#lesbianhat #awkward #LakeTahoe

I promised I’d write this awhile ago, but then my car blew up and I got distracted. These things happen.

I use Twitter. So do other people. I met my boyfriend on Twitter. It’s fun, and when you’re unemployed for three months, sitting on the couch, and watching an SVU marathon with your cat, it’s mostly very entertaining. I say mostly because there are some people out there who don’t know how to tweet, and those people are ruining Twitter.

I don’t pretend that everything I tweet is interesting, relevant, meant for a large audience, perfectly punctuated, or necessary. I’ve tweeted things that didn’t need to be tweeted. We all have. I’m not going to scroll through my timeline and call out individual tweets with comma errors, broken links, and foursquare check-ins from a urinal at Madison Square Garden. A few lame tweets here and there are excusable. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad tweeter. Repeat offenders of multiple offenses, however — hmph. You’re giving us all a bad name.

So I’m going to have a little rant and probably lose a few followers. Here, in no particular order, are the worst tweeters to disgrace the name of Twitter:

1. #illiterate

Sample: imma be strait witchu. your a stupd ho.

One of my biggest Twitter pet peeves is misspelled trending topics. Sweet Lord. It makes my skin crawl to see that ‘Brittany Spears’ is trending because a) some Philistine doesn’t know how to Google the correct spelling of her name, and then b) 253482742 other people follow up the misspelled tweet by repeating the misspelling.

Note: Tweeting Why is (insert misspelling here) trending? It should be (insert correction here.) is ADDING TO THE PROBLEM. RAWR.

Aside from simple misspellings, there are people out there who tweet like they’ve never read a book in their lives. I admit that I’m a grammar snob with a strong love of the Oxford comma, but this isn’t just my pedantic word-nerd self having a go at anyone who doesn’t have an AP Style Guide handy. I think it’s pretty clear that dollar signs don’t go after the dollar amount. Your and you’re aren’t the same thing. If you can’t spell, don’t tweet. If you don’t know the difference between a noun and a verb, don’t tweet. If you want other people to read what you write, you have to make an effort. Dictionaries aren’t that rare or expensive.

PS – Putting punctuation in a hashtag ruins the hashtag. This isn’t a new concept.

2. #textspeak

Sample: U R all 2 stupid to realize – Burma & Myanmar R the same place!

If you’re an adult, you shouldn’t be using textspeak. WRITE IT OUT, and if it’s too long to fit into the 140 character limit, break it up into smaller tweets. Textspeak is lazy. You might be saying something super important, but no one will notice because you’re expressing it like a simpleton.

3. #chicktweets

Sample: <3 <3 When a girl says ‘I’m done’, it usually means ‘fight for me.’

Quotes from Marilyn Monroe or The Notebook or Taylor Swift songs are lame. LAME. Get off Twitter and go buy a pink Yankees hat.

4. #drama

Sample: Guess I don’t exist now. Some people don’t know what it means to be a friend.

Coded passive-aggressive digs at people who remain nameless are also lame. Twitter isn’t private. If you can’t share it with the rest of the class, don’t open that door and then slam it in our faces. Also, no one cares that the guy you like is all over that girl you don’t like.

5. #silence

Sample: Are you guys psyched for Easter? (March 15, 2010)

If you have a Twitter account, then tweet. It’s especially annoying when celebrity tweeters don’t tweet. You have 500,000 followers and all you can manage for us is one tweet per decade?

6. #creeping

Sample: I see that several days ago, you mentioned you liked celery. I’m eating celery right now!

This is Kevin’s favorite thing people do on Twitter. That’s sarcasm. He hates it. It is kind of weird when people respond to a tweet way after you tweet it. Alright, Creepy McCreeperson, maybe ease up on the creepy throttle and go outside for awhile instead of scanning your timeline with a magnifying glass.

7. #politics

Sample: Blah, blah, blah, GOP, blah, blah, propaganda, blah, blah, taxes.

A few political tweets before/after a major political event are understandable and expected. Unless you work in politics, if your entire timeline is a love letter to Mitt Romney or a campaign against Nick Clegg, it’s too much. No one cares, and you’re only encouraging other people to be annoying. Twitter isn’t the right forum to express political opinions if your goal is for those opinions to be taken seriously. Your hard-hitting tweet that delves into real issues will appear alongside someone describing what they had for breakfast.

8. #weed

Sample: hiiiiiiiiiigh #420 #iknowitsillegalbutimsimplytoocoolnottosmoke

I’m not anti-stoner. I knew a lot of stoners at Loyola and at Newcastle. I know a lot of stoners who are old enough to know better. Hey, if you smoke weed, that’s your business. It’s not for me. Regardless of your stance on it, it’s not very smart to announce to the whole world that you’re blazed.

9. #foursquare

Sample: Kelsey is at THE COUCH. Kelsey is at THE REFRIGERATOR (with 3 others).

To be honest, I don’t get foursquare. I don’t understand its purpose. I don’t like knowing where Luke Hessinger gets his groceries. I don’t want Luke Hessinger knowing where I get my groceries.

10. #selfpromotion

Sample: Check out my band! We make music only brainless knobs love!

I never really experienced this until I moved to the good Orange, which is near enough to New York City to make people think I can pop in for their open mic night of performance poetry somewhere in Queens. Yeah, no thanks, and fuck off.

Those are my Twitter pet peeves. I’m sorry if I mentioned something you do frequently. I probably like you enough to overlook it. I’m also sorry if I do something on Twitter that you find annoying. I assure you that I don’t do it on purpose. OR DO I? No, I really don’t.

It drove itself into the swamp.

I rarely blog anymore, but something happened to me this past weekend that was so remarkable, I feel I have to discuss it. That thing is CARBECUE 2011.

Let me first take this opportunity to be pedantic about the word barbecue. The way I’m spelling it is the way it’s meant to be spelled. There’s no Q in barbecue. It just sounds like Q. Words are funny like that. Now please stop spelling it with a Q because it’s fucking wrong, you assholes.

ANYWAY.

So this past weekend, I went to visit Big Larry in the wild blue yonder that is Pennsylvania, and I was riding in style, just rocking like a star in my brand spanking new ’94 Cadillac Deville. OH YEAH. Be jealous. Or don’t, if you know the end of this story. On the way there, I was having a seriously good time. I was rolling at about 80 the whole way and blazing through the left lane like I was plowing the road because I was in a Cadillac, and when you drive a car that big, you’re a honey badger and you don’t give a shit. I hadn’t had a car since we sold Dave before I went to Newcastle, so I was living it up, blasting my Fo’ Sheezy playlist of rap music from 2005. People wanted to be me. Hell yes, my friends. HELL YES.

I reached Pennsylvania without incident, just briefly stopping at the Pilot at Exit 7 for a car freshener (Cinnamon spice — festive.) and a terrible tuna salad sandwich. I got to the L-Vall and pulled into the Promenade Shops to pick up a $50 bottle of Maker’s Mark for Big Larry’s birthday, since I was in Portugal for his actual birthday. This becomes significant later on.

On my way to the house from the liquor store, my brakes kind of went out. I had brakes, but not good ones. I had to push the pedal all the way to the floor to get it to stop. Why didn’t I pull over? I was five minutes from home, so I figured I could make it. Hm.

When I got the house and parked in the driveway, smoke was pouring out of the hood. This was my face at this point:

 

Did I mention we’d just bought this car? Did I mention I’d driven all the way out to Wayne to go to the DMV that very morning to get the car registered? DID I? It took me several minutes to pop the hood to see what the problem was because a) I’d only had the car for a week, and b) I’m a simpleton. What exactly was the problem? The engine was on fire. No big deal.

HOLY BALLS, IT’S ON FIRE.

I knew that somewhere in the house, somewhere I’d never seen before, somewhere untouched in ten years, Big Larry, a fireman’s son, had a fire extinguisher. I also knew that there was probably a hose in the yard. But even as those thoughts crossed my mind, as I stared into the flames licking at my hood, the fire doubled in size. Now the entire engine was ablaze.

So I called 9-1-1. This was semi-exciting. I’d never called 9-1-1 before. Here’s an approximate transcript of how that call went down:

Dispatcher: Upper Saucon 9-1-1, where is your emergency?
Me: MY CAR IS ON FIRE.
Dispatcher: Where?
Me: MY CAR IS ON FIRE.
Dispatcher: Okay, ma’am, what is your location?
Me: CAR. CAR ON FIRE. CAR ON FIRE.

He finally got some sense out of me and sent the firetrucks and police my way, but he had to sit on the line with me while I deteriorated into speaking in tongues.

Dispatcher: Are you away from the vehicle now?
Me: Holy shit, the tree. The tree might catch fire. Oh fuck, leaves. Oh shit, the car — the car’s gone up — it’s totally on fire now. Shitfuckballscocks.
Dispatcher: They’re on the way, ma’am. Are you away from the vehicle?
Me: Shit — I mean — shit. Fuck. I can’t believe — fuck. I just fucking bought — the DMV — leaves — that tree might — oh fuck, the neighbors are staring.

I didn’t take any pictures of the car while it was on fire because I was on the phone with the unfortunate soul at 9-1-1 dispatch, but this is pretty much what it looked like:

This is not an exaggeration. CONFLAGRATION.

 

I’m not going to lie, had my parents’ house not been at risk of burning down at that particular time, I would’ve thought it was badass. It was pretty awesome. The flames were shooting everywhere. At one point, my neighbor emptied two baby fire extinguishers on it, but the flames just returned with a vengeance, like we’d insulted their mamas.

Me, still on the phone with 9-1-1: The car — shit — fire — it might be catching. I don’t know. Shit. I’m going to go hide in the woods.

Yeah, I hid in the woods. I had a bag of laundry, my computer, and my purse. Noticeably absent: the $50 bottle of bourbon. Also, my iPod, its adapter, my fall jacket, my gas station tuna sandwich and car freshener, half of a Starbucks Frappuccino, and the Batman folder where I keep all my important car-related documents, including the title, insurance, and registration. GONE. Fuel for the fire.

This is how the car looked before:

 

By the time the fire was put out, this is what remained:

 

If you think that’s a joke photo or that maybe I stole that from Google Images, think again. That’s really my car. That’s my dad’s driveway, my burned out car, and the river of foam the firemen used to put the car out. I don’t kid around.

Meanwhile, with me now out of the woods and in my neighbor’s yard, the police were confused as to what exactly went on.

Cop: …and you say there’s bourbon on the front seat?
Me: Yes.
Cop: Mm-hm. And what kind of car is this?
Me: It’s a Cadillac.
Cop: (impressed) Is it? Nice.
Me: (?!) It’s on fire.

So anyway, I was a Cadillac owner. I still am, technically, since we haven’t squared away the insurance yet. As a Cadillac owner, the only real exciting opportunity made available to me was scraping melted bits of Cadillac off my dad’s driveway. Yay! And then, because it always has to be something, if not multiple things, the tow truck didn’t come until Tuesday, meaning that my parents’ prospective house buyers got to view the property with a burned out Cadillac out front. ALSO, with the new title lost in the fire, I now have to wait 30 days before the State of New Jersey will bother giving me a new one, which delays the insurance process and prevents me from shopping for a new car. YAY!

That was CARBECUE 2011. I appreciate the support I received via Facebook and Twitter. Still can’t really believe that my car burst into flames right before my very eyes, nor can I really wrap my mind around the idea that I was driving a car that was on fire. Anyway, until next time, blog reader(s).

Wealthy vegan assholes

I haven’t blogged in awhile. I’ve been too busy talking to the cat and watching SVU in my pajamas and Oscar the Grouch slippers. Yep.

I went to Whole Foods today.

This was my first real foray into Whole Foods. They’re not massively popular in Pennsylvania because they don’t sell crossbows or beef jerky. To be honest, I wasn’t aching for Whole Foods. I don’t need a posh supermarket, and I’m not wealthy, I’m not a vegan, and I’m not an asshole. But it’s the only supermarket within walking distance of Big Ei’s condo in West Orange. And by within walking distance, I mean it’s up a massively steep hill and far enough away that I thought my legs would fall off before I got there.

ANYWAY, my laziness and general lack of fitness aside, I made it to Whole Foods with burning lungs and dirty flip-flop feet and found myself in a parking lot crammed with Chelsea tractors. That was to be expected. Whole Foods is expensive, North Jersey is expensive, and Range Rovers are expensive. They come as a Real Housewives collector’s set. As I walked in, I was nearly bowled over by a woman in a pink cardigan who was busy barking gossip into her bedazzled iPhone while she dragged along a litter of screaming spoiled brats in matching Yankees jerseys. Welcome to North Jersey.

Whole Foods, I discovered, is a magical place where meat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, gluten-free, fun-free foods can all play together without fear of judgment and artificial corn syrup. Everything is wildly overpriced, but that’s okay, since the only people wealthy enough to shop there are the same people interested in fad diets, Kombucha, and sushi made with organic brown rice. Everyone there had Ralph Lauren wardrobes worth more than my life. They were probably giving me a wide berth just in case being middle class is contagious. Even more annoying, they were all doing that British thing where they lurk creepily behind you until you notice and get out of their way instead of just asking you to move. I couldn’t wait to leave.

To be clear, my original objective in going to Whole Foods was to pick up some more deli meat and cheese to make sandwiches. Not possible. A package of eight slices of turkey at Whole Foods costs $7. The corresponding package of cheddar costs $5. This isn’t even at the deli counter, mind you. This is just the pre-packaged bullshit in the same section as the hot dogs. Or tofurky dogs, actually, because it’s Whole Foods. I can’t justify blowing $12 on only enough food for two sandwiches. I could eat Subway sandwiches for an entire work week of lunches for less than that.

Plan B was a pre-prepared dinner. I perused the shelves for fifteen minutes before settling on a could-be-bigger $10 family platter of eggplant parm. It wasn’t really what I wanted, but I couldn’t bear the idea of going home empty-handed after I walked all the way up that goddamn hill.

I stood in line for twenty minutes without moving.

The reason for the delay was unclear. The pimply teenager at the register was just standing there while his customer, a well-dressed elderly woman, dithered and looked anxiously over her shoulder as the line got longer. The woman with the iPhone and the brats was behind me with her arms full of organic frozen pizzas. She was still on the phone, but now shouting even louder to be heard over the noise of the checkout area. Ahead of me, another woman with an iPhone laid down her shopping basket, wandered off for five minutes, and then returned with more stuff, much to the chagrin of the old man behind her, who apparently objected to the idea of holding a place in line with a shopping basket. There was a palpable tension in the air, similar to the tension associated with someone without EZ Pass being in the EZ Pass lane.

RAWR.

At this point, I was ready to inflict physical pain on strangers. I was ready to set a nun on fire. I was so pissed off and bent out of shape that I dumped my eggplant on a shelf of herbal iced tea and walked out. Fuck you, Whole Foods. Fuck you, line. Fuck you, $10 eggplant platter. Fuck you, massive hill on Eagle Rock Avenue.

FUCK YOU ALL, I'm going to Wendy's.

That’s my Whole Foods story. I promise I’ll blog more. It’s not like I don’t have any free time.

I’m definitely not the king of the world.

HEY YOU GUYS!

I haven’t blogged in a super long time. I apologize. I wish I had some kind of excuse for it, but I’ve actually just been watching all 11 seasons of CSI. Yeah. All Las Vegas, obviously. New York isn’t bad, but Miami can definitely fuck off.

Of course, it seems like you guys were doing alright without me. A little look at my stats tells me that on April 29th, 203 people looked at my blog. I’m almost at 5,000 views. You guys are champs.

ANYWAY.

I felt this little tickle of blogging inspiration today, mostly because my friend suggested taking a boat as part of our summer trip to Wales. You see, kids, BOATS ARE NOT MY FRIENDS. Boats have never been my friends in the past, and I seriously doubt that we’ll make amends at any point in the future.

Why? Well. Guess what time it is? It’s story time.

Once upon a time, Loyola paid for a trip to Amsterdam. Actually, that’s kind of a lie. It was taken out of our tuition fees, so we paid for our own trip to Amsterdam. The point is, we went to Amsterdam, and to get there, we took an overnight ferry from the Tyneside docks.

Before we got on said ferry, Yi and I had three brilliant ideas. First brilliant idea: I decided that I would study for Monday’s history final on the ferry. Second brilliant idea: We accepted some free blackcurrant rice pudding from the Muller promotions cart on Northumberland Street. The third brilliant idea was to take the metro down to the docks, get off at the wrong stop, and then walk a mile in the pouring rain down to the river.

You might be thinking that none of this has to do with boats. I’m getting there.

When we set foot on this ferry — after I’d been thoroughly searched at security, to exactly no one’s surprise — the first crewperson we saw was handing out barf bags. The second was handing out Dramamine. This should’ve been a harbinger of doom.

Yi and I sat in our room for awhile, ate our rice pudding, and waited for the boat to move. She didn’t really want her rice pudding, so I ended up eating most of it. Eventually, the boat reached the North Sea, and we went to the restaurant for some dinner and a Dramamine, since I was starting to feel a little odd.

TOO LATE.

Before my club sandwich arrived, I had to flee the dining room and sprint to the nearest bathroom to barf up A LOT of blackcurrant rice pudding for several hours. It wasn’t that awesome going down, and it was even less awesome coming back up. I can’t even look at rice pudding anymore. Just thinking about it right now makes me want to barf. Even better, I wasn’t the only one in the bathroom barfing, so when I wasn’t barfing myself, I was serenaded by a symphony of other people barfing. Guess they didn’t get that Dramamine down fast enough, either.

AND the restaurant still charged me 15 euros for the sandwich, even though I had to throw it out because the smell was making me ill.

Me arriving in Amsterdam the next morning:

Who wants to see some dead tulips? ME!

So anyway, on the way back, I decided that I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, so I bought the Dutch equivalent of Dramamine after painstakingly miming motion sickness to the bewildered woman at the pharmacy.

This was only kind of a good idea. Remember that history exam I was supposed to study for? Yeah, that didn’t happen. I slept for approximately eighteen straight hours. We got off the ferry, and I went home and slept some more. Then I woke up, walked to my final in a stupor, and blundered my way through some impossibly hard essay questions about the French Revolution. I was writing, words were making it onto the paper, but my brain was idling lazily in a Dutch Dramamine jacuzzi.

What I should have been thinking about:

What I was actually thinking about:

This is your brain on Dutch Dramamine.

I got a B+ on that final. Miraculous.

So that’s it. That’s the basis of my hatred of boats AND my hatred of rice pudding. I feel like it’s justified.

PS – I purposefully left out all Lonely Island-style ‘I’m on a boat’ references, but if you’re feeling nostalgic, TAKE A GOOD HARD LOOK AT THE MOTHAFUCKIN’ BOAT!: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avaSdC0QOUM

I got sunburned in Dundee.

Hello, party people! I have just returned from my epic journey across the Great North, and now I shall blog about what occurred on said journey. I know you’re all BURSTING WITH EXCITEMENT. I will take a brief moment here to brag about the beautiful weather. As the title of this blog post states, I got sunburned in Dundee.

Day One: Berwick-upon-Tweed

(NOTE: Berwick is in England, but it was on the way, so I thought I’d pop in.)

I arrived around noon, which was a whopping THREE HOURS before Travelodge’s check-in time. No problem, I thought. I’ll just leave my bag at the desk and go back out until after 3pm. Maybe that would’ve been a good idea at any of the other 99% of hotels in the world, but it was a terrible fucking idea at a Travelodge, the Ryanair of hotels. They don’t hold bags. The woman at the desk flat-out refused to hold my bag. Instead, she told me that I could keep my bag with me or cough up the £10 fee for early check-in. YOU TRICKY BASTARDS, TRAVELODGE. Did I mention that I’d booked rooms in Travelodges for four out of the seven days? Fantastic. So I paid the £10. But I resented it REAL GOOD.

Berwick was also the start of my unintentional fast food tour of the Great North. Conveniently, there was a McDonald’s in the same parking lot as the Travelodge. Big Mac #1 was consumed very quickly. I got lots of Monopoly pieces. This made me very happy. I skipped back to my room with a rainbow halo of butterflies fluttering around my head.

Oh, and Berwick was nice.

Day Two: Stirling

Stirling is my big regret on this trip, and not because it’s not worth visiting. It’s actually jammed with history and cool-looking buildings and cobblestones and all the other fun Scottish things you expect to see in Scotland: kilts, whiskey, etc. Unfortunately, I have no brains, so I booked myself into a Premier Inn 2.7 miles outside the city, meaning I had to lug my suitcase around while I looked at stuff. This presented a number of problems.

1.  I wasn’t allowed to bring my suitcase into Stirling Castle.
2. The castle is at the top of a very steep cobblestoned hill.
3. Rolly suitcase + cobblestones = my teeth rattling out of my skull.
4. Rolly suitcase was heavy enough to almost rip my arm out of its socket.
5. I didn’t know I wouldn’t be allowed to bring the suitcase in, so I walked up the hill for no reason.

Result:

I didn’t see much of the city. I’m sure it’s lovely. Maybe I’ll go back without the rolly suitcase someday.

Day Three: Perth

It might’ve been unseasonably warm in Berwick and Stirling, but it was downright hot in Perth. To be honest, there wasn’t much to see there. I mean, it’s very pretty and all, but I spent two hours reading next to a duck pond. With me at the duck pond was a group of cackling Scotsmen drinking cider from two liter bottles. Most of them left after an hour or so, but the two that remained wanted to be my friends. I know everyone is really surprised by that.

Guy #1: Shouldn’t you be in school, young lady?
Me: It’s Easter break.
Guy #1: ARE YOU AMERICAN? WHERE ARE YOU FROM?
Me: Philadelphia.
Guy #1: Like Mike Tyson.

(NOTE: I know I’m not from Philadelphia, but no one knows what Pennsylvania is, so I usually say Philadelphia to avoid explaining. Also, this was the second time on the trip that someone told me Mike Tyson is from Philadelphia. He isn’t. He’s from Brooklyn.)

Guy #1: Land of the free, home of the brave. What’re you doing over here?
Me:  Studying.
Guy #2: You’re at uni? I thought you were, like, 16.
Me: Thanks?

Anyway, this all ended with the first guy giving me a daffodil pin and instructing me to pin it to my scarf. ‘A bonny flower for a bonny lass,’ he said. Seriously. They were like cartoon characters of Scottish stereotypes.

Day Four: Dundee

Really wish I’d bought my Scotland guide book before I booked all of these tickets because then I might’ve reconsidered going to Dundee. Not hating on Dundee, mind you. I just would’ve rather saved the money and skipped it because, as I learned from the book later, there’s ‘not much to do in the city centre.’ There is, however, a ballin’ cemetery with lots of very old dead people, and a McDonald’s, where I purchased Big Mac #2 and got more Monopoly pieces.

The trip so far:
Number of Big Macs: 2.
Extra fees paid to Travelodge: £30.
Number of hours spent watching Jeremy Kyle and Pointless: Too many.

I don’t have a TV in my room back in Newcastle, so having a TV every day was very exciting. I watched Jeremy Kyle way more than necessary. Jeremy’s like Maury, if Maury was belligerent and from London. There are paternity tests, lie detector tests, discussions about gender confusion, deadbeat parents, etc. It’s excellent. I couldn’t stop watching it.

I also watched Pointless every weekday and laughed at British people butchering American geography. Example: this guy. Other places British people thought were states: Detroit, Dallas, Tallahassee, and Orlando. Not sure why Britain gets such a kick out of making fun of ignorant Americans when they obviously have something of a domestic problem with stupidity. Stupid Brits aside, Pointless is pretty much my ideal game show. I think Richard the quizmaster might be my dream man: bespectacled, pedantic, and full of pointless trivia. Sigh.

ANYWAY.

Day Five: Aberdeen

I almost did my MA at Aberdeen. I’m glad I didn’t.

It’s actually a beautiful city with a nice beach and lots of pretty granite buildings, but it’s not pedestrian/lazy American-friendly. It’s massive. There are no crosswalks, either, so there was a lot of Frogger-style sprinting through traffic with a rolly suitcase. Plus, I thought I’d booked the Travelodge near the train station but I’d actually booked the one further away. And it rained. Fail.

But I got Whopper #1 at the BK Lounge. YES.

Day Six: Inverness

I’d been to Inverness before, when Yi and I visited nearby Loch Ness in 2009. It’s still nice. I got Big Mac #3 and even more Monopoly pieces, but I did have to share a bathroom at the B&B. Gotta take the good with the bad, I guess.

Day Seven: Thurso

For those unfamiliar with Scottish geography, Thurso is at the top of the country, a whopping four hours by train from Inverness. The train journey alone makes the visit worth it because the scenery is ridiculously amazing almost the whole way there. Almost.

About an hour from Thurso and three hours from Inverness, the scenery goes from pristine and idyllic to eerily quiet and creepy. A little less wilderness and fresh air and a little more ‘They’ll never find your body.’ The town of Thurso is perfectly fine, but the outskirts (where my hotel was, of course) are not right somehow. I thought I’d be seeing Scottish fishermen with flat caps and hand-whittled pipes, but I actually saw moldy old men with crazy eyes and high visibility hunting vests. Terrifying.

The cliffs were nice, though. I wish I’d stayed there a few days so I could squeeze in a trip to Orkney or Shetland.

Day Eight: Back to Newcastle

It takes NINE HOURS to get from Thurso to Newcastle by train, which breaks down to four hours from Thurso to Inverness, three and a half from Inverness to Edinburgh, and one and a half from Edinburgh to Newcastle. That’s a lot of hours, especially when the trains apparently double as day care centers and TB wards. Oh, and from Inverness to Edinburgh, I sat across from a guy a few somethings short of a something. He picked his scabs, scratched his junk, chewed his nails down to the quick, and smeared his nose grease on the window, wiped it with his hand, and then did it again. SO MANY GOOD TIMES.

But I did get Whopper #2 at the train station in Edinburgh. Burger King is more expensive than McDonald’s on this side of the pond, which is kind of upsetting, and they don’t even have Whopper, Jr.’s.

The final tally:
Number of Big Macs: 3.
Number of Monopoly pieces: 12.
Number of Whoppers: 2.
Extra fees paid to Travelodge: £40.

And some important lessons I learned on my trip:

1. In Scotland, places you think are churches are actually pubs or nightclubs.
2. Don’t make eye contact with anyone you don’t want to talk to.
3. Travelodges are mean.
4. Occasionally, it doesn’t rain.

I’m uploading photos on Facebook in the near future, if you’d like to have a look. I’m also considering another blog-a-thon. No promises, though.

Knuck if you Buck. Or, you know, don’t.

I haven’t blogged in awhile. I wish I had some kind of excuse for that, but I don’t. I’ve been super busy watching every episode of Bones and eating coffee cake in my bathrobe. Good enough? I think so. For any Bones fans who might be reading, I think they should bring back Zack, though I do enjoy Vincent Nigel-Murray.

ANYWAY.

Before you ask, I’m not positive what ‘knuck if you buck’ even means, but I’m using it as a reference to Orioles manager Buck Showalter. Yes, I stole the reference from someone else. Moving on.

The Orioles are 4-0. Yeah. The last time that happened, it was 1997, pre-rebuilding decade, and we finished first in the AL East. FIRST. We’re in first place now, ahead of four teams that usually spank the absolute bajeezus out of us on a daily basis.

Three of our wins have been on the road, against division rival Tampa Bay, and the fourth was yesterday’s home opener against the Tigers. The entire team is contributing. Brian Roberts has already hit two home runs. The pitching staff has held their opponents to a measly one run per game. I used to say that we’d be dangerous if we could pitch worth a damn, and now we can. It’s amazing, really. In one off-season, we’ve remembered how to play baseball, and we can all conveniently forget that at the beginning of last season, it took us about a month to get four wins total, let alone four wins in a row.

This is bad.

What? You’re a huge O’s fan.

No really, it’s bad. Yes, all the winning feels excellent now, but everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, is on our side. People are actually watching our games and cheering for us. They’re showing our highlights on television. This sounds like a good thing, but it’s actually a bad thing.

And I’m not even trying to stick it to fair weather fans or converted haters or whatever. Sure, it seems pretty rich that the same people who mercilessly mocked the Orioles in years past are suddenly fighting for us on the front lines, but that isn’t even my beef here. See, the Orioles have serious performance anxiety. The entire world is crammed into a bathroom stall with us and listening while we pee, and what we need is for everyone to collectively turn their backs and face the corner with their fingers in their ears. For the love of God, it’s only been four games. Stop paying attention.

I’m going to use the Mets as an example. It seems like every year, the Mets are showing promise. They perform well. They match the Phillies game for game in the NL East. They have a handful of really talented players. Everyone swears up and down that they have a real shot at the playoffs.

AND THEN THEY FALL APART EVERY GODDAMN TIME.

I can’t bear that kind of agony. I don’t want to be lifted up only to come crashing back down. I’m absolutely terrified that my poor Orioles will get a sniff of success and then buckle under the unfamiliar pressure of it all.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from being an Orioles fan, it’s that the Orioles really suck. That’s a given. We just really fucking suck. On very rare occasions, we pretend that we don’t suck, but we really suck. As a general rule, we go into sucking overdrive after the All Star break and lose about a zillion games in a row until we’re the first team out of playoff contention. Meanwhile, the rest of the AL East glides through the rest of the season on a magic carpet, occasionally pausing to look smug or throw tomatoes at us while we glare up at them from the bottom of the standings.

Hang on. The O’s are 4-0. That means they DON’T suck.

Not at the moment, no. I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer, but the Orioles haven’t finished over .500 since before I can remember. We are more than adept at pretending not to suck for brief periods of time, but then the suckiness just builds up until we implode like a supernova. It’s best if we start out bad and finish bad. You can’t fall very far if you don’t jump very high. All that stuff.

To me, the steep slippery slope toward suckiness is looming around every corner, and I don’t want to see the gravel start to crumble away under our feet. Then, adding insult to injury, all of the people singing our praises now will fall off the Orioles bandwagon and go back to ridiculing us. We’ll be back to square one, in last place, below .500, and sucking hardcore like nothing has changed.

I just can’t take the crushing disappointment. Is that so wrong?

Would you let Rick James cut your hair?

Today, after many weeks of putting it off, I got my hair cut. Why was I putting it off? Mostly because I was too poor, but also because I absolutely loathe getting my hair cut.

Going to the hair salon means waiting. Then a stranger will touch my hair, which is objectionable for a variety of reasons. THEN, if that isn’t bad enough, I will be obligated by horrible hair salon etiquette to discuss myself with that stranger so that he/she can comment on my life choices. Going anywhere interesting this summer? What are you studying in school? Have a boyfriend? Why not? Pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend.

I understand that they’re just trying to break the monotony of cutting people’s hair for an entire day, but I don’t want to talk to them. It’s like when the dentist talks to you as he probes around your wide-open mouth. (cough – Dr. Deering and his physicist daughter in Singapore – cough) It’s a captive audience situation. I want people to realize that I have no desire to talk to them. I’m not interesting. Let the awkward silence run its course.

This is why it was so awesome to have a friend who cuts hair. Vanessa worked at a reputable salon, she gave me coupons, we laughed inappropriately, and she never gave me a bad haircut. I could fulfill the obligation for chitchat, but it wouldn’t be awkward because she’s my friend. All in all, it was an ideal situation.

Anyway, my hair had gotten freakishly long, so I caved and went to Supercuts in Eldon Square to save some cash. This was already a mistake. Supercuts runs on a queuing system, so I had to wait several hundred years for some old biddies to get their curls shellacked before it was my turn. It was the lunch hour, so they only had two stylists available, both Geordie women dressed in black, one younger and more normal than the other.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, please let me get the normal one.

I got the other one. She had Rick James’s hair, Snooki’s tan, and Madonna’s teeth, and she was wearing heels so tall that she towered over me like Godzilla over Tokyo. The normal stylist kind of smirked as I trudged over to Rick James’s chair. Better luck next time.

(Is it wrong to make Godzilla jokes when Japan is having such a rough time? I’m going to ease my conscience by reminding myself that a giant dinosaur monster didn’t actually trample Japan.)

Rick James asked me what I wanted done, so I asked for the Supercut — wash, cut, blowdry — advertised on the salon window at £20.95.

She cracked her gum and shook her head. “It’ll be £30.95 for you because your hair’s so long.”

For Christ’s sake, I only came to Supercuts because I thought it’d be cheaper than the proper salon Hannah and Vibha went to, and then it ended up being only a whopping 10p cheaper. But I was already there, sitting in the chair and wearing the tarp bib. It’d be weird to leave, so I kept my seething and teeth-gnashing to myself.

Rick James shampooed my hair, dripped about a gallon of soapy water down my shirt, and brought me back to the chair. I pointed to the length I wanted and explained that my layers usually start at my chin, though they were grossly grown out and scraggly. She start clipping up sections and snipping away, humming to the thumping techno Muzak as she worked.

The upside of this was that she didn’t speak the entire time, just snipped and snipped, occasionally tipping my head one way or the other. She did leave my top layer hanging wetly in my face the entire time and resisted all of my attempts to push it away even though it was tickling me. WHY DOES IT NEED TO BE IN MY EYES? MY LIFE IS SO HARD. But otherwise, everything seemed fine. Of course, that might’ve been because I didn’t have my glasses on, so I couldn’t see exactly how much hair was falling from my head.

It was a lot.

Remember when I said that I’d pointed to where I wanted the length and the layers? She completely disregarded both. My hair is way shorter than I wanted. And slightly mullet-y. I look like the lovechild Billy Ray Cyrus and Pete Wentz never had. When I first saw it, I almost asked her why she’d given me bangs, but then I realized that it was my very, very short top layer. I wanted to paste it all back on and ask her to start again. Goddammit, Rick James, you’ve ballsed up my hair.

Me: OMFG. Rick James: LOL...bitch.

I guess I should’ve complained, though I don’t know how she could’ve improved it without just chopping it all off into a bob. I can’t do bobs. If you’ve seen my 4th grade school picture, you know why. It’ll grow out. My hair grows pretty fast. Until then, there will need to be strategic styling to cover up Sweeney Todd’s hair massacre. And anyway, if it’s good enough for Captain Planet, it’s good enough for me.

Go Planet!

30-Day Challenge? Pfft. Try 1-Day Challenge.

I’ve sort of been inspired by Chad, who’s currently participating in the Facebook version of the 30-Day Song Challenge. He’s only on Day 2. I don’t have the patience to stretch it out over an entire month, so I’m doing all the days in one post. Try and stop me. I’m a maniac.

Day 01 – Your favorite song

Mysterious Ways – U2

I don’t know why. It just is. I can’t explain it at all.

Day 02 – Your least favorite song

Candle In the Wind – Elton John

So much hatred for this song. Can’t even put it into words. SO MUCH HATRED.

Day 03 – A song that makes you happy

Bang a Gong (Get It On) – T. Rex

Right now, it’s my go-to song for instant joy. It’s also the song I’d pick to soundtrack my getaway if I ever rob a bank.

Day 04 – A song that makes you sad

Love’s Not a Competition (But I’m Winning) – Kaiser Chiefs

Depressing.

Day 05 – A song that reminds you of someone

Farmhouse – Phish

It reminds me of Jason Spendley. This is completely random, but there’s no song that reminds me so strongly of a single human being. I haven’t even spoken to Jason since graduation, but I still think of him whenever I hear this song.

Day 06 – A song that reminds of you of somewhere

Dance Wiv Me – Dizzee Rascal ft. Calvin Harris and Chrome

NEWCASTLE, 2008-2009.

Day 07 – A song that reminds you of a certain event

Telephone – Lady Gaga ft. Beyonce

SENIOR EVENTS, 2009-2010.

Day 08 – A song that you know all the words to

Faith – George Michael

One day, while driving to Mahhs down Loch Raven Boulevard in Towson, something magical happened. At first, everything was normal, but then George Michael came on. I silenced both Sade and Julia, picked up the nearest microphone substitute and sang the entire song from start to finish. Sade was stunned. Julia almost peed herself laughing.

Day 09 – A song that you can dance to

Wildcat – Ratatat

I went on the Internet, and I found this. From then on, Yi and I rocked out to Wildcat while we waited in York Road traffic on the way to Burger King.

Day 10 – A song that makes you fall asleep

1979 – Smashing Pumpkins

On every sleep mix I’ve ever made. Also awesome during vocab tests in Honors English 4 with Mr. Baser.

Day 11 – A song from your favorite band

Crush – Dave Matthews Band

My favorite song in the world for a long time. I still get excited when Dave plays it in concert. The bassline alone makes me happy. Also, shame on YouTube because when I searched for Crush, David Archuleta came up before Dave Matthews Band did.

Day 12 – A song from a band you hate

Anything by Nickelback. I’m not providing a link for this because I refuse to support them with YouTube views.

Day 13 – A song that is a guilty pleasure

My current guilty pleasure: Only Girl (In the World) – Rihanna. Or anything by Rihanna, really.

My all-time guilty pleasure: All The Things She Said – Tatu

Day 14 – A song that no one would expect you to love

Kiss Me Thru the Phone – Soulja Boy

Don’t judge me.

Day 15 – A song that describes you

Oh My God – Ida Maria

Only on bad days, I guess.

Day 16 – A song that you used to love but now hate

Scarlet Begonias – Sublime

You put it on one mix CD and hear it one too many times, and then suddenly you can’t stand it. I need at least a year before I listen to it again.

Day 17 – A song that you hear often on the radio

I’m Yours – Jason Mraz

I have a weird memory of sitting in a van with Yi and a very hungover Sketchy Pete and dancing to this song. I’m pretty sure it was at the slalom in 2009. Bizarre.

Day 18 – A song that you wish you heard on the radio

Lorna Zauberberg – Mike Doughty

Doughty deserves radio play. Or maybe not. I’m not sure if I’m ready for other people to appreciate him like I do. Sorry the video is so shitty, but there’s no other videos of the song on YouTube.

Day 19 – A song from your favorite album

Under African Skies – Paul Simon

Graceland is the best album ever. Seriously.

Day 20 – A song that you listen to when you’re angry

I Hate Everything About You – Three Days Grace

So awesome for hate-induced headbanging.

Day 21 – A song that you listen to when you’re happy

Pumping On Your Stereo – Supergrass

They actually say ‘humping’ in the album version. That’s enough to make anyone happy.

Day 22 – A song that you listen to when you’re sad

A Long December – Counting Crows

‘The smell of hospitals in winter, and the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters but no pearls.’

Day 23 – A song that you want to play at your wedding

I Got You Babe – Sonny and Cher

Sappy, yes. Love it anyway.

Day 24 – A song that you want to play at your funeral

The Staunton Lick – Lemon Jelly

If it celebrated the end of Spaced, it can celebrate the end of me.

Day 25 – A song that makes you laugh

Ignition (Remix) – R. Kelly

BEST LYRICS IN THE HISTORY OF EVER.

Day 26 – A song that you can play on an instrument

Mary Had a Little Lamb?

Day 27 – A song that you wish you could play

Piano Man – Billy Joel

It’s a classic.

Day 28 – A song that makes you feel guilty

Fresh Feeling – Eels

It doesn’t necessarily make me feel guilty, just weirdly nostalgic.

Day 29 – A song from your childhood

C’est La Vie – B*Witched

Some people say I look like me dad. What? Are you serious?

Day 30 – Your favorite song at this time last year

Hot Mess – Cobra Starship

I went through a neon phase. I’m still not totally out of it. And I still listen to this before I go out. Hot mess, I’m lovin’ it, hell yes.

My flag boy said to your flag boy…

This coming Tuesday, the 8th of March, is Mardi Gras, and I’ve got New Orleans on the brain. I’ve been there once before, in 2002* with Big Ei and the living legend that is Big Mary B. (Grandma Mary, or Big Ei’s mom, to you people.) and it was easily one of the best places I’ve ever been. I’m even attempting to write a New Orleans/Louisiana-flavored short story in honor of Mardi Gras.

*Year is disputed/kind of forgotten.

Fun fact: Here in UKfordshire, they call Mardi Gras ‘Pancake Day,’ and they make ‘pancakes’ (read: crepes) on Pancake Day. Such strange beings.

Anyway, for the final day of my monthlong blog-a-thon, I’m closing with the story of the trip Big Ei, Big Mary B., and I took to New Orleans.

We brought along UNO. This was a problem for Big Mary B. because she has difficulty telling the difference between the colors of the UNO cards, and, to make matters worse, the UNO we had was actually Beach UNO, so the blues were more turquoise, and the reds were more orange. (It came with a beach ball, too. Try not to be jealous.)

We basically played UNO for the majority of the trip, especially when we were sitting in our hotel room, which was in a pretty fantastic French Quarter B&B run by a gay Jewish man. That’s when the first incident of the trip happened.

We’d been playing UNO for hours, and Big Mary B. was growing tired of losing all the time, so she popped outside for some relief in the form of a Marlboro Light. Big Ei and I, meanwhile, decided to randomly watch an episode of The X-Files until she returned. (It was one with monsters, not the conspiracy. You know, in case any hardcore Mulder and Scully fans were wondering.) No sign of Big Mary B. for the entire episode. Another episode came on. Still no Big Mary B. Big Ei had pretty much just made a joke about Big Mary smoking the entire pack when she came bursting in.

“Why didn’t you let me in?” she demanded. “I was knocking.”

(The design of the B&B meant that the smokers’ porch was out the front door, down a long corridor from our room, so if someone knocked, we definitely wouldn’t hear them. We weren’t just ignoring my grandmother’s persistent knocking to punish her for smoking, even if we do often tell her that Jesus hates when she smokes.)

Apparently, some nice people from Ohio let her in. They obviously thought this was a case of elderly abuse. She’d been outside for an hour before we even noticed. We’re lucky they didn’t call social services.

The next day, or possibly not the next day, since I don’t remember the chronology of these events, we were supposed to go on this tour of the bayous. For those who don’t know, much of Louisiana’s coast is covered in marshlands called bayous, and they give these tours on little boats where you can see alligators and stuff. It’s a pretty neat concept, if you ever make it onto the tour.

As we waited on the corner near our B&B for the bayou tour to come pick us up, we saw this van approaching. It was massive and painted camo-green, so it had to be the bayou tour. How exciting! The van is here. Oh shit, it’s just side-swiped about five cars.

No joke. Five cars. And not just a little scrape along the side. Serious damage. Broken glass, doors caved in, wing mirrors gone. And, you know, if that wasn’t bad enough, the van driver just proceeded as if that hadn’t happened and swung over to pick us up, and a beardy Jeff Bridges look-a-like in fatigues and a floppy hat got out of the driver’s seat.

Or maybe it was actually Jeff Bridges.

Him: Hiya folks, sorry about that. Welcome to the bayou tour. I’m your guide — you can call me Uncle Bob. Why don’t you hop on in?
Us (stunned): OMFG.
Others in the back seat: Um, Uncle Bob?

The owner of one of the damaged cars had witnessed the whole thing and chased the bayou van down the street. She finally caught up to it as the three of us hesitantly climbed into the backseat with the other terrified tour people.

Angry woman: Mister, you hit my car back there. Hit a couple others, too. Were you just going to drive away?
Uncle Bob: Oh. Um.
Angry woman: I’m calling the cops.
Us: Fantastic.

Sure enough, New Orleans P.D. showed up a few minutes later and pulled Uncle Bob aside for questioning while the angry woman continued to squawk about Bob’s attempt at a hit and run. Our fellow tour patrons were glancing at their watches and whispering to each other while fretfully watching Uncle Bob try to talk himself out of a stint in jail. Big Mary B. wasn’t having it.

“To hell with this,” she said. “Let’s go.”

We left and went to the French Market instead. I still have yet to see a bayou or feed an alligator some marshmallows. I’m so deprived.

I mean, we also did normal stuff. We did a ghost tour, which was excellent, and walked around the cemeteries with the mausoleums. We drank chicory coffee and ate beignets. We also tried alligator, I think, and jambalaya and gumbo, and we walked through the French Quarter. There’s a steamboat that goes up the Mississippi, so we did that, too. Big Mary B. laughed at a delivery boy on a bike. Overall, a solid vacation.

But I have to go back. I won’t be easy until I feed an alligator a marshmallow.

Questionnaire?

Amigos, this monthlong blog-a-thon is almost over. Tomorrow is it. I’ll try my best to think of a suitable topic to close with, but until then, here’s this total cheat of a post, a questionnaire!

No, it’s not a total cheat, I guess. It’s mostly for the people I don’t know who read my blog, and I’m sure there’s at least one of them. If you’re that person, welcome. If you’re just tuning in, here’s some stuff you might not know about me.

Your favorite virtue ::
Patience. I have no patience myself, so I have to admire it in others.

Your favorite qualities in a man ::
I generally think that self-deprecation and goofiness are admirable qualities in either gender. It’s infuriating when people take themselves too seriously. Surely it’s way more fun to have a laugh at your own stupidity than to dwell on it?

Your favorite qualities in a woman ::
See above.

Your favorite occupation ::
Writing, obviously, though I also enjoy doing nothing. I’m an okay writer, but I’m an expert at doing nothing. You might think doing nothing sounds boring, but it’s excellent. I do nothing all the time. One of my favorite hobbies. Traveling is good, too, as is doing nothing with friends.

Your idea of happiness ::
Flannel pants straight out of the dryer. Eating pumpkin pie as a meal. The Orioles winning a game. Getting a good grade when you thought you’d failed. Road tripping. Swimming in the ocean. Traveling to a different city to sightsee and then returning to your hotel room, putting the kettle on, and watching television. It’s the little things in life.

Your idea of misery ::
A plane ride longer than 10 hours. A plane ride with a screaming child on board. Working with spreadsheets. Watching anything that features Piers Morgan. Waiting rooms. Whitewater kayaking. Walking behind someone who’s walking just a touch slower than you’d like to be walking. Listening to Bon Jovi. Being in close proximity to a daddy long legs.

If not yourself, who would you be ::
Sandra Bullock. She seems like fun.

Where would you like to live ::
New Orleans would be ideal, but anywhere in the South would be welcome. This whole snow and cold thing is getting unacceptable.

Your favorite color and flower ::
Royal blue and Canterbury Bells, preferably blue ones.

Your favorite prose authors ::
Poe, Austen, Rowling, Fitzgerald, Kesey.

Your favorite poets ::
Generally, I really detest almost all forms of poetry, but if I had to read some, Poe would be my choice.

Your favorite heroes in fiction ::
Atticus Finch, RP McMurphy, Guy Montag, Ron Weasley, Gatsby, Batman.

Your favorite heroines in fiction ::
Emma Woodhouse, Elizabeth Bennett, Scout Finch. These are very repetitive. I need to read more.

Your favorite painters and composers ::
I’m kind of at a loss here. I have failed as a creative human being.

Your favorite heroes in real life ::
Big Larry, Gribby-poo, Simon Pegg.

Your favorite heroines in real life ::
Big Ei, Big Carrie, JK Rowling, other important people I can’t think of right now.

What character(s) in history do you most dislike ::
Cortes was a douchebag.

Your favorite food and drink ::
Pizza, chocolate and peanut butter, anything with melted cheese on it, pumpkin pie, Old Bay chips, sweet tea, Dr. Pepper, Guinness, and Yoo-hoo.

Your favorite names ::
I like normal names. No child of mine will have a stupid name. The US should be more like the very wise countries in Europe where names must be approved by the government to prevent any unnecessary embarrassment.

But my favorite name is Jack. If I have kids, I hope I have at least one boy to name Jack.

Your pet peeve (something that easily annoys you) ::
Pretentiousness.

The change you most anticipate ::
I’m really hoping another country will do something epically stupid so Americans can have a little break from being mocked. It’d also be nice if Britain would realize that it’s just an island and that the Empire is gone.

A gift of nature which I would like to have ::
Patience.

How I would like to die ::
I’d want to die at a ripe old age. None of this dying doing something awesome business. I want to die doing something not awesome. Like sleeping at age 100. Though sleeping is pretty awesome.

What is your present state of mind ::
A little grumpy. I have class later.

Of what fault are you most tolerant ::
Shyness.

Your favorite motto ::
He who can’t dance claims the floor is uneven.

There. You and I are tight like spandex now. I’m probably the coolest person you know, right? Probably not even close. I hope you can get past how uncool I am and continue to read this even after I complete my 30 days of blogging. I’ll be writing at least once a week, I think, so keep an eye out.