“Mamma, che ne dici di un romantico a Milano?”

Dio Mio! Look at you! You’re so grown up since I saw you last!

I can’t believe everything that has happened since I saw you last. First off, let’s discuss once more how I went to Italy, because boy, that was something. I will try to make this blog more entertaining by peppering in some random Italian pictures of Genova, because I know that’s what you’ve really come for, you lazy bum. Before this trip, I had no desire to go to Genova, mainly because I had never heard of it before, and I’ve been to a lot of places in Italy. Rome, Sorrento, Capri, Pisa, Milan, Florence, Assisi, Venice, Bologna, San Gimignano…and a couple of more here and there that I’ve forgotten about. Even after I received my assignment, I wasn’t thrilled, especially once JZ (who had taught in the same area) told me it was a fairly industrial town. But Genova is awesome; it’s gorgeous, it’s fancy. It’s a seaside stretch of town that spoons some lovely hills, which makes for some pretty delicious scenery.

If you read my last post, which I will assume you did not, you will know that I was staying with a host family, and that I had a host cousin, Selena, of the same age in the apartment across the hall. This was great, because Selena would often take me (or us, if the other teachers weren’t being lazy) to places I normally wouldn’t have the opportunity to go. But it was also a bit unnerving, because they were often things I wouldn’t normally want to do as well. For example, she left me a note to meet her at the train station after work around 9; in my mind (silly me), I expected drinks.

She picks me up, and we walk along the lovely Italian street talking about our days, when suddenly she says, “Now, I will take you dancing.” These are words that do not generally thrill my ears, especially when she informs me we will be dancing outside, in plain view of the public. The idea was lovely; we were doing some kind of mountain folk dance (I heard the talk of “dancing in the mountains” quite a bit from my host family, and I’m still a bit unclear about what this refers to, so I guess we are speaking very literally here) next to the port, with lights from the hills glittering peacefully off the water, accordion music playing jauntily in the background. I, however, was full of unease and nervous laughter, which I need not explain to anyone who has seen me dance/danced with me. There was a lot of that kind of dance where you grab hands and make circles, which I felt confident enough with. But then they would break off into couples, with the outer line of women rotating with the inner line of men every 30 seconds or so. Every new partner that approached had that look in their eye, like, “I shall be the one to tame this wild stallion!” The first 5 seconds or so, they seemed so cocksure with their firm grips and their confident directions. But 15 seconds of sweaty hand fumbling and shuffled missteps, you could see the frustration set in, and by the second overly forced twirl, they were only too happy to spin me off to the next unsuspecting chap with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. For one partner only dances, men would come up to ask me to dance, and I would try and spare them the pain by saying, “I’m really not good at dancing.” They would laugh off my fears, but by the end, the sweat above their brows and the confusion in their eyes said, “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

Things like this would happen every time I met Selena. One night, when we had actually planned to get drinks, the rest of the group cancelled, so Selena offered to take me on a small walk around the neighborhood. Two hours later, at midnight (after a day of teaching wild Italian children), I collapsed into bed. Another night, we hitch-hiked up 3/4ths of the way up a mountain, then hiked in the dark the rest of the way to get to a “party”, which turned out to be more of a fair with an 80s cover band, followed by a ska band (not sure how they picked the music). After a rousing mosh pit got started, one guy grabbed my hand and pulled me in. There was a brave moment where I thought, “I can do this!” Almost immediately after, someone smashed into me, and I thought, “I can’t do this.” After slightly crashing into a planter, I crawled my way out of the heaving mass of men back to the slightly calmer feminine circle I had been a part of originally. Every adventure with Selena had me stumbling into bed late at night and waking up completely sore the next morning.

Now, you might be thinking, “But Juliana Maria” (of course I would choose another country where they can’t say my name), “What did you think about the work?” Well, it was alright. 16 Italian children are, as you can imagine, fairly unpredictable, except when it comes to volume, which will always be horrifically and predictably at full blast. One of my favorite students was this very camp 8 year old named Luca, who could usually be seen linking arms with Michele; together, they made up the tiniest little couple I’ve ever seen. Luca would usually come up to me, very seriously, and say, “Teachers.” And I would say, “Yes, Luca?” And he would tell me a very long and animated story in Italian. When he finished, I usually gasped and said, “REALLY?” And maintaining his serious composure, he would nod and say, “YES” before swiftly turning away, Michele in tow, off to swing on some palm fronds (I…I feel like this last bit sounds made up, but I assure you, it happened). If you would like any stories about how I would terrify the children, go ahead and ask me in person, because these stories will be best told with actions and sound effects.

Now, there are some non-Italian things worth mentioning. Recently, you heard that my older sister Jenni got engaged to that Bostonian, Brian (who is really a lovely fellow, even if he has the slightest hint of what is probably the worst accent in America). But what you might not know, and what I might not know, is that my older brother Rory also got engaged. You might have seen on Facebook that my uncertainty about this situation stemmed from time zone differences (also, FACEBOOK, we are going to have words about you showing statuses to people who I have continuously tried to hide status updates from), but when I emailed my mother to confirm the actuality of the occasion of engagement (i.e. “Did Rory and Ashley get engaged?!?!?), she replied back, “Sounds like it,” so apparently, we are all just placing bets right now. I still haven’t been able to Skype my mom since it happened, which, if our roles were reversed, means that it would be time to start posting pictures on milk cartons to locate a missing person. I just find this whole lack of information as strange, because everyone knows that Rory is the biggest gossip in our family. I did at least know slightly more than my younger sister Tara, who told me, “I didn’t even know they had gotten back together until she posted that ring picture on Facebook.”  

Speaking of Tara not knowing things, here is a conversation we had on Skype (with my Aunt Kelly present as well).

Me: Well, I’ll be finished with school in September, but I won’t get my master’s degree until January.
Tara: OHHHHH! You’re getting your master’s!
Me:…What did you think I was doing over here?
Tara: I thought you were still in school.
Me: What do you think a master’s program is?
Tara: Well, I guess I never realized what you were doing there. Nobody ever tells me anything.
Aunt Kelly: Nobody ever tells Tara anything.
Me: I’ve definitely told you multiple times what I’m doing here.
Then, a little while later…
Tara: Do they celebrate Christmas over there?

I tried to hint a little later that I think she should stop smoking so much pot. On a related note, whenever I want to experience amusement and depression at the same time, I read my little sister’s Twitter feed.

On a closing note, if you REALLY want to be amused, watch this routine by John Mulaney.  I’m pretty certain John Mulaney is my dream man, but shucks; he’s taken.  I’m also pretty certain that if I was born a man, it would be John Mulaney (those are two disturbing statements to put back to back).  So I spend my days watching his bits on repeat to console me.

 

A Routine Malaise

Warning: This post features a blatant and egregious abuse of parentheses. It was also meant to be posted a few weeks ago, but let’s not sit around crying over that.

Hello, mon freres.  Have you ever had one of those days where things are happening and you’re sitting there thinking, “I have no idea what is going on, but I’m pretty sure I need to pretend I do”?  That’s been my week.  I’ve been a bit mentally and emotionally exhausted, so I apologize (as per usual) for any boring/ungrammatical turns this post takes.

Let’s start with my usual array of excuses about why I haven’t updated recently.  I’m going to blame it on the mass amounts of Skype calls I’ve been getting recently.  Of course the real reason is that I’m incredibly lazy, but just go with my excuse for a bit.  This past weekend saw 3 calls in a row, which made me feel extremely popular (as well as exhausted), and over the last few weeks, the gamut of huge topics has been gone over–engagements, pregnancies, break-ups.  While these things are great (well, obviously not the break-up after 10 years; that sucks), this kind of falls under the topic of “Things that are kind of a bummer that you experience when you are an ex-pat” (again, I know I need to work on these titles.  One day, maybe I will)(No, I won’t).

In these events, it’s impossible to really be there for the people you care about, in good times or bad times, and the limited view of the screen makes you aware of the separation.  There is something about Skype that makes information that you receive during it feel second hand (or maybe it’s just me; perhaps I shouldn’t generalize).  Things you took for granted that you would be a part of are suddenly happening without you.  The biggest event was my sister’s engagement (my older sister Jenni’s, obviously; if Tara was getting married at 17, that would be a major problem worth an entire post)(also, saying things like that make me awkwardly aware of the fact that my sisters are 15 years apart).  Last weekend, she bought her dress at a wedding expo; I had always kind of imagined being a part of that kind of thing, and it made me a bit sad not to be there for it and just see the picture through email (Even though I would probably hate going to a wedding expo, because I hate going to expos in general, but also because I know next to nothing about weddings. However, if a woman in her late 20s admits something like this, it’s outright blasphemy, and the said-woman faces excommunication in the mental collective of all those present).

Now, this will seem like a random segue, but in my mind it makes sense, which means that in real life it is actually random and strange.  Anyways.  The topic of what I’m going to do next (geographically speaking) has been coming up a lot; mostly by my mom, or from people trying to figure out how long they have to sneak into my apartment for a free place to stay (Erin, I’m looking at you.  And will soon be looking at you not via computer screen).  People innocently ask, “When are you coming home?”- this is one of my least favorite questions I get asked as an ex-pat.  Unless it’s my mother, I know the person asking is usually just making casual conversation, but for whatever reason, it feels like an accusation, and I always give a horribly inept answer like, “Mmmmidunno, maybe sometime?”  It makes it sound like I haven’t really thought about it, when in reality, I THINK ABOUT IT ALL THE TIME.  The combination of 1. getting easily attached to places and 2. hating saying goodbye to anyone/place/thing makes me feel crazy anxious about leaving places (Seriously, I could make a photo album titled, “Pictures of Jillian crying because she’s leaving somewhere”).

I kept extending my contract at AEON because I couldn’t face leaving, and it really was just so much easier to stay. But then people started leaving, and the job started getting monotonous, and I had hardly seen (and in some cases, talked) to my family/friends for almost 2 years.  (Also, Japanese is difficult.  This will come up later).  So overall, I don’t really want to leave places. Now, the case “do I stay or do I go” in England is more of a sticky wicket than the usual one because of the visa issue.  For Japan, it was easy – get a job, get a free visa, live in Japan for as long as 3 years without thinking of it again.  Not so in England.
Let me lay it on straight for you (or at least as straight as possible for a weird and windy situation).  For those who don’t remember the fun process I went through last time to get a visa, here’s a reminder; the short story is that with $650 and the University of Bristol behind me, I was awarded a Tier 4 student visa.  This expires next January.  On this visa, I am allowed to work up to 20 hours during term time.  I’m not sure what kind of restrictions this puts on me when I technically finish my term in September, but even if I can work full time on this visa, I can only do so until January unless I switch to a Tier 2 visa.  Visas in the UK work on a point system; you need to have certain qualifications to get the points required for a visa.  Apparently, it is a bit easier to switch from a Tier 4 to a Tier 2 than it is to get a Tier 2 out of nothing (which really isn’t saying much).  The basic point is that I would have to be offered a job with a salary of £20,300 to be able to get visa sponsorship.  Now the basic problem is that to get a job, most companies require you to have a visa already (do you see the catch-22 here?).

If it was completely up to me, I would stay in the UK longer (especially considering I’m basically doing a master’s so I can live in the UK), which is what I’m trying to do. I can’t apply to work for a community college until I physically get my degree anyway, which puts that option on the back-burner until Fall 2015.  Awhile back, when I first learned of these complications, I just thought, “Screw it, I’ll just take do another short-term contract in Japan with my old company Westgate so I can start paying off my loans.”  I re-applied; they were happy; easy peasy.  But then my sister got engaged, and chose to have her wedding in November.  Westgate is upfront with their no time off policy, and even if I wasn’t a co-Maid of Honor, I wouldn’t want to make a four day trip from Japan to California (again). So I’ve turned down that offer, and will stay in the UK until January at least. However, you Californians can rejoice over that 10 day or so interlude I am making in November. To my friends in Japan…本当にごめんなさい。も一度会うまでさみしいですね。(And I apologize for how horrible my Japanese has become. And also my English.)

INTERMISSION, or Pictures of Jillian crying because she’s leaving somewhere.

Here are pictures from three different trips to Japan (ages 18, 22, and 25):

[First picture is with my host family, and even if you can’t see it, my host mom was definitely shedding stoic tears.  The middle picture shows Yuki Danza crying way more than I am, which is really not surprising.  The last picture is with one of my favorite students from AEON.  This is probably horrible, but I think one of the most gratifying feelings is when someone cries because I am leaving.]

 

ON TO HAPPIER THINGS! otherwise known as Tales of Chantry Court

This week has been a Gravitron of emotions (people like to say rollercoaster of emotions, which I guess would be accurate if describing going through happy and sad feelings.  I’m making the bold claim that a Gravitron of emotions is when all your feelings are negative and whirling about in such an intense way the emotional centrifugal force pulls them to your stomach and makes you want to throw up).  But today, I awoke to something that made the grey skies of England just a little bit sunnier (not literally, though that would be a great machine that we should capitalize on).  But first, some back story.

Last night, while sitting in the kitchen, a flatmate I’ll call Oil told me a story concerning a flatmate I’ll call Bosh. I think I can say confidently that I’ve chosen solid pseudonyms that will prove impossible to decode. So, Bosh was about to finish his finals, and was anticipating a well-deserved night out. Now, as the bodybuilder of the flat, Bosh has a reputation for being pretty successful with the ladies. So Oil, the intellectual of the group, was joking with him about it, asking if he was going to pick up a strumpet on his night out. This set Oil and our other flatmate Hannah into giggles, and Bosh laughed a bit, though the lights behind the eyes were a bit dim at this point. Oil could see the lack of comprehension, so he continued (hoping Bosh would work the meaning out for himself), saying he could imagine Bosh “coming down park street with a strumpet over [his] shoulder.”

Again more laughs, but this time less from Bosh, with him finally saying, “Yeah, but, like…what’s a strumpet?”

Oil says, “Surely you, of all people, must know what a strumpet is.”

“Yeah, but, no,” Bosh replies, a look of puzzlement over what some might refer to as a muscular face (if muscular faces are a thing).

“Come on. What would you be carrying down Park Street?”

Slowly, that little light of comprehension began to grow stronger in those baby blues, and in a moment of enlightenment, Bosh says, “Do you mean one of those cones?”

I don’t know what’s better; that Bosh thought a strumpet was a traffic cone, or that he thought Oil imagined him walking down Park Street at 4 in the morning with one over his shoulder. So I laughed at the story and tucked it into the corner of my heart for safe keeping. In the end, though, Bosh had the last laugh, as this was the sight that met everyone the next morning:

 

Next!

(Due to my inability to just sit down and commit to a post, my blog seem to talk about a perpetual yesterday that is in fact most likely spread out over a week.  But really, the time when it happened doesn’t matter, so I’ll just stick to yesterday.)

So, yesterday I came home to find two roommates–let’s call one Bosh again, and the other Mincent–having a lively conversation in the kitchen.  Due to my very quick deduction skills, I quickly ascertained that the convo, while lively, was perhaps not a good-natured one.  Bosh had a vein throbbing in his forehead with that scary smile he saves for times not meant for smiles, accusing Mincent of getting huge tomato stains on his kitchen towl; Mincent was frozen in a shrugging “I have no idea what you’re referring to” posture, vehemently denying the accusations whilst standing in front of a heaping plate of cooked tomatoes.  I decided to sneak out of the kitchen to let them solve this mystery for themselves, but when I got to my room, I realized I left my keys on the kitchen counter.  I had to sneak back in, the argument seemingly unchanged from my last visit, before sneaking out again.  The moral of this story is that I am not very good at sneaking, because I witch-laugh the entire time I’m doing it.

Japanese Lesson of the Week, or Why Japanese is Ridiculous to Learn:

I told my Japanese flatmate that he could have some free cupcakes, pointing to the foil wrapped package on the table.  His reply:

“Yes, I know.  I saw.  OH!  Free cupcakes??  I thought you said Furikake–do you know furikake?”  (I say I did, but forgot).  “Do you know furu?  It means kind of…to swing.  And Kake is from kakeru, to put in; yeah, yeah, you know.  So it means ‘things you put on rice’.”

Oh, of course.  I should have guessed.

(There are a lot of double parentheses in this post, which makes me wonder if I actually have multiple personalties(which is a great excuse for why my work has been so horrible lately; who can concentrate with all these voices interjecting?)(No, dummy, it’s a really sad excuse, go sit in the corner and feel ashamed.))

“Hers is reachable only by an old drawbridge, and is guarded by a troll who asks you a riddle.”

Just for kicks, here are some videos I think best represent American’s views of Brits:

 

Cheeky.

Just a little magic

 

On the flip side, here’s how the Brits seem to view Americans:

Gimme gimme moar

Mmm, sexy.

 

Oh, stereotypes!

“I just wanted to say what Jill’s eyes were twinkling about.”

Spoken from the mouth of lokate(*), who is by far my favorite lokate in the world.

Before we really get started, here’s a picture of me in Amsterdam!

That’s a preview of next time (maybe).  You don’t get to hear about A’dam this time because my iPad decided to go tits up the day we arrived (not the day we left though, which will be part of the story, I’m sure).

So as you may or may know (how should I know what you know; I don’t know who you are), I went back to America for a little bit, and while I was there, lokate told me a very valuable story.  It was a story about dating, and this is the story she told me:

“i really like this guy.  and that wasn’t always the case with the guys i dated.  and i would talk to friends and be like, ‘you know how sometimes when you are dating someone, but you don’t really like them?’  and they would be like, ‘No, i don’t really think that’s how it’s supposed to be.’  and i realized they were right, you shouldn’t hate the person you are dating.”

(Story might actually be word for word.  Or not.  But definitely the gist.)

I think that’s pretty true.  This story is particularly valuable because I will soon be going on my first blind date ever.  The reason I’ve never gone on a blind date before is because they sound like the absolute worst things in the world, and I generally make a fool of myself enough in normal situations.  I hoped my friends loved me enough not to try and wrangle me into one during my lifetime (if they waited until I was dead, I guess that would be fine), but alas; their ignoble hearts have been exposed.  I imagine they will try to rationalize their actions by saying they don’t want me to die alone or something.  However, this is not my fear–my fear is that I will die in a plane crash, in which case I will be surrounded by loads of people.

But I was completely caught off guard by the blind date invitation (…thanks for the lack of warning, Potter), and due to belief that if someone has the courage to ask you out on a date, you should at least give it a try, I am now committed (also, he’s my friend’s cousin, so…).  Also, since I don’t know anything about the guy, I googled him, and I think he might actually be a genius, which makes me fairly confident that this will not end well.  Still, thanks to lokate, now I know that if I hate him, I probably shouldn’t hang out with him again.  So, if you have some really stellar blind date advice, let me know.  Like, should I wear my fancy knee pads?  Do you generally write down all your secrets beforehand in preparation to shout them out during awkward silences?  These are the valuable nuggets that I to make up for my pathetically empty dating knowledge.

Anyway, speaking of speaking, I want to share other valuable quotes and stories from America.  The first come from my grandpa.  To give you a little unnecessary context about the stories my grandpa tells, here is one he told me before I left for the UK the first time around.  I think he was trying to explain school in the good ol’ days.

“We had six hours of homework every night.  And we walked for 5 miles in the snow each way, just to save a nickel.  And I was working in the bowling alley setting up pins to 1 am every morning, so you know I wasn’t doing any homework.
(Pause for reflection)
It was probably the best school in the country, and there will probably never be another one like it.  But then they let in the blacks, and the girls, and the standards really went down.”

So remember, that’s what we’re working with.

When I came home for Christmas, my older sister suggested that we take my grandpa to the racetracks for opening day.  First off, the races started at 1, but they opened the park at 11, probably because the average age of customers is probably 87, and those folks take a long time getting from the gate to their seats.  My grandpa wanted to get there at 10:30.  We arrived at 11:30.  On the ride there, we drove past Azusa Pacific, my cousin’s university.  My grandpa asked if she was back in school, and my sister said she thought she had returned part-time, for 2 or 3 classes.  That’y when the fun began.

Grandpa: When I was going to law school, I was taking 10 classes at a time.
Me: That’s not really how you do it these days; it’s kind of impossible to take that many classes.  2-3 is pretty standard.
G: Well, I did 10 classes a day, from 6-10 pm while working full-time, and that was with 5 children.  And I did that for 15 years.
Me:  …you went to law school for 15 years???
F: Yup; from 1949 to 1959.

(Thank God he wasn’t studying math for all those years).*

The next quote comes from the mouth of a babe.  Or toddler.  Whatever.  I stayed in London JZ’s house (**) for a few days before I flew home for Christmas.  One of the days, we took his 3 y.o. niece to a pantomime show (***), and at the very end- right at the last curtain call- the fire alarm went off.  I started gathering up all the stuff, but the ushers were waving their hands about, saying, “Just leave everything!  Go!  GO!”  From my many experiences with fires (specifically forest fires; thanks high school!), when someone says go, I go.  So we went in the nice rainy weather outside.  I was looking through my things, and I remarked to JZ that I think I left my phone inside.  He said, “What, your crap phone?”  I told him it didn’t matter if it was crap, it was still my phone.  Ignoring this, he turned to his niece and said, “Ruby-chan, do you think the fire brigade will come?”  Ruby looks at him and says, “Yeah, the firemen will come, and they’ll find a crap phone!”

On the subject of JZ’s family and quotes, this year also provided a bit of vindication.  When I went to visit universities in the UK earlier last February, my mom asked me, “How far is London from England?”  I (mistakenly) told JZ, who in turn told his mom, and they both had a good laugh at dumb Americans.  However, when I visited London in November, we were talking about monarchs and their success when JZ’s mom very seriously argued, “The best queens have been women.”  Well…that’s accurate, to be fair (though I imagine RuPaul might have something to say about it).

Now, some really short quotes, sans context!  (J is not me, by the way).

J: There was a guy in my year who literally had a great pair of tits.
—-
O: So you smashed it.
J: I didn’t smash it, I just did everything I needed to do really well.
—
O: You sound like Elvis!…on the toilet, as he’s dying.

QUOTES FINITO! End part 1.

(Intermission) Erin wanted me to mention her in my blog, so here it is.  Erin’s one comment to me is always, “Your blog is too long!”  Think of my blog as a buffet; just because it’s all out there doesn’t mean you have to eat it all.  Pace yourself.  I will take no responsibility if you find yourself uncomfortably bloated and looking to vomit at the end.  Also, Erin: to keep you motivating, I am going to reference you two more times in this essay of a blog.  Also, I know how you get at a buffet; which means not only will you gorge yourself, but you’ll sneak some out in your pocket for later.

START PART 2: “Christmas!  OMG!  Santa!  I know him!” or also titled, “Little did we know…”

One weird quote (okay, I lied about the quote finito business) that came about was from my brother’s girlfriend.  My brother and his GF gave mini crossbows to people for the big day, and when I remarked that they looked particularly dangerous for a toy, his GF said, “It’s not a holiday without a trip to the ER!”  I thought that was pretty freaking bizarre, but now I look back at it as being oddly prescient.  (Cue dramatic BUM BUM BUM.)

Now, Christmas was exciting for two reasons (hopefully you caught a whiff that one direction is headed); both involved my brother and his…GF.  The first was Christmas morn at my mom’s, when his GF mentioned that she collects Hooters shirts.  My brother felt that Jesus’s birthday breakfast was a good time to announce that his GF’s boobs “were not, in fact, gifts from God.”  Fast-forward to my dad’s house, where my littlest sister and I were waiting on our parents to finish getting ready so we could all go to my aunt’s house (Christmas is a very busy day in our family).  My brother and his GF had gone back to their apartment to finish making a salad to take for the dinner.  However, a sudden phone call from the GF put us into hyper mode: my brother has sliced his finger with a mandolin (or as I like to call it, the kitchen guillotine.  Seriously, google image search “mandolin slicer accidents” to see what I mean).  We kept getting quick updates, but my favorite was when I heard my dad say, “Did it actually come off?” (Pause).  “How much?”  Still, it wasn’t enough off that we can say he’s “all right”, so he’s alright now.  Though he did lose the GF in the end, so there’s that…

START PART 3.
After last blog’s constant questioning shenanigans, I’ve decided you get one question–and I see you are going to waste it on the most mundane thing possible, but go ahead.  “Jazillion, did you make a new year’s resolution?”  The answer is “Of course, you collywobbler!”  Here are my New Year’s Resolutions:

1. I have decided to only read news from The Onion.  They seem to be the most consistent, after all.
2. Start the final wean from real pants to leggings.  And good news, everybody!  I got about 4 pairs of leggings for Christmas, which means I may never have to wear jeans again!!  Declaring jeans independence for 2015.
3. Going off the last resolution, and to just stay consistent with recent events in general, I have decided to embarrass myself in public as much as possible.  I have high hopes for keeping this one in anticipation of that blind date.

Speaking of New Years and Awkward Things, remember that NYE party I went to?  No?  Let me set the tone.  All week long I’d been slightly dreading NYE, primarily because the idea of staying up until midnight at a party sounded really exhausting (When did I get so old?!?), but also because I didn’t know what to do, and people kept asking me, and I was like, “I would love to stay in all night watching ‘The Twilight Zone’, but I don’t think that’s what you’re going for.”  Finally, Suzy(*!) and I decided to go to a block party in LA, so of course we ended up at the le Casa house party.  This wasn’t my first choice because 1.) I hadn’t really been invited and 2.) Those guys are hipsters.  While I love my friends who live at the house, I have a hard time with all their friends, because they are some of the most awkward people I know (as hipsters tend to be).  So basically, as soon as we walk into the backyard  (complete with bonfire), everyone turns and stares quizzically at you, as if you haven’t met each one of them about 50 times over the last 10 years (No, seriously, it has been that long or longer).

One of our friends (and some of our sort of friends) were standing in a circle near the front, so we quickly tried to blend in.  However, this group included a friend I had seen once in 3 years, so I immediately felt awkward, and blamed it on the wine bottle I was holding.  I went and set it down next to a small bucket filled with craft beers (I seemed to have been the only one to buy a $2 bottle of wine, or any wine, or anything but craft beer).  After I arrived back to the group, I realized it wasn’t holding a wine bottle that made me feel awkward; it was not holding a glass of wine.  So I pardoned myself and went to try and open the bottle.  When I yanked the corkscrew out, the center of the cork popped out, but nothing more.  So I sighed and stuck it in again, this time trying to yank it harder (****).  Instead of pulling the cork out, the entire bottle shot out in the opposite direction and smashed against the wall.  As all that nice red wine spilled out, the entire backyard population turned to stare.  They didn’t say anything, because let’s face it: hipsters are kind of creepy; and on top of that, they are always ready to be photographed looking bored.  Fortunately, I happened to shatter the bottle right next to a hose faucet, so I pretended to help clean up for a few minutes before grabbing a craft beer.

The last hour or so of the year was spent in the living room, where everyone went around and said 2 words (plus explanation) that they hoped would serve as symbols for the coming year.  After each person said their speech, a cheer went up, and everyone took a sip of some 18-year-old whiskey (that sounds a lot more old-timey than it actually was).  Then, as the countdown to the New Year began, “Instant Crush” played in the background; if that isn’t evidence that we were attending the most hipster of NYE parties, I don’t know what is.**

These are where the footnotes are hidden.  Sorry Potter; they were just too jumbled to stick anywhere else.  Also, this is my revenge for being set up on a blind date.

(*) Erin recently pointed out to me (whined) that she doesn’t know who people are, so here is a little explanation.  lokate went to high school with me and was two years older than me (until she turned 24, an age at which she deemed it appropriate to stop aging).  First I knew her as the Winkie (the Wild Cat school mascot; what a name) who liked Suzy’s brother; then she became my friend.  Like Erin, most of our hangouts revolve around yogurt.

*Not that it’s relevant, but my grandpa never became a lawyer.

(**) JZ is my British friend who did training with me in Japan.  Somehow we are still friends, despite the impossible odds.  I should also say one of my only British friends, because British friends are nearly impossible to make, apparently.

(***) Pantomimes are, from what I can tell; like musicals, but worse, and with more children in attendance.  And cross-dressers.  The cross-dressers are on stage, usually; not in attendance, but I guess I can’t be sure of that.

(*!) Suzy has been my friend since elementary school, and is coincidentally flying out in a few days.

(****) That’s what she said.

**This actually reminded me of another party, years earlier (and I believe involving a backyard bonfire), with this same group.  I was staying late to play DD (I have been known to refrain from imbibing, I’ll have you know***), and somehow the dregs of the party had moved to the living room.  I don’t remember if what happened next was discussed, or just happened, but as it was happening, there seemed to be an unspoken acknowledgement by all that we were to sit quietly in the dark contemplating the song “Knocked Up” by Kings of Leon.  I remember thinking, “Is this weird?  Does anybody else think it’s weird?  Do we all think it’s weird and we are Weird Chickening each other?  Even though it’s dark, should I close my eyes?  This is pretty good song; is this Kings of Leon?”  I actually can’t listen to that song when it’s not dark now.  Also, there are some weird parties in Orange County.

***Also, I just looked up when “Because of the Times” was released; it was 2007.  So yes; I was not DD by choice, but requirement.

Also, Erin, here is an awesome version of “Shock to Your System” that would be so much more awesome if Tegan WASN’T SINGING IN IT.  Sara, on the other hand, nails it.

The TAT of J.M.N.

After all the weirdly difficult and tricky things that have happened lately, I was thinking of titling this blog, “The Trials and Tribulations of Jillian M. Nelson,” but that was too long, so I decided on  “The T.A.T. of J.M.N.” because I wanted to look classy.  Nothing classier than initial TATs. *1*

Last time we talked screen to screen, I told tales of the tearful trail that lead me to me current location, Denmark (Street.  I hope that there were two seconds where you read that and thought, “Wait, I thought she was in England?”  And hopefully you asked in the high-pitched voice of Jim Gaffigan).  I don’t think I even mentioned how my university somehow forgot to enroll me in any classes besides the core module.  Still, I had a place to live, which meant I could finally breathe easy.

So for all of 8 days, my woes went away.  And that, my friends, is how long it took for the unspeakable to happen.

Which I will now type, because it is unspeakable.

Someone.

POOPED.

On.  The.  FLOOR.

(The horror!  The horror!)

Do you know what that’s like?  To walk into a bathroom and see this…this ABOMINATION (of-bum-ination) waiting for you?  And then it sinks in that 1.) Finder’s Cleaners and 2.) You’re down for “Spare Loo” duty on the rota that week, so you’re basically screwed as designated pooper-scooper?  Tell me, has that happened to you?  Fingers were pointed; tears were shed (mostly because I was laughing so hard).  But then, have you had insult added to injury after you do a superstar clean-up job, because someone decided to repay you by drinking all your beer?*  To this very day, the culprit is still on the loose (I mean, come on–who is going to say, “Okay guys, ya caught me; it was I who pooped and ran, then drank all your beer”), but one thing is certain– I’ll never look at my flatmates the same.

The crazy thing is, I’d like to say this was the first time this has happened to me**, but there was one day when I was in high school when my mom dragged all the kids still living in the house to the bathroom, where she pointed to the ground and cried, “WHO DID THIS?”  The same person that I believe responsible for this particular floor-foul also drank my chocolate stout, so talk about connections!  I mean, sure; the events were about 10 years apart, but still.  Circle of life.***

Anyway, enough potty talk.  Sometimes nice things happen–I had my first visitor to Bristol!  Okay; it was JZ, so maybe it’s more like, “Sometimes not so bad things happen.”  (JK, JZ.  Who I know never reads my blog, as he just found out what blogs were last week).  But as a result, we did sight-see-y things, which means you get these pictures!  Hurrah!

Oo!

Ah!

Ah!

わ〜！

Isn’t Bristol cute?

Now, if you are wondering what I actually am doing in Bristol besides cleaning up bathrooms and having my beer stolen, I’m getting my MA!  And if from there you are wondering what a typical school day looks like for me, let me give you a little sample, straight from today’s events:

-Get to class.  Open bottle of sparkling water, which explodes.  Wouldn’t be so bad if the EXACT SAME THING hadn’t happened the week before.  Inward panic that my new nickname will be “American Girl Who Can’t Figure Water Out.”  Though if anyone calls me that, I will simply call them, “Person Who Can’t Make Short and Efficient Nicknames.”****

-Stomach growls loudly, due to decision to eat only vegetables*.* for lunch.

-Get cold, so try to put on jacket, but can’t figure out sleeve.  Finally get sleeve to cooperate; try to put in on in a hurry so my nickname doesn’t become “American Girl Who Can’t Figure Water or Jackets Out,” but jacket is vintage*!* and delicate, and inside lining rips.  Loudly.  Don’t even try to imagine what new nickname could be.

-Go home and eat more vegetables. *&*

*1* I also considered “Operation Title: Trials and Tribulations”, with the abbreviation being “O TIT: TAT,” but there is a level to how ridiculous I will go.

*This happened about 4 days later, so I gueeeeess it may not have been connected.  But still!  3 beers!  Out of 4!

**Actually, I’d prefer to say this has never happened to me, but what’s done is done.

***While poo on the floor followed by someone drinking all your beer may not be what the “Lion King” song is about, the truth is we can never really know.

****If you’re really quick, you’ve already realized that those are both accurate nicknames for J.M.N. by own logic.

*.* And cheese.

*!* Armani…sigh.

*&* AKA Cheese.

Sorry for all the asterisks, but as it has been so cloudy, I haven’t seen many stars lately; therefore I wanted to make up for it.  Now stop reading my blog and go do something productive with your life!