Trick or treat?

Huzzah! We've made it to yet another Halloween! Sadly, I'll not be in attendance at the YSO Halloween Drunken Fiesta Shindig tonight, which is a pity, but instead we're having yet another Creative Writing-related Halloween party. The theme is 'tuxedos and blood.' Should be interesting...

I was told on Sunday that the British actually make their kids work for candy while trick or treating. In the States, it's just a matter of ringing the doorbell and looking cute. Here, they supposedly have to sing a song or recite a poem or some other such nonsense. Personally, if I were asked to recite a poem for an orange (yes, some actually give fruit in lieu of candy), I'd probably TP the house. This is Halloween, people, night of free candy! Either you hand over the treat, or the kiddies do you a trick. That's the deal.

Perhaps I should have learned a poem after all, as the postal service has yet again denied me my care packages. Trick or treat, indeed.

How to write an 'A' essay

My Postmodern Lit class is beginning to panic. 'Tis the season to start planning the big Final Essay, the source of our entire grade for the semester, and this is the first college-level literature essay some members of the class have ever tackled.

To quell some of the fears, our professor spent the class today mapping out a high pass essay on the problem of point of view in Foe. She liked the result, telling us it would be at least a 75, then reminding the Americans that a 75 was an exceptional grade. Most of us pitched in on the essay's planning, and I have to admit that the outline looked pretty spiffy to me, too.

Of course, we can't use it. Rats. Back to the drawing board...

When the soprano doesn't know the song, either...

...you know it's going to be touch-and-go for the next three minutes.

I've never before sung in a three-person (two trebles and a man of unspecified part) choir with organ and congregation, but things seemed to go well this morning. Despite the fact that most of the choir was sitting out to serve Communion and that not even the soprano knew all the hymns, we made it through. Her track record was better than mine, as I knew exactly one hymn ("Crown Him With Many Crowns") and one tune (69, to the words on 34) out of five hymns, and was sight-reading everything else. When the alto line got too confusing, I gave up and jumped to the melody, though no one seemed to mind - with a group that small, part-jumping's a common phenomenon.

A postgrad from Texas may be joining next week, which would be great - another alto to muddle through unfamiliar hymns!

The only downside to this morning was a bad attack of first-performance nerves, worse than usual because I hardly knew the music (there's not even a piano in the practice area, nor was there a warm-up). Fortunately, the shaking was limited to my legs. Thirteen years of choral singing has taught me at least a little upper-body control! Still, even though a long skirt and the organ hid the worst of the tremors, it was rather annoying to be shaking during the service. It's not as if anyone was going to boo in church...

The best part of Saturday

Today - once the inevitable showers stopped - was a lovely day. There was a bagel picnic lunch in the fifth floor kitchen, a nice walk around Holyrood Park, a "fancy dress" party, and some actual work done.

The best part, however, is that tomorrow ends Daylight Saving Time. One glorious extra hour of sleep...yessssss...

Tomorrow will (perhaps) also be my debut in the Kirk o' Field choir. More to come on that front...

Just like old times

Last year, once we moved into a renovated Davenport with brand-spanking-new 1,000-decibel fire alarms, we happy few experienced the joy of D'port's unbeatable fire warning system.

"Happy" isn't quite right, actually, since many of these fire alarms took place at 3:30 AM, or in the rain, or in the snow, or when we just had something better to do than stand in the courtyard in various states of dishabille and bitch about how loud and obnoxious the sirens were. It was, however, a time of bonding, a time when D'porters young and old could gather together in the freezing nights, huddle for warmth, and threaten death to the parties responsible. And then there were the post-alarm lockouts...

We had a taste of good old D'port here this morning. I'd gone to bed at 1:30 AM and set my clock for 8, but then hit the snooze button for a few more minutes of semi-sleep. The sun was only just coming up, anyway, and heck, it was Friday. Five minutes later, the sirens started blaring. Knowing that they only test the system on Tuesday mornings and that no one would be stupid enough to pull an alarm on Friday, most of us grabbed coats and pants and headed outside. It was quite a fashion show - some fortunate ones were fully dressed and shod, while others wore interesting mismashes of pajamas and streetwear. A few were in boxer shorts or bathrobes. Twenty minutes later, when the firemen gave the all-clear, we stampeded inside. Some headed back to bed, but for many of us, the dawn temperature shock had done the trick better than any cup of coffee.

Apparently, someone had been drying her hair directly underneath the smoke detector. Note to self...

Dodging raindrops

This was the view out my window this morning at 8 AM. Not too promising - rather dark and dreary, if you're honest about it. The zoo cancellation was rather fortuitous, as no one, especially those who have contracted the mysterious flu-like cold, really needed to be out in the cold and wet.

Five minutes after this picture was taken, it began to pour again, just like last night. Resigning myself to a day spent mostly indoors, I went about my business until 10, when the rain mysteriously stopped and bits of blue - right, right, the so-called sky - made an appearance. I decided that a walk was in order to keep me sane, and so I grabbed my tennis shoes (and waterproof jacket, no sense in tempting fate) and headed for the park.

I got there by a back route of which I'd been previously unaware, a nice little path through the greenway across from the park proper. Trees were beginning to change color and the berries were coming out, and everything looked rather nice and autumnal. Looking across the road at the Crags, I suddenly remembered why I like Holyrood so much - it's stunning when the weather cooperates.

Entering the park, I headed across the grass toward the paths up the hill, only to notice something a bit inconvenient (besides the mud sucking at my shoes): the wind was stronger than I'd realized, and I'd left my ponytail holder at home. No matter; I stuck my hair down the back of my shirt and went on as well as I could, pulling flyaway bits back once in a while (like every thirty seconds or so).

For the benefit of anyone who's never seen me on a hike, I'm not the world's best. Actually, I'm pretty close to inept. I love getting out on a nice day, but I do best on flat terrain - hiking uphill's no problem, but coming down is another matter entirely. (In this regard, my parents' new puppy and I have something in common - she still can't figure out how to go down stairs.) Still, I'm trying to improve, and so I like to take little hikes around the Crags, where there's usually an easier way around if I get too flustered.

Well, today really wasn't the day for that. The wind, which had been a mild nuisance on the ground, was now whipping around my head at thirty to forty miles per hour. I found myself on a bit of a ledge overlooking Edinburgh - a nice view but for the gathering, ominous clouds over the Pentlands - unsure how to get down and being thrust against the rock by the force of the wind. This was not helping me find my happy place. Giving up on the way I came, fearing an imminent downpour, I continued over the trail and mercifully saw the path back to the lower trail off the mountain.

It sprinkled a bit on the way home, but that was all. Still a nice day for a walk, even if one would do well to stay on the ground.

An enjoyable, if non-productive, day

I woke up this morning and worked on a short story for class. That was the only productive thing I did today, and it was over by 1:30.

The rest of the time was spent in enjoyable diversions, such as :

1) Wintersmith, Terry Pratchett's new Tiffany Aching novel. Yeah, it's a kids' story, but it's as much fun as the other Discworld books. Plus, there's a great amount of satisfaction in reading 400 pages in under four hours.

2) The Price is Right, UK-style. Man, if Bob Barker ever decided that the 70s decor should really go by the wayside, he'd know where to look. The show's only half an hour long, so some details (like the Showcase Showdown) have been modified, but the presenter's nutty and doesn't give off the creepy-old-man vibe when he kisses a girl. Some of the "Beauties" are male. Also, the announcer's a bit cheekier with prize descriptions, and no one had the chance to win a Ford. A Fiat was up for grabs, though...

3) Super Mario Brothers 2: relearning the first level was never this fun on an honest-to-God NES.

Sadly, the zoo trip appears to be off for tomorrow, as the birthday boy and half the crew have apparently contracted some deadly flu-like illness. I'm hoping the magic vitamins keep working. Beyond the fact that everyone is ill, I imagine I'm in for the night because of the rain and violent-sounding wind outside my room. Tomorrow night is Richmond Place curry dinner, however, so there's something to look forward to!

Dear God, why?

Dear British Television News Executives,

I realize your "presenters" are basically what we in the States refer to as "talking heads," but even if they do no real writing or reporting, they should still be held to a certain standard of dress. Please take note of the following:

Ladies: Blouses that expose several inches of cleavage may be lovely and tasteful streetwear, but they are inappropriate for the evening news. This is a family program. Cute little sweater sets may cut it before ten AM, but are likewise inappropriate for a "serious" broadcast. If one is sitting during a liveshot and one's lower body is to be revealed, then please, for the love of God, leave the black miniskirt and patterned fishnet tights at home. This isn't high school. Go talk to the nice ladies at Jenners if you require further assistance.

Gentlemen: Does "Western Business Attire" ring a bell? If not, ask someone. Suit and tie is the norm, fellows, but it's not enough to just throw on a jacket and neckwear - they must complement each other. At no time should the tie resemble an Easter egg. Bright patchwork affairs are right out. Do invest in a jacket well-tailored enough to remain closed about one's midsection while seated, which gives the presentation a more formal polish. Oh yes, one other thing: if there is any chance, however slight, of a full-length seated profile shot, never, never, never wear rainbow-striped socks. I don't care if they're dress socks. They look ridiculous.

Honestly, presenters, Ron Burgundy and the Channel 4 News Team had a better grasp of fashion than that. For shame.

Monday again

Well, it's Monday, and aside from the post-Ian's-birthday recovery (not that much, actually), not a lot happened today. I still need to find a Halloween costume this week. My sister, just back from Head of the Charles, where their boat was struck by one of Yale's (how did that happen?), has informed me that she wants SweetTart-based suckers for Christmas. At least they're cheap.

Since nothing that exciting happened today, I'll post another YouTube video: one of the "Real Men of Genius" series, a group of commercials that should be played much more often. Enjoy!

Good news and bad

First, the good news: I have now joined Kirk o' Field's choir. Granted, there are only four, maybe five, people in the choir at any one time, and since next week is Communion and most of the choir is serving, we may just be a treble duet, but it's a church choir. They're very friendly, and they got so excited when I said I wanted to join up. Practice is half an hour before services. I can handle that.

Now the bad: I decided to take a walk this afternoon, and headed over to Princes Street for a little retail therapy. Unfortunately, I have Armani leanings on a TopShop budget, and I wasn't seeing anything I was just dying to have. I finally wound up in Jenners just to look at the pretty stuff I couldn't afford (man, I miss the power of the parental AMEX), and headed up to their admittedly swanky food hall for a look around. On the wall was a display of Jelly Bellies. You know, the mix-n-match jelly beans found in such fine retailers as Target and many major supermarkets.

Well, it was the first time I'd seen them since I came over here (which should have been a hint), so I grabbed a baggie and got probably a pound of jelly beans to munch on during the week. There were no price signs around the jelly beans, but this didn't really faze me - how much could jelly beans be, right?

Oh, stupid mistake.

I get to the check-out counter to pay for the beans, only to discover that they were £8.58. SEVENTEEN DOLLARS FOR JELLY BEANS?!? was the thought running through my mind, but you can't very well put them back, now can you?

At least they're fresh. I think.

Culinary success

I made mashed potatoes tonight with nothing more than a fork! Score!

That wasn't the only oddity about the situation. First off, Tesco's idea of "baking potatoes" is roughly the same as the American idea of "potato that's bigger than a new potato but is in no way suitable as a stand-alone side dish." Still, once I found a handy kettle and matching lid (wow, what a concept...), a cutting board, and a knife that sort of cut, I was able to chop a couple of those suckers up and get the water boiling. I left the skins on - peeling's not really my forte, and anyway, I could probably use the extra vitamins. The water only boiled over twice before I turned the heat all the way down.

Ten minutes or so on the stove, and they were ready to be savagely attacked by a splash of milk and a sturdy fork. I missed the electric mixer. I missed it badly.

The spuds came out well, however, unlike some of my previous weekend attempts at actual food, and now I have leftovers for lunch tomorrow. Wow. Honest-to-God leftovers. Just like Sunday lunch at home, only without the homemade lasagna my parents are now enjoying without me...

Eleven things I've learned today

1) In departments other than Creative Writing, including the other branches of LLC, lectures actually start on time.

2) Tesco makes ribs to go.

3) Tesco's ribs to go pale in comparison to, say, Chili's.

4) Tesco has no Splenda in jars left on the shelf, and may have discontinued selling it.

5) My mother is willing to send Splenda from Alabama if Tesco has indeed stopped selling it.

6) Strongbow comes in two-liter plastic bottles as well as pints.

7) House of Flying Daggers is gorgeous, but does not end well.

8) My Name Is Earl is actually rather amusing, though partially incomprehensible to those unfamiliar with the accent.

9) In the UK, it's entirely permissible for television shows to use a certain four-letter word verboten on American TV (rhymes with Chuck), but only after nine, when all the kiddies have most assuredly gone to bed.

10) The Man Show could just have a following in the UK. "Juggies" is a concept that translates well.

11) Ian knows the head of the trampoline team. Oh dear.

Culture Night

Thanks to Ruth, who happened to know that student tickets at Scottish Chamber Orchestra concerts are only £5, five of us enjoyed a night of Romantic pieces, including a Weber overture, a lovely Mendelssohn piano concerto, and a Schumann symphony. Highlights of the performance included the conductor's frenetic arms and waving hair, the concert master's crazy wiggling, and the pianist's rotations to the beat. It was an active orchestra, to say the least. Still, it was quite strange to be on the receiving end of an orchestral performance; most of the ones I've attended in recent years have been heard from the risers behind the orchestra. I miss you, YGC!

After culture, we headed to a nifty vodka bar for drinks. Ella and I indulged in the cheap virgin coladas, as we had no change on us, while Ruth, Leigh, and Cali each got something involving raspberry, vodka, and crazy amounts of frozen fruit. The best bits of the place include their insanely large (and colorful) menu, the "USA" shooter, the "American Psycho" pitcher (put everything ever distilled in the USA in one glass and serve cold with Coke), the £60 pitcher with an entire bottle of Moet & Chandon included in the mix, various vodka-based drinks with a liberal amount of chocolate added in, and the window display of tiny bottles of absinthe, which is 138-proof. Green fairy, anyone?

What not to do when applying for a job

I never knew Aleksey Vayner while I was at Yale. Apparently he dropped out freshman year and is now part of '07 - at least, for a while longer. And yet, I feel I missed out on something special. Davenport could claim AKS, a Yale legend in his own right. Calhoun now has Aleksey Vayner, who seems to be a pathological liar and is definitely the author of a resume video so amazing that various firms sent it around as a "You've got to see this" forward. Eventually, IvyGate got a hold of it, sent it to YouTube, and now this newest addition to the "viral video" catalogue has made it as far as The Today Show, where I finally saw it this morning (thanks, MSN video). This guy has made the papers in Europe, for crying out loud.

A few highlights, courtesy of his 11-page resume (?!?) and his interview with Rumpus (always a credible news source) during Bulldog Days in 2002: Vayner claims to have started an investment firm (non-existent address, and the website is currently down), founded a charity (again, bogus, and Charity Navigator is considering a lawsuit), and written a book (self-published and largely plagiarized from the Holocaust Encyclopedia). He's also a massage therapist, all-star tennis player, martial arts master, and - oh yes - he's on the dance team.

I was happy with my job in the Davenport Master's Office, my time with the Glee Club, and my one year with the Yale Record. I thought three summers with Executive Traveler would certainly suffice for a kid just out of college. But can I bust bricks with my bare hands? Have I received training from Tibetan lamas? Did I bother sending anyone a video of my philosophy on success? Oh no, I didn't. But at least now I'm not the laughing stock of the Internet.

Mom, Dad, I may not have a job yet, but at least there's a good chance I'm employable. The next time I ask for muffin mix in a transatlantic care package, think of Aleksey Vayner's poor parents and know how much worse it could be.

For the whole story, check out IvyGate's blog: http://www.ivygateblog.com/blog/tags/aleksey_vayner.

A gray day in Edinburgh

It started as gray.
Then it progressed to gray and cloudy.
Gray and cloudy turned into gray and freakishly foggy during class, to the point that the lovely view out ninth floor of the David Hume Tower was completely obscured.
Now it's just cold, dark, and cloudy.
Here's looking forward to tomorrow! We're having a guest reader, which will be a high point. On another positive note, I've once again successfully made muffins!

On days like today, one needs a bit of fun. For anyone who's not yet seen this, especially any Glee Clubbers who were there that year we sang at the YSO Halloween Show, this is my favorite ad ever: Carlton Draught's "Big Ad." Enjoy!

So...Monday

Another relatively uneventful day in Edinburgh, but for an exciting time: mail checking!!!

The care package my parents sent finally arrived (muffin mix, yellow rice, and chocolate chip cookie mix...now I can make up for last weekend), as did a letter from Mary at the convent. Two good things in one day! This made me much happier than the time that £200 bill arrived.

Speaking of good things, this was shared with me, and now I'd like to share the joy. Presenting the Incredible Mouth Band...

Sunday. 'Nough said.

Today will not go on record as one of my most productive, though I did rise at eight and immediately proceed to the shower and the laundry. I had my clothes clean and semi-dry by the time church started, and headed over to Kirk o' Field for lack of a better idea.

The church has teatime after services, so I headed downstairs with the little old ladies for a cup before heading back to Richmond Place and (theoretically) working. I was invited to join a few sweet souls at their table, who I managed to learn were all in their mid-seventies at the youngest and had grandchildren slightly older than me. The one man at the table had graduated Edinburgh some fifty years ago, and thus had plenty of stories to tell me about the good old days. I had to smile - I've heard similar tales from the alumni at Glee Club functions, though most of theirs are about the good old days before women entered. What can I say, we're a distraction.

After tea, I went home and semi-successfully made myself scrambled eggs (the black bits were actually burned egg and not pepper, but the cheese made up for it). This was followed by a bit of reading and a nap, calling home, an unmerited study break at Bean Scene, Tesco, an attempt to make dinner in a monopolized kitchen, more reading, a bit of writing, and drinks out. All in all, an enjoyable day and evening, though hopefully tomorrow will actually be productive. We shall see...

Not winning any bake-offs today

After setting off to acquire munchies for movie night tonight, I had a sudden flash of inspiration and thought, "Wouldn't it be nice to make cookies and be all domestic for a change?"

To that end, I scoured the shelves at Tesco and two other stores in search of cookie mix or break-and-bake varieties. Alas, this doesn't seem to be a big thing with the Brits, so I bought the Bacardi and came home, where I stuck in my Williams-Sonoma CD for recipe ideas.

The CD, unfortunately, didn't want to run.

Undaunted, I did searches for cookie recipes, and came up with quite a few - most of which involved a dozen ingredients and actual culinary talent. I finally stumbled upon a quick and dirty one for oatmeal cookies and thought I'd give it a go.

After doing the F-C conversion and making a shopping list, I headed back to Tesco in search of eggs, flour, and raisins. I already had the oatmeal and salt, and I figured I could bake with Splenda. Upon returning to the kitchen, however, I realized that two key things were missing: something with which to grease the pan, and the measuring cup.

Okay. I had acquired two little measuring cups in my oatmeal boxes, both of which hold approximately 2/3 cup, so I guessed on the flour, sugar, and oatmeal. Too much oatmeal spilled into the bowl, however, so I ended up adding a splash of milk to smooth things over. When I spooned the lumpy dough out, it kind of resembled cookie batter, but it tasted alright on the spoon.

Eight minutes at 190 C later, and it still resembled lumpy cookie batter, albeit lumpy batter hardened into place. They're not sweet enough (thanks, Splenda), nor are they particularly attractive, but damn it, they're my friggin' cookies!

It never looks this complicated when Paula Dean bakes.

Yet another glorious Saturday

Honestly, I don't know how long this trend is going to last.

It seems that God has realized we can only take so many gray, rainy days before we lose it entirely, so the last five Saturdays have all either been beautiful in parts or all day. Today was one of those all-day affairs. After a stroll to the farmers' market this morning (where I could have purchased wild boar or ostrich, if I'd have had the mind), I went to the Modern Art Gallery with Ariel, an art student who, coincidentally, actually knows about art. It was fun - I'd never been to the gallery, and the show going on now was Mapplethorpe, so we had an interesting mix of kids, orchids, Andy Warhol, and S&M. Weird guy, but very talented photographer.

Tonight is V for Vendetta, to make up for last time's screening of Ever After. We'll fit Pride and Prejudice in eventually - fair warning...

Ridiculous item of the day

No, this isn't another platinum-plated diamond-encrusted cell phone, but it's about as silly.

As seen in Tesco this morning, the perfect addition to your holiday season: the Pirates of the Caribbean Advent Calendar.

Look, I may want to find a certain member of the cast under my tree, but somehow that calendar just doesn't say "Christmas."

Ceilidh-robics

If pole dancing can become an aerobics class, why not ceilidh?

Seriously, by 11 tonight, after three hours of dancing and a bagpipe summons to snack time, people were wet messes. All around the room were guys and girls in various stages of undressing (first the sweaters, then the shoes), and everyone was stripping down to the bare minimum. Faces were "glistening," to be polite, and hair matched. We were spinning around the room, clapping, and doing a rather suggestive version of the Virginia Reel - some of the girls in heels, no less - and no one thought it odd that a roomful of people was sweating all over their nice clothing. During the fifteen-minute walk back from Pollock, I didn't need my coat, and that's saying something in Edinburgh.

What if ceilidh dancing were an honest-to-God aerobics class? All you'd need would be a band, a caller, and a bunch of people more appropriately attired in shorts and tennis shoes.

Then again, it's fun when you twirl and the skirts go flying. And now my hair has curled itself into ringlets. I should probably shower...

Long walks in the rain

It rains in Scotland. This is a fact of life.

For years, I've been that person - you know, the one with the umbrella with a span large enough to keep a 747 dry? I could probably have attempted a Mary Poppins impression with my largest one last year. Yes, I had three - one purse-sized from Rite-Aid, and a medium-sized umbrella and an enormous umbrella from a Costco set. I could shelter three people under the largest. This was a good thing, as it also rains a lot in New Haven.

Unfortunately, rain is almost a constant in Edinburgh. While we certainly had nasty, water-wicking-up-to-the-knee days in New Haven, they were interspersed with days of at least partial sun. Here, rain's almost a daily thing, sort of like a colder version of the weather in Florida. I carry a small, easily portable umbrella for this purpose. Gone are the days of aerodynamically sound rain gear - the sidewalks are just too narrow.

Today was a typical day, bits of threatening clouds interspersed with weak sun. Around three o'clock, having finished Slaughterhouse 5 (interesting, and I'm glad I finally had a chance to read it!), I decided my options were nap or take a walk, and the rain was holding off. Grabbing my rain jacket, I headed off to the park to explore the area behind the Salisbury Craigs.

Ordinarily, I have an almost feline aversion to non-frozen precipitation. Edinburgh must be screwing with my mind, because when it started sprinkling when I was halfway to the park, I just kept going. It broke into a short-lived full-fledged rain as I came around the back of the Craigs, then abated enough for me to take off my jacket - it's designed for skiing, and there's no ventilation in that thing. So there I was, taking the 15-minute walk back from the park in jeans and a tank top, in the 50-degree mist. Everyone else seemed to be wearing coats...oh well, at least I left the sandals at home today.

It's official...

...I've survived the first full month. Yesterday was my one-month anniversary, though that first day doesn't really count - I was pretty jet-lagged and confused.

Things are going well - I've managed not to starve, get caught up in an international drug ring, or stumble home drunk at dawn. (Not that I ever saw any of the above ever happening, Mom and Dad!) I've been "workshopped" (like "googled," a noun that somehow morphed into a verb) twice, and I haven't left in tears yet. I've met some awesome people. There's another ceilidh on Thursday night to look forward to.


Also, I now have pictures of the puppy. According to my parents, she's started herding things already. Leaves and ankles are her current favorites. If that isn't adorable, I don't know what is.

Just like home

I admit it - one of my guilty pleasures at school was to come home from class at 4 and turn on Maury. Yes, the guests were the lowest of the low (except Jerry Springer's guests) and the show was often one big paternity test, but it was mindless good fun, and gave me a chance to forget postcolonial literature or whatever else it was I was supposed to be studying.

I've now discovered Jeremy Kyle, the British version of Maury Povitch. He's a bit sassier, a bit more therapist and less referee (his security guards do that for him), and his shows cover a variety of themes. The segment I saw at 9:30 this morning involved a white trash family and their fight over a baby. Coming up after the break was a paternity test ("Is she the aunt or the grandmother? Find out!"). It was amazingly like Maury - the only differences were the accents and the dental work. Look, this is a country with socialized medicine. These people have no excuse for going on national television with black and/or missing teeth. Our white trash is classier than that, and that's saying something.

In other news, I just confused my parents' new puppy with Google Talk. The poor thing couldn't figure out why the monitor started calling her name...

Turkey time!

This year, through some happy accident, the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival and Canada's version of Thanksgiving fell very close to each other, so our HAs set up a giant turkey and dumplings potluck dinner tonight. Groups signed up to make turkeys and dumplings, and the materials arrived yesterday. In all, seven turkeys were given out, two to my floor.

Being neither Canadian nor Chinese myself, I hadn't planned to go at first, but then I decided to stop being so antisocial and pop by tonight - between the two turkeys defrosting in my kitchen and "Alberta," Team USA's bird upstairs, some of the Thanksgiving spirit began to rub off. Of course, this feeling of seasonal goodwill hit me at about 4:30 this afternoon, when I was doing my grocery shopping, so I started roaming the aisles at Tesco, looking for something to make. Instant couscous wasn't going to cut it.

I considered doing a pan of brownies, but that involved the purchase of both eggs and oil. Instead, my eye lit upon a bag of parmesean and sundried tomato bread mix. Just add water, it told me. I could handle that.

The kitchen was complete chaos at 5 PM. With dinner at 6:30, there was some question as to whether the turkeys would turn out. What should have been two-hour birds had turned into four-hour birds, thanks to Richmond Place's crappy ovens (and the two new ones sitting in their boxes by the trashcan did nothing to make anyone feel better). I'd never made bread before, so I mixed (guessing how much water 11 ounces was with my Quaker Oats measuring cup) and kneaded and hoped for the best. I had no flour. I had nothing with which to grease the nasty pan. Still, they turned out edible, if chewy, at 6:30, and the two turkeys were quick to follow.

Dinner was a multicultural madhouse, complete with masses of dumplings, onion rings, a Goodfellas pizza, and screwcap Pinot Grigio. Of the seven turkeys, only the fourth floor's made it down - last I heard, poor Alberta was still cooking. My floor's chefs also forgot to bring the stuffing they made, so it looks like someone's having leftovers tomorrow...

Between the Thai dumplings, mushy peas, and conservative New Englander with a taste for sweet tea, it was definitely the strangest Thanksgiving dinner ever. The Pinot Grigio and good company made up for many things, however, including the lack of gravy. As a nice final touch, if anyone needed post-dinner football, The Peartree started their NFL coverage at 6.

Drinking before noon outside NOLA

Over Dead Week last spring, I visited New Orleans for the first time with Mary, a NOLA native and my roommate. Yes, we did the Quarter; yes, we went into Fat Tuesday; and yes, I got something frozen and fruity at 2 PM and I wasn't at a beach resort.

I thought I'd had my early-afternoon drinking experience until today, when we visited Glenturret and did "The Famous Grouse Experience." While the cute grouse commercials were funny and the distillery was a neat ten-minute tour, easily the most anticipated part of the trip was the 'wee dram' around noon. Perthshire was damp and cold, and that sip was good and tingly. Dad, you've been holding out on me. I know where you keep The Macallan.

A few souvenirs later (and a long look at the item pictured above...dear God, I could have a Mercedes for that!), I left for Perth. There's nothing particularly special about Perth, as cities go, but I had a nice three-hour walk/shopping trip with a delightful Parisian engineering student, so the afternoon was well spent. I also bought a wool sweater, so now I have that and my supply of Whisky Fudge to get me through the winter. There's not much fudgy about this fudge, but it does offer subtle hints of vanilla and peat smoke...

I want to go back to college...

...if it could be like Accepted. Man, having classes listed on a wipe-off board instead of in my beloved Blue Book...wow. The possibilities. I would have skipped "Major English Poets" for sure, except then I wouldn't be able to sing along to The Spizzwinks(?)'s version of "Canterbury Tales."

I just got back from a quick walk from the theater. My fingers are numb. It's October 6. This does not bode well for the coming months. I am, however, going on a distillery tour tomorrow morning, and my parents are picking up their new border collie puppy! Now, to get said puppy over here on an extended visit...

My diploma is worthless

Having not heard back from the library, where I was applying for a part-time shelving gig, in two weeks, I popped in again today to see if anyone could tell me anything. After a brief conference in the Librarians' Secret Chamber of Secrets, the woman at the help desk returned and informed me that the people being called back for interviews had all been e-mailed this week. Sorry.

So much for the value of my Yale diploma. I prefer to imagine that their rationale for not hiring me is that I'm overqualified. (Well, either that or they're reluctant to hire students for only one year. The alternative is horrid.)

Screw you, Edinburgh University Library. I'm signing up to be a mystery shopper instead. Ha!

Fun with e-mail

All good things must come to an end. Most recently, my yale.edu e-mail account.

I knew this day was coming. I've been receiving nothing but junk mail and the occasional mass mailing from Yale College Republicans and the Record for months now. Still, I checked through the hundreds of spam letters, occasionally finding something of interest among the offers to improve my sex life and my bank account.

I cleaned the box out for the last time on Monday, when I discovered an e-mail from my fellow YGC alto, Lauren Simpson, who had accidentally been added to a mailing list when the fellow over here neglected the single letter that differentiates Lauren's and my Google accounts.

Poor Lauren. This one goes out to her.

For three years, together we confused a significant portion of Yale's faculty and students. I received mail for the Slavs regularly. She's now probably getting the occasional sample from my creative writing workshop.

Lauren, when I discovered that the particular address on Gmail that I wanted had been taken and that I would have to a use an ever so slightly longer version, never did I assume that the nice, easy address was yours. I suppose that's to get me back for your sophomore year, right? Because now we're going to be receiving each other's mail for years to come.

It's essential that one of us become ridiculously famous so that the other can have a hell of a good time with it.

This Gaelic moment brought to you by...

We've been here three and a half weeks, and now it's time to have some fun with Scottish television. Best program of the week (since I've only see The Simpsons once, and My Hero only plays on Mondays) has to be Extreme Dreams, in which the host takes five unlikley subjects on a crazy adventure. This week's trip is an arctic expedition, and the cast - two twenty-somethings, a control-freak teacher, an Welsh ex-soldier, and a self-professed "lady of leisure" - aren't faring too well. Tell me, if you've never been on skis before, why would you go on an arctic expedition?!?

Following this half-hour of pulse-quickening entertainment at these poor slobs' expense was a Gaelic language moment - a cartoon that attempted to teach a couple of phrases. Tonight's involved flea powder. Not quite so useful as, "Pardon me, where's the toilet?" or "What's in this haggis, old chap?" but it's a start.

Who turned off the heat?!?

I'm trying to figure out what happened to the beautiful weather that greeted me three weeks ago. Today started nicely, then turned wet (nothing worse than two hours of class in soaked jeans and sandals) and, just to be bitchy, cold. Fortunately, I purchased my oh-so-lovely Fraser tartan wool blanket today. I can wrap up with it while I sit in my room, thereby giving my D'port fleece a well-needed rest.

On a happier note, I'm going to Perth to the Glenturret distillery on Saturday! I'd wanted to go to the other, cuter, town, but they reassured us that Glenturret's not so bad, as we'll get two "wee drams" while we're there. Not bad as consolation prizes go.

Hello, cheerleaders!

Tonight, a few of us took a "study break" to the Peartree. When we came to the door, a most wondrous sight awaited us: football.

American football.

The Jaguars were playing the Redskins. Do I follow either team? Hell, no. Did that matter? Not a bit.

Thank you, Peartree, for keeping drunk Americans happy. We'll be back for our half-pints of Strongbow next time.

Lazy Sunday

Well, not so lazy. I did get up at 8:15 and started working, and other than the grocery shopping and a quick excursion to see if the deparment had left papers for us, that's what I've been doing all day. I need a little break tonight...maybe not Chocolate Soup, but something else interesting...

I actually made a real meal tonight, as in I prepared more than one dish. Turkey fillets aren't too bad on a George Foreman, but Tesco's idea of instant stuffing leaves something to be desired, and Spanish white-flesh peaches are just weird. Chilton County, I've found your new market.