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
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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
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