'A' Prophecy

I have a little notebook that I keep with me. It has its own pocket in my satchel, and there it sits until I decide to scribble down a word or idea, a poem or a list. It's almost filled now approximately a year after its induction, this handy treat of thoughts, and so today I flipped through the paper memories, checking to see if I missed anything important amongst its pages. The design of the notebook is such that within it are scattered foreign leaflets belonging to dictionaries or Russian novels, so as to break up the blank pages (I assume for fun). I came to one of these inserts - the 34th page of a small dictionary - and saw the following:

Anglophobia (ang-glo-fo'bi-a), n. an intense aversion to, or fear of, everything English.

Below it lay Anglo-Saxon, above it Anglomania, to its left anger and angina. "Yup," I thought to myself, "...that's about right."

Three Toots for The Tudors: Hip*Hip*Divorce! Hip*Hip*Behead! Hip*Hip*...oh.

SALUTATIONS!

It has been days...nay weeks...nay, perhaps a month since I last wrote, and I do sincerely say sorry. Although, let's be honest, the people who are reading this blog probably consist of my family, a handful of friends back home, some procrastinating classmates, and a sprinkling of strangers in odd lands whose blog-finding abilities astound me. I tip my feather hat to you, stranger-people-in-Russia.

Why, you may ask, has my diction morphed into that of a member of a royal English court of the 15th century? Well, I shall indulge you kind peoples: I have been watching The Tudors - yes, The Tudors. You know, the Showtime series dramatizing the realm of King Henry VIII of England - the guy who pissed off the Pope, had a pretty nasty ulcer on his leg, and *really* liked changing his mind regarding his children's inheritance rights, his views on religion, and...wives.

Foreshadowing at its finest.

It was the court of this Henry (of many English King Henry's) that first cultivated my fascination with British culture and history when I made my initial island visit at the wee age of six. I bought every children's guide-book I could find depicting the horrible history of the Tower of London and the English crown, read them cover to cover, and then proceeded to drag my parents through all of the historical sites, collecting even more books and correcting angry 20-something-year-old-history-majors-turned-tour-guides along the way. It was probably weird that a six-year-old American girl was so fascinated with the subject, but whatever, I thought it was cool - and way before Jonathan Rhys Meyers put on some pantaloons and ripped off his tunic every five minutes to show off his six pack (which is TOTALLY historically inaccurate, by the way - Henry VIII was fat, c'mon).

what Henry VIII actually (supposedly) looked like

ANYWHO, coolness aside and critique continuing, I just finished the entire series on LOVEFILM.com (yes, that's right, LoveFilm - it's an Amazon.com company, Google it I dare you). And although my friend Alexa is right in calling it historical "soft porn," it has its moments.

For example, don't you remember the good ol' days when men wore a myriad of doilies around their neck and an entire fox around their body to prove that they had money?! No? Well, The Tudors do. What about that time Henry Cavill (aka the newest Superman) resembled a cocker spaniel? 

Sir Superman - doilies on neck, fur on shoulders, spaniel in hairstyle.

And when Joss Stone - the sultry British singer of the early thousands - was cast as "the ugly queen" who "looked like a horse" (aka Anne of Cleves), and thus was the first "Lady Edith" of historical British TV drama?

"Fell in Love With A Boy"...but probably the wrong boy

And how about how the casting directors couldn't find a real ginger child to play the young Queen Elizabeth, so they cast a kid whose hair was unfortunately dyed and whose facial characteristics failed to resemble those of either Jonathan Rhys Meyers (if we're taking artistic license with the unrealistic casting of the King, at least keep the unrealistic casting of the entire family consistent...) OR the actress who played her mother, the ill-fated Anne Boleyn, whose constant nasal flares and lip quivering really made me less sad to say "off with her head!"

No resemblance whatsoever. Quiver your lips and flare your nostrils all the way to the block, Boleyn.

Oh, and Lady Mary - poor Lady Mary - with her incessant crying: "I'll never be kissed, let alone married! Why can't I make everyone catholic?! Why am I secretly in love with an 80-year-old Spaniard with gout?! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! Ugh, fine, I'll just kill everyone in 20 years."

Attractive Henry Cavill says "Cheer up, Lady Mary! My character has been a secret Catholic all along!"

And why the hell did baby Prince Edward have an American accent?!

The cast really can't be bothered to answer that last one; they've already gone back to enjoying modern-day-marvels, like cigarettes, coffee and SUVs.

Perhaps we should all just concentrate on one of the more hilarious moments of the show, a conversation between Rhys Meyers and Cavill (see "Previously On..." at the beginning of Season 4, Episode 7), where Rhys Meyers exclaims (in his best Marlon Brando impression, which apparently his acting coach told him would instantly make him sound aged):

I bet Marlon Brando didn't have to wear this ridiculous hat...

"Do you really want to fight again?"

"Yes."

"Take another wife?!"

"YEEESSSS. Am I still not able...to have a wife?! To have more children - TO BE MYSELF?!"

Yes, Henry-Brando-Rhys Meyers - you are able to be yourself. You were (historically) yourself, down to the very last beheading. When your marriage history can be summarized as: divorce (Catherine of Aragon), beheading (Anne Boleyn), unfortunate childbirth death (Jane Seymour), divorce (Anne of Cleves), beheading (Catherine Howard), and finally marriage by force (Catherine Parr), you're kind of used to "being yourself"...even if that means you got to kill your wives and best friends along the way (see "friends": Thomas Wolsey, Sir Thomas More, and Thomas Cromwell, just to name a few...apparently he didn't really like people named Thomas).

seven of you are going to die :(

But we'll let it all slide in TV-land, because let's be honest: nobody in the real court of Henry VIII was remotely as attractive as the actors on The Tudors (gawd-damn those boys are handsome). Nor was it possible to actually have as much sex as is suggested (and shown) on the show. Because in all honesty, nobody really brushed their teeth, and their common diseases were named things like "the bloody flux" (so not sexy). And showers...nobody showered. So, we'll take Spaniel Cavill and Quivering Boleyn and Marlon Rhys Meyers. But we'll still contest the vivid and disturbing "quartering" (DON'T Google it, I dare you) of the actor who would later play the beloved underdog chauffeur Tom Branson on Downton Abbey (just to bring it full circle). Kill your wives, Henry, but how dare you kill Branson-to-be - Lady Sybil was already more than we could handle (don't even get me started on Matthew...).

*Dysentery never looked this good*

OK, back to reading "real" history books...*sigh*

Mo Money, Mo Problems?

I saw American money today - you know, the dollar, the cent, the "freedom pony" (alright, fine, I made that last one up). Anyway, my discovery was fitting given tonight's much-anticipated "AMURICA Night" at St. Antony's College, and my current frustration with a never-ending accumulation of British coinage. But, the sight of the good ol' "greenback" made me realize how little "America" I've been exposed to lately. I actually forgot what American money looked like - its feel, its size, its...blandness. I know, I know, I'm being a traitor or whatever, but seriously - American money is b-o-r-i-n-g. In the words of my good friend, and American, Dan: "Our money is so ugly compared to British money. Look - they have a pretty queen and Darwin and Adam Smith on their money, and we have...racists."

Calm down there, "Wicker Man"...

Honestly, let's consider the facts. American money has two colors - green and white - is bombarded with images that make absolutely no sense (except when haphazardly strung together in a sub-par Nicholas Cage film franchise), are all the same size (aesthetically dull), and feature some guys we're honestly not that proud of (Lincoln aka Daniel Day Lewis? Sure, a hero. Jackson? Attempted to kill all Native Americans, and can suck it.) Ya, OK, we "upgraded" our note a few years ago, enlarging the man-head in the middle and adding some tie-dye or whatever. But, that's another thing - American money only features dudes (men, hombres, you get the point). British moneys, on the other hand,  in all of their multicolored glory, not only vary in size respective to its note-value (the larger the monetary value, the physically bigger the note), but they also feature women - and interesting people! Not only is The Queen displayed on the pound sterling, but so are: Charles Darwin (naturalist & friend of the Galapagos), Elizabeth Fry (prison reformer), Adam Smith (philosopher & economist), and James Watt (inventor of horsepower and, well, the watt...ya, that watt - like the measurement of energy in a light bulb). A competition, you say? I think not.

A comparison...

...in lameness

I'm not saying this to liberally berate America, or American money. Nay - I am simply pointing out the supremely more awesome version of currency used in my new living-land. Yes, there are totally annoying aspects of British legal tender as well - for one, my aforementioned frustration with a buildup of coinage. But, still, it keeps you on your toes, and it's kind of nice when you realize your pesky "cents" are actually "dollars." It's like finding 14 rolled up notes in your jean pockets when you take them out of the dryer...except, in England, they're not all weathered and ruined...because they're metal. 

Well, there are two people making out in front of me at the pub, and a small dog just ran in and challenged me to a staring contest, so that's my cue (I guess?)...toodles!

Look into mine eyes - I dare you!

The British Lady-Cackle, and other odd observations

I'm supposed to be finishing an essay right now. But because Quentin is passed out in my lap, exhausted from a morning of deliberate pouncing on my head while I slept, I'm going to blog instead.

Today, I'd like to discuss the elusive British Lady-Cackle (the BLC, if you will), and other odd observations from the past week or so. I'm sure you've heard all the rumors about how polite and dainty English women are - quiet, calm, icy and emotionless even (think The Queen in one of her never-ending Easter skirt-suits). However, you've not really lived in England until you're sitting in a pub on a Saturday afternoon, having a latte and reading about security threats, and there it is - out of nowhere - that piercing screech, knifing your ears with noises not yet defined by decibels in the natural world. "Where is that coming from?!" one might ask. "Is a parakeet being stabbed?" "Did a shih tzu just get a bath?" "Did (the artist formerly known as) Prince have a heart attack?" Others (like myself) may simply jump in one's seat, eye twitching involuntarily, and turn towards the noise, afraid to fully face it for fear it might actually melt your face. Enter: The British Lady-Cackle.

The Dowager Countess, upon hearing the BLC.

Brits are, in general and especially in Oxford, quite reserved, proper, polite, and friendly. However, there are exceptions to this rule, exceptions which seem to be growing the more I leave my cat-flat. Knife-fights are one exception to a common association with British gentility - although, let's be honest, I immediately thought about West Side Story. Second, we have the common drunks - usually couples who enter a bar completely reserved, and 45 minutes and six Guinness's later, are gargling unintelligible noises (probably words), eyes a bit glossy and bodies acting as if they just got off of a five-year pirate voyage. Actually, speaking of pirates, drunk Brits kind of remind me of pirates in general...the accent, the swaying, the occasional flailing of the arms. I passed a drunk couple in their 40's or 50's last night (Sunday) coming back from the grocery store...I didn't understand a word they were projecting out into the empty, residential street at 9:30pm. But, shiver me timbers they were loaded to the gunwales!

Other things I've learned about this week include, but are not limited to (OK, they're probably limited to):

• Fox hunting
• Pinkie rings
• Shower architecture in period homes
• The showering habits of the man with a body-length window in his shower directly across from my neighborhood pub
• Shetland ponies (in sweaters, not in sweaters, their height, their gardening habits, not to tickle their tongues, and other life-lessons)
• Where the "meter" is in my flat
• Yoga mats borrowed from a yoga studio are really quite gross
• It's OK if you don't understand people from Newcastle - a lot of Brits don't understand them either
• Americans drinking out of red SOLO cups at parties really is fascinating

I'm a Shetland pony in a sweater, and I'm in Scotland!

As I bid you adieu to ponder these musings (also because Quentin finally jumped off of my stomach and I should probably get around to that essay), I leave you with these departing thoughts from last night's trip to an open mic night: man-ponytails are never a good idea. In the words of my dear friend, Helena, while a man yodeled like a goat in the background: "stop putting me off my food with your horrible straggly pastiches of woman-hair." Well said. Also well said? "This is a song about devil worshiping amongst elderly women." Yep - that happened.

Snowshire

SNOW! It has snowed in the Shire and it is absolutely beautiful. When it snows here, it snows like it would in your most fairytale of dreams - spires dusted in white, perfectly constructed flakes that dance down from the sky, deer huddling together for warmth in a blanketed rugby pitch next to an icy river (that just so happens to be the Isis, aka the Thames). Walking down the street feels like you're dancing through a symphony - like violins and cellos are playing around you with every glance and every fuzzy crunch of your shoe.

Oxford blanketed in snow, from Christ Church meadow.

I know I promised I would write about red trousers this time around, but today I want to write about snow because, well, it's all around. I've learned some things about snow these past few days. One thing I've learned is the silence of snow - that soft break in noise, like the excess sounds in the world just hold their breaths for the chance to be blanketed. I've also noticed that snowflakes are like very cute versions of raindrops - you can't get mad when delicate flakes of white fluff hit you in the face, but it's pretty damn annoying when pellets of water attack your eyes when you're walking to the library. I have, at the same time, discovered that snowflakes are still a form of water, and that when you walk inside, those really lovely pieces of weather dandruff melt, and drown you. And then you're just cold...really, really cold. I've also learned that ice (yet another form of water!) is malicious, and full of evil trickery. It sneaks up, trying to cause slapstick comedy right when you've become confident in your new-found "snow-gait" (which, for me, is a distinct effort to march rather than shuffle). Along with this, I've learned that high heels in snow are a dangerous idea. It's kind of like ice-skating in an evening gown, which isn't actually as fun as it might sound...

Peering at the diorama.

This is my first time actually "living" in snow. I've been skiing, yes, and I think I built a snowman once when I was eight in Yosemite. BUT, I've never actually "functioned" in the snow. Every day this weekend I felt childish wonder - peeking out my window in the morning was like unveiling a covered diorama, excitedly anticipating which scene I would find before me. I've taken many moments these past few days to experience the snow in different ways: observing it from the indoors (mostly out of the initial fear of how to interact with it), trekking through it, playing in it, letting it fall on my tongue and nest in my eyelashes, then greeting it with a firm handshake as I molded it into a ball. I've settled into a fond appreciation of snow, and what it does to the world around us - to the disorienting beauty it drapes everything in, and its ability to repaint an entire city and cloud it at the same time.

I could go on for a long time. But, instead, I think I'll leave you for now with this poem:

The Snow Man

by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

(that was pretty Oxford of me, huh?)

Trouser-Pant-Suspender-Braces

If anyone ever tells you that you're full of shit for saying you're living abroad in England, you have my permission to punch them in the nose. Yes - the nose. Because they're lying. And you know who else was a liar (and was associated with noses)? Pinocchio. And you know who is actually full of shit? Them, and most children's stories.

"Sorry, Cricket with a top-hat, I'm just full of shit."

Now that we got that out of the way, let me tell you why their noses may be momentarily bonked. England may technically have the same national language as the Americans (and Canadians, for that matter, eh), but they sure as hell don't sound like it a lot of the time. Granted it may be easier to "assimilate" when moving across the pond to a British nation than, say, to Bangkok or Doha, there still is a language barrier - and that language barrier can get you into more trouble in England than if you simply didn't know the language of the country you were a resident of, because you're assumed to understand what is claimed to be the same mouth-noise as your homeland. But, nay, says I - nay.

I've alluded to some vernacular differences in previous blogs - the difference between "pudding" and "pudding," for example (ya, see, it's not that easy). However, this week I have had the distinct pleasure of welcoming my very first house-guest from the States. That means that not only did I get to figure out how the hell to get to Heathrow from my Oxonian cave, but I also was (1) reintroduced to the many misunderstood phrases and accents from the point of view of a fresh-eared American, and (2) I was constantly giggled at for having apparently acquired some sort of pseudo-accent. "Hello," "sorry," "thank you," and "walk," I'm told, are especially entertaining to hear me say nowadays.

Enter: the Scottish bus driver. Me, to my house-guest: "So what do you want to do when we get to Oxford? Are you hungry? I know a great place for hamburgers - it's quite tasty. Or, we could get you settled in? A shower, perhaps? It's totally up to you. How is everyone back home?" My flurry of questions were happily administered over the fuzzy speaker-gargles of the bus driver's standard safety speech. What my house-guest heard, though, was something completely different than what the Scot intended: "Wait," he stops me - "why are we sitting here if there are donuts in the back?!" His nose was quizzically peeking around the seat behind him; I was inhaling delayed laughter so deep it felt like I was recovering from sit-ups (haha, ya right, sit-ups!).

Immediately, I had an idea - the first thing we were to do when we arrived in Oxford was to buy my friend a journal, a little one, that he could carry around with him throughout his three month exploration, and in which he would jot down anything he "thought" he heard from the Brits around him, and a translation of what they actually said (to be attempted by myself, the pseudo-veteran from a measly four month tenure). I'll ask Dan to share the journal with you all at the end of his trip, but for now I leave you with these three tidbits gathered from his first three days:

Stop seducing me with your suspender-braces, Steve Urkel!

1. Trousers vs. Pants: I personally hate this one, and still can't quite remember to translate the word when I'm speaking to locals. "Trousers" are the English word for what we in America call "pants" - jeans, khakis, dress-slacks, etc. "Pants" in England are, well, knickers or underwear. Therefore, if I said to someone "I'll be right out, I just have to throw on some pants" - they would assume I was walking around my house commando and needed to dignify myself with panties before exiting my abode (a good idea, in general, I think). 
2. Suspenders vs. Braces: Also a risque mistake, if made. Bluntly, "suspenders" in England are what we in the US refer to as "garters" or "garter belts" - lacy bands worn above a woman's "pants" to hold up old-school stockings lacking elastic, often worn by pin-up girls. "Braces," then, is the English word for American "suspenders" - the elastic straps synonymous with Larry King and Steve Urkel, and with gangsters during the 1940s, that hold up men's "trousers." So, again, if a man went into an English shop and when asked what he was looking for replied "suspenders," the (probably 80-year-old) shop-keeper would probably (1) look at him shocked, and (2) assume he was a lost cross-dresser.
3. Spotted Dick (pudding): This is one of my favorites, simply due to the sheer number of five-year-old giggles that emerge when asked quite seriously if you'd like "a bite of my spotted dick." It's a proper English dessert, that resembles a dense cake with raisins submerged in custard. Go ahead - make some spotted dick jokes, god knows I did the first time I saw them lurking in the freezer aisle of the supermarket. I also took a picture. 

Enjoying his first spotted dick on NYE.

There, that's three - keep posted for a riveting description of the sea of red "trousers" I wade through on a daily basis in this hamlet...for a preview of my disdain, go here.

You're welcome.

Red Pant Reflection

Well, I'm 25. It's my birthday, and while the world did not, in fact, end today as the Mayans predicted, I did wake up with a migraine. Thanks, Mayans...thanks.

I also woke to realize that I've been an *awful* blogger this past year (that's right - bold, italicized, underlined, and asterisked). Like a flaky significant other circa 1685 on a sea voyage (to probably kill the Mayans, let's be honest), I promised to write, then didn't, then made a flurry of excuses once you guys got impatient and sad, then teased you with another post, only to act exactly as I did before and drop off the face of the earth (although, again, happily the earth's face is still intact). 

So, now, I say it - because birthdays are for reflection, and truth, and eating way too much cake, and getting sloppy drunk with your best friends (which, in my case this year is Quentin): I have failed at blogging. 

I've always enjoyed writing, I've always enjoyed making people laugh (something I only discovered recently, actually), and yet I've always been terrified of sharing these things on purpose (letting others read my writing, hearing my songs, watching me perform - anything). This blog was a secret attempt to change that, to "put myself out there" as they say. But, then, I got busy and scared and distracted again. This year, though, I really do want that to change - and not only through this blog. This year I want to do things that scare me - at least once a month (we gotta start slow, ya know?). I want to be vulnerable and insecure and unsure, but I want to try - I want to put something, anything, out there. And that starts now, with this blog, on my birthday - on the end of the world day.

As my first "scary" birthday vow to myself, I vow to write on this blog in the coming year once a week - YES, ONCE A WEEK. I know, lofty expectations can breed monumental disappointments, but you know what - what the hell, let's do this. As my first blog of my new year, I decided to reflect on the past term that I so-assholishly (new vow #2: make up ridiculous words more often) failed to update you on. I'm celebrating my quarter-century crisis in a very rainy Oxford, eyeballs throbbing as I torture them with MacBook light, and most of my new friends - my new family - have flown home to be with their biological kin for the holidays. A blessing and a curse of my birth date: you get an obese old man in a questionable red pantsuit promising you tons of presents and everyone seems really happy to celebrate (in your mind, you), but your friends also scatter away to spend time with their own families. And let's be honest, a lot of people respect the "birthday-christmas-gift-combo-pack" without actually doubling the amount of anything they give - I'm not complaining, just saying.

OK, so Oxford. It's weird. No, really, it is. Nothing makes sense, and nothing is logical - they tell us there are 8-week terms, but then expect you to be on-call during the secret 9th and 10th weeks nobody talks about until a professor emails you asking for an essay you never knew was assigned. Thanks? There's also a secret 0-week (not pronounced, "zero-th week," as I thought, but in fact referred to as "naught-week"...oops). This week, logically the week before "official" term begins, is in theory supposed to be the week when all of the students return and go wild, with parties and dancing and laughter and good cheer. HOWEVER, not-so-logically, previous-term exams can also apparently be held during naught week of the new term - like the big statistics exam being held the Friday of 0-week of next term (i.e. we finished our stats course the last week of November 2012, and the exam is on the Friday before the next term begins, in mid-January 2013). Logical. Totally logical. So now instead of fully enjoying our holiday season, all 26 of us have r(squared) and p(hat) hovering above our holiday cheer, reminding us we have to learn about numbers and graphs and stuff at some point after we trample grannies at Boxing Day mega-sales (like USA "Black Friday") and nurse our New-Years Day (from now on NYD re: vow #2) hangovers. 

So, today, while STATA terms float around in my throbbing skull, and the Mayans cry in their misinformed graves, I will update my blog - I will update my blog like crazy. I will make myself a Dutch Baby Pancake (the first breakfast item I ever learned to make), smother it in butter (because butter is delicious, and strangely more yellow in England), drench it in powdered sugar (called "icing" sugar here - hey, what if I don't want to use it for icing?! huh?! huh?! what then?! that's false advertising, or just plain rude), and I will write. Because that's what I love to do - and I forgot that until now.