This is our kiddie pool...

Look how delightful it is.

(Credit to Elizabeth for an excellent photographic capture)

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

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

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?

 

Until next time, I'm off to blog myself into oblivion (for work purposes only from now on).

Love xx

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

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"

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