poh-lice I'ma smack you in the mouth." Interesting journey home to say the least. Thank God he got off before he realised how fascinated I was by the whole scenario.
Oh and in other news, my brand new kettle is on its way (woop) and the hand soap in my office loos smells like marzipan. It's offensive.
I'm off to try and write an RTC blog about Google Knowledge Graphs that doesn't sound like the ramblings of a retard.
Laterz xx
The rule of attraction regarding the crazies seems to be holding firm.
On my way home from work on the bus yesterday, a VERY drunk man staggered on in an alarmingly horizontal manner. I actually thought he had fallen down; being stationary and horizontal and all, but it turns out he was just attempting to pick up his shoebox (?!) and bag in his bungalow-ed stupor. Once he had finally arranged all his belongings at the feet of another female bus passenger on the opposite side of the bus (who managed to pull off looking confused and annoyed all at the same time), he sat down, joy of joys, in front of yours truly.
Once he had arranged his alcohol-scented self into an acceptable seated position; he began to mutter things under his breath. I couldn't make it out at first, even though I had stealthily put my iPod on pause but retained the earphones (I should have been a spy). However, it seems that, in a serendipitous twist of fate and a harmonious aligning of the universe; he read my mind, and the decibel level of his mutterings increased to that of a full blown rant. A rant misguidedly aimed mainly at the innocent woman he was sat next to, who I believe he thought was his ex-wife. He continued along the lines of "*garble garble*...throw me out on the street...tell me never to come back *garble* never see my kid again...*swig from hip flask* I woke up and she was gone...*garble*" At this point I began to feel quite sympathetic towards him. He'd obviously been through a lot and it was just unfortunately spewing out of him in an intoxicated soliloquy on public transport. When the unsuspecting female passenger finally reached her limit and stood up to complain to the driver, the man immediately started on the offensive, "Oh so you g'on call the poh-lice on me? Well let me off yo' goddamn bus. You call the poh-lice I'ma smack you in the mouth." Interesting journey home to say the least. Thank God he got off before he realised how fascinated I was by the whole scenario.
Oh and in other news, my brand new kettle is on its way (woop) and the hand soap in my office loos smells like marzipan. It's offensive.
I'm off to try and write an RTC blog about Google Knowledge Graphs that doesn't sound like the ramblings of a retard.
Laterz xx
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
In the (almost) words of Sting; I'm an Englishman in D.C.
So, my first week in DC is drawing to a close. Ironically, it feels like a thousand years since I left Heathrow, stumbling away from my parents and through security in a misty fog of tears like a scene from a depressing country song. I think it's because I've seen so much, done so many new things and met so many new people in such a short amount of time that a week here equates to about 6 months of my normal life in London. So hopefully once I grow more accustomed to life here time will start to go by at a normal speed, and not continue at a pace akin to that of an arthritic grandmother.
But on first impressions, DC is a pretty special city. Very different from London, a lot more chilled out and laid-back (apart from car drivers - who seem to take pleasure in honking at anything and anyone. Even the fire engines toot their way down the road, as apparently the blaring siren in its own right just isn't enough; thus a deafening cacophony of both is seemingly more appropriate). I was appalled to find that the Metro (DC's tube equivalent) only comes every 10 minutes on weekends! The rage is palpable if I have to wait more than 3 in London. How do these people survive on such paltry transport regularity?! And also THERE IS NO KETTLE IN THE KITCHEN AT MY HOUSE. WTF?! Don't they know they are putting up an English person who basically survives on tea? I cannot continue boiling water in the microwave. It is just wrong. And when I put the tea bag in (Yorkshire, brought over with me specially) it goes all frothy. Gross.
But anyway, on I go to Foggy Bottom (teehee) metro stop every morning and, as promised by everyone I know who has been to DC; Georgetown is beautiful. Like the Notting Hill of London, except with a canal and a river. And an abundance of Americans. All the streets are tree-lined, there are cobbled streets, cute jewellery shops and sweet little bars and restaurants. There's even an Irish pub I might try out one of these days. If Georgetown was filled with English people instead of crazy yanks, it would be the perfect town!
That being said I am steadily growing rather fond of my new countrymen, they're so straight-talking and confident it's hard not to be simultaneously intimidated and impressed by them. The other day on my first bus journey downtown, a friendly, loud-talking black guy got on after me, started having a loud conversation with the driver about Mother's Day, then turned to me, asking "And how 'bout you miss? D'you have a mother? Did you have a wonderful mother's day?" To which I replied, "My mother is back home in London, so unfortunately I didn't get to see her." He then proceeded to yell "Well I'll be damned! Are you a mother?" I politely explained that I am 23 and thus hoping not to become a mother for quite some time, then returned to my map of DC and pretended to study it furiously.
Obviously this incident in itself is a culture shock; as being a born and bred Londoner if anyone speaks to me on the street they may as well be holding a gun to my face. It could be something that I have to get used to, either that or I must accept the fact that I just generally attract the crazies.
I'm two days into my job now, but as it's the settling in period and my colleagues are just finishing off projects there's not a lot for me to do yet. So I'm here, writing my blog, all chilled out in my little cubicle. But something tells me that in a few more days, shit is about to get REAL. My boss wants me to start project managing things. I have never really project managed anything in my life (apart from my boyfriend's wardrobe choices), so it should be an interesting/stressful experience. At least I get to write, which I think will be the best thing about this job.
Stay tuned for more tales from the East Coast. :) I'm off to sit outside at Starbucks by the harbour. Laterz.
C xx
But on first impressions, DC is a pretty special city. Very different from London, a lot more chilled out and laid-back (apart from car drivers - who seem to take pleasure in honking at anything and anyone. Even the fire engines toot their way down the road, as apparently the blaring siren in its own right just isn't enough; thus a deafening cacophony of both is seemingly more appropriate). I was appalled to find that the Metro (DC's tube equivalent) only comes every 10 minutes on weekends! The rage is palpable if I have to wait more than 3 in London. How do these people survive on such paltry transport regularity?! And also THERE IS NO KETTLE IN THE KITCHEN AT MY HOUSE. WTF?! Don't they know they are putting up an English person who basically survives on tea? I cannot continue boiling water in the microwave. It is just wrong. And when I put the tea bag in (Yorkshire, brought over with me specially) it goes all frothy. Gross.
But anyway, on I go to Foggy Bottom (teehee) metro stop every morning and, as promised by everyone I know who has been to DC; Georgetown is beautiful. Like the Notting Hill of London, except with a canal and a river. And an abundance of Americans. All the streets are tree-lined, there are cobbled streets, cute jewellery shops and sweet little bars and restaurants. There's even an Irish pub I might try out one of these days. If Georgetown was filled with English people instead of crazy yanks, it would be the perfect town!
That being said I am steadily growing rather fond of my new countrymen, they're so straight-talking and confident it's hard not to be simultaneously intimidated and impressed by them. The other day on my first bus journey downtown, a friendly, loud-talking black guy got on after me, started having a loud conversation with the driver about Mother's Day, then turned to me, asking "And how 'bout you miss? D'you have a mother? Did you have a wonderful mother's day?" To which I replied, "My mother is back home in London, so unfortunately I didn't get to see her." He then proceeded to yell "Well I'll be damned! Are you a mother?" I politely explained that I am 23 and thus hoping not to become a mother for quite some time, then returned to my map of DC and pretended to study it furiously.
Obviously this incident in itself is a culture shock; as being a born and bred Londoner if anyone speaks to me on the street they may as well be holding a gun to my face. It could be something that I have to get used to, either that or I must accept the fact that I just generally attract the crazies.
I'm two days into my job now, but as it's the settling in period and my colleagues are just finishing off projects there's not a lot for me to do yet. So I'm here, writing my blog, all chilled out in my little cubicle. But something tells me that in a few more days, shit is about to get REAL. My boss wants me to start project managing things. I have never really project managed anything in my life (apart from my boyfriend's wardrobe choices), so it should be an interesting/stressful experience. At least I get to write, which I think will be the best thing about this job.
Stay tuned for more tales from the East Coast. :) I'm off to sit outside at Starbucks by the harbour. Laterz.
C xx
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