Ok, so I haven't written anything in like forever and even when I did it was normally about, like, fictional people or whatever and not so much an account of my year abroad. But still, my french adventure is nearly over! I head back home on Friday.
Only, before that I have this exam. This important exam. Tomorrow. And I really should be frantically trying to get through all of the notes for it right now. As you can probably tell, that is not what I am doing. But there is good reason for that!
Well, actually, there isn't. Unless you count the fact that french family law is boring. And that I'm completely starving to death but I have no food and can't leave the house in case the people who are meant to be shipping my crap back to the UK show up, so I can't go buy something and so that box of dried split peas I bought six months ago because I was far too hungover to shop sensibly is getting worringly enticing. And that I'm FREEZING but have packed all of my hoodies and stuff into the cases awaiting the shipping people. These might not be good reasons, per se, but they do explain a lot.
Also, I need to invest a fair amount of time and energy into Not Thinking about what happens if these mythical shipping people don't show up. Because I have this kind of horrendous record with post, which is pretty inconvenient when it's a pile of very important forms at stake, but positively disasterous when it comes to all of my worldly belongings, y'know? And the intricacies of french divorce just don't grab my attention. So I have no choice but to think about other stuff. You know, like Tim Riggins. Or how awesome the Busted musical will be as soon as my sister and I get off our asses and write it. That sort of thing.
I'm doomed, aren't I?
mercredi 10 juin 2009
vendredi 13 février 2009
I smell what HE'S cooking
It's not often that you can look back on a childhood crush with a measure of pride. As a rule, whether you were shrieking the name of the gay one from Boyzone or failing to realise that, at the age of seven, you were one of the only women in the western world short enough to date a member of 911, the men we had plastered across our prepubescent walls were of the cringey variety.
Normally these teen hearthrobs at least do us the service of fading into relative obscurity, resurfacing from time to time as a punchline, or a Celeb Big Brother contestant or as a talking head on one of those 'We love the nineties' shows. More recently, the trend for relaunching classic boybands has brought a number of us face to face with our pretty boy of choice ten years on.
For many, including the aforementioned Steven Gately groupies, the effect is not too humiliating. Groups of twentysomethings can sit happily watching Boyzone's 2008 tour with no more than occasional squeal of 'I can't believe I thought he was straight!'. The same cannot be said for the comeback of my first true love.
Peter Andre.
I LOVED Peter Andre. I saw him live. I owned a badge. And.. yeah. With hindsight, I must admit that neither at his prime nor in the Jordan years was that man attractive. But God, I wanted to be his Mysterious Girl. Yeesh.
And so, I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to one Duane 'The Rock' Johnson, for managing to remain in the spotlight without making me feel like a total asshat for adoring him when I was twelve. If anything, he's gotten more attractive since he stopped playfighting with greasy men and devoted himself to helping cute Disney alien kids get back to Witch Mountain or whatever. The most electrifying man in sports entertainment has not let me down. I'm only a little embarrassed that I actually read his autobiography. So, thanks Duane! Keep up the good work.
Pity he's not enough to undo the Andre thing though.
Normally these teen hearthrobs at least do us the service of fading into relative obscurity, resurfacing from time to time as a punchline, or a Celeb Big Brother contestant or as a talking head on one of those 'We love the nineties' shows. More recently, the trend for relaunching classic boybands has brought a number of us face to face with our pretty boy of choice ten years on.
For many, including the aforementioned Steven Gately groupies, the effect is not too humiliating. Groups of twentysomethings can sit happily watching Boyzone's 2008 tour with no more than occasional squeal of 'I can't believe I thought he was straight!'. The same cannot be said for the comeback of my first true love.
Peter Andre.
I LOVED Peter Andre. I saw him live. I owned a badge. And.. yeah. With hindsight, I must admit that neither at his prime nor in the Jordan years was that man attractive. But God, I wanted to be his Mysterious Girl. Yeesh.
And so, I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to one Duane 'The Rock' Johnson, for managing to remain in the spotlight without making me feel like a total asshat for adoring him when I was twelve. If anything, he's gotten more attractive since he stopped playfighting with greasy men and devoted himself to helping cute Disney alien kids get back to Witch Mountain or whatever. The most electrifying man in sports entertainment has not let me down. I'm only a little embarrassed that I actually read his autobiography. So, thanks Duane! Keep up the good work.
Pity he's not enough to undo the Andre thing though.
jeudi 22 janvier 2009
A Recipe For Crazy..
Ok, so I'm not claiming to have found a definitive recipe here. For starters, there are many varieties of crazy, ranging from the homicidal to the Bjork to the whatever-one-of-the-King-Georges-had-to-make-him-talk-to-a-tree. Equally, there are many routes available to each of these types of mental instability. Almost anything can be included, particularly if cocaine, the menopause or scientology are used as a base.
But I can, with some confidence, say that I have found at least one foolproof mixture of factors that will produce an indisputable onslaught of crazy (normally of the frazzled variety, with the potential to edge into either catatonic or hysterical territory).
1. Take one student.
2. Deprive him/her of sleep for at least one week. During this time impose a diet that is either woefully lacking in most major food groups or composed almost entirely of one variety of food (ie, soup). Keep contact with other human beings to a minimum.
3. Fill his/her waking hours with revision. For best results this revision should be lengthy, complex and primarily made up of material he or she has neglected to look at, ever, before this week. If at all possible, make it written in a foreign language.
4. Sprinkle exams liberally throughout said week.
5. Then, on day seven, add one major exam in the afternoon and another for the subsequent morning.
6. Stir in at least five mugs of coffee.
7. Liberally apply cold/flu medication. (FYI, if you spray that thoat anesthetic stuff on blisters on your feet it does not, as you might expect, numb them and make shoes more comfortable. It just stings like a bitch.)
8. Create a playlist which includes the following songs; Mya's 'Case of the Ex', Celine Dion's 'It's all coming back to me now', The Fresh Prince of Belair Theme and anything by Nelly. Play on loop for several hours.
9. Allow to simmer overnight, being sure to allow no more than three hours' sleep.
10. Serve at 6am on day eight.
Et voila!
But I can, with some confidence, say that I have found at least one foolproof mixture of factors that will produce an indisputable onslaught of crazy (normally of the frazzled variety, with the potential to edge into either catatonic or hysterical territory).
1. Take one student.
2. Deprive him/her of sleep for at least one week. During this time impose a diet that is either woefully lacking in most major food groups or composed almost entirely of one variety of food (ie, soup). Keep contact with other human beings to a minimum.
3. Fill his/her waking hours with revision. For best results this revision should be lengthy, complex and primarily made up of material he or she has neglected to look at, ever, before this week. If at all possible, make it written in a foreign language.
4. Sprinkle exams liberally throughout said week.
5. Then, on day seven, add one major exam in the afternoon and another for the subsequent morning.
6. Stir in at least five mugs of coffee.
7. Liberally apply cold/flu medication. (FYI, if you spray that thoat anesthetic stuff on blisters on your feet it does not, as you might expect, numb them and make shoes more comfortable. It just stings like a bitch.)
8. Create a playlist which includes the following songs; Mya's 'Case of the Ex', Celine Dion's 'It's all coming back to me now', The Fresh Prince of Belair Theme and anything by Nelly. Play on loop for several hours.
9. Allow to simmer overnight, being sure to allow no more than three hours' sleep.
10. Serve at 6am on day eight.
Et voila!
vendredi 16 janvier 2009
Just one quick question
What was in that cheese that Nicola gave to Steve on Neighbours? He's, like, nearly dead!
I was going to use a picture of Steve writhing around in mouldy cheese-related agony, but I couldn't find one. And then I found this and decided it is much nicer.
Sigh. I miss Frazer.
jeudi 15 janvier 2009
Just Say No, kids
You know when people tell you that you should never, ever leave a foreign bar with two guys you just met to get drinks and pot in their apartment? Turns out they're totally right.
Because that's what me and my friend Anabel did on Wednesday and I seriously almost got bored to death.
They were nice enough guys. A talkative one who wanted to practice his english because he's moving to Canada, and his somewhat shyer friend. When we got to the apartment there were two more, who were so paralysingly shy that they essentially spent the entire time we were there cowering in a corner, hiding from us, with our conversation and our hair and our boobs and whatnot.
But then the talkative one passed out. And the only other one who could actually speak to women said something which made my blood run cold. In broken english, he came out with
"I have travelled. I have been to Malaysia and Thailand and Laos. Would you like to see the photos?"
No, I assured him. That would be totally unnecessary. I told him how my best friend had been to those places on her gap year, and that consequently I have seen enough photos of the region to find my way around quite successfully should I ever be dropped unexpectedly in the middle of Bangkok (ok, this is a lie. But I would totally know what city I was lost in). And he nodded cheerfully and... started the slide show. He hooked it up to the tv and everything.
It would. Not. End. I swear. At one point, after showing me a photo of himself proudly holding up his target at a shooting range in Phuket, he wandered off and for a brief, glorious moment I hoped it was over. But then he came back, with that very target. He made me touch the bullet shell.
I don't care how good the shit they were offering was. Nothing is worth that.
Because that's what me and my friend Anabel did on Wednesday and I seriously almost got bored to death.
They were nice enough guys. A talkative one who wanted to practice his english because he's moving to Canada, and his somewhat shyer friend. When we got to the apartment there were two more, who were so paralysingly shy that they essentially spent the entire time we were there cowering in a corner, hiding from us, with our conversation and our hair and our boobs and whatnot.
But then the talkative one passed out. And the only other one who could actually speak to women said something which made my blood run cold. In broken english, he came out with
"I have travelled. I have been to Malaysia and Thailand and Laos. Would you like to see the photos?"
No, I assured him. That would be totally unnecessary. I told him how my best friend had been to those places on her gap year, and that consequently I have seen enough photos of the region to find my way around quite successfully should I ever be dropped unexpectedly in the middle of Bangkok (ok, this is a lie. But I would totally know what city I was lost in). And he nodded cheerfully and... started the slide show. He hooked it up to the tv and everything.
It would. Not. End. I swear. At one point, after showing me a photo of himself proudly holding up his target at a shooting range in Phuket, he wandered off and for a brief, glorious moment I hoped it was over. But then he came back, with that very target. He made me touch the bullet shell.
I don't care how good the shit they were offering was. Nothing is worth that.
dimanche 11 janvier 2009
I Blame Bill Bryson
I am currently suffering from the scientific phenonomon known as itchy feet. Which seems ridiculous, given that I've only been back a la France for a week, but it's freezing here and we all have exams and I'm bored. Last term I was plagued by a desire to go back to Durham and see everybody, this term apparently I just want to go somewhere new.
So one of my major revision avoidance techniques, aside from eating and sending incredibly long- winded facebook messages to everybody I've ever met, is to play a little game known as 'What I'm going to do when my loan comes in'. Never mind that I'm currently so overdrawn that looking at my statements actually makes me laugh, in a vaguely hysterical manner. No, I have decided that the mainetenance grant exists not for me to eke out a living over the next few months, but so that I can jet off and have some exotic adventures (and buy a leather miniskirt from Zara, of course).
I have - just - managed to reign in the crazy and stop short of seriously considering transatlantic flights. So instead I have turned my attention to Europe. And the idea of visiting it's major cities all by my lonesome holds a great deal of appeal for me, thanks to one Mr Bill Bryson. Because in addition to writing the only science book I ever voluntarily read, the esteemed Chancellor of Durham University is the author of 'Neither Here Nor There', a guide to Europe which I devoured on a recent Newcastle - Paris flight.
I have told myself repeatedly that setting off to pastures unknown with only a mountain of debt and a pop travel guide which is twenty years out of date for company is a stupid and expensive idea. It would appear that I am not listening. Having discovered, to my disappointment, that flights from Paris to Corsica only run in summertime (which, you know; sensible. I can't imagine there being a great deal of demand otherwise. What the hell is even on Corsica, anyway? Didn't Napoleon die there or something? Wasn't he killed by his wallpaper? I think I saw that on How 2 once. Anyway..), and that flights to Casablanca cost a bomb, I began whittling down the list of contenders.
Marrakech I rejected because everybody goes there. It's like that token 'exotic' place people choose to prove that they don't only want t0 see the Costa Del Sol, mainly selected for it's reassuring proximity to the homeland of said Costa. In fact, the only place more people my age like to tell you that they're going to visit is Australia. Seriously, if you want to grab my attention do not brag about adventures down under. Walk up to me and say 'I am not, nor do I have any intention of, going to Australia for the foreseeable future'. What does that country have, despite soul destroying heat and an infathomable passion for sporting activities? (Aside from Neighbours, obviously) Even Hugh Jackman has moved to LA.
I was extremely upset to find that flights from Paris to Austria simply do not exist. Dreams of cycling around in floral curtains singing 'Doe, a deer' were shattered, unless I'm willing to pay an arm and a leg to spend three days on a coach. Krakow was cheap, but I get the impression that people basically go there to get drunk on cheap wodka, so going alone seemed a bit sad. Naples was just too pricey. Pity - Bryson loved Sorrento.
So our current frontrunners are Venice and Tangiers. Lord knows what I'll actually do if I go to either. I don't even own a camera. We'll see what happens come the 19th..
So one of my major revision avoidance techniques, aside from eating and sending incredibly long- winded facebook messages to everybody I've ever met, is to play a little game known as 'What I'm going to do when my loan comes in'. Never mind that I'm currently so overdrawn that looking at my statements actually makes me laugh, in a vaguely hysterical manner. No, I have decided that the mainetenance grant exists not for me to eke out a living over the next few months, but so that I can jet off and have some exotic adventures (and buy a leather miniskirt from Zara, of course).
I have - just - managed to reign in the crazy and stop short of seriously considering transatlantic flights. So instead I have turned my attention to Europe. And the idea of visiting it's major cities all by my lonesome holds a great deal of appeal for me, thanks to one Mr Bill Bryson. Because in addition to writing the only science book I ever voluntarily read, the esteemed Chancellor of Durham University is the author of 'Neither Here Nor There', a guide to Europe which I devoured on a recent Newcastle - Paris flight.
I have told myself repeatedly that setting off to pastures unknown with only a mountain of debt and a pop travel guide which is twenty years out of date for company is a stupid and expensive idea. It would appear that I am not listening. Having discovered, to my disappointment, that flights from Paris to Corsica only run in summertime (which, you know; sensible. I can't imagine there being a great deal of demand otherwise. What the hell is even on Corsica, anyway? Didn't Napoleon die there or something? Wasn't he killed by his wallpaper? I think I saw that on How 2 once. Anyway..), and that flights to Casablanca cost a bomb, I began whittling down the list of contenders.
Marrakech I rejected because everybody goes there. It's like that token 'exotic' place people choose to prove that they don't only want t0 see the Costa Del Sol, mainly selected for it's reassuring proximity to the homeland of said Costa. In fact, the only place more people my age like to tell you that they're going to visit is Australia. Seriously, if you want to grab my attention do not brag about adventures down under. Walk up to me and say 'I am not, nor do I have any intention of, going to Australia for the foreseeable future'. What does that country have, despite soul destroying heat and an infathomable passion for sporting activities? (Aside from Neighbours, obviously) Even Hugh Jackman has moved to LA.
I was extremely upset to find that flights from Paris to Austria simply do not exist. Dreams of cycling around in floral curtains singing 'Doe, a deer' were shattered, unless I'm willing to pay an arm and a leg to spend three days on a coach. Krakow was cheap, but I get the impression that people basically go there to get drunk on cheap wodka, so going alone seemed a bit sad. Naples was just too pricey. Pity - Bryson loved Sorrento.
So our current frontrunners are Venice and Tangiers. Lord knows what I'll actually do if I go to either. I don't even own a camera. We'll see what happens come the 19th..
lundi 5 janvier 2009
The Coat Of Wonders (or Why I Can't Really Move My Arms Anymore)
So, I've just been home for the holidays, and the repeated lugging around of all of my possessions has led me to question, fairly frequently, what on earth I actually consider necessary for a three week stint back in the UK. I mean, I had regular access to a washing machine, right? And not that many glittering events to attend? A smallish case should do me.
And I have always been enamoured of the idea of packing light. You know, being one of those people who sneers at those who have to bring the kitchen sink with them on weekends away (something which I have had occasion to do despite my tendancy to overpack, thanks to the fact that my best friend growing up really did bring a phenonomal amount of crap with her at all times). I like to fancy myself either as one of those hippy dippy types who throw a bunch of things into a hemp bag, too cool to be bogged down in all that materialistic crap, or super efficient, with one of those air hostess-stylee mini roller cases, packed with ninja like precision and containing exactly the right things.
However, it has become increasingly evident that I am not one of those people. For one thing, I had to bring ten books back with me. Not useful law degree books; oh no. They're sci-fi mostly, an embarrassing proportion of which are written for Young Adults. And furthermore, I could not possibly face a few weeks with friends and family without not one, not two, but THREE coats (proper, knee-length coats, y'all. I'm not even counting jackets here).
It was perfectly logical. I mean, my official, warm Winter Coat for this year is a brown Primark number with a big fur collar. Which is great, but my wardrobe is predominantly black. And as somebody who still refuses to accept that wearing tights with open toe shoes is ok (I don't care if Cheryl Cole is doing it, Faye), I certainly am not about to start mixing black and brown. So of course, I had to bring last year's coat too.
All very well, you might say, but what possible reason could there be which necessitated the inclusion of a third?
The answer to that lies in the coat itself. I bought it in a vintage store in Paris (Free P Star. Go there - it's crazy fun, unless you're claustraphobic or a neat freak). Which means that whenever it gets remarked upon I get to say 'Oh this? It's vintage, daaahling. Paris, you know?'. Which never gets old.
And it WILL be remarked upon. My sister refuses to be seen in public with it. My nan is spreading its reputation far and wide. I knew I had hit the jackpot when two pixie-cropped, leggings-wearing American Apparel employees on the train took a break from sketching the outfits they planned to wear that night to enquire after it (the vintage, daahling line went down a treat with them). And it's fame is fully deserved.
Because my coat is a knee length, furry, leopard print, swing number. In at least a size 18 (label missing). It simultaneously makes me look like a hooker and an aging hollywood star, and could be accessorised equally effectively with sunglasses, an eating disorder and Pete Doherty or pearls, a little fur hat and a sausage dog. It needed some international airing (and general airing, to be honest. Getting the musty vintage shop smell out of faux fur is no easy feat).
So I had a case containing 20 kilos of awesome in addition to a giant (and weighty) handbag containing a geeky and juvenile library. Have I mentioned that I live up a motherfreakin' cliff? Well I do, and after getting to the top of it I felt like I used to after the torture that was cross country (and no, I couldn't get a cab thanks to a financial crisis induced by a sleep deprived blunder in which I packed all of my euros safely in my sister's handbag before heading to the airport). Anyways, suffice to say that as of my return I ache in parts of me I didn't know existed.
Totally worth it, right?
And I have always been enamoured of the idea of packing light. You know, being one of those people who sneers at those who have to bring the kitchen sink with them on weekends away (something which I have had occasion to do despite my tendancy to overpack, thanks to the fact that my best friend growing up really did bring a phenonomal amount of crap with her at all times). I like to fancy myself either as one of those hippy dippy types who throw a bunch of things into a hemp bag, too cool to be bogged down in all that materialistic crap, or super efficient, with one of those air hostess-stylee mini roller cases, packed with ninja like precision and containing exactly the right things.
However, it has become increasingly evident that I am not one of those people. For one thing, I had to bring ten books back with me. Not useful law degree books; oh no. They're sci-fi mostly, an embarrassing proportion of which are written for Young Adults. And furthermore, I could not possibly face a few weeks with friends and family without not one, not two, but THREE coats (proper, knee-length coats, y'all. I'm not even counting jackets here).
It was perfectly logical. I mean, my official, warm Winter Coat for this year is a brown Primark number with a big fur collar. Which is great, but my wardrobe is predominantly black. And as somebody who still refuses to accept that wearing tights with open toe shoes is ok (I don't care if Cheryl Cole is doing it, Faye), I certainly am not about to start mixing black and brown. So of course, I had to bring last year's coat too.
All very well, you might say, but what possible reason could there be which necessitated the inclusion of a third?
The answer to that lies in the coat itself. I bought it in a vintage store in Paris (Free P Star. Go there - it's crazy fun, unless you're claustraphobic or a neat freak). Which means that whenever it gets remarked upon I get to say 'Oh this? It's vintage, daaahling. Paris, you know?'. Which never gets old.
And it WILL be remarked upon. My sister refuses to be seen in public with it. My nan is spreading its reputation far and wide. I knew I had hit the jackpot when two pixie-cropped, leggings-wearing American Apparel employees on the train took a break from sketching the outfits they planned to wear that night to enquire after it (the vintage, daahling line went down a treat with them). And it's fame is fully deserved.
Because my coat is a knee length, furry, leopard print, swing number. In at least a size 18 (label missing). It simultaneously makes me look like a hooker and an aging hollywood star, and could be accessorised equally effectively with sunglasses, an eating disorder and Pete Doherty or pearls, a little fur hat and a sausage dog. It needed some international airing (and general airing, to be honest. Getting the musty vintage shop smell out of faux fur is no easy feat).
So I had a case containing 20 kilos of awesome in addition to a giant (and weighty) handbag containing a geeky and juvenile library. Have I mentioned that I live up a motherfreakin' cliff? Well I do, and after getting to the top of it I felt like I used to after the torture that was cross country (and no, I couldn't get a cab thanks to a financial crisis induced by a sleep deprived blunder in which I packed all of my euros safely in my sister's handbag before heading to the airport). Anyways, suffice to say that as of my return I ache in parts of me I didn't know existed.
Totally worth it, right?
jeudi 4 décembre 2008
I must be bored
I can tell that I must be bored because in the last twelve hours I have considered the following
1. Booking flights to New York
2. Buying a 200 euro dress that looks slightly like an Herve Leger and would probably make me look fat (the saleswomen presiding over it were so intimidating that I wouldn't try it on. I'd probably never have escaped alive without purchasing it if I did)
3. Getting a radical haircut of some (still unknown) description
4. Booking flights to San Francisco
5. Writing a novel
6. Going vintage shopping in Paris (actually, I'm totally going to do that one next week)
7. Booking a last minute cruise (with what money I'll never know)
8. Spending over 90 euros on lingerie
9. Getting drunk alone in a cafe on expensive mulled wine
10. Buying a large and extremely pricey selection of maccaroons
Thankfully, what I actually did was go to a lecture, briefly consider a lot of things, then come home, eat an entire pot of hummus and take a nap. Even managed to walk straight past Sephora. Maybe I'm developing restraint (erm.. did I mention that a humongous Zac Efron door poster is due to arrive at my place any day now? Yeah.. I might hide my debit cards before I go out drinking tonight).
So that's all right then.
1. Booking flights to New York
2. Buying a 200 euro dress that looks slightly like an Herve Leger and would probably make me look fat (the saleswomen presiding over it were so intimidating that I wouldn't try it on. I'd probably never have escaped alive without purchasing it if I did)
3. Getting a radical haircut of some (still unknown) description
4. Booking flights to San Francisco
5. Writing a novel
6. Going vintage shopping in Paris (actually, I'm totally going to do that one next week)
7. Booking a last minute cruise (with what money I'll never know)
8. Spending over 90 euros on lingerie
9. Getting drunk alone in a cafe on expensive mulled wine
10. Buying a large and extremely pricey selection of maccaroons
Thankfully, what I actually did was go to a lecture, briefly consider a lot of things, then come home, eat an entire pot of hummus and take a nap. Even managed to walk straight past Sephora. Maybe I'm developing restraint (erm.. did I mention that a humongous Zac Efron door poster is due to arrive at my place any day now? Yeah.. I might hide my debit cards before I go out drinking tonight).
So that's all right then.
mercredi 26 novembre 2008
I think I might be losing it...
... because after writing that last post, I went on the Sephora website. You know, thinking that maybe outside of the magical aura of the shop it would lose it's power over me. I was wrong.
What actually happened was that the first thing I saw was a huge makeup set that I spent a good portion of yesterday lusting over, reduced from 45 euros to 30 in a special online offer. I immediately got very excited and started buying, sendng my friend Mel the following two messages in the process:
1. Sephora have a website, Mel. A website with OFFERS. I have lost my everloving mind. Why could I possibly need 84 eyeshadow colours? And 60 different shades of lipgloss? Because I've bloody well bought them (I think that's what I bought anyway. French website).
Between this and my hummus bill it is no wonder I'm poor. Poor and fat, but with excellent makeup. Arrgh!
2. Ohmigod, now they want me to choose between a variey of presents to go with my purchase. I fully love this shop. Do I want a sac noir or a box elegante? What use could I have for either? It's all wonderfully impractical and expensive. OH, and I got get to choose three free samples. Tiny things! AWESOME.
I need help. I think I'm just losing my mind because the kid who lives below me is practicing for grade 1 piano and I've heard Rock Around The Clock butchered 843 times this week. As Lydia said, somebody should go tell her now that she'll always be shit.
But shortly after sending the second I discovered that sephora.fr only accept payments from French bank cards, and I have no money in my french account. So what did I do? Give up? Nope. First off, I tried to buy the same thing from Sephora America, because there is no Sephora UK (totally ignoring the fact that the cost of shipping would make it cheaper to just go pay the 45 euros). When this proved impossible I decided it was time to turn the crazy up a notch, walk into town, buy a gift voucher, come back and buy it online.
I used the half hour walk to talk myself out of this plan. The sane portion of me pointed out very wisely that this set contains nothing that I don't already own thanks to my many previous Sephora trips, and that I was actually just being mental. This is the portion of me that won the debating contest in sixth form, in case you're wondering.
The other part of my brain, which I fear is gaining in strength, took this on board and decided that the decision to not buy the makeup meant that I had 30 euros to spend on something else. I then wandered round Zara for a while looking manic. Adding to the overall air of insanity is the fact that I left the house today dressed like an 80s hooker. I bought shiny plastic ankle boots a while back and apparently they were making all the decisions. Seriously, several people at the law faculty came up to me and opened conversations with 'English girls wear such short skirts'.
When nothing leapt out at me I decided that I should at least go and look at the makeup. Somehow I left Sephora without buying the gift card (or the set at full price, which was a distinct possibility by this point). I did, however, buy some sort of illuminating stick thing (at this rate my entire face will glow by the end of the month. Which could be handy as every night I have to navigate two flights of stairs in total darkness so as not to wake my landlord's family, and these people keep vases on the stairs). And I got a Sephora card.
Which means, of course, that the first thing I did when I got back was rush to my computer and check whether the card would somehow make it possible for me to buy the giant set. It didn't. So now I don't have a sac noir either (though I totally got samples with my illuminating thingy. Score).
I give it three days max before I crack and get my hands on that set somehow.
Did I mention that I literally have NO MONEY? Yeah? Ok. I'm going to book a ticket to Disneyland now..
What actually happened was that the first thing I saw was a huge makeup set that I spent a good portion of yesterday lusting over, reduced from 45 euros to 30 in a special online offer. I immediately got very excited and started buying, sendng my friend Mel the following two messages in the process:
1. Sephora have a website, Mel. A website with OFFERS. I have lost my everloving mind. Why could I possibly need 84 eyeshadow colours? And 60 different shades of lipgloss? Because I've bloody well bought them (I think that's what I bought anyway. French website).
Between this and my hummus bill it is no wonder I'm poor. Poor and fat, but with excellent makeup. Arrgh!
2. Ohmigod, now they want me to choose between a variey of presents to go with my purchase. I fully love this shop. Do I want a sac noir or a box elegante? What use could I have for either? It's all wonderfully impractical and expensive. OH, and I got get to choose three free samples. Tiny things! AWESOME.
I need help. I think I'm just losing my mind because the kid who lives below me is practicing for grade 1 piano and I've heard Rock Around The Clock butchered 843 times this week. As Lydia said, somebody should go tell her now that she'll always be shit.
But shortly after sending the second I discovered that sephora.fr only accept payments from French bank cards, and I have no money in my french account. So what did I do? Give up? Nope. First off, I tried to buy the same thing from Sephora America, because there is no Sephora UK (totally ignoring the fact that the cost of shipping would make it cheaper to just go pay the 45 euros). When this proved impossible I decided it was time to turn the crazy up a notch, walk into town, buy a gift voucher, come back and buy it online.
I used the half hour walk to talk myself out of this plan. The sane portion of me pointed out very wisely that this set contains nothing that I don't already own thanks to my many previous Sephora trips, and that I was actually just being mental. This is the portion of me that won the debating contest in sixth form, in case you're wondering.
The other part of my brain, which I fear is gaining in strength, took this on board and decided that the decision to not buy the makeup meant that I had 30 euros to spend on something else. I then wandered round Zara for a while looking manic. Adding to the overall air of insanity is the fact that I left the house today dressed like an 80s hooker. I bought shiny plastic ankle boots a while back and apparently they were making all the decisions. Seriously, several people at the law faculty came up to me and opened conversations with 'English girls wear such short skirts'.
When nothing leapt out at me I decided that I should at least go and look at the makeup. Somehow I left Sephora without buying the gift card (or the set at full price, which was a distinct possibility by this point). I did, however, buy some sort of illuminating stick thing (at this rate my entire face will glow by the end of the month. Which could be handy as every night I have to navigate two flights of stairs in total darkness so as not to wake my landlord's family, and these people keep vases on the stairs). And I got a Sephora card.
Which means, of course, that the first thing I did when I got back was rush to my computer and check whether the card would somehow make it possible for me to buy the giant set. It didn't. So now I don't have a sac noir either (though I totally got samples with my illuminating thingy. Score).
I give it three days max before I crack and get my hands on that set somehow.
Did I mention that I literally have NO MONEY? Yeah? Ok. I'm going to book a ticket to Disneyland now..
Sephora is my happy place
Ok, so as addictions go a moderately overpriced beauty store may seem relatively harmless. And it's certainly not very rock and roll. But I am poor, people, and that makes my constant Sephora cravings dehabilitating as fuck.
It just that it's such a lovely place. Honestly, it's magical. It's like, you're having a shitty day and then you go in and it's all warm and calm and it smells nice. And all these pretty, colourful things are laid out neatly, and there are intriguing contraptions marked 'Tester' just begging to be played with. Plus, there are a bunch of perfectly made-up women and studiedly metrosexual men wandering about wearing, these artillery belts filled with make up brushes, like the minions of an army that just wants to make things look nice.
All which would be fine, if I could just soak in the soothing atmosphere for a while then leave, finances intact. But there's something in the air in Sephora that makes me want... stuff. All kinds of stuff. I'm not entirely sure what I bought yesterday but it was pink and sparkly and totally had miniature snowflakes pressed into the powder and I wanted it.
This is new to me. Like, last Christmas my sister got a load of posh makeup and I totally scorned her, all 'honestly Faye, what a total waste of money. I only ever buy Collection 2000'. But in Sephora, £35 Givenchy blush cubes make total sense. How could the world carry on being lovely without them?
What's more, they give you PRESENTS. If you buy a ridiculously overpriced eyeshadow, or some magic-pink-snowflake-powder (the label is in French, ok? I'm pretty sure I'm meant to put it on my face), you get home and discover that in the bag there's a teeny tiny perfume sample, or a thimbleful of exfoliator that smells of freshly baked cheesecake or something. How is anybody supposed to resist that?
I might well have discovered this luxury cosmetics addiction sooner, if it wasn't for my absolute terror of department store makeup floors. Seriously, enter Liverpool Debenhams and not only is it all so white and sterile and shiny that you worry somebody might take out your appendix, but you are immediately descended upon by a hoarde of ladies with drawn on eyebrows who are only a penis away from very successful careers as drag artistes, who will paint you orange and bully you into spending millions of pounds. Worlds away from the tranquility of Sephora.
In fact, the only part of the Sephora experience that is not blissful is coming home and checking your bank balance. Which... oh God... is pretty damn stressful. I need to calm the hell down.
Maybe a trip to Sephora is in order...
It just that it's such a lovely place. Honestly, it's magical. It's like, you're having a shitty day and then you go in and it's all warm and calm and it smells nice. And all these pretty, colourful things are laid out neatly, and there are intriguing contraptions marked 'Tester' just begging to be played with. Plus, there are a bunch of perfectly made-up women and studiedly metrosexual men wandering about wearing, these artillery belts filled with make up brushes, like the minions of an army that just wants to make things look nice.
All which would be fine, if I could just soak in the soothing atmosphere for a while then leave, finances intact. But there's something in the air in Sephora that makes me want... stuff. All kinds of stuff. I'm not entirely sure what I bought yesterday but it was pink and sparkly and totally had miniature snowflakes pressed into the powder and I wanted it.
This is new to me. Like, last Christmas my sister got a load of posh makeup and I totally scorned her, all 'honestly Faye, what a total waste of money. I only ever buy Collection 2000'. But in Sephora, £35 Givenchy blush cubes make total sense. How could the world carry on being lovely without them?
What's more, they give you PRESENTS. If you buy a ridiculously overpriced eyeshadow, or some magic-pink-snowflake-powder (the label is in French, ok? I'm pretty sure I'm meant to put it on my face), you get home and discover that in the bag there's a teeny tiny perfume sample, or a thimbleful of exfoliator that smells of freshly baked cheesecake or something. How is anybody supposed to resist that?
I might well have discovered this luxury cosmetics addiction sooner, if it wasn't for my absolute terror of department store makeup floors. Seriously, enter Liverpool Debenhams and not only is it all so white and sterile and shiny that you worry somebody might take out your appendix, but you are immediately descended upon by a hoarde of ladies with drawn on eyebrows who are only a penis away from very successful careers as drag artistes, who will paint you orange and bully you into spending millions of pounds. Worlds away from the tranquility of Sephora.
In fact, the only part of the Sephora experience that is not blissful is coming home and checking your bank balance. Which... oh God... is pretty damn stressful. I need to calm the hell down.
Maybe a trip to Sephora is in order...
mercredi 19 novembre 2008
Always A Wildcat!
So, I made it back to England for a few days this weekend, and I put my time to good use. Contacting my family? No. Doing any of the mounting pile of paperwork that I need to send to various institutions in the UK? Of course not. But I did manage copious drinking, a trip to Primark and, most importantly, to see High School Musical 3.
Seldom have I enjoyed two hours of my life more. It is quite the experience. And my friends Mel and KP felt the same way. Literally, it went went like this:
Opening shot of Zac Efron's intense and sweaty face
Mel: Ohhhh.. (begins laughing as silently as she can). He's not hot.
Me: Just wait
KP: Unconvinced
After inspirational sports speech the singing begins.
Myself and KP's shoulders are also shaking at this point.
V Hudge stands to sing about her belief in Zac's basketball prowess. Apparently, that's all he needs.
Me: Ha! Also, put your sneakers on
(Also, the first of many squawks of laughter escapes the only other group of people in the cinema who do not have a preteen with them)
First of MANY love ballads begins in a treehouse. V-Hudge utters the immortal line 'I'm looking at you and my heart loves the view'
Mel: That's... That's just the best lyric I've ever heard. I'm so using that in real life now
(Incidentally, she did go on to make it her facebook status, and somebody actually asked her permission to use it as a lyric. When she explained it's origin he went off on one about how he hates HSM and X Factor and the commercialisation of music, and accused both of being fixed. I am not entirely sure how this accusation applies to HSM. Also, he clearly admires the somewhat retarded songwriting they employ, so whatevs. Anyways, I digress)
Sharpay enters
Me: I love her. I love everything about her. I love A-Tis.
KP: Shut up
Me: OK
The 'English' girl is introduced
KP: Best. Accent. Ever.
Mel: I'm going to start talking like that all the time.
After every costume change in Sharpay's big number
All three of us: Ohhhh.. I need one of those. Seriously, how have we survived this long without sequined unitards?
During a spectacular rooftop dance sequence
KP: Wait... this feels normal. Oh my God, my sense of reality has been completely distorted. I'm totally acclimatised.
Zac wears a super tight tux and humps the air during the prom song
Me and Mel: HA!
KP: OK, not entirely acclimatised...
Ryan and Kelsi have 'chemistry'
Mel: What? Is he not gay?
Me: Well, it is Disney
KP: It's enough to ask me to accept that Efron' s straight. That man has being wearing pink pants for half of this film.
Tiny Zac and Chad emerge during highly homoerotic song
KP: Excellent.
Me: Yeah... That is actually kind of adorable.
Mel: Look at that one's hair!
(Loudest squawk yet from the back of the room)
Zac and V-Hudge eat chocolate covered strawberries in a vaguely erotic fashion
Me: OK, they MUST be doing it.
Mel: Seriously. Actually, maybe he is kind of hot...
Me: Told you!
KP rolls eyes theatrically.
Zac and Chad share boy style emotional talk
Mel: Heh. Man.
Me: I know, dude.
Much snorting all round whenever either man or dude are used for the rest of the scene. Which is pretty much exactly once per line.
Zac removes his shirt with his back to the audience
Me: Yay!
Mel: Officially hot.
KP: Maybe...
Me: Hey! Turn around!
He puts on another shirt without turning
Me: Boo to you, Disney. I want gratuitous pec.
KP: That's what One Tree Hill is for.
Me: Fair. Carry on, Zac.
Zac appears in prom suit in tree (it makes a little bit more sense in context. Only a little)
KP: OK. (sighs) That is hot.
Mel: Wait... Did he just drive over a thousand miles in the truck that has really conspicuously not been working for the last hour?
Me: Yes. Yes he did.
Mel: Oh. OK.
Big final show
Mel: And then he drove back.
Me: Yes.
Zac proudly announces that he chooses basketball AND theatre at the University of California.. Berkley.
Mel: Are they even the same institution?
KP: And did Berkley just offer him a place?
Me: He is Zac Efron. He can attend every university in the world should he decide to. Simultanously. Just accept.
Zac tells us solemnly that 'Once a Wildcat.. Always a Wildcat'. Chad pumps his fist equally solemnly
Me (solemn fist pump): I am always a Wildcat
KP: Tard
Final Curtain. Lights come up.
Mel: I want to applaud.
Me and KP grin inanely in agreement.
Seriously. See it. I may go and see it dubbed into French - I suspect it might be even more fun!.
Seldom have I enjoyed two hours of my life more. It is quite the experience. And my friends Mel and KP felt the same way. Literally, it went went like this:
Opening shot of Zac Efron's intense and sweaty face
Mel: Ohhhh.. (begins laughing as silently as she can). He's not hot.
Me: Just wait
KP: Unconvinced
After inspirational sports speech the singing begins.
Myself and KP's shoulders are also shaking at this point.
V Hudge stands to sing about her belief in Zac's basketball prowess. Apparently, that's all he needs.
Me: Ha! Also, put your sneakers on
(Also, the first of many squawks of laughter escapes the only other group of people in the cinema who do not have a preteen with them)
First of MANY love ballads begins in a treehouse. V-Hudge utters the immortal line 'I'm looking at you and my heart loves the view'
Mel: That's... That's just the best lyric I've ever heard. I'm so using that in real life now
(Incidentally, she did go on to make it her facebook status, and somebody actually asked her permission to use it as a lyric. When she explained it's origin he went off on one about how he hates HSM and X Factor and the commercialisation of music, and accused both of being fixed. I am not entirely sure how this accusation applies to HSM. Also, he clearly admires the somewhat retarded songwriting they employ, so whatevs. Anyways, I digress)
Sharpay enters
Me: I love her. I love everything about her. I love A-Tis.
KP: Shut up
Me: OK
The 'English' girl is introduced
KP: Best. Accent. Ever.
Mel: I'm going to start talking like that all the time.
After every costume change in Sharpay's big number
All three of us: Ohhhh.. I need one of those. Seriously, how have we survived this long without sequined unitards?
During a spectacular rooftop dance sequence
KP: Wait... this feels normal. Oh my God, my sense of reality has been completely distorted. I'm totally acclimatised.
Zac wears a super tight tux and humps the air during the prom song
Me and Mel: HA!
KP: OK, not entirely acclimatised...
Ryan and Kelsi have 'chemistry'
Mel: What? Is he not gay?
Me: Well, it is Disney
KP: It's enough to ask me to accept that Efron' s straight. That man has being wearing pink pants for half of this film.
Tiny Zac and Chad emerge during highly homoerotic song
KP: Excellent.
Me: Yeah... That is actually kind of adorable.
Mel: Look at that one's hair!
(Loudest squawk yet from the back of the room)
Zac and V-Hudge eat chocolate covered strawberries in a vaguely erotic fashion
Me: OK, they MUST be doing it.
Mel: Seriously. Actually, maybe he is kind of hot...
Me: Told you!
KP rolls eyes theatrically.
Zac and Chad share boy style emotional talk
Mel: Heh. Man.
Me: I know, dude.
Much snorting all round whenever either man or dude are used for the rest of the scene. Which is pretty much exactly once per line.
Zac removes his shirt with his back to the audience
Me: Yay!
Mel: Officially hot.
KP: Maybe...
Me: Hey! Turn around!
He puts on another shirt without turning
Me: Boo to you, Disney. I want gratuitous pec.
KP: That's what One Tree Hill is for.
Me: Fair. Carry on, Zac.
Zac appears in prom suit in tree (it makes a little bit more sense in context. Only a little)
KP: OK. (sighs) That is hot.
Mel: Wait... Did he just drive over a thousand miles in the truck that has really conspicuously not been working for the last hour?
Me: Yes. Yes he did.
Mel: Oh. OK.
Big final show
Mel: And then he drove back.
Me: Yes.
Zac proudly announces that he chooses basketball AND theatre at the University of California.. Berkley.
Mel: Are they even the same institution?
KP: And did Berkley just offer him a place?
Me: He is Zac Efron. He can attend every university in the world should he decide to. Simultanously. Just accept.
Zac tells us solemnly that 'Once a Wildcat.. Always a Wildcat'. Chad pumps his fist equally solemnly
Me (solemn fist pump): I am always a Wildcat
KP: Tard
Final Curtain. Lights come up.
Mel: I want to applaud.
Me and KP grin inanely in agreement.
Seriously. See it. I may go and see it dubbed into French - I suspect it might be even more fun!.
jeudi 13 novembre 2008
What To Expect On An Erasmus Year In France*
1. You will attend a meeting, where a lot of big, scary forms will be mentioned, along with Very Important Deadlines. These warnings will be as ominous as they are vague; big on the fear, light on the actual detail.
2. If you choose to check your university's website for the forms, you will find all of the paperwork necessary for an erasmus student... in 1986.
3. You will eventually track down a Learning Agreement, and be instructed to choose your modules, get it signed off by your departmental co-ordinator and post it to France before a given date, or you will be flayed/thrown off the programme. This will be twelve hours before said deadline.
4. Your departmental co-ordinator will blithely inform you that he/she is in fact in Cyprus for the next fortnight, and suggest just posting the form after their return. If you harass them sufficiently, you should be able to get your hands on an emailed course list at this point.
5. Your host university will attempt to hawk a Highly Recommended Language Course. This will not be massively helpful, but is a good way to meet other erasmus students.
6. You will finally meet with the co-ordinator, get your Learning Agreement signed and post it nect day delivery to France. This will cost you whatever remains of your overdraft.
7. Nobody at all will care that you missed the deadline.
8. If, on the advice of previous erasmus students, you chose not to live in halls you will spend you summer searching the internet for somewhere to live and cursing those who gave you advice. You will find that your budget increases dramatically as your departure date looms closer. Eventually you will either resign yourself to searching on arrival or agree to live with a totally random french person.
9. You will spend the last night in the UK trying desperately to make your life weigh less than an easyjet baggage allowance, swearing at your family and contemplating illnesses which would be just serious enough to stop you going without inconveniencing you too much.
10. You will spend an incredibly stressful day hauling all manner of luggage through an exciting variety of transport systems. If you haven't found somewhere to live yet, this will be followed by an equally stressful day or two of attempting to understand french estate agents' abbreviations.
11. Eventually, you will move into a room, unpack and feel vastly relieved.
12. You will phone your mother and tell her how wonderful it all is.
13. You will realise that you have absolutely no idea where, when or how to enroll and start your course. You will contact the host university's co-ordinator and any other students you may know before collapsing in exhaustion.
14. The next morning nobody will have replied. You will be mildly hysterical at this point, and your google search history will be full of such gems as 'can I quit erasmus?' and 'why does anybody live in France!?'.
15. Another student will find you, through facebook or something. They will calm you down immensely, introduce you to others and show you around. You will never hear back from the university co-ordinator.
16. Eventually, you will find out how to enroll and get started, but only because you and a group of your fellow erasmus students stormed the faculty and refused to leave until clear instructions were given.
17. There will be an erasmus social event. People will sing karaoke with amusing accents. It will be hilarious. The highlight of the evening will almost certainly involve Celine Dion. This will be followed by a trip to a club with a group of your new BFFs, where you will receive a flattering amount of attention. You will feel highly exotic.**
18. Courses will begin, and you will realise that the course list you were given in the summer bears no relation whatsoever to the courses actually offered. You will choose new courses.
19. Two weeks after the start of term your faculty will hold a welcome meeting, during which they will instruct you on how to attend the courses you've already started and give you a map detailing how to reach the Fac. This meeting will be held in the Fac. On the bright side, there will be free Orangina.
20. By now you will be beginning to realise that attention from guys is not reserved for appropriate places, like bars and clubs. You will be being hit on from dawn till dusk in every imaginable place. At least one of your friends will be being stalked by a guy she inadvertentl encouraged.**
21. By 'encouraged' I mean 'did not shoot in the head'. If they find out you speak English it gets worse. Learn Slovak, or Dutch. Or at least how to make a string of nonsense words which sound passably like a real language.**
22. You will realise that, while a lot of the people you have met are great, some you either actively dislike or at least have little in common with. Simply not being French does not provide the basis for a lasting friendship. Slowly, the erasmus group will break up into smaller groups of people who actually like each other.
23. Your 'skipping of the occasional lecture' will snowball wildly.
24. If you opted to live with a French person you will know by now whether you hate them or not. They will make it extremely clear if said hatred is mutual. If, like me, you managed to move in with a total crazy you will probably be kicked out.
25. Should this happen, you will be fine. Househunting is much easier when you know the area and your French has improved. Speaking of which
26. After a month, your French will have improved. You will also have fallen into a routine, and learned to accept that 'France Rage' will ebb and flow continually, depending on whether or not you've had a good day.
27. A trip home or a visitor from home will simultaneously cheer you up and make you nostalgic. Afterwards, however, you will settle back into your French life surprisingly quickly.
28. It will take a minimum of seven weeks to become accustomed to the ludicrous price of beer, but eventually you will be able to simply sigh heavily when faced with a drinks menu instead of exclaiming over it to all of your friends. One day this may even be reduced to an eyeroll, or perhaps you will start handing over your money without batting an eyelid. I have yet to reach that stage.
29. You will realise that you do actually have exams in January, and make thousands of empty promises to start doing your work and attending your lectures. If you have paid a visit to your home uni, you will be smugly aware that academically you are having by far the easiest year of all of your friends. So you won't be too motivated (and, in all honesty that probably won't matter).
30. By your third month, you will be well and truly settled, and probably fairly confident in your own ability to do this. However, you will note that at some point you have stopped thinking of the whole affair as an amazing opportunity for adventure, and instead as a 'worthwhilelife experience' to be endured. In short, it'll have become mundane. But at least mundane isn't, you know, hellish or anything. C'est la vie.
*Disclaimer: Many of these points may not be applicable if your home university, your host university or you yourself are in any way organised. If you have never spent two days making increasingly hysterical phones calls to the passport office because you sent your renewal request in less than two weeks before a holiday, you'll probably be ok.
**These points are (probably) only really applicable to girls. I have a feeling France is a very different place to those endowed with a penis.
2. If you choose to check your university's website for the forms, you will find all of the paperwork necessary for an erasmus student... in 1986.
3. You will eventually track down a Learning Agreement, and be instructed to choose your modules, get it signed off by your departmental co-ordinator and post it to France before a given date, or you will be flayed/thrown off the programme. This will be twelve hours before said deadline.
4. Your departmental co-ordinator will blithely inform you that he/she is in fact in Cyprus for the next fortnight, and suggest just posting the form after their return. If you harass them sufficiently, you should be able to get your hands on an emailed course list at this point.
5. Your host university will attempt to hawk a Highly Recommended Language Course. This will not be massively helpful, but is a good way to meet other erasmus students.
6. You will finally meet with the co-ordinator, get your Learning Agreement signed and post it nect day delivery to France. This will cost you whatever remains of your overdraft.
7. Nobody at all will care that you missed the deadline.
8. If, on the advice of previous erasmus students, you chose not to live in halls you will spend you summer searching the internet for somewhere to live and cursing those who gave you advice. You will find that your budget increases dramatically as your departure date looms closer. Eventually you will either resign yourself to searching on arrival or agree to live with a totally random french person.
9. You will spend the last night in the UK trying desperately to make your life weigh less than an easyjet baggage allowance, swearing at your family and contemplating illnesses which would be just serious enough to stop you going without inconveniencing you too much.
10. You will spend an incredibly stressful day hauling all manner of luggage through an exciting variety of transport systems. If you haven't found somewhere to live yet, this will be followed by an equally stressful day or two of attempting to understand french estate agents' abbreviations.
11. Eventually, you will move into a room, unpack and feel vastly relieved.
12. You will phone your mother and tell her how wonderful it all is.
13. You will realise that you have absolutely no idea where, when or how to enroll and start your course. You will contact the host university's co-ordinator and any other students you may know before collapsing in exhaustion.
14. The next morning nobody will have replied. You will be mildly hysterical at this point, and your google search history will be full of such gems as 'can I quit erasmus?' and 'why does anybody live in France!?'.
15. Another student will find you, through facebook or something. They will calm you down immensely, introduce you to others and show you around. You will never hear back from the university co-ordinator.
16. Eventually, you will find out how to enroll and get started, but only because you and a group of your fellow erasmus students stormed the faculty and refused to leave until clear instructions were given.
17. There will be an erasmus social event. People will sing karaoke with amusing accents. It will be hilarious. The highlight of the evening will almost certainly involve Celine Dion. This will be followed by a trip to a club with a group of your new BFFs, where you will receive a flattering amount of attention. You will feel highly exotic.**
18. Courses will begin, and you will realise that the course list you were given in the summer bears no relation whatsoever to the courses actually offered. You will choose new courses.
19. Two weeks after the start of term your faculty will hold a welcome meeting, during which they will instruct you on how to attend the courses you've already started and give you a map detailing how to reach the Fac. This meeting will be held in the Fac. On the bright side, there will be free Orangina.
20. By now you will be beginning to realise that attention from guys is not reserved for appropriate places, like bars and clubs. You will be being hit on from dawn till dusk in every imaginable place. At least one of your friends will be being stalked by a guy she inadvertentl encouraged.**
21. By 'encouraged' I mean 'did not shoot in the head'. If they find out you speak English it gets worse. Learn Slovak, or Dutch. Or at least how to make a string of nonsense words which sound passably like a real language.**
22. You will realise that, while a lot of the people you have met are great, some you either actively dislike or at least have little in common with. Simply not being French does not provide the basis for a lasting friendship. Slowly, the erasmus group will break up into smaller groups of people who actually like each other.
23. Your 'skipping of the occasional lecture' will snowball wildly.
24. If you opted to live with a French person you will know by now whether you hate them or not. They will make it extremely clear if said hatred is mutual. If, like me, you managed to move in with a total crazy you will probably be kicked out.
25. Should this happen, you will be fine. Househunting is much easier when you know the area and your French has improved. Speaking of which
26. After a month, your French will have improved. You will also have fallen into a routine, and learned to accept that 'France Rage' will ebb and flow continually, depending on whether or not you've had a good day.
27. A trip home or a visitor from home will simultaneously cheer you up and make you nostalgic. Afterwards, however, you will settle back into your French life surprisingly quickly.
28. It will take a minimum of seven weeks to become accustomed to the ludicrous price of beer, but eventually you will be able to simply sigh heavily when faced with a drinks menu instead of exclaiming over it to all of your friends. One day this may even be reduced to an eyeroll, or perhaps you will start handing over your money without batting an eyelid. I have yet to reach that stage.
29. You will realise that you do actually have exams in January, and make thousands of empty promises to start doing your work and attending your lectures. If you have paid a visit to your home uni, you will be smugly aware that academically you are having by far the easiest year of all of your friends. So you won't be too motivated (and, in all honesty that probably won't matter).
30. By your third month, you will be well and truly settled, and probably fairly confident in your own ability to do this. However, you will note that at some point you have stopped thinking of the whole affair as an amazing opportunity for adventure, and instead as a 'worthwhilelife experience' to be endured. In short, it'll have become mundane. But at least mundane isn't, you know, hellish or anything. C'est la vie.
*Disclaimer: Many of these points may not be applicable if your home university, your host university or you yourself are in any way organised. If you have never spent two days making increasingly hysterical phones calls to the passport office because you sent your renewal request in less than two weeks before a holiday, you'll probably be ok.
**These points are (probably) only really applicable to girls. I have a feeling France is a very different place to those endowed with a penis.
lundi 10 novembre 2008
Why Lorelai Gilmore Is Not Such An Idiot, by me
I’ve been rewatching some Gilmore Girls lately, and the episodes I’ve happened to watch have made me thinks about one of the show’s OTPs. Not the OTP, I am more than happy with Luke and Lorelai (Lukelai? Loreluke? Whatever). I’m talking about Emily Gilmore’s OTP. Lorelai and Christopher.
Christopher, for the uninitiated, is a character who pops up a lot over the course of the show’s seven-season run. He kind of has to, because he is Lorelai’s high school boyfriend and the father of her child. The other thing that Christopher is, is kind of an asshat. Season 1, he shows up and is an irresponsible tool who hasn’t matured one iota since Lorelai refused to marry him at sixteen. Season two, Chris has ostensibly got it together, and is ready to make a real go of it with Lorelai and Rory as a family. Until he finds out that his other girlfriend, Sherry, is totally pregnant. He then gets abandoned by Sherry, sucks at single parenting without Lorelai’s help, and eventually marries Lorelai before finally screwing that one up as well. For elaboration on why Chris is a total douche, see www.televisionwithoutpity.com. They do snark better than me.
Looking at that track record, it’s easy to call Lorelai an idiot. Why does she keep taking him back? Will she ever learn? (The final answer to that one seems to be yes, praise the Lord). But really, doesn’t everybody have a Christopher lurking somewhere in their past? I know I do. Fortunately, for most of us (myself included) that somebody didn’t knock us up and so will probably not be hanging around screwing with our heads in sixteen years’ time.
But still, think back to that guy. That early, if not first, love who was just… totally useless. Fun, for a while. And you liked him enough to really try and believe it could work. But in the end it just couldn’t, and afterwards, you had to admit that you always knew that breaking point was coming. But even with all the clarity of hindsight there is a nagging doubt, a fear that if he came back and promised that things would be different, that he would no longer be in love with your best friend/sleep with other women/be emotionally retarded or whatever it was, you would fall for it.
That guy is the secret shame that every girl carries with her into womanhood. He is the memory that makes would be feminists squirm in discomfort. And he is ubiquitous. Seriously, I doubt anybody can make it past the age of twenty-five without finding that one guy who made her act like a total idiot, and could quite possibly do it all over again were he of a mind to. It’s terrifying and more than a little embarrassing. It doesn’t even matter how well you know him and his faults. And it’s easy to identify him. He’s the loser you’re still complaining about to your friends when the period of time since the break up is longer that the relationship itself was. If you haven’t seen him in that time, you’re in deep shit.
Still, it seems there is little anybody can do to escape this. So consider him a rite of passage. Be glad that you’ve survived him intact. Some of you will get off more lightly than others (I myself suffered only fair to moderate humiliation and emotional scarring). And beware of him in future. TV is more than just entertainment – it’s an education (that’s what I tell myself as I waste my life, anyway). And if we can learn anything from Gilmore Girls, aside from drink more coffee and buy a lot of scarves, it’s this; never, EVER go back to your Christopher. Even a shared child isn’t enough to make it work.
Christopher, for the uninitiated, is a character who pops up a lot over the course of the show’s seven-season run. He kind of has to, because he is Lorelai’s high school boyfriend and the father of her child. The other thing that Christopher is, is kind of an asshat. Season 1, he shows up and is an irresponsible tool who hasn’t matured one iota since Lorelai refused to marry him at sixteen. Season two, Chris has ostensibly got it together, and is ready to make a real go of it with Lorelai and Rory as a family. Until he finds out that his other girlfriend, Sherry, is totally pregnant. He then gets abandoned by Sherry, sucks at single parenting without Lorelai’s help, and eventually marries Lorelai before finally screwing that one up as well. For elaboration on why Chris is a total douche, see www.televisionwithoutpity.com. They do snark better than me.
Looking at that track record, it’s easy to call Lorelai an idiot. Why does she keep taking him back? Will she ever learn? (The final answer to that one seems to be yes, praise the Lord). But really, doesn’t everybody have a Christopher lurking somewhere in their past? I know I do. Fortunately, for most of us (myself included) that somebody didn’t knock us up and so will probably not be hanging around screwing with our heads in sixteen years’ time.
But still, think back to that guy. That early, if not first, love who was just… totally useless. Fun, for a while. And you liked him enough to really try and believe it could work. But in the end it just couldn’t, and afterwards, you had to admit that you always knew that breaking point was coming. But even with all the clarity of hindsight there is a nagging doubt, a fear that if he came back and promised that things would be different, that he would no longer be in love with your best friend/sleep with other women/be emotionally retarded or whatever it was, you would fall for it.
That guy is the secret shame that every girl carries with her into womanhood. He is the memory that makes would be feminists squirm in discomfort. And he is ubiquitous. Seriously, I doubt anybody can make it past the age of twenty-five without finding that one guy who made her act like a total idiot, and could quite possibly do it all over again were he of a mind to. It’s terrifying and more than a little embarrassing. It doesn’t even matter how well you know him and his faults. And it’s easy to identify him. He’s the loser you’re still complaining about to your friends when the period of time since the break up is longer that the relationship itself was. If you haven’t seen him in that time, you’re in deep shit.
Still, it seems there is little anybody can do to escape this. So consider him a rite of passage. Be glad that you’ve survived him intact. Some of you will get off more lightly than others (I myself suffered only fair to moderate humiliation and emotional scarring). And beware of him in future. TV is more than just entertainment – it’s an education (that’s what I tell myself as I waste my life, anyway). And if we can learn anything from Gilmore Girls, aside from drink more coffee and buy a lot of scarves, it’s this; never, EVER go back to your Christopher. Even a shared child isn’t enough to make it work.
jeudi 30 octobre 2008
Fictional Characters I Would Happily Marry
I have many a TV boyfriend. In fact, I'm quite the fiction slut. But not every crush wanders into marriage territory. My Chuck Bass love, for example, is well documented, but even the most ardent admirer has to admit that he's hardly husbad material. There are, however, a few men out there (and yes, I am totally aware that none of them are real, and no, I am not crazy. Honest!) who would make for the perfect happily-ever-after.
1. Capt. Malcolm Reynolds
Firefly's Mal has it all. Noble, loyal and all that jazz, with a pleasingly maccho veneer of badass. Plus, hot. All I need to overcome is his UST with Inara (and the fact that he doesn't exist, obviously) and I'm sure we could have a long and happy life together.
Note: The only reason that Han Solo does not appear on this list (Space smugglers in tight pants? Totally my type) is that even in the realms of daydream it is just wrong to come between him and Leia. I know, I have problems.
2. Fred Weasley
I have had the same argument with my friends for years now. I can tell the difference between the Weasley twins. I can! And Fred was definitely my favourite, which is why I found the seventh HP book so traumatic (and I am not spoiler tagging this, because if you haven't read that book by now you don't really care who died). He was funny, sweet, a wealthy magical joke shop entrepeneur and TOTALLY DIFFERENT from his twin. So there.
3. The Men of How I Met Your Mother
Three for one here. First, there's Ted. Possibly the most charming character ever committed to film: Funny without being snarky, smooth without being slimy and totally looking for a wife to adore. Then you have Marshall. Who is wonderful. Like, the nicest man alive. And clearly not dumb (Lawyer? Hello!). And then...
Barney Stinson. Now, he may seem like an odd choice, given my earlier rejection of fellow douchebag Chuck Bass (and the omission of damaged Doctor Alex Karev for that matter). But I'd like to give Barney a chance. After all, he's just your standard issue shallow man whore, while Chuck is evil. Deliciously so, but still evil. I think Stinson could be redeemed. And Season 4 of HIMYM might just prove me right on this one. Yeah, I'm totally team BroTP.
4. Jimmy the Hand
Those familiar with Raymond Feist will know this character as an intelligent street urchin/pickpocket, a devoted, if headstrong, Royal Squire, and finally a responsible and powerful Duke/Spymaster. It's the second of these three incarnations which I'd marry, and without a second thought.
As with the whole space smugglers thing, it seems thieves with a heart of gold are a type for me - Tamora Pierce's George Cooper also holds a certain attraction.
5. Frazer Yeats.
I love Neighbours. I will always love Neighbours, now matter how many ridiculous cave ins/bush fires/hauntings occur on Ramsey St. That said, I'm not 100% sure that I'll ever forgive then for letting Frazer go. Or for keeping his shirt on all the time while Oliver prances around in a towel at the drop of a hat. It's going to be tough.
6. Sandy Cohen
Yes, dude is old. But that hardly changes the fact that he's perfect. Not even the threat of passing on his spectacular eyebrows to my offspring (and I'm betting that is one seriously dominant gene right there) would deter me from becoming Mrs Cohen. Time was, I'd have gone for the more age appropriate option and said I'd marry Seth Cohen in the hopes of him turning out like Sandy. Of course, that was before Season 2 of The OC happened and Cohen Jr turned into a whiny little bitch. Pity. His dad's still got it though.
7. Will Parry
I am aware of the fact that Philip Pullman's hero is supposed to be, like, thirteen, but anybody who's read His Dark Materials will agree that that's hardly the point. And even though coming between Will and Lyra would be a crime of a par with separating Han and Leia, I figure that once they're trapped in alternate dimensions for all eternity all bets are off.
So, those are my guys of choice. Should any of them become real I would like to be alerted immediately. I was going to push through and find another three to make the list a nice, round number, but I figured I was enough of a fictional bigamist (as well as the slut I was before I started the husband list) to be getting on with. Who've I left out?
1. Capt. Malcolm Reynolds
Firefly's Mal has it all. Noble, loyal and all that jazz, with a pleasingly maccho veneer of badass. Plus, hot. All I need to overcome is his UST with Inara (and the fact that he doesn't exist, obviously) and I'm sure we could have a long and happy life together.
Note: The only reason that Han Solo does not appear on this list (Space smugglers in tight pants? Totally my type) is that even in the realms of daydream it is just wrong to come between him and Leia. I know, I have problems.
2. Fred Weasley
I have had the same argument with my friends for years now. I can tell the difference between the Weasley twins. I can! And Fred was definitely my favourite, which is why I found the seventh HP book so traumatic (and I am not spoiler tagging this, because if you haven't read that book by now you don't really care who died). He was funny, sweet, a wealthy magical joke shop entrepeneur and TOTALLY DIFFERENT from his twin. So there.
3. The Men of How I Met Your Mother
Three for one here. First, there's Ted. Possibly the most charming character ever committed to film: Funny without being snarky, smooth without being slimy and totally looking for a wife to adore. Then you have Marshall. Who is wonderful. Like, the nicest man alive. And clearly not dumb (Lawyer? Hello!). And then...
Barney Stinson. Now, he may seem like an odd choice, given my earlier rejection of fellow douchebag Chuck Bass (and the omission of damaged Doctor Alex Karev for that matter). But I'd like to give Barney a chance. After all, he's just your standard issue shallow man whore, while Chuck is evil. Deliciously so, but still evil. I think Stinson could be redeemed. And Season 4 of HIMYM might just prove me right on this one. Yeah, I'm totally team BroTP.
4. Jimmy the Hand
Those familiar with Raymond Feist will know this character as an intelligent street urchin/pickpocket, a devoted, if headstrong, Royal Squire, and finally a responsible and powerful Duke/Spymaster. It's the second of these three incarnations which I'd marry, and without a second thought.
As with the whole space smugglers thing, it seems thieves with a heart of gold are a type for me - Tamora Pierce's George Cooper also holds a certain attraction.
5. Frazer Yeats.
I love Neighbours. I will always love Neighbours, now matter how many ridiculous cave ins/bush fires/hauntings occur on Ramsey St. That said, I'm not 100% sure that I'll ever forgive then for letting Frazer go. Or for keeping his shirt on all the time while Oliver prances around in a towel at the drop of a hat. It's going to be tough.
6. Sandy Cohen
Yes, dude is old. But that hardly changes the fact that he's perfect. Not even the threat of passing on his spectacular eyebrows to my offspring (and I'm betting that is one seriously dominant gene right there) would deter me from becoming Mrs Cohen. Time was, I'd have gone for the more age appropriate option and said I'd marry Seth Cohen in the hopes of him turning out like Sandy. Of course, that was before Season 2 of The OC happened and Cohen Jr turned into a whiny little bitch. Pity. His dad's still got it though.
7. Will Parry
I am aware of the fact that Philip Pullman's hero is supposed to be, like, thirteen, but anybody who's read His Dark Materials will agree that that's hardly the point. And even though coming between Will and Lyra would be a crime of a par with separating Han and Leia, I figure that once they're trapped in alternate dimensions for all eternity all bets are off.
So, those are my guys of choice. Should any of them become real I would like to be alerted immediately. I was going to push through and find another three to make the list a nice, round number, but I figured I was enough of a fictional bigamist (as well as the slut I was before I started the husband list) to be getting on with. Who've I left out?
lundi 27 octobre 2008
Why I hate French people.
Obviously, this is a massive generalisation, totally unfair, and bordering on the racist. Perhaps it would be better to say Why I Hate The French People I Personally Have Come Across. Because, despite the fact that I live in France, my contact with actual french people has been kind of limited. Which, if the few francophones I actually know are anything to go by, may be just as well. In fact, apart fom a few very nice students who I have had relatively little contact with, the french people I know fall pretty neatly into three categories.
1. Random French guys who like to hit on people inappropriately. Like, all the time. Day, night, dressed up, hungover, face covered in impetigo, whatever. And it's not even because I'm foreign (although that does tend to exacerbate things). It crosses the line between flattering and creepy. They don't take no for an answer, they never leave you to carry on the conversation you were clearly having with your friends and they have literally no concept of personal space.
2. Then there's my A level french teachers. Two women who delighted in asserting their moral superiority over the english, whether it be because we drink ('It's just so sad to see a girl drunk at prom') or because we eat things that came in microwaveable packets ('My son Jude has never eaten anything that wasn't organic'). This, combined with the fact that I was never the most model student and they weren't the sort of teachers who would let homework slide provided you were still doing well on external examinations, led to a strained, at best, relationship.
3. Finally, there's my roomate. Or should I say, former roomate. Because last Wednesday, without warning, she asked me to leave the apartment. The reason for this is that she is a freaking mentalist. Basically, reread the description of my A-level teachers. Then imagine living with one of them.
It was clear that we weren't going to get on from the day I arrived, when she followed me round as I unpacked making helpful comments such as 'I don't hang my trousers up that way, it doesn't keep them perfectly straight'. But it was a very nice apartment, and I was prepared to keep my head down, do what she wanted regarding the shared kitchen and bathroom and make the best of it.
Unfortunately that was not good enough for her. Not only was the very clean kitchen not spotless enough (and she wasn't a neat freak, she just liked to say that she was so that I would feel obliged to be super tidy while she did whatever she goddamn wanted), but I apparently neglected her as a friend by having a social life of my own. My mistake, I was looking for a roommate, not a BFF. Which, incidentally, is also my fault for not making that more clear to her before I arrived.
My many, many faults, on top of selfishness and lack of personality, also include chronic rudeness. Apparently it was horrifically impolite of me to arrive, invited into her house (as opposed to being a lodger who paid half of the rent) without a gift for her. When I WAS EMIGRATING. I paid £35 in excess baggage because I had to fly my entire life to France by Easyjet and she was upset that I didn't have room for a bunch of freaking flowers. Similarily my friend Mel, when she came to visit me in the room that I had paid for, should have brought her a gift. And, when we came in and she was sitting in her pyjamas in bed , complaining about how tired she was, we should not have gone to my room and made an effort to be extra quiet, we should have invited her to join us for a glass of wine. Seriously. I give up.
But it's ok now, because I'm set up in a new place, where I can happily lock the word out if I feel like it. And I do have some french neighbours who I share a kitchen with. Yet to meet them, but hopefully they can do something to improve my opinion of the nation. Because otherwise I have a long 8 months ahead of me...
1. Random French guys who like to hit on people inappropriately. Like, all the time. Day, night, dressed up, hungover, face covered in impetigo, whatever. And it's not even because I'm foreign (although that does tend to exacerbate things). It crosses the line between flattering and creepy. They don't take no for an answer, they never leave you to carry on the conversation you were clearly having with your friends and they have literally no concept of personal space.
2. Then there's my A level french teachers. Two women who delighted in asserting their moral superiority over the english, whether it be because we drink ('It's just so sad to see a girl drunk at prom') or because we eat things that came in microwaveable packets ('My son Jude has never eaten anything that wasn't organic'). This, combined with the fact that I was never the most model student and they weren't the sort of teachers who would let homework slide provided you were still doing well on external examinations, led to a strained, at best, relationship.
3. Finally, there's my roomate. Or should I say, former roomate. Because last Wednesday, without warning, she asked me to leave the apartment. The reason for this is that she is a freaking mentalist. Basically, reread the description of my A-level teachers. Then imagine living with one of them.
It was clear that we weren't going to get on from the day I arrived, when she followed me round as I unpacked making helpful comments such as 'I don't hang my trousers up that way, it doesn't keep them perfectly straight'. But it was a very nice apartment, and I was prepared to keep my head down, do what she wanted regarding the shared kitchen and bathroom and make the best of it.
Unfortunately that was not good enough for her. Not only was the very clean kitchen not spotless enough (and she wasn't a neat freak, she just liked to say that she was so that I would feel obliged to be super tidy while she did whatever she goddamn wanted), but I apparently neglected her as a friend by having a social life of my own. My mistake, I was looking for a roommate, not a BFF. Which, incidentally, is also my fault for not making that more clear to her before I arrived.
My many, many faults, on top of selfishness and lack of personality, also include chronic rudeness. Apparently it was horrifically impolite of me to arrive, invited into her house (as opposed to being a lodger who paid half of the rent) without a gift for her. When I WAS EMIGRATING. I paid £35 in excess baggage because I had to fly my entire life to France by Easyjet and she was upset that I didn't have room for a bunch of freaking flowers. Similarily my friend Mel, when she came to visit me in the room that I had paid for, should have brought her a gift. And, when we came in and she was sitting in her pyjamas in bed , complaining about how tired she was, we should not have gone to my room and made an effort to be extra quiet, we should have invited her to join us for a glass of wine. Seriously. I give up.
But it's ok now, because I'm set up in a new place, where I can happily lock the word out if I feel like it. And I do have some french neighbours who I share a kitchen with. Yet to meet them, but hopefully they can do something to improve my opinion of the nation. Because otherwise I have a long 8 months ahead of me...
jeudi 16 octobre 2008
J'etais malade
So, I haven't been posting for a while but that's because I was ill. And ill in a particularly gross way, complete with infected impetigo/allergic-to-antibiotic-cream blisters on my face. As my mum pointed out (roughly a million times), the student lifestyle is not massively condusive to health. The woman is seriously convinced that I went off to Durham two years ago, got a chest infection and haven't been well since. She asked me if I was HIV positive. In front of the Louvre!
Happily, though, I have fairly regular std screenings, and on top of that I just finished my course of antibiotics and now I am barely scabby. Still not my best look ever, but anybody who witnessed the original will agree that it is a vast improvement.
All of which is just as well, as this weekend I'm off for a Belgian adventure! And I would really have hated to be on antibiotics for the houseparty I'm due to attend in Brussels. It should be awesome, and most excitingly, it's an opportunity to see people from back in Blighty who I haven't seen in ages.
So, that's where I've been and where I'm going. I'll post more once I've actually done something interesting to write about!
Happily, though, I have fairly regular std screenings, and on top of that I just finished my course of antibiotics and now I am barely scabby. Still not my best look ever, but anybody who witnessed the original will agree that it is a vast improvement.
All of which is just as well, as this weekend I'm off for a Belgian adventure! And I would really have hated to be on antibiotics for the houseparty I'm due to attend in Brussels. It should be awesome, and most excitingly, it's an opportunity to see people from back in Blighty who I haven't seen in ages.
So, that's where I've been and where I'm going. I'll post more once I've actually done something interesting to write about!
mardi 30 septembre 2008
Ugh...
I hate early.
I just did that thing, when I was putting on my eyeliner. You know, when you put exactly the right amount on one eye. Enough so that you clearly have eyes but subtle enough for a lecture at 8am (I swear I do not know what's wrong with french universities. Sadists one and all) on a Wednesday morning.
Then I move my hand to my other eye, and somewhere in the space between it decides that I would be much better served going to Droit Constitutionnel 1 looking like Cleopatra on acid. Then I'm left with the age old dilemma - do I attempt to remove the splodge on my eyelid, or do I just extend the line to encompass it?
Bear in mind that removal of liquid eyeliner is a highly risky procedure, especially when, like me, you never have a q-tip to hand. So line extension is ideally the solution. But there must be a point when it stops being an option. Otherwise I will soon find myself spending my mornings colouring in my face.
It is too early to consider things of such importance. Like I said; ugh.
I just did that thing, when I was putting on my eyeliner. You know, when you put exactly the right amount on one eye. Enough so that you clearly have eyes but subtle enough for a lecture at 8am (I swear I do not know what's wrong with french universities. Sadists one and all) on a Wednesday morning.
Then I move my hand to my other eye, and somewhere in the space between it decides that I would be much better served going to Droit Constitutionnel 1 looking like Cleopatra on acid. Then I'm left with the age old dilemma - do I attempt to remove the splodge on my eyelid, or do I just extend the line to encompass it?
Bear in mind that removal of liquid eyeliner is a highly risky procedure, especially when, like me, you never have a q-tip to hand. So line extension is ideally the solution. But there must be a point when it stops being an option. Otherwise I will soon find myself spending my mornings colouring in my face.
It is too early to consider things of such importance. Like I said; ugh.
dimanche 28 septembre 2008
I love a douchebag
So today, I didn't get round to a) dressing or b) leaving my appartment. Which I don't feel too bad about because in France EVERYTHING is closed on Sunday. Plus I had a hangover and a vague sense of embarrassment about my behaviour last night to contend with. So what I did instead was watch the entire third season of How I Met Your Mother.
Firstly, that show is awesome. Insert obligatory 'legen - wait for it - dary' reference here. But the main thing I noticed was that I was developing a crush of epic proportions, not on Ted Mosby(the most charming man on tv) or super sweet Marshall, but on total asshat Barney. I am actually upset by the fact that Neil Patrick Harris is gay.
And then I started thinking; this is not an isolated incident. I really love a fictional douchebag. I heart Chuck Bass beyond measure. McSteamy or McDreamy? Give me steamy, any time. And thow in some Karev while you're at it. Logan Echolls will always hold a place in my heart, and was never hotter than when he was pounding the crap out of totally innocent nice boy Piz. I am consistently attracted to whichever fictional character is most likely to treat women with no respect whatsoever.
That, of course, is stupid. The entire bad-boy thing is one of the most self destructive traits a woman can have. But it is so undeniably there! Today I watched impassively as Ted put his all into wildly romantic gestures, then watched Barney recount jut some of the thousands of ways he has screwed girls over and thought 'Damn. I'd tap that'. So just what is it that makes a bad boy so irrestistable?
The popular theory is, of course, that women see the total tool as a challenge. That there would be a victory in being the one person who could tame him, that just isn't equalled by the triumph of managing to snag a guy who's already wonderful. I think there is something in that, but for me, the main attraction is that any act of kindness, no matter how small, is worth so much more coming from a bad guy.
Think about it. If we'd learned that trustworthy Ted had flown to San Fran to convince Lily to come back to Marshall it would have been no big deal. Sweet, but that's Ted for you. The same act from commitment phobe Barney? Mind blowing. And hot. Ted was in love with Robin by the end of the first episode. So what? Three years on Barney decides he might have feelings for her weeks after they've slept together? The most romantic thing I've ever heard!
The same applies to all of the other characters I mentioned. Chuck Bass secretly selling his shares in his beloved burlesque club to help his best friend out? Awesome. And that brings me to another point - he didn't want the friend to know that he'd done it. With that, ladies and gentlemen, I am sold. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, hotter than a guy who is secretly nice. A guy who will go to great lengths to conceal his humanity and maintain the carefully propogated myth that he is a complete douchetard. I love it.
And it's not just are their kindnesses worth more than those of guys who wear their niceness with pride - George O'Malley can be as lovely as he likes but Alex Karev saving a baby while talking sports will always leave him for dust. It is a simple fact that bad guys are just more interesting. Nobody who's read Sense and Sensibility can seriously prefer the integrity of the Colonel to the dashing, if caddish, charms of Willoughby. I'm just saying, a lady likes a hint of danger to spice things up.
But I think there is at least one point of genuine merit for the bad boy contingent - at least you know what to expect. You can dream of being the one woman who will make him see the error of his ways, but you go to bed with a Barney and he never calls? You should have known what you were getting into. The douchey traits of a Ted or a McDreamy (and they will have some, trust me) are far more difficult to predict and often more devastating on revelation. Plus, with a Barney you will never lose the moral high ground, and who doesn't love to be right?
So for me, it's case closed. Despite a lingering suspicion that the secret softer side is only obligatory to bad boys in the fictional world, and that for the most part people who appear to be asshats are just that, I just... love a douchebag. At least it's never dull.
Firstly, that show is awesome. Insert obligatory 'legen - wait for it - dary' reference here. But the main thing I noticed was that I was developing a crush of epic proportions, not on Ted Mosby(the most charming man on tv) or super sweet Marshall, but on total asshat Barney. I am actually upset by the fact that Neil Patrick Harris is gay.
And then I started thinking; this is not an isolated incident. I really love a fictional douchebag. I heart Chuck Bass beyond measure. McSteamy or McDreamy? Give me steamy, any time. And thow in some Karev while you're at it. Logan Echolls will always hold a place in my heart, and was never hotter than when he was pounding the crap out of totally innocent nice boy Piz. I am consistently attracted to whichever fictional character is most likely to treat women with no respect whatsoever.
That, of course, is stupid. The entire bad-boy thing is one of the most self destructive traits a woman can have. But it is so undeniably there! Today I watched impassively as Ted put his all into wildly romantic gestures, then watched Barney recount jut some of the thousands of ways he has screwed girls over and thought 'Damn. I'd tap that'. So just what is it that makes a bad boy so irrestistable?
The popular theory is, of course, that women see the total tool as a challenge. That there would be a victory in being the one person who could tame him, that just isn't equalled by the triumph of managing to snag a guy who's already wonderful. I think there is something in that, but for me, the main attraction is that any act of kindness, no matter how small, is worth so much more coming from a bad guy.
Think about it. If we'd learned that trustworthy Ted had flown to San Fran to convince Lily to come back to Marshall it would have been no big deal. Sweet, but that's Ted for you. The same act from commitment phobe Barney? Mind blowing. And hot. Ted was in love with Robin by the end of the first episode. So what? Three years on Barney decides he might have feelings for her weeks after they've slept together? The most romantic thing I've ever heard!
The same applies to all of the other characters I mentioned. Chuck Bass secretly selling his shares in his beloved burlesque club to help his best friend out? Awesome. And that brings me to another point - he didn't want the friend to know that he'd done it. With that, ladies and gentlemen, I am sold. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, hotter than a guy who is secretly nice. A guy who will go to great lengths to conceal his humanity and maintain the carefully propogated myth that he is a complete douchetard. I love it.
And it's not just are their kindnesses worth more than those of guys who wear their niceness with pride - George O'Malley can be as lovely as he likes but Alex Karev saving a baby while talking sports will always leave him for dust. It is a simple fact that bad guys are just more interesting. Nobody who's read Sense and Sensibility can seriously prefer the integrity of the Colonel to the dashing, if caddish, charms of Willoughby. I'm just saying, a lady likes a hint of danger to spice things up.
But I think there is at least one point of genuine merit for the bad boy contingent - at least you know what to expect. You can dream of being the one woman who will make him see the error of his ways, but you go to bed with a Barney and he never calls? You should have known what you were getting into. The douchey traits of a Ted or a McDreamy (and they will have some, trust me) are far more difficult to predict and often more devastating on revelation. Plus, with a Barney you will never lose the moral high ground, and who doesn't love to be right?
So for me, it's case closed. Despite a lingering suspicion that the secret softer side is only obligatory to bad boys in the fictional world, and that for the most part people who appear to be asshats are just that, I just... love a douchebag. At least it's never dull.
dimanche 21 septembre 2008
So, lost in France.
There are times when I just wonder; why? Why on earth did, as a 18 year old English student decide that a three year law degree at a top uni was simply not challenging enough and I would love to pick up my belongings, take off to some French city I've never even visited where I know nobody and spend a year attempting to study law in French?
And why, after I applied late and without the correct form, and after I turned up for my interview too hungover to focus on anything but Burger King, did my uni think it would be a good idea to let me go? Even after my attendance and exam records had shown that my devotion to my studies was, well, questionable at best?
And, for the love of God, why did I not think to worry about any of this in the year between being offered my place at Rouen university and my actually going? WHY DID I NOT REALLY TRY TO PRACTICE MY FRENCH?!
But then I go calm down and take off the caps lock and think it through. And it makes a little bit of sense.
Because, you see, it is a little bit insane for me to be studying French law. But anybody who examined my academic record and disposition would see that it's not so much the French part as the law part that's crazy. I bore easy, and self motivate rarely, and they are two things which are decidedly not useful in a lawyer. What's more, I am truly, hideously, unorganised (see above re. incorrect form, late application etc.). I send a lot of my time sending frantic emails to various authorities assuring them that things must have gotten lost in the post. Soooo not model law student behaviour.
France, on the other hand, has always been my thing. Not so much the grammar, but the language generally, the atmosphere, the country. Cheese, wine and baguettes have always appealed to me. So, yeah, I wanted to go to France. That's what I'd been telling people since I was thirteen, and when the opportunity came up I applied.
Why my uni opted to send me is a little bit harder to understand. I mean, I am far from stupid (I wouldn't have been at that uni in the first place if I wasn't), but amongst the people on my course I'm average at best intelligence-wise and considerably below average in terms of commitment. And my grades, in first year especiallyhave always reflected this.
But what I am, besides lazy and disorganised, is a good bullshitter. I mean a tremendously good bullshitter. I am the girl who wins national debate contests from the floor because I'm not on the team because I forgot to prepare a speech for audition day (yeah, people totally hate me). So my innate bullshitting skills must have come to the fore on interview day, through the hangover, and persuaded the law department that I was exactly the sort of confident go-getter who would reap all of the benefits a year abroad has to offer.
Why I didn't prepare for France in the subsequent year is completely simple. I told you already, I never prepare properly. In short, I am rubbish (but good at concealing that fact). And now I, at the age of 20, live in France. And it is really... weird.
Like, completely weird. Not bad, just strange. Surreal, really. I've managed to procure an appartment (score), a roomate (hmm) and a student ID (just amazed I got round to it), but I still really have no idea what this year is going to be like. It's a mystery.
So, I thought, what better reason to attempt keeping a blog (again)? It's not like I have that many people to talk to - and I'm fairly limited in what I could say anyway - either by my french vocab or by the fact that what I have to say might offend french people. And who knows - something interesting might actually happen.
So, a plus tard!
N
And why, after I applied late and without the correct form, and after I turned up for my interview too hungover to focus on anything but Burger King, did my uni think it would be a good idea to let me go? Even after my attendance and exam records had shown that my devotion to my studies was, well, questionable at best?
And, for the love of God, why did I not think to worry about any of this in the year between being offered my place at Rouen university and my actually going? WHY DID I NOT REALLY TRY TO PRACTICE MY FRENCH?!
But then I go calm down and take off the caps lock and think it through. And it makes a little bit of sense.
Because, you see, it is a little bit insane for me to be studying French law. But anybody who examined my academic record and disposition would see that it's not so much the French part as the law part that's crazy. I bore easy, and self motivate rarely, and they are two things which are decidedly not useful in a lawyer. What's more, I am truly, hideously, unorganised (see above re. incorrect form, late application etc.). I send a lot of my time sending frantic emails to various authorities assuring them that things must have gotten lost in the post. Soooo not model law student behaviour.
France, on the other hand, has always been my thing. Not so much the grammar, but the language generally, the atmosphere, the country. Cheese, wine and baguettes have always appealed to me. So, yeah, I wanted to go to France. That's what I'd been telling people since I was thirteen, and when the opportunity came up I applied.
Why my uni opted to send me is a little bit harder to understand. I mean, I am far from stupid (I wouldn't have been at that uni in the first place if I wasn't), but amongst the people on my course I'm average at best intelligence-wise and considerably below average in terms of commitment. And my grades, in first year especiallyhave always reflected this.
But what I am, besides lazy and disorganised, is a good bullshitter. I mean a tremendously good bullshitter. I am the girl who wins national debate contests from the floor because I'm not on the team because I forgot to prepare a speech for audition day (yeah, people totally hate me). So my innate bullshitting skills must have come to the fore on interview day, through the hangover, and persuaded the law department that I was exactly the sort of confident go-getter who would reap all of the benefits a year abroad has to offer.
Why I didn't prepare for France in the subsequent year is completely simple. I told you already, I never prepare properly. In short, I am rubbish (but good at concealing that fact). And now I, at the age of 20, live in France. And it is really... weird.
Like, completely weird. Not bad, just strange. Surreal, really. I've managed to procure an appartment (score), a roomate (hmm) and a student ID (just amazed I got round to it), but I still really have no idea what this year is going to be like. It's a mystery.
So, I thought, what better reason to attempt keeping a blog (again)? It's not like I have that many people to talk to - and I'm fairly limited in what I could say anyway - either by my french vocab or by the fact that what I have to say might offend french people. And who knows - something interesting might actually happen.
So, a plus tard!
N
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