“There are only two things I love in this world:

Everybody, and television.”*

I bet you’re thinking, “J-Nel, you’re blogging again!  So what are you putting off this time?”, to which I will reply, “How rude!”  The answer is sleep, and also essays.  But the joke is on you, because the essays aren’t due for another month, so I’m not even procrastinating!  Except everyone knows that once I go home on Dec. 22nd* (mark your calendars, mon freres), I will be doing nothing but playing with my dogs and eating sushi (except for the brief respite on Dec. 25th, when I will spend some time opening presents), so this is definitely a firm procrastination in action.  Your next question is probably: “Jillsef, which do you prefer, American sushi or Japanese sushi?”, to which I will reply, “I really don’t have time for these questions, I’m in the middle of writing a blog in order to put off writing an essay.”

*If you know who said this, you’re the winner of the Speciale del Dia.
**Christmas Adam is the big picnic day!  If you don’t know when Christmas Adam is, well; that’s a Christmas riddle to stick in your stocking!

You have really pushed your luck with all the questions, but I see your lips pursing with another “Wh-” about to spill out, so I will just anticipate your thought, and give you a list of what I am most looking forward to in the States (and let’s just pretend I said family and friends already and move on from there):

1. Luke

He’s not what you would call “conventionally handsome”, but I love him and his jowly smile.

2. Jack (also, since it’s in the picture anyway, a real bed)

Gratuitous Selfie

Jack is the looker of the two (by two, I mean Luke and Jack; not the two of us in the above picture.  Though that’s probably true as well).  He’s a little shit, but I like him anyway.

Also, I think it’s time we look into calling them by their continental names; Luc and Jacques.

3. Real deodorant

The UK is doing pretty well in a lot of areas–jay-walking, cool Islamic fashion, old folk production, dry shampoos–but they just don’t seem to know how to properly handle an armpit.  The common deodorant types I’ve found are either aerosol or roll-on.  This is a problem because A. Aerosol deodorant is pretty much equivalent to blowing wishes at your armpit and B. Roll-on deodorant gives you the feeling that an Italian Mastiff (see #1) has slathered your armpit with well-intentioned kisses.

4. Sushi.  It’s too damn expensive here, and the grocery store versions look like used erasers.  Also, California Rolls are only good in America.  I know I mentioned playing with dogs and eating sushi earlier; you might think I’m being redundant, but I just love them that much.

5. Everything being cheaper.  When the girls in  “West Side Story” sang, “Everything free in America”, they weren’t far off.  I want to go to there.

I’ll tell you what I’m not looking forward to: the flight that will lead me to all these joyous wonders.  I lost the last two Xanax that I had been preciously hoarding for this very trip, and that is so depressing.  Someone’s going to have a hard time on this flight, and I’m mainly referring to the person who will be in the seat next to me.

On to brighter and happier things!

On Friday the 13th, I happened to have an extra number added to my age.  I’m now the ripe old age of 24 (JK; though I did have some German girls who guessed that this was the age I was turning, which made me tear up a little in sheer joy).  But then I think, “Wait, how can I be 27?  What have I even done?”  And then I remembered: I studied abroad in Rome, I graduated from one of the top universities in the world (in one of the most impacted majors at the school), I’ve lived on 3 continents (fulfilling my dreams of working in Japan and going to school in the UK), been to 22 countries (with friends and alone; including traveling solo for 3 weeks through Vietnam), gone back to school to get my Masters (let’s hope that one works out), and have met a ton of amazing people along the way.  I’m pretty happy with what’s happened so far.

Speaking of, you know, living in the UK, I’d like to share some more tidbits about what I do here (not study-wise, as obviously no one cares about that).  I told you last time that I would go into more detail about differences between the UK and the US, and I’m making good on that covenant.  At good ol’ U of B, they have English seminars about once every two weeks, which I typically like to go to because I know hardly anything about English Literature, and I also feel like I’m participating by going.  Now, a few weeks ago, there was a visiting professor giving a lecture on something I thought I might enjoy.  I didn’t.  One thing they do differently here (and it really confuses me) is they tend to read these sorts of lectures straight from their notes (though apparently this is not done in every department, as my flatmate assured me).  Now, as I am not the strongest aural learner, I either have to be writing constantly as the person is talking or staring intently at the speaker so that I can focus on what they’re saying, and this is not easy to do when the speaker is disengaged the entire time.  Also, I’m pretty sure that even if I could focus, I wouldn’t have known what he was talking about.

However, after talking to other attendees, I realized the main thing that happened at the event was that the lecturer and the presenter were batting eyelashes at each other the whole time (apparently, they have a history…of some kind), while the presenter’s husband sat nearby bearing witness to the scene.  My flatmate, who happened to be sitting across the room and next to the husband (who is also a higher-up in the department), told me that the professor was not taking the cuckoldry passively–apparently, he leaned back in his chair at one point and just belched; no pretense or anything as he let it rip.  I guess that’s one way to mark your territory.

Anyway, the lecture finishes, and here comes the difference between the two nations: after the lectures, everyone goes out to the pub to discuss what we’ve learned (pretty sure that part has never happened while I’ve been around); this includes lecturers.  I get a bit thrown off by this, because I get nervous enough talking in class, and then they also go and call lecturers by their first names here (and refer to them as tutors at times), just to make things a bit more unsettling.  Anyway, I like going to pubs, so I convinced my classmate (who I had really talked to for the first time at the previous lecture) to go again, and we set off.  I also like to play a game called, “Let’s see how much I can embarrass myself”, but that will come a little later.

When we got to the place, it soon became clear that we might be the only postgrads in attendance, and definitely the only female students. Because we were the first to arrive, we got stuck at the very end of the table–and to my horror, the visiting lecturer sat down beside me.  Fortunately, he was talking to his colleagues, and I was able to talk to my friend and the lecturer we had earlier that day.  But as it usually happens, some people eventually got up to get seats, shuffling the attentions being paid, and I soon found myself being asked questions by the guest lecturer.  I knew he couldn’t possibly care about what I had to say, and he had come all this way to give a talk, so it was painfully obvious that I was going to have to bring this up in the conversation.  But I had nothing.  I figured I would work with that, so I basically said something along the lines of, “That was a really interesting talk; I didn’t really understand it, but I’m sure those who did probably enjoyed it more.”  (When I told this to my flatmate later, I’m pretty sure he actually slapped his hand to his head in disgust.)  I somehow managed to waddle out of dangerous territory and into patchy neutral ground after that, but it left me sweaty and jumpy (but so does telling my hairdresser what kind of haircut I want).  Thankfully, he left very soon after (strangely in tow of the husband and wife- I guess everything worked out well in the end; perhaps it was a burp of unity that the professor produced).  The rest of the night seemed to have gone pretty well (from my point, hilariously)–but again, it is a bit weird having lecturers who are around the same age while in these situations–you feel like you are amongst friends, but then every once in awhile you remember they are paid to pass judgment on you.  And then you spill wine all over the table and trip over a row of stools.

A few more meaty morsel before you go:

Living in my international style apartment, I get to have a lot of intercultural communication.  For example, while talking about having children, I told my Japanese flatmate I didn’t want sons, before changing my mind.  This is the conversation that followed:

Me: If I had sons, I could help shape them for the better.
Him: Boys can make money.
Me:…So can girls!
Him: (laughs)
Him: Oh.  Yes.

Also, this:

I recently read this statement on a link posted in my newsfeed:

You might be desperate to get home for Crimbo, but these gert lush pics of Briz will have you pining for the West Country by Boxing Day.

And I was like…Good Lord, is that English?  I thought maybe I had accidentally taken Xanax before reading it; I got the point, but the journey there felt really weird (but it would at least explain where the Xanax went).  And I looked up “gert” on my Mac, and what I got was this:

First one to explain this gets a juicy pinch on the cheek (you choose the cheek).

Also, for Hera Potter’s sake, I have cut down on the StarNotes, but only so that when she gets to this spot, it will serve as a reminder that she has a story she needs to finish telling me.