Thursday, November 24, 2011

What I'm Thankful For...

Happy Thanksgiving! Let's take this time to reflect on our favorite Thanksgiving memory. Mine happened only two years ago, when our aunt decided to out Grayer as a lesbian. Classic caper of mistaken sexual preference. Ah, the holidays.

Today I added to the holiday memory bank by sharing a falafal with Luigi and eating a reheated enchilada while watching Friends with my flatmate, but let's rewind, shall we?

My life in London is just like Sex and the City. Exactly like Sex and the City. Mostly because the group of close friends I've made at school comprises of 4 women and we hang out in bars drinking and discussing sex and stuff. Only without the money (no cosmos for us, just cheap beer). And without the shoes. And without the sex really. But other than that, it's really exactly the same.

Earlier this week, it was Ruth's birthday. She was in Paris with her class (why can't I go to Paris with my class?!), so Amelie, Cecelia, and I devised a plan to meet her train with a cake (made from scratch by yours truly), flowers, and champagne. (Cecelia: This is so cute! WE are sooo cute!) While we were signing her card and waiting for her train to arrive, the conversation went a little something like this:

Cecelia: So what'd I miss this week?
Amelie: Haha, why don't you ask Violet?
Cecelia: Ohmygod, did you sleep with the Italian guy? (much too loudly) You totally slept with the Italian guy!
Amelie: You slept with the Italian guy?
Me: SHHHHHHH! (thinking of the ancient woman sitting behind us and if her poor heart was up to this conversation) I did NOT (dropping to a whisper) sleep with the Italian guy!
C: But you've seen the Italian guy?
A: Did you go on a date?
Me: We went out for lunch on Thursday. On Friday, I was going out with Pedro and his friends in Clapham, so I texted Luigi to join us. He ended up taking the tube all the way down from his place (not a short distance) at midnight.
A and C: awwww
Me: When we left, I suggested he come back to my place, since it would only take about 10 minutes, but it would take about 2 hours for him to get back on the night bus.
A and C: AND?!
Me: And I was having my period, so I was awkwardly trying to keep everything above the waist.
A and C: ahhhh
Cecelia: But you like him
Me: Oh yeah.

Later....
Ruth: So what'd I miss?
Cecelia: Violet has a boyfriend.
Me: I do NOT have a boyfriend!

Let's come back to today, Thanksgiving. Before meeting up with Luigi, I worked on a homework assignment with a classmate of mine. When we were finished, I'm pretty sure he asked me out. It was kind of awkward, as I'm not that interested. (I could be, but he's a smoker. Plus, Luigi is just so cute.) I tried to suggest he join me and other classmates for a drink after class sometime, but he suggested a Saturday. Uh-oh. I'm going to do the totally mature thing by ignoring this for as long as possible.

I left him and went to meet Luigi. He was carrying a bag with a wrapped gift in it. The wrapped gift (in actual wrapping paper- but not taped, he couldn't find scotch tape- was for me. It was a GLEE ADVENT CALENDAR! You know those advent calendars that have little windows in them for each day of December, and behind the windows are little pieces of chocolate. It was one of those, only glee-themed! I think it might be the cutest gift I've ever received. It makes me happy.

Luigi was determined to find me some turkey to eat on Thanksgiving (even if it was in a sandwich), but we settled for falafals. They were ok. (Don't feel bad for me, I'm having Thanksgiving dinner with Fen over the weekend.)

Sadly, Luigi won't be around this weekend, so going "below the waist" will have to wait. It will just add to the anticipation. Did I mention he bought me a glee advent calendar?!

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

My life in an e-card


This e-card sums up my life so beautifully I want to send it to everyone I know. In fact, I already sent it to my mother as a reminder of how proud of me she should be. She'll just be so tickled.

Change of subject:
You know how guys ask for your number and say you should get together sometime and then they never call you? Or they cancel on you? Well after Luigi and I exchanged about 10 text messages trying to find a time to get together and settled on lunch on Thursday, he called me while I was in class on Tuesday... to tell me that he had changed his plans, and did I still want to get a drink after my class? Um, yes please.

So we met up for a drink that turned into dinner. My crush is definitely justified. He's still adorable. Still funny. Still comfortable. And he doesn't smoke. Whew! (Seriously, while I was walking to meet him, I kept thinking to myself, "if he's a smoker, I'm going to be so crushed." It's just so gross.) We shut the restaurant down. The staff was polishing silverware by the time we finally paid the bill. Or, rather, the time he paid the bill. I had gone to use the bathroom, and when I came back, I realized he had already asked for the bill and paid it. When I asked how much it was, he ignored my question and changed the subject. Awwww.

The best part is that our lunch date for tomorrow is still on. I was already looking forward to it by the time he kissed both my cheeks and said ciao ciao!

Monday, November 14, 2011

I'm not a player, I just crush a lot

I don't generally crush a lot. But now I have a crush. And no, it's not Don Quixote.

Don Quixote has actually fallen out of my favor, shall we say. My friend Cecilia, who was playing double agent by getting the scoop from him and reporting back to me, asked if I wanted her to give him my phone number. I told her she could give it to him if he asked for it, but not to push it. And I meant it. He didn't ask for it. I didn't too much care. Don Quixote was just... fun.

On Saturday, Don Quixote had people over to his tiny flat for his birthday. My friends and I were invited, so we all went. The last time I had seen him was in his tiny flat, when he showed me out the door while he was stark naked. This time, though, he was fully clothed when he answered the door. It wasn't awkward or anything, and while I had shaved my legs (just in case), it wasn't long before I realized that I really didn't want to be spending the night again at his place. The flat had an odor to it that I hadn't noticed last Saturday night. Then again, so did Don Quixote. It was a bachelor odor. Sweat and alcohol and a lack of fresh air. It wasn't a turn on. 

But it wasn't just the odor. There was something about Don Quixote that I just wasn't feeling as much as last Saturday. Then he got sloppy drunk and kind of obnoxious, and my view of him really went down. 

But not all is lost. Between the time that I realized I didn't want to hook up with Don Quixote again and his obnoxious drunkenness, I met Luigi, the Italian. He was friendly and funny and (even better!) he thought I was funny. And he was kind of downright adorable. Or, as my friend Amelie put it, he's "not too ugly." He's not ugly at all, but she's French, and they are a very negative people. To them, "not too ugly" is probably one of the highest compliments. (Luckily, he had only met Don Quixote about two days prior to this through a mutual friend so it's not as if they're BFFs.) 

Finally, it was time to leave Don Quixote's stinky apartment and go out. I asked Luigi if he was joining, but he said he was due at someone else's birthday party about 3 hours earlier. He might want to join up with us later though, so he asked for my phone number. You know, in case he wanted to meet up with us later. 

We managed to ditch the drunken Don Quixote and his drunk Spanish posse by ducking into a random bar, which seemed great until we looked around and realized the average age of everyone around us was approximately 18. We tried somewhere else, but we had lost the motivation to be out, so decided to head to the tube... just as Luigi texted me asking where we had ended up. 

I decided against making everyone stay out on the off chance Luigi actually found us. If he didn't, I would have ended up feeling pretty stupid, and I don't like that feeling. So I told him we were heading home, but that we should get together for a beer soon. He agreed. 

He texted me today to wish me luck on the assignment that I have due tomorrow that I had been complaining about on Saturday. (He remembered!) I wondered out loud if I should ask him for a celebratory drink on Tuesday night after handing in my assignment.
"Do you want to?" said Amelie.
 "Yes."
 "Then do it!"
 Ok then. So I did. The rest of the text conversation went something like this:

Luigi: I would love to get a drink on Tuesday, but damn it, I can't. How about Thursday? 
(I took it as a good sign that he was suggesting another time, as opposed to saying "some other time, though.")
Vi: I can't on Thursday. How's your Friday look? 
(Thursday I'm watching Glee with Fen and I won't cancel for a boy.)
Luigi: I might have to go to Italy on Friday for the weekend. How's Wednesday before dinner?
Vi: I have class on Wednesday until 8:30 (Which Fen advised me to skip.) After?
Luigi: I can't, it's my flatmate's birthday. I won't give up though! How about lunch? Tuesday? Thursday?
Vi: Oooh! Thursday! I can do lunch on Thursday!

So we're having lunch on Thursday. I told him that was really complicated and it better be worth it. He told me it would be. I kind of like him. I have a crush. 

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Don Quixote

A couple weeks ago, my friend Cecilia had a housewarming party. It was a good opportunity for us, her school friends, to meet her other friends she randomly has around London. One of them was Don Quixote, a Spaniard, who, she told us, had told her to tell her friends about how awesome he is. Followed by, "No. Don't tell them how awesome I am. Just tell them I'm average. Just average." That way we would be blown away and impressed by him when we actually met him. He sounded adorable, I thought.

When I met Don Quixote, he was just as adorable as he sounded. Plus, he sounded just like Antonio Banderes. Sadly, I couldn't stay at the party too late, as I had to catch the last tube of the evening and hadn't brought my glasses along. My blindness prevents me from staying out all night, because I am seriously so blind, that if I don't have my glasses and something were to happen to my contacts (like having them pop out after being in all night), I would pretty much need a guide dog to get me home. Before I left, however, I told Cecilia that I thought Don Quixote was adorable. She said, "That's great! I'll tell him!" At that point, I had had a few glasses of wine and didn't really care what she told him. 

The next day when I met up with Cecilia, she told me that she had indeed told Don Quixote what I had said. Apparently he thought I was adorable too, and asked why I had left. I resolved to get laser surgery someday soon. 

I saw Don Quixote a couple times over the next two weeks, including Thursday. I had spent 3 hours of my afternoon diagramming sentences with classmates, and after that we needed a drink. As happens in an English pub, one drink turned into 5. When we finally left the pub, I dragged my drunken ass to another pub to meet up with Cecilia and Don Quixote. I was chatting with Donny Q when he stopped mid-sentence and grabbed my thumbs. Damn, I thought. He's noticed my mutant thumbs. Seriously, not only do I have faulty vision, but I also got the short end of the stick when it came to my thumbs. And I do mean short. My thumbs are what many refer to as clubbed thumbs, or a host of other completely unflattering names, and they are the bane of my existence. They can never be sexy. Now that he's noticed them, I thought, this can never happen. 

But then he insisted they were cute. Huh. I'm pretty sure the only people who have told me that are people who wanted to sleep with me. But then the 5 drinks and the sentence diagramming caught up with me and I needed to go home and crawl into bed. So I did.

Saturday night, I met up with Cecelia and her obnoxious 21-year-old flatmate, and we met up with Fen for some fireworks. Afterward, we went out, while I reminded myself that the 21-year-old cannot help being obnoxious, and the fact that she was saying that people who wear rain boots look stupid (while I was wearing them) was not because she's a bad person, but because she was born in 1990.

We ended up meeting up with several other friends, including Don Quixote. At one point, Don and I decided instead of paying 5 pounds a beer, we would go down to the nearest convenience store and pay 1 pound a beer and drink it on the street. So we did, and the whole time I kept feeling like I was breaking open container laws, but the cops passed us and didn't so much as bat an eye. Before we got back to the bar, we each received text messages that everyone was leaving us and going home. The night was still young, though, so we powered on.

By the time 2:30 came around, I was starting to get tired, but I had long since missed the last tube. I was really only left with one option: to go home with Don Quixote. (And yes, I had brought my glasses with me, figuring I would crash at Cecilia's or something, but she was already gone, so Don would have to do.)

It started out innocently enough. He even put clothes on, but explained that normally he would sleep naked but didn't want me to feel uncomfortable (awwww). But then we started kissing, and the clothes came off anyway, and things happened. Thank goodness I decided to shave my legs with the rationalization that the power of positive thinking might lead to some positive action. It's like feng shui for your body.

In the morning, when I dragged my ass to the bathroom, I noticed the hickeys on my neck. I have never in my life had a hickey, not because I've never had the opportunity to have one, but because it takes quite a bit to make me bruise, and now I sit here wearing a turtleneck sweater and my hair down because I have two of them. I feel about 15-years-old. I know exactly when I got them too, because I remember thinking in the moment "wow, that could leave a mark".

He was nice enough this morning to bring me orange juice and walk me to the door- stark naked. And no, he doesn't live alone. Oh, those Europeans.

While I was taking the tube ride of shame home this morning, I was extremely grateful that I was wearing supposedly stupid-looking rain boots. It was a lot less conspicuous than had I been wearing heels and a short dress. These are things you learn by the time you're 29. Take that, 1990.


Monday, October 31, 2011

Breaking News: Kim Kardashian gives gay-rights activists their best argument yet

We don't often get all political on the blog, but I'm about to.

It may seem a surprise to open this page and see a political piece at the top, but what may be even more surprising is what has prompted my political outrage: the Kardashians. Namely, Kim Kardashian filing for divorce from her NBA player husband a mere 72 DAYS after their wedding day. 72 days. That's it. That means her marriage was shorter than most middle school relationships. They didn't even spend a single significant holiday together as a married couple. She said in a statement that she decided to end her marriage "after careful consideration." Really?! How long could she possibly have thought about it? I bet I give more careful consideration about what to wear on a date.

The news made me very angry. Irrationally angry. Not because I'm angry that poor Kim and Kris couldn't make it work. But angry because of all the "sanctity of marriage" bullshit that right-wing conservatives throw out there when arguing against same-sex marriage. Let me get this straight. Two people that are in love, who have quite possibly been living together for years, raising children together, and are tax-paying, contributing members of society can't get married (and thus enjoy the legal benefits coming from their legal union) because they happen to be the same gender, but these two publicity generating media-whores can? (For more on their media whorishness, please read this amazing piece by Rob Delaney.)

I imagine Kim's train of thought as she made the decision to marry this basketball player mere months after they first started dating: "It's been awhile since we had a marriage or a baby in this family to drum up a firestorm of publicity. Maybe I should get married and have an over-the-top million dollar, made for E! tv wedding (which I will sell the rights to for $17.9 million), then start the buzz that it's America's own royal wedding!" (You're famous because of a sex tape. Please do not insult royalty or America by making that claim.) But somehow, in this crazy, mixed-up world, Kim Kardashian is allowed to get real-married for a TV show, but gay people aren't allowed to get real-married for real. Something just ain't right.

The hypocrisy of the right-wing is something that never fails to get me riled up, and while Kim really has nothing to do with it, she's just the most public example of everything that is wrong with it. If you want to protect the sanctity of marriage, that's fine. But don't you think you should go after the near 60% divorce rate? It seems to me that the only thing that's destroying the sanctity of marriage is married people. But then again, the far-right, and most especially the Tea Party, is nothing but hypocrisy. I don't understand why they aren't called on it more often. All they do is scream for less and less government, but they only want less government when it comes to their money. When it comes to "social" issues, such as gay marriage, abortion rights, and the death penalty, they want more government. They don't want the government involved in telling people what to do unless it's telling people whom to marry and what to do with your unwanted pregnancy. Abortion is murder, but the death penalty isn't? How is that not a double standard? And while we're at it, the Tea Party and their constitutional fundamentals want to use that constitution to ban gay marriage. The last I checked, the constitution was to give rights, not take them away.

They use Jesus to back up their claims and to get votes.  I find this fascinating, because I'm pretty sure if Jesus were around today, he would vote Democrat, and believe it or not, he didn't say a single word about gay people. Those who quote the Bible in order to prove their anti-gay stance just sound ignorant, but I don't think it's a coincidence that the more educated you are, the more likely you are to vote Democrat. (Fact. Look it up.)

Maybe it's because I'm on the other side of the pond, and watching the current political situation from afar, but it's downright embarrassing. The rest of the world thinks we're religious crackpots who can't separate religion and politics and are a nation taking huge steps backward instead of forward. To this, I say that England really has no one to blame but themselves, as America was founded by religious crackpots escaping persecution and continued to grow as Europe dumped their unwanted in the New World. (Yet another reason why the Republicans' villeinage of immigrants is also hypocritical: we were all in their shoes at one time or another.) But I also say to them, don't worry. We're not all right-wing crackpots. Michelle Bachmann's campaign is crumbling because people realize that having a racist homophobe for a president is soooo 1847, and Rick Perry's polling numbers are plummeting because, well, he started to talk and people realized he is an idiot.

It may seem like a stretch that I went from a Kardashian divorce to a rail against the right-wing, but the way I see it, if gay people aren't allowed to get married in order to protect the sanctity of marriage, then Kim shouldn't be allowed to get married (and divorced) twice before the age of 31. It also may be embarrassing that the Kardashians are so obscenely famous for contributing absolutely nothing to society, and it may be embarrassing to witness the Tea Party from abroad, but the fact that I can say my peace about the situation and not be punished for it is a beautiful thing. God bless America.


Sunday, October 30, 2011

The Great Pumpkin

Wondering why we've been so quiet this month? This is why. I've had a great month, and I've done a lot of exciting things, but sadly, a man isn't one of them. I've done something much more important though, and that's make some really awesome friends. So now that I've filled up my contact list, it's time to fill up this massive bed. Bring it on, November!

Saturday, October 22, 2011

The right guy

someecards.com - I wish I wasn't so good at being alone.

You Guys!  I've been quiet, I know.  It happens.  Maybe I just needed some time alone.  (Oh wait, I get that all the time).  Apparently, all I needed was a chat with my father.

Two weeks ago our great aunt passed away.   She had been struggling quite a while with health issues so it was no surprise when we got the phone call.  Violet and I did not know her all that well, she was the sister of our grandfather and we can only really remember seeing her a handful of times since we moved so far away from the Bickerstaff clan.   But our Dad grew up around her and took a long roadtrip with his sister to make it to her funeral.  After he got back he was chatting with me about all the family he saw.  It seems we only see each other at funerals anymore, something that was pointed out to him last year at our other great aunt's funeral, when his cousin said, "Gee, it would be nice if we could all go to a wedding."  He was really just asking our dad when his spinster daughters were finally going to get hitched.

This time around, it sounds like family kept asking him if he has any grandkids yet.  "Well no, no grandkids.  I don't have any son-in-laws yet....they're not just looking for a guy, they're looking for the right guy."  For some reason he repeated this to me multiple times.  I think because he had to give the explanation multiple times.  He was sure to add that that was quite ok with him, and that's the way it should be.  Isn't he so supportive?  It's like he was saying his daughters date plenty, they have their pick of men, it's just that none of the guys have been good enough.  He was saying that we just haven't found them yet.  He was also saying that his daughters will not be having kids out of wedlock (cough, like our cousin, cough).  Oh Dad, you're so sweet.  I hope Violet bears you a grandchild real soon.

Last night I went out to a Meetup gathering, figuring maybe I could find my father a son-in-law.  Of course the one person I exchanged numbers with was a girl, who may just be my new single BFF.  We left that bar to go to another with some non-Meetup guys we had just met.  We had a great time, singing and dancing to an awesome band.  I didn't leave without first making out with my dancing partner in the middle of the floor.  I don't know what his name was.  All I know is that he was wearing skinny jeans and had an unfortunate Justin Bieber hairdo.  I also know he was celebrating his birthday.  His 21st birthday.  Don't worry Dad, I'll keep looking.

Friday, October 21, 2011

It's the End of the World (As We Know It)

Blame it on that crazy loon Harold Camping and his doomsday predictions, but today, as I rode the tube to a friend's housewarming party, I thought to myself, "what would I do if the world were to suddenly be coming to an end?" As it was going on 9pm GMT and no earthquakes or rapturing had taken place as far as I could tell, the moment had clearly passed, but it's still a worthy question.

I didn't have to think twice about the answer. There really wasn't any hesitation. If the world were coming to an end in a matter of mere hours, there is only one thing I would want to be doing: having sex. I know I'm not alone in that sort of thinking.

As I was on the tube, there was really only one thing to do: decide who in the carriage I would shag if in fact doomsday were coming. The carriage wasn't particularly full, a welcome respite considering what seems like 90% of London lives on my tube line. It is packed all. the. time. Even at 10pm on a Tuesday evening. Rush hour is so bad my flatmate Nigel gets to work an entire hour early everyday just to avoid it, and the one time I actually had to take it during the morning rush (thank goodness for no morning classes), I was squished in like a sardine into the stuffy carriage, and it didn't take long before my bangs were sticking to my forehead and my dress sticking to my body, and yes, eventually the river of sweat did begin to flow south between my breasts. Lovely start to the day. But on this Friday evening heading into the city, the carriage was not quite half full, and there were a decent number of men on it.

I scanned the options. The two very young men sitting next to me looked to be more of the frat boy crowd and most likely homosexual, whether they knew it or not. Perhaps the end of the world would give them the liberation to finally be able to shag each other. I ruled out the man sitting across from me not because he was bad looking (which he wasn't), but because he had just consumed a box of greasy fried chicken and chips, straight out of the box, while it sat directly on the floor of the tube. Gross.

Then my eyes landed on the man two seats away from greasy chicken and chips man. Not bad. Not bad at all. We might have a winner- until I noticed that underneath his jacket was what appeared to be a denim shirt, a felony in the ranks of crimes against fashion. I surveyed my other options. To my left, I had a man wearing what appeared to be a 1950s style jock sweater, but further down the carriage there was a man who looked relatively normal, but he got off before I could see what type of shirt he was wearing.

I decided to go back to my original cute fashion criminal when a man who looked like he could be the kid from Billy Elliot 10 years later sat down directly across from me. (Wait, he really could have been the kid from Billy Elliot, as it is 10 years later!) He too was wearing a denim shirt. For crying out loud, I thought London was supposed to be one of the fashion capitals of the world?! And here I have two denim shirts and a jock sweater in one half full carriage?!

I looked more closely at the original Denim Shirt Guy and realized that his denim shirt appeared to be a faux denim shirt. Faux denim? Is that really necessary? Is there a Save The Denim foundation I didn't know about that pickets denim fashion shows, then dumps red paint on the offending denim-wearers while screaming Murderer! Then I reminded myself that in this hypothetical scenario, this is doomsday we're talking about. Fuck it, if the end of the world is barreling down the underground, I will shag the guy in the (possibly faux) denim shirt. He has nice lips.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

SUPERKING

As I mentioned before, my new room in my new flat is pretty big, as is my bed. King-sized big. Although, as I had to learn the hard way, it's not king-sized in the UK, it's SUPERking! On my first day here, I had to buy some sheets. I went to the store, found a king-sized fitted sheet, and brought it home, only to find out it didn't fit. Turns out, the UK system is different from the US system of classifying bed sizes. They have double, but what we call a queen, they call a king, and what we call a king, they call superking, which sounds more like it should be fighting crime in a Marvel comic. Therefore, the only queen you'll find here is Her Majesty, The Queen, whose stamp is everywhere, even on the bottle of Heinz ketchup. That came from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Also frustrating was grocery shopping for ingredients to make whoopie pies and being unable to find powdered sugar only to discover that instead of powdered or confectioner's sugar, they call it icing sugar here.  But I digress.

My bed is huge. It's so big, that I haven't found the need to purchase a nightstand yet. Why? Because I can just put my book, glasses and alarm (aka my phone) in a corner of my bed. I have so much space, I won't roll over and crush them. This is not a problem. It's great, in fact, as I like to spread myself out while I sleep. It's great until I wake up in the morning and realize that my glasses are all the way over on the opposite side of the bed, and there is absolutely nothing between us except a huge, empty expanse of chocolate colored sheets from Argos. Nothing. Just me. Alone. In my bed fit for a superking.

Obviously, I'm anxious to put a superking in my superking bed, but obviously I don't want to come off as desperate. I don't want to come up with a man-trapping plan (unless you can think of a really good one), because as I'm in this exciting city of 7 million people, I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing. Going to class and the library, hanging out with new friends in the student bar, going out on the weekends, and meeting new people practically everyday. As long as I keep an open-mind, things will just happen. I mean, I do have the best legs in London, right? But I don't know how much patience I have before I need to concoct a Plan.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Who wears short shorts?

"Young lady, you've got the nicest legs in all of London."

At first it startled me, the man's voice coming out of the utility truck. He was eating a sandwich in the passenger seat (even though he was sitting on what I still think of as the driver's side) and, well, staring at my legs. Did I slap him? Did I make a dirty face and walk off in a huff about the indignity of being ogled liked a piece of meat.

Of course not. I smiled and said thank you. The English are just so damn polite, even when they're catcalling, it's hard to do anything but. It's not as if he said "Fancy a shag?", he just told me I had the nicest legs in all of London. And he seemed to be a pretty good authority on the situation. (I'm actually quite proud of my legs, and in this day and age women can admit when they've got it going on, right?)

I've been settling into The Life of a Londoner quite nicely, I think. I haven't been hit by a double-decker bus coming from the direction I'm not used to, people ask me for directions (and are surprised by my accent), I get a lot of reading done on the Tube, and I haven't embarrassed myself too badly by saying the wrong word or pointing out someone's fanny pack. (Note: Fanny = Vagina in British) However, I'm still getting hung up on pants. To me, pants are worn over your underwear. To the British, pants are worn under your trousers. Underwear. So if I tell someone I really like their pants, I'm bound to get an odd look. This is something I really must work on.

But most importantly, I've got friends! Obviously I've got Fen, but I'm filling up my phone contact list quite nicely with other students, just moved to London, and a few who are also On The Prowl. We have big plans to go out, meet men, have fun, and experience this awesome city. The Fun begins tomorrow. Grayer, now would be a good time to give me a Night Out Scavenger Hunt...

Saturday, October 8, 2011

The One

The search is over. I've finally found The One.

It's just like everyone says, when it's right, you just know. We're going to live happily ever after, I just know it.

What, you think I'm talking about a man? Don't be silly, I'm talking about finally finding a flat, but the means to get there are pretty much the same.

Just like you look for a man online, you look for a flat online. You search for things in your age range or your price range, look for something geographically desirable, and when you actually go to see it/meet him in person, you just hope that the picture provided doesn't let you down. When you do actually meet, you have to put your best foot forward. Be friendly, smile a lot, and let them know how much better their lives will be with you in it. Then, once the first meeting/date is over, you have to let them know that you're definitely interested, but you can't appear needy. No one likes needy.

And after you let them know you're interested, you wait by the phone. And wait, and wait, and wait. When the phone never rings, or you get an email letting you know it's bad news, you just feel rejected. The more rejections I got, the more I kept wondering, why doesn't anyone want to live with me?! I'm delightful!

Then on Monday, I found The One. I had had another viewing first that evening, one of those where the photos totally lied. I saw a picture of a spacious, bright room, only to be standing in a tiny room while the landlord explained that the wrong photos were put onto the website by no fault of his own. Yeah, right. I headed to my second viewing with higher hopes, since the advert said they were looking for someone who thinks kerfuffle is a great word, so in my response I used kerfuffle in a sentence. I was pretty sure I was a front-runner before I even arrived.

True to the cliche, when you know, you know. Yes, the furniture is a bit shabby and the kitchen features The Original Microwave, but the room is big and bright, and the flatmates are lovely. We hit it off right away. An hour after I left, my phone finally rang, telling me the flatmates loved me. I knew someone would eventually!

I moved out of Fen's bedroom and into my new place today. As much as I love Fen, it was time to get out of her bed. She never wants to cuddle.

The new place isn't without its hiccups, most notably the fact that I have a king-sized bed, which is most impressive considering several of the rooms I looked at were most definitely smaller than a king-sized bed, but it means finding bedding is tougher and more expensive. Having a large bed is not the worst problem to have. Now all I need to do is find a man to put in it.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

500 Posts! (and some mindless blogging)

I was going to log on and blog about something mindless when I was alerted to the fact that this is our 500th Post - eek!! Congrats all.

Now, on to mindless blogging.

Vi: "Are you posting?" (sounds incredulous)
Fen: "You don't need to sound so surprised." (sounds indignant).


Yes, that's right everyone, Vi and Fen are now having real life, real time conversations. It's pretty awesome. (And sorry I haven't blogged in awhile. I've been busy sharing a bed with Vi and talking about Microsoft Office in my sleep).

Vi being here has been interesting for me. Mainly because it's helped me realise what expressions / sayings are British English and what are American English. (I'm an Anglo American hybrid with the interesting accent to prove it). I use a lot of British English sayings and let me tell you, it's difficult thinking of the 'translation' which is so frustrating because we speak the same language. Hard to believe I was once an English teacher.

Secondly, I have become somewhat of a wing woman (one word or two?) since Vi's arrival. This my friends has been somewhat of a new experience for me. I was her wingwoman (I think it's one word) when we went our for her birthday drinks and the cute (but useless British guy) came over to talk to her with his somewhat intense South African friend - guess who had to talk to the somewhat intense South African friend? I've been on the Great London Flat Hunt with her, escorting her to meet potential roommates and I even went Speed Flatmating with her, where I felt like a parent encouraging their child to go make friends. In short, I feel I have achieve wingwoman status. It feels pretty good.

To sum up: some of the best things about Vi being in the same city include:

- being able to text each other
- being able to go for cocktails (Although now she drinks beer. The cute neighbour has a lot to answer for. Did Carrie and Charlotte go out for a pint? No.)
- she cooks for me
- we can watch Glee together

and finally...

Having someone to laugh with over:

- spotted dick
- Cockfosters
- Cock Pond

Yes, we really are that mature.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

The Great Flat Hunt

You know how sometimes you know something to be true, but you don't really understand it until you go through it? That's how I feel about finding an apartment- er, a flat- in London. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but now that I've been at it for a week and am no closer to moving out of Fen's bedroom than I was when I got here, I'm frustrated.

Fen had assured me before I arrived that I wasn't going to find anything like I had in Atlanta. In Atlanta, my roommate and I had a fairly spacious, two (large) bedroom, two bathroom apartment, with a large kitchen (that never had a kitchen table the whole two and a half years we lived there), a porch with a view of the city skyline in the winter, and a very small yard, with a very quaint wooden swing, very close to Midtown and all for a very reasonable price. Fen warned me I would pay a lot more for a lot less. She wasn't kidding.

What I've found while out looking at flats is that many places don't have living rooms- those have been turned into an extra bedroom to keep the cost down. And with the kitchens being so tiny, it kind of keeps you locked up in your room all the time, and some of those rooms were smaller than the closet in my last apartment. And that's not an exaggeration, I had a really big closet.

But a few days ago, I thought I had it. I found a large room in the top floor of a house in one of my top choice of neighborhoods. It was in an attic, which made me feel at home, since my last place was also a former attic. Not only did it have a living room, but the room was big enough to have a sitting area as well. And Grayer definitely approved, since I would be acquiring four British men as my new housemates. Unfortunately, only three were present when I was shown it, but when I talked to the landlord the next day, he said the guys were "quite positive" about me, and we set up a time to meet him on Saturday.

In the meantime, I dragged Fen to a "speed flatmating" event, which is exactly like it sounds. Like speed dating, only for finding a place to live. We weren't quite sure what to expect, but it was definitely worth it. I talked to a few people whose flats I was interested in, and I talked to a few guys whose flats I wasn't interested in, but who were cute. I might do it again, even after I've found a flat. I looked at a few more flats, but didn't see any I liked as much as the boys' house.

Unfortunately on Friday, while I was in the bathroom, I got a text from the landlord of that place that they had already given it to someone else. I was pretty crushed. I got the same disappointment I got when someone I was planning a date with cancelled. So I did the same thing I do when being cancelled on, or dumped: I listed all the bad things about it. The treacherous stairs that probably would have broken my neck on a midnight run to the loo. Sharing the bathroom with 4 boys. The impossibly tiny kitchen. Who needs it?

But I do need a place to live. As much as I love Fen, I don't want to share her bed forever, and I know she doesn't want to share it with me forever either. Although if she talks about Microsoft Office in her sleep again, it might be worth it.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

London Update

Oh hey. I haven't told you yet how I'm doing in London. Let me fix that.

Things got off to a wee bit of a rocky start when my arrival was delayed, oh, about 12 hours. Thanks to some crummy weather, I missed my connection and had to spend the night in the airport. I used to think that spending the night in an airport by yourself is one of the loneliest experiences a person could have- until I spent the night alone in a bus station, which was much, much worse. Therefore, the spending the night in the airport just didn't seem so bad. Besides, there were enough people in my situation that I didn't feel so alone, yet not too many that it was noisy and crowded. Of course, I still didn't manage to get any sleep, despite the seats without armrests so I could actually lay down, but at least there was wifi so I could watch things on netflix, which made the time pass much faster. Unfortunately, Fen had to go to work instead of picking me up and spending the day with me. Sorry, Fen.

When I finally arrived in London, I was a bit nervous about customs. The visa process was extremely stressful, and I was still worried they wouldn't let me in the country despite it all. Turns out, customs was the easy part. The tricky part was dealing with my luggage.

I had managed to get all the important things in my bags, after a lot of vacuum sealing and sitting on my suitcases in order to zip them up. As soon as I arrived in baggage claim, I grabbed a luggage cart. I collected my two suitcases, both weighing in at just a smidge under the 50 pound limit. Lifting them onto the cart, however, was not as easy as it may sound. Mostly because those carts have wheels, and therefore they like to move. So whenever I would raise the bag up, it would hit the cart, because I'm not strong enough to lift a heavy bag much higher than the cart itself, and the cart would start to roll away, while I went chasing after it holding a heavy suitcase chest high. Eventually, I managed to wrangle the cart and sloppily threw my last bag on top of the others and walked through to international arrivals where Fen was waiting for me.

Then came the trials of getting all that luggage through public transport to Fen's flat. Luckily people were nice enough to offer to help us when the elevator-er, excuse me, the lift- wasn't working and we were just kind of staring at the stares wondering how on earth we were going to get all that luggage to the top. Same when we got on and off the bus, and finally, finally, we arrived at Fen's flat, where I fell into such a hard, drug-induced sleep that I actually dreamed about sleeping.

Friday night, Fen and I decided to go out for some drinks and dancing at the corner pub. I very much want to disprove the theory that British men are useless, and I really thought I was onto something after one of them came over to me and asked if he could share the chair I was sitting in. After giving him a bit of a hard time, I let him. His friend sat down next to Fen. Eventually, they figured out that it was my birthday and offered to buy the next round. We let them. When we moved from the table to the dance floor, they commented on how tall we are. Apparently, we're too tall for them, because after buying me another drink, they disappeared. I feel that this is an excellent start. We got the stubborn British boys to buy us drinks, but we didn't have to do the awkward "do you want my number"thing at the end of the evening. Then Fen pointed out that the guy who actually bought us the drinks was South African. Dammit! So close. It's a start, though. I'm convinced that not all hope is lost.

It's not, because last night I finally got to meet The White Horse! Unfortunately, I can't write up a complete review, as it was a very quick meeting, since I had to run off to another flat viewing. He did, however, proclaim the sloppy joes I made for dinner delicious and ate two of them to back that up. He's off to an excellent start, and so is London.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Happy Birthday, Violet!

"How do you say Happy Birthday in British?"

Violet, these hunky American men want to wish you a Happy Birthday.  They also wanted to tell you they missed you and that they'd start another revolution to get you back.

Please take a break from unpacking to enjoy your special day.  Eat some cake.  Go to Harrod's and pick out something special for yourself (that you would totally buy for yourself if you had money).  Hell, find a posse of Englishmen to walk toward you with their shirts off.  It's your day!

Friday, September 16, 2011

A thing called 'closure'

Last week I told you about my blasts from the past.  A message from Jonny fucking Damon threw me for a loop, but no big deal.  We made plans to get together (he offered to deliver my DVD, as he should), but he ended up having to cancel due to car problems.  I believed the excuse, however I wasn't surprised that he had an excuse.  I didn't ever think it was going to actually happen and I let him know that.  After I got back from our roadtrip, he texted me asking me all about it and asking if we can get together next week.  I said yes, but I still don't think it will happen. 

What really put the whole JfD thing into perspective was an email out of fucking no where from my ex-imaginary boyfriend.  (Seriously, JfD is no big deal, he didn't break me in two like this guy did).  After milling it over for a day, I finally responded to that email.  I told him I appreciated the apology, talked a little bit of the trainwreck of our relationship, and said if he ever wanted to catch up, to give me a call some time.  I didn't think he actually would, but if he did I'd talk to him, a lot has happened in 3 years to catch up on. After I sent 'send' I held my breath every time I got into my email. But days went by without hearing from him and I forgot all about it, until this afternoon when I heard the voicemail.

As I was leaving work this evening, I stopped in my tracks and uttered out of shock "oh. my. God." (I said the same thing when I saw his email.  That and a horrified look made my mother think someone had died).   He left a cheerful message saying he was looking forward to catching up.  I listened to it twice.  Flabbergasted.  Then I go to text Violet but I can't, so I text another random friend who I had told about his email.  After I got home I drank an entire beer before I picked up the phone, took deep relaxation breaths and dialed his number.  

I talked to him for two hours.  We talked jobs, old friends, and sex (it was amazing).  We talked about what happened, we reminisced of old times, we joked and laughed, time flew by just like it used to when we talked on the phone.  I asked him what made him contact me after so long.  "I felt bad about it, I've always felt bad about but I never said anything before since I didn't know how you felt about it.  But I decided it was time no matter how you felt. Now I just know what it's like to have someone leave you and never give an explanation."  Well I'm glad he finally did.  It was an interesting conversation.  I feel like I've been validated.  He confirmed what I had thought all along.  That we actually had something.  He basically admitted we had something!  The exact same thing that he made me feel like a crazy person for thinking we had something.  He literally said "If it had been another time, another place, I think it really would have worked out"  ...!!!!!  THAT'S THE THING.  THAT is what makes you an imaginary boyfriend.  I wasn't mourning our relationship when I was getting over you.  I was mourning the what-could-have-been.  I was mourning the fact that it really could have gone somewhere but we'll never know because we didn't get the chance.  Back then he had acted like I had a imagined it, but he seems honest about it now. I wish I would have told him that.  He was even talking about seeing each other someday.  (Seriously?! You live in Montana).  He was talking about me coming to visit (He asked why I hadn't called him when I was in MT). This is what drove me crazy about him.  His talk of the future.  His I-never-thought-of-it-before-but-now-that-you-mention-it-yes-I-would-like-to-see-you-next-summer way of getting insane thoughts in your head that leaves you hoping for the future.  A future I learned that never happened.  This is why I have since had a hard time talking about the future with any guys.  I don't want to get excited about something that will never happen.    

The conversation eventually ended since he had to go to work (he's now working as a Deputy Sheriff, which made me giggle for the biology major).  But he told me to call him anytime, and let him know when I'm ever west of the Mississippi.  I'm glad I talked him.  It was fun, but it was also validation.  I'm now feeling some closure that I didn't even know I needed.  

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

London Calling, part II

Two years ago, Fenella moved to London. Tomorrow, I'm going to be doing the same.

Why am I moving to London? It's time to go to grad school. I've lived in poverty long enough. I can't work two part-time jobs forever, and I certainly can't nanny forever. In this economy, my bachelor's degree just isn't going to cut it. It's a good time to upgrade. And since I would like to go abroad, am too lazy to take my GREs, and want to finish in a year, London is the perfect place to do it.

I am beyond excited. But I am also experiencing some pre-move trepidation. It's not even the first time I've quit a job and picked up to move to another country. And this should be much easier than the last time, when it was a third-world country, whose language I didn't speak, but I met Fen and we've lived happily ever after. Yes, the living conditions should be easier. I won't be living with a constant fear of being chased by rabid dogs or catching a parasite from brushing my teeth, but there is still some concern. What if I can't find a flat and have to sleep with Fenella for a month? What if people don't like me? What if they think I'm some crazy, awkward American? What if the men are more Piers Morgan than Hugh Grant? What if I never learn to say cutlery and am forever without silverware?!

I know everything will be just fine. I know I'll find a flat and as an honorary southerner, I'm friendly now, and gosh darn it, people like me. And if the men are more Piers Morgan, I'll just find out where all the ex-pat bars are or hell, I'll just jump on the train and head to Paris for the weekend. This is MY time, dammit!

After today, if I were to be immortalized, I would be Violet, Goddess of Packing. Whenever people have more stuff than space to put it, they would say a prayer to me, because today, I worked some miracles. Packing your entire life into two suitcases and a carry-on that fit airline specifications is not easy, but I think I did a pretty good job of it. Of course, some things will have to stay behind, but that's because they're just not that important. The things that really matter, like my extensive scarf collection, shoes, and Fen's pop-tarts, made it in, even when things were looking grim. I am, however, most grateful that Fen will be meeting me at the airport to help me lug all this stuff onto the tube. I certainly couldn't do it alone.

As of Thursday morning, it's on. The Year of Violet will commence. So ready or not London, here I come!






Thursday, September 8, 2011

You may now kiss the Best Man

I know that everyone says this, and no one really believes them, but I'm actually having fun being single- and I haven't even moved to London yet. It's only going to get better!

Yes, I know I've shed a few tears over my now single status, but the next time I feel the need to do so, I need to remember weeks like this one, to remind me how fun it can be.

On Sunday, I went to the wedding of not just one, but two of my very good friends. It was a lovely wedding, and I teared up a little bit, which I've never done at a wedding before, but then again, I've never known both the bride and the groom equally well before. I knew them both before they were a couple. I was so happy for both of them.

The wedding was easily the best I've ever been to. I saw lots of people I hadn't seen before, some unexpected, and there was lots and lots of dancing. As it turns out, I knew the Best Man. He played on my intramural softball team in college. It's been years, which led to a bit of an embarrassing situation when I first walked in. He was talking to my friend, The Other Violet when I walked over to them before the ceremony. "Hey Violet, it's great to see you again!," he said. I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn't place him, but still tried to hide my confusion with an enthusiastic hello and handshake. I couldn't fool him, though, and he quickly reintroduced himself, and I knew who he was immediately. I was a bit embarrassed, but I didn't even realize he and the groom were even friends, let enough best man-worthy friends since childhood, so I wasn't expecting to see him there. He had the benefit of the groom telling him I would be there, and my name was in the program, (I read a prayer; kind of a big deal and all), and I hadn't had a chance to look at the program yet.

During the reception, there was lots of wine and dancing and flirting with the Best Man. After the reception, we all congregated in a room at the hotel for an after-party, during which the Best Man suggested we go "get some air," so we went outside and sat next to the pool, chatting for a few hours. Until it started raining, at which point we had to go inside. There wasn't really anywhere we could go inside. He was sharing a room with two friends, as was I. All presumably passed out in bed. So, he walked me to my door and kissed me goodnight. Sorry I don't have a more salacious story of a drunken hook-up, but it was a very gentlemanly thing to do, no?

In the morning, I had to hit the road immediately for mine and Grayer's trip to The Great Outdoors. It just so happened that a tropical storm was working its way north as we left. The trip was about six and a half hours. It rained the entire time. Camping and hurricanes don't generally go well together. By the time we got there, we figured we had better upgrade to a cabin or something, or risk waking up in 3 inches of muddy water. Luckily, we were staying at an outdoorsy version of Disneyland, and they had plenty of "cabin tents" available for us. They were large army tents, already set up on a raised platform, covered by a tarp, and included two beds. Excellent.

Despite the upgrade, I couldn't sleep all night. First of all, it rained hard. Really, really hard, and the rain was really loud on the tarp roof. But I also couldn't sleep because I kept thinking of all the things that could possibly go wrong. The road could wash out and strand us here, a mud slide or flash flood could sweep us away, some murdering rapist could come to our cabin tent and there isn't anyone close enough to hear us screaming over the rain. I think I kept waiting to hear dueling banjos, like in that movie I've never seen because I know it will scare the shit out of me.

It was still raining in the morning when we set out for white-water rafting. It turns out that a hurricane creates ideal conditions for rafting. The water level goes way up, making the river faster, the waves bigger, and a lot more fun. We were in a boat with 4 guys, 3 of them funny, and one of them very awkward. He said things like, "Here's a fun fact for everyone in the boat" and "I love beavers." But the other guys and our awesome guide made up for the awkwardness, and when our guide yelled at us to paddle "Faster! Harder! Faster! Harder!" they all yelled, "I'm so close! Almost there!" right back at her.

Our guide wasn't a hot bearded man, she was definitely a woman, but it didn't matter. She was awesome. And the guide of the other boat did happen to be a hot bearded man (the beard definitely seems to be a requirement of all rafting guides), and we hung out with him later that evening in the pub. He really wished we had been in his boat, but instead he was stuck with a seriously lame group made up of members of a 50-somethings, single adventurers club. He told us stories about how lame they were, and we told him stories of how awesome our boat was, and then beat him at ping pong. Sadly, along with the beard, heavy smoking is also apparently a requirement of rafting guides, and that really cuts down on the appeal. It was still fun to flirt with him, though, and he did tell us to please come back and request to be in his boat.

It's been a pretty good week for this single lady. And by this time next week, I'll be in London, and it will only get better. Stay tuned, this fall is going to be a doozy.

Love me or leave me alone

Dear Universe,
What is your deal?  Why are you messing with me like this?  First, you throw Jonny fucking Damon back into the mix.  Yeah, ok, that's fine, I'll play along.  Then I leave town before seeing him to go fight some awesome class 5 rapids thanks to a hurricane (seriously, thanks for that rain Universe, that rafting was sick!) and get to hang out with a super chill and seriously sexy rafting guide.  But alas, that rain forced us home early to the most shocking blast from the past you could ever come up with.  Seriously Universe, what's your angle?  And why can't I go back to the rapids, where all I had to do was follow directions and hang on for dear life.  At this point I rather risk losing a limb in an undercurrent then dealing with real emotions.  Damn you Universe.

I had an email waiting for me when we got out of the woods and into WiFi.  It was from my original Imaginary Boyfriend, an old undergrad from my grad school days.  Over three years later, he remains to be the only guy I have ever had to get over, and a big reason why I am incapable of talking about futures with guys.  I haven't seen him since Spring of '08, when he graduated and moved west, leaving me feeling completely abandoned and cut off.  Years later he emails me out of the blue to apologize for the way he treated me so many years ago.  This leaves me...speechless.  I don't even know what to say to this, other than wonder if he's in AA and he needs to apologize to everyone he has ever wronged.  If that's the case, then I'm glad he's getting help (though he didn't have an alcohol problem when I knew him).  If that's not the case, then seriously, what the fuck?  Why now?

I've reread this email 40 times already and I still don't know what to say.   I don't want to brush it off as if it's nothing because he really did hurt me and he should know it.  On the other hand, I don't want to sound like I'm still hung up on it.  It was three years ago after all.

I don't know what's going on in the world. I don't know why two guys from my past have popped up out of the blue within a week of each other.  The Imaginary Boyfriend showing up make Jonny Damon's reappearance seem like nothing.  Why do they do this?!  Why can't they just leave me alone?!

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Princess Fenella

Well I'm sure you're all wondering how the Royal Visit went.

Let me tell you, waiting for the royals is boring. Seriously boring.

When I arrived at work this morning there was an air of excitement - we normally don't have the police standing outside our office. We had been given strict instructions: if you don't arrive before 9.30 you won't be allowed in the building until 11.30. Had I not been involved in the festivities I would've used the standard: 'the underground was crap this morning' excuse to get a lie in.

Suffice to say, it was all a teensy bit exciting.

It got less exciting the more we had to wait. After those selected to attend part of his visit had assembled we waited. For almost an hour. Then he appeared, spoke, nodded and smiled a lot. We clapped, laughed and smiled where appropriate.

And then he was gone. And it was back to my desk, my emails and my spreadsheets.

Still, it made a change from my usual Wednesday morning.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Into the wild

someecards.com - I'm outdoorsy in that I like getting drunk on patios
In about an hour, Violet and I will be embarking on a camping/white-water rafting trip (that's right, be impressed with our outdoorsy-ness).  We're really looking forward to getting away from it all and relax in nature (from my laid-back job and Vi's unemployment).  To prove that two single girls can be outdoorsy without the help of a strong hot man (unless said man is nearby, in which case we may need help starting a fire).  Yes, "roughing" it for a few days will really be good for us (especially if we find hot bearded rafting guides to get rough with).  So wish us luck (partially from falling out of the raft, mostly with the bearded guys)!

Sunday, September 4, 2011

A Royal Occasion

As the resident UK blogger (I know Vi gets here soon but until she says 'cutlery' instead of 'silverware' the title remains mine) I thought I'd share with you something I think you'll get a kick out of...

I'm meeting the Prince of Wales on Wednesday. Because I run in those type of circles.

I do realise people would find it more exciting if it was Prince William or Harry but I think you should still all be suitably impressed.

I'm not a fan of the royals but I am a fan of anything that makes a change from sitting at my desk at work. And if I'm going to be selected to meet him then it would be rude to say no.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to practise my curtsy...

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Mathematics of Love

According to Charlotte York, it takes half the length of the relationship to recover from a relationship. I've never been good at math, but let me see if I can figure this out.

L÷2=R{where L= length of relationship and R=recovery time}


The cute neighbor and I got together in April of 2010 and parted in July of 2011, which equals approximately 16 months. Divide that by 2, and you get 8 months. So according to Charlotte, I'll be over it by... March 2012. MARCH?!?!?! Oh no, no, no, no, no. I must get over this more quickly than March!

Every time that I think that I'm over it, something happens to make me realize that I'm not. First it was seeing photos of him pop up on facebook, (which I then made sure to "hide" all his future facebook activity in record time) then it was something as innocent as seeing the university he is now employed by playing in an athletic event that made me desperate to text/call him. (I didn't. *pats self on back*) And now it's an email from him.

I was actually thinking that I was so over it that maybe, just maybe I could drop him an email to see if he's found a new apartment, etc., but decided no, I should definitely at least wait until I get myself settled into London. By that point, I'll be very busy and surrounded by lots of new people with exotic accents, and I really and truly won't care about him. But when I saw his name pop up in my inbox, I realized just how unready I am for that. The usual queasiness in the pit of my stomach, and the prickling just behind my eyes returned. The email was innocent enough, he was actually just forwarding on information about free baseball tickets we won for being so awesome at tailgating (and the tickets just happen to be for my birthday, but I'll be in London, of course), but all I want now is a calming glass of wine, only my parents don't drink wine. They don't drink anything at all, and why is it that my parents' house is completely dry? And in this god forsaken place, the liquor store downtown closes at 6pm and they don't sell any alcohol in grocery stores, so I really, really cannot have a calming glass of wine. You'd think they were recovering alcoholics or something, but they're not, they just don't like alcohol. I thought of the possibility that some unsuspecting soul had given them a bottle of wine as a gift over the holidays (it's happened), but if I ask them for that, they'll automatically assume I've got an alcohol problem (they would, trust me), even though I haven't had any alcohol at all since I was at Grayer's place (and left a bottle of wine there, DAMMIT!), so I guess I'll just have to hope they have a dance lesson tonight or something so I can ransack the house looking for wine. Now I sound as if I do have a problem.

Ok. It's fine. I'll just have a calming glass of water and some chocolate instead. That's almost the same thing. And piss on Charlotte's formula. In two weeks I'll be in London, surrounded by men with adorable accents, and Fen will be around for cocktails. I don't need that stupid formula. I just need some wine...

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

The Anatomy of A Break-Up

by Violet and Grayer

If it ain't broke, don't fix it

I know I've haven't blogged recently. The sole reason for this is that my life is very unexciting at the moment. I go to work, get hopelessly stressed out over work then come home and keep telling myself that I'll clean my room but I don't. (I really must clean it though as in less than THREE WEEKS VIOLET WILL BE MOVING TO LONDON!)

However, I have been meaning to blog about something. Something that has enraged me. Wait for it...they are remaking Dirty Dancing.

The face that 'they' is Kenny Ortega, choreographer of the original is behind this project is even more infuriating - doesn't he know how amazing the original is?! Why would he want to mess with it?

It's bad enough that Hollywood has become so unbelievably unoriginal that they are rehashing and remaking various films and television shows (sooner or later they will remake 'Friends', then we will all feel really old) but the fact that they are actually considering remaking one of the most loved films of all times? Patrick Swayze is probably turning in his grave.

Now I know that Dirty Dancing isn't for everyone. Many of my friends don't get my fascination with it and think I'm some naive romantic for even liking it. In fact, one of my friends used Dirty Dancing as the reason why I was still a virgin, I was waiting for 'movie love.' (The actual reason was of course the fact that I hadn't met anyone suitable who I wanted to have sex with for the first time. Call me crazy).

However, I think we can all agree that if it's not broken then don't fix it. And Dirty Dancing is not broken so don't remake it! Rant over.

But seriously, don't get me started on the rumours of a third Bridget Jones movie. As if the remakes aren't bad enough Hollywood does not know when to quit with sequels...

Monday, August 29, 2011

Help! I need somebody

I've had a weird day.  A very weird day.

It has finally happened.  I've finally seen someone I know on OkCupid.  A guy I know from my volleyball meetup group (which has hundreds of people in it, he's an organizer), sent me a message this morning.  He didn't realize who I was.  And while the message was very clever and I would probably have responded, I can't, because I want to play volleyball again someday without it being wicked awkward.  I'm slightly mortified by this experience.  Also, I must really look like hell when playing beach volleyball.

I was out to lunch for a coworker's last day, when my innocent Chinese colleague (who this past weekend I took to a bar for his first time ever and got him drunk off a half a beer) asked what it felt like to get high.  My boss replied, "I wouldn't know, I've never done marijuana."  So my colleague just kept asking me what it feels like.  Note: You don't ask someone about illegal drug use while in front of your boss!  Isn't that written in the employee manual or something?  After the longest 30 seconds of my life, I just shrugged and said "Google it."

Here's the kicker.  After returning from lunch, I get on Facebook to find a random ass message from Jonny Fucking Damon.  It's been a long time since his last Facebook message, but oh, how I remember it.  This time around he said, "Hey. Random, I know, but you just popped up in my head. How are you? Have a good summer?"  Which leads me to ask aloud, What the Fuck?  What the hell does he want?  Why is he doing this?  Why did he put a "." after Hey when it clearly should have been a "!" or ","

But seriously, WHY DO THEY DO THIS?!  Pop up out of no where, wondering how you've been!  Mind your business, assholes!  I was doing quite well without you wondering how I was, thank you.  Now I'm going to think about you the rest of the afternoon while trying to resist answering your message.  Damn my curiosity. I need to know what you want.  Must...Answer...  I waited three whole hours before responding with a brief "I'm doing well, sad summer's over, did you get a teaching job?" type message.  But I just kept thinking, what the fuck does Jonny fucking Damon want?  Why now? Ugh.

He responded shortly there after, giving me a life update with questions about myself thrown in, and ended with this,  "Mr. D-bag (me) still has your movie, what would you say to a drink, so I can deliver it to you finally?"   What the hell are you up to, Jonny fucking Damon?!  Yes, you still have my fucking movie.  You said you'd get it back to me 20 times since I left it at your house.  But why do you suddenly have a guilty conscience about it 8 months later?  What are you after?!

Would someone please tell me how to respond?  Seriously, tell me what to do.  I'm curious as to what the hell he wants but I don't know if seeing him would be a good thing.  I also don't think it will actually happen as he promised to get it to me so many times before.  I would like it back, not because I can't find it for 10 bucks at Wal-mart, but it's the principle that matters now.  What would he do if there wasn't a movie involved? Would he still be asking me for drinks?  I'm so curious!  Any advice will help.  Pleeeeease!

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Frank in real life

someecards.com - Sorry your friends with benefits look nothing like the stars of Friends with Benefits
I got on the train late last night.  I had been out at a bar with friends and I actually looked pretty dang good.  I sat down and looked at the guy who sat across from me.  He had on questionable brown shoes, jeans that were a wash that reminded me of dad jeans, a polo shirt and glasses.  He looked like a dork.  A major dork.  It took me a moment to realize it was Financial Frank.

I've never seen Financial Frank in real life before.  I've also never seen Financial Frank wearing pants before.  We live in the same area but we've never run into each other.  This was weird.  So I just stared at him.  He cut his hair since last time I saw him.  I didn't care for it.  I never did like it when he wore glasses.   And seriously, what's up with the dad jeans?  It took a minute but he eventually realized some one was staring at him, but in that minute I realized something--I'm totally the better looking one.  It was a nice feeling.  I smiled and changed seats to talk to him.

The gravy train that is Financial Frank is coming to a close.  He's moving across town this month.  Let's be honest, our relationship is not strong enough to endure a subway ride.  At least not regularly.  And after seeing him in real life, I'm going to go ahead and say I'm ok with that.

I have a date tonight that I'm actually looking forward to.  He's a science type with a quirky sense of humor.  He was Don Draper for Halloween last year so he deserves a shot....I hope he wears a suit.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Cake eater

The good news is, it's over.  8-year-Lisa is officially married and currently on her honeymoon (but has been on Facebook an alarming amount of time).  The wedding was lovely, the weather was perfect, the bride was radiant, the eye-makeup was gorgeous, and the groom's brother was hot (yowza!).   Something that didn't look great, however, was the cake.


The cake arrived shortly after my date and I did.  It did not look good (though we later found that it was delicious).  A friend of a friend had made it, and it was obviously homemade.  You could see streaks of the underlying chocolate cake, there were cracks between the layers, and the hand-painted edible pansies were some of the saddest things I've ever seen.  The bride was not happy (though surprisingly calm).  My date and I suggested a fix, to add real flowers.  She trusted me to get it done right so as I started stealing flowers from centerpieces, my date started cutting them.  And then we went to work.  We kept the pansies for filler and structural support, while adding real flowers to cover them up as much as possible.  It was really fun.  I love having to being creative under pressure! We now believe that as a team, we would make great cake decorators (minus the whole icing thing).  My date said things like "Put this pink one here and it will really pop against this purple."  Needless to say, comments like this didn't really convince me he was straight.  Nor did our very long conversation about Glee on our way there.

The wedding was fun but it wasn't a wild party.  The family started stacking up chairs within a few hours, so we were back to Boston by dinner.  We were absolutely exhausted after getting up so early, so we had dinner, watched a movie, and went to bed by 10.  That's when things got weird.  My wedding date was...on me all night.  Not on me, but....up against me all night.  I'm not saying he tried anything, but I have a big bed.  Violet slept in it with me for a week without ever touching me (except that one time when I hit her in the face) yet this guy couldn't seem to do anything but crowd me.   I was exhausted but I couldn't sleep.  I could feel him breathing on my neck.   In the morning, he was giving me crap for being a bed hog.  Me!?  Then he said how well he slept and how comfortable my bed is, all while playing with my hair.  What the fuck is going on?!

Much of this continued for the rest of a lazy Sunday.  We read in the park, we napped, we watched a movie all while continuing this weird closeness.  It wasn't sexual, it was just cozy.  Maybe he was just craving some human interaction?  I don't know.  But it was weird.  Little brother characters aren't supposed to be so touchy.  

Sunday, August 21, 2011

What Would Don Draper Do?


This time at home has taught me something: I'm an angry person here. I've always known that I didn't like living in my hometown. That's why I went to college out of state and I stayed there. But I've also come to learn that being here makes me angry.

It's something I didn't notice when I first got home because I chalked it up to the Break-up Blues. And while the crying and the loneliness were definitely part of that, there was also a part of me that just resented being here, so I went to see Grayer.

Visiting Grayer was a very, very good decision in all facets. First of all, Grayer is a lot more fun to hang out with than my parents. She drinks, they don't. She will go see the Glee 3-D concert movie with me, then choreograph a routine to PYT, with Grayer on lead vocals, ala Artie, and me on back-up vocals and dance, ala Mike Chang. While walking by Fenway Park. We're that cool. Then she'll belt out Glee tunes with me in the car while on a road trip. Ok, we might be gleeks. Maybe. She will also make herself scarce so I can hook-up with her roommate, which brings me to my second point.

My fling with Bernard was exactly what the doctor ordered. I really, really hate to admit it, but I really needed the attention and the compliments to ice my bruised ego. By the time I left, I realized that I had had a lot more sex in a week than I would have had I been in a relationship, and I realized that this whole single thing might not be so bad after all. Because let's face it, after the first month or so, you stop having sex multiple times a night, you just go the hell to sleep. So you would think going back to Bumfuck, USA properly sexed would make me a much happy camper, but you would be wrong.

While I did have a proper post-coital glow for a day or so, the anger crept back in before my bus had even arrived. Sure, there are some advantages to being here, namely the free rent and the swimming pool, but when I'm here, I'm just counting the days until I can escape. I just don't want to go to dinner at Ruby Tuesday's with my parents because they have a coupon. And when I open the refrigerator, I don't need my mother to start listing all the contents of the fridge as if I can't see what is directly in front of me. (What is with that? Is this a thing of all mothers or just mine?)

Which brings me to the irrational anger. Yesterday, I decided the perfect thing to do would be to get caught up on Mad Men, one of the best shows EVER, and since my parents stream Netflix, it was perfect! Until I couldn't figure out which one of the 15 remote controls would get me to the Wii. I called my parents to ask how to switch it,but when my mother's complicated directions came to nothing, and she finally just said, "Sorry, I'll just have to do it when I get home," I got angry. The "I'm home and can't get out" anger combined with my irrational "technology isn't working the way I want it to!" anger (because I do think I get abnormally angry when technology doesn't work. This is something I should work on. New Year's Resolution 2012!) was not a good combination. I calmed down by watching The Gilmore Girls (on cable) and reading whoopie pie recipes. Ahhhhhhh.

I have a wedding to travel to in 2 weekends, and after that it will only be 10 days until London. (eeek!) I'm just hoping I can make it that far, but I'm hoping the streaming Netflix will help. Let's see how many more tv series addictions I can develop.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for the finale of The Glee Project!

Friday, August 19, 2011

The wedding date

Do you ever have one of those days when you have a day off so you get your haircut and the blow out that follows gives you shiny bouncy hair that is only seen on tv?  Then you practice makeup for your upcoming wedding that gives you the overall "I never look this good!/why don't I always wear makeup and hair product?" feeling so you therefore have to leave the house to be seen?  Yeah, me too.  That's why I'm at Starbucks.  I'm glad I have an iced drink and a Macbook to fit it.  People are probably being distracted by my shiny bouncy hair.  I should stop tossing it around as if I'm in a hair color commercial/having an aneurysm.

To answer your question, yes I do have an actual reason for posting today.  And to answer your other question, yes I have considered taking a picture of myself for my next online dating profile.

Tomorrow is the big day, 8 year Lisa is gettin' hitched!  It seems like it was only 10 years ago when those two lovebirds met.  Some kids really do move fast.  It was only 8 months ago when they got engaged with the most unromantic non-proposal I've ever heard. I'm a bridesmaid tomorrow, but more importantly, I am the makeup artist (which is why I need to practice).  Yeah, I'm kind of a big deal.  Such a big deal that I should be there now, doing bridesmaid duties and picking which of his brothers I want to walk me back up the aisle (the cute one, obvi).  But I'm not.  Mostly because of the drama that is my wedding date.  No, I take that back, mostly due to the Crazy that is her entire family.

My wedding date is one of the coolest kids I know.  He's a former student/undergraduate from my grad school days.  The kid looks up to me (figuratively).  I haven't seen him in a year but when he happened to call me as Lisa and I discussed my date options, he seemed like the obvious choice (Especially since Lisa knows and loves him as well).  His exact response was "I do make a fabulous plus one.  What are you wearing? I'll go to Kohl's."  See? Don't you love this guy already?!  Like many, I don't think the kid is straight.  He claims this is because he wears sweaters and has skinny arms.  That may be true.  I'd also add the whole only-friends-with-so-many-girls thing, not to mention the constantly-singing-show-tunes thing.  (He always used to sing "Oh my God, oh my God, you guys" which I much later learned was a verse from Legally Blonde: the Musical...What straight man would sing that?).   I don't care about his sexual preference, all I know is he is my date of choice and definitely not because I'm going to get lucky, he's like a little brother! (Last year he did stay at my place.  As we got into bed he told me he was strictly a little spoon.  He then preceded to ask me my thoughts on Justin Bieber as we drifted off to sleep.  When I didn't have thoughts on the Biebs, he told me I sucked at pillow talk.  We haven't slept together since. And by slept, I do mean sleep).

Let me say, as a bridesmaid, I believe I deserve a date.  Just because I don't have a boyfriend doesn't mean I don't need someone to dance with, or more importantly, someone to hold my clutch while I pee.  Lisa seemed to think this too, until she got around to the guest list, then she just got weird.  I thought it odd when the invitation arrived with both of our names on it.  Seemed a bit much for just a friend.  I thought it really odd when on the inside information sheet it said "We can only accomodate the guest addressed on your invitation."  What they were saying was, you can take this dude but you can't take anyone else.  Umm...what the fuck?  It's one thing if he were my boyfriend and they don't want me bring a random friend instead.  It's another thing when he's a random friend and I can't take anyone else.  What if he bails?  Who will hold my clutch while I pee?  Alright weirdos, I'll let this one go but I think you are all crazies.

This wedding is on Lisa's grandparents farm in the middle of nowhere. So in the middle of nowhere that there's only little Bed & Breakfasts within an hour.  Being a bridesmaid and therefore a big deal, Lisa invited me to stay at "camp" with her the night before.  Awesome, can my date stay there (I have to ask these things because she seems hell-bent on ignoring his existence)?  No, her mother would be uncomfortable with that.  Even with him setting up a tent out in the yard and sleeping alone.  Uncomfortable, she says.  Ummm...what the fuck?  Ok, crazies.

Months ago, Lisa promised her friends they can camp the night of the wedding in the field at her grandparents farm.  It'd be a fun after party and no one will have to worry about driving anywhere.  Since this was an option for Saturday night, and my date was not permitted to be near the family, I asked if my date and I could just camp out in the field the night before.  No, her dad doesn't want anyone in the field.  At all.  Two days before the wedding, her dad (who doesn't even own the farm) decides that no one can stay in the field at all.  What does he think we're going to do out there?  Have a giant orgy?! Does he think it will be the site of the next Woodstock?! You need more than two people for that, weirdo.

The Lisa family, if admitting his existence, appears to be putting a restraining order on my date.  Don't they know that not only do I rely on him for a good time, but I also need him to keep me away from Lisa's older brother (who I may have accidentally made out with once while he was dating his ex-girlfriend)?  No, I suppose they wouldn't know that.  Her family was effective in one thing, and that's keeping me from the wedding activities.  I am now missing the making of the bouquets as well as the rehearsal.  I feel terrible about this but Lisa assures me she doesn't mind and they'll fill me in in the morning.  Let's hope she actually doesn't mind, and won't just be mad about it later.  Don't blame me, blame your wacko parents.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

How Violet Got Her Groove Back

Mission: Accomplished!


Turns out that Bernard is good in bed.

Turns out this single thing might not be so bad.

Rebound successful. Coming to Boston was a good idea. Thanks, Grayer. I promise to do the same for you. In fact, while searching for a flat in London, I'll be sure to see to it that at least one of my roommates is surprisingly hot and good in bed, just for you.



Wednesday, August 10, 2011

And the Oscar goes to...

...Me. For the Best. Maid. Of. Honour. Speech. EVER.

OK, maybe it wasn't the best ever, but it was pretty damn good. I didn't stumble over my words, I thought of jokes on the spot which were pretty funny, I made fun of the groom for mispronouncing my name (my name confuses British people)and right at the end I started to choke up. Not crocodile tears but actual, genuine emotion. I didn't see this coming but it totally made the speech. People were putty in my hands. The Best Man looked shell shocked - how was he going to follow real tears? He followed it with an inflatable speech, but that's another story.

The best thing? The wedding was fun! And enjoyable! And with ZERO drama. In short, I had an amazing time.

I'm just really glad it's over.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Operation: Rebound

I'm in Boston with Grayer. I got home to Pennsylvania on Sunday, and made it all the way to Wednesday when I decided I couldn't take it anymore and I bought a bus ticket to Boston. How long will I be here? Depends. I'm not leaving until I properly rebound.

The Rebound Quest got started on Saturday. Grayer and I went to Fenway, but not inside the stadium. No, we don't have an extra $200 each to see the Yankees/Red Sox. But we did better. We went to a bar behind the stadium to watch the game. On our way over, we put together an impromptu Scavenger Hunt list, to ensure a good time and make things a bit more interesting. What we put on the list isn't all that important, except one thing: Get Yankees fans to buy us drinks. We had been there at the bar an entire 10 minutes when Shorty (named so because of his small stature) walked up to Grayer and gave her a high-five. He was taller than Grayer (barely) but shorter than me. He had two friends with him, one extremely tall, and one in the middle. They were all Yankees fans. 10 minutes after starting the conversation, they offered to buy us the next round. Well, that was easy.

Shorty made it known that he was interested in Grayer, while I basically went back and forth between the other two. During the course of the conversation, we found out that the Tall Guy was the only one who actually lived in Boston, and the other two were staying with him for the weekend. Not an ideal situation for sleepovers for any party.

After the game, Grayer and I decided to go find some food, and the Yankee boys came with us. The dinner was entertaining, to say the least. We were a loud, but not obnoxious table. So much so that the manager told our waitress to give us two desserts on the house, simply because we were the nicest people he had met that day. Lesson: Be friendly and loud.

Afterward we walked to a different bar, and the medium-sized guy asked me if I was "going to stop doing the big sister thing." Apparently it seemed to Shorty that I was being too protective of my younger sister and not letting her go off alone with him. This was not the case. Excuse me, but Grayer and I have a long-established code, and when she wants me to get lost, she will give me the code, and I will. The only person who was cock-blocking was Shorty himself, because Grayer just wasn't that interested.

After awhile, we decided nothing else was going to happen that night, thanks to out-of-town guests. The Tall Guy had my phone number, so if he wants to call me after his friends go home, he will. So we left, but not before the medium guy told me I shouldn't move to London, but instead move to New Jersey and date him, because he never meets girls like me. This made me feel loads better. I may not have rebounded, but I know that I could have.

The Quest continues...