Fun with needles

Some time in college, maybe sophomore year or so, there was an explosion of knitting. By the time I graduated, seemingly half the girls I knew could knit actual pieces of clothing, like hats. I never picked it up - my family is a little on the handicrafts-challenged side - but I've been considering it for a while.

Yesterday, as a reward to myself for getting through an essay draft (hey, it's the little things that keep you going), I went down to EBS and purchased cheap needles and yarn. Since then, I've been studying schematics all over the Internet and trying to make the yarn do something productive.

I can cast on. I can sort of knit, and this morning I managed to knit multiple rows. Purling, for whatever reason, is still beyond me.

Alisa, Emily, and all the other Glee Club knitters - I have new-found respect for your mad skills.

This is just sickening

Anyone hear about The Ringer? I didn't see it, but the movie concerns a guy who needs money, so he fixes the Special Olympics and tries to pass himself off as an eligible participant.

That's more than a little twisted, but this is worse:


Mom taught her 2 kids to fake retardation
Mother admits coaching children to collect more than $280,000 in benefits

TACOMA, Wash. - A woman admitted Monday that she coached her two children to fake retardation starting when they were 4 and 8 years old so she could collect Social Security benefits on their behalf.

Rosie Costello, 46, admitted in U.S. District Court that she collected more than $280,000 in benefits, beginning in the mid-1980s. Most was from Social Security, but the state social services agency paid $53,000.

Costello pleaded guilty to conspiracy to defraud the government and Social Security fraud. Her son, Pete, 26, pleaded guilty earlier this month. Federal prosecutors in Seattle said Monday authorities had not yet located her daughter, Marie.

According to the plea agreement, Costello began coaching her daughter at age 4, and later used the same ruse with her son. He feigned retardation into his mid-20s — picking at his face, slouching and appearing uncommunicative in meetings with Social Security officials.

Social Security workers became suspicious and uncovered a video of Pete Costello ably contesting a traffic ticket in a Vancouver courtroom.

Pete Costello is scheduled to be sentenced May 11 and faces from six months to a year in prison, as well as $59,000 in restitution.

Rosie Costello is scheduled for sentencing May 17. Her standard sentencing range was not immediately available, but in the plea agreement she agreed to repay the government.

Tea

I'm a fan of Britain's national beverage (no, not alcohol...that's a steady #2). Sadly, Richmond Place's kitchens are not equipped with many useful tools, including teapots. What we're given instead is an electric hot water kettle, which is quick and useful but less than satisfactory.

The problem is a combination of time and the teabag. I've never been particularly keen on fooling with steeping and other such nonsense - add Splenda, add teabag, add water, stir, drink. There are no saucers or teabag strainers in my cabinet. Consequently, whatever dregs remain at the bottom of my mug are overwhelmingly English Breakfast-y, to the point that my taste buds rebel.

Enter Emma and her bright, obvious idea: tea can be made in an ordinary pot on the range. Add teabags, add Splenda, heat to a near boil, and voila, tea. What comes out is fairly uniform in strength and has steeped long enough; the bags can thus be removed right away, and I get about three cups out of the deal.

Gotta love cheap caffeine.

Night of a thousand drunk Scotsmen

Hyperbole aside, last night was a little...well, special.

We went to see Mrs. Warren's Profession last night, which was quite excellent, especially the set and Mrs. Warren's amazing dresses (enter Vivian in white and Mrs. Warren in scarlet...). What made the play even better was Häagen-Dazs dixie cups at intermission - not only was food allowed in the theater, but they provided the roaming ice cream lady to sell it in the balcony. I was expecting peanuts next. Why American theaters haven't picked up on this idea is beyond me.

Leigh found a pub nearby, Footlights, and we retreated after the play for a bit of refreshment and to meet Ian when he got off work. That was when the fun began...

Let me preface this by saying that yesterday was a 6 Nations game, and that Scotland lost.

That said, the pub was packed, the patrons were loud, and the men-women ratio was something like 20 to 1. The three of us, dressed for the theater, found a table near the door, purchased drinks, and waited for Ian.

Then we started making friends.

A fairly intoxicated Scotsman, glass in hand, wandered over to ask if we'd sit with his friend, who was by himself. We explained that we were waiting for the rest of our group. Undeterred, he asked us where we were from. Our response led to a bout of "USA! USA!" and fist pumping, followed by a charming, off-key rendition of that immortal Springsteen classic, "Born in the USA," with both fists in the air. Meanwhile, we sort of laughed it off and hoped no one was going to become belligerent around us.

Dunk Boy's friend then came up, draped his arms around Leigh and Cali, and said hello. While they were extricating themselves, Drunk Boy began asking us for specific states (because that, of course, is always the next question - what begins innocently enough inevitably devolves into a geography lesson). I've learned not to say "Birmingham" because that only confuses people, especially those already under the influence, so I casually replied that I was from Alabama.

Lynyrd Skynyrd would not have been amused by what followed.

Once Drunk Boy pulled from us that we were postgraduates, he asked us where we liked to go to get "mashed and pissed." We explained that we really don't, that we're postgraduates and therefore boring.

He asked me why I wasn't drinking.
I said I wasn't thirsty.
He then dared me to get "mashed and pissed" (really, I'm not making this up) with him by doing ten shots at the bar.
I declined.
He told me I was no fun.
Somehow this led to a discussion of Britney Spears. He then invited us to go get our heads shorn that night.
We declined.

Once he started rubbing and muttering to Cali's purse, we knew he was a goner. About that time, his friend came up and started patting my head.

Never have I wanted to see Ian more than at that moment. I was telepathically willing him to walk in the door and bust the scene up (or bust someone's head open; that Sainsbury's training has to be good for something), but apparently Ian's not telepathic. Funny how that happens.

Eventually, our new good buddies wandered off, and we tried to imagine what Ian's expression would have been had he walked in. Our respite wasn't long, however, as a "ginger"-haired (yes, Ian) guy wandered over and asked if he could join us. I told him we were waiting for the rest of our party, so sorry. He walked away and kept giving our table stares of misery from across the pub.

Finally, Ian showed up, then left for the bar to procure more cider. In his absence, the redhead's wingman, who was decidedly closer to sober, came over, apologized for his friend, asked if he had been rude, and said that he really wanted to talk to us. We explained the situation, and then invited both of them to pull up a seat.

Ian seemed nonplussed by the situation when they pulled up a bench.

Cali, bless her heart, took one for the team by entertaining Gordon, the redhead, for the better part of half an hour. Apparently, Gordon not only asked her where she was from five times, he told her his entire life story in unnecessary detail. He then stood up to get another Guinness.

Meanwhile, I was talking sports with Finn the Wingman, which was actually fun. I learned about these things called "firms" in football clubs, which are essentially gangs that beat each other up at match time. Then there was talk of rugby, ice hockey, field hockey, and shinty, which is little more than open warfare, leading me to surmise that sport over here could do with a lot more padding. Talk then turned to Inevitable Subject #2, Iraq.

Almost makes me want to get the Canadian backpack flag and perfect my "Eh?"

Still, relations were cordial enough, and Finn left to answer a phone call while Cali excused herself. In the meantime, Gordon returned with a new pint of Guinness, noticed that he still had a bit left in his other glass, and tried to pour the remnant into a full pint. Beer flowed onto the table, I pulled Cali's oh-so-strokable purse out of the way, and then tried to engage Gordon to give Cali a break. The boy was on his way out, but was coherent enough to tell me he was from Dundee.

"How's that?" I asked.
He explained that Dundee was shite, and then told me about his brother getting cut in the face with a beer bottle.

When Cali and Finn returned, Gordon told Finn to tell us an embarrassing story, at which point Finn's muttered conversations to Gordon to stop making an ass of himself increased in frequency. Finn wondered aloud what the hell had happened to the beer, then berated Gordon for trying to defy physics. Gordon left to find a paper towel, but returned with a bar rag and promptly wiped Guinness onto Finn.

Cali and I backed away.

There was no fighting, but Finn explained that he'd already taken Gordon's brother home that evening. He then left to bum a smoke off someone and headed outside for a break.

We left Gordon sitting alone at the table with his two pints of Guinness, then made our way back to our side of town. Ian performed rather well his role of Being Intimidating and Manly as we passed the pubs. As we approached the halfway point, he hinted that we should stop for pizza.

Well, it was almost 1 AM, and I hadn't yet had dinner.

After eating pizza upstairs, I returned to my room to find that my mother was in a mild panic as to my whereabouts. I vaguely remember calling her and mentioning something about the pub, then stumbled into bed, where my head promptly began to pound. I don't know why.

I still had a headache when I woke this morning, but the contraband Tylenol fixed that quickly enough. Thanks, Mom.

Stupid movie night

Last night, for lack of a better idea, I caved in, got my UK Blockbuster membership card, and rented Farce of the Penguins.

Earlier in the year, I finally saw March of the Penguins, which frankly deserves every honor it received. Bob Saget's spoof, however, will be lucky to get 10% on Rotten Tomatoes.

As the man himself said, it's a movie best seen while high. Not that I've ever been high, but I imagine a little pot (or cannabis, to all you Brits) would have enhanced the viewing experience.

Here's the spoiler: it's roughly 80 minutes of stock footage of penguins, an owl, a fox, a panda, and various mating animals. They're talking, but the mouths don't move. Luckily for Saget and crew, the average layperson can't tell the difference between two Emperor penguins, so they were able to slide with really horrible cuts.

The best part of this film was the cast. Yes, it was amusing to hear Samuel L. Jackson in the Morgan Freeman role. Yes, Carlos Mencia as "Juan Sanchez", the insane Rockhopper, was cute. But what really did it for me - and I only realized this once I saw the credits and the backstage reel - was that no fewer than four Full House cast members were involved in this production: Bob Saget (Danny), John Stamos (Jesse), Lori Loughlin (Becky), and Jodi Sweetin (Stephanie). After being subjected to endless reruns of that horribly saccharine show as a kid (no, Jen, I'm not going to like it more if you sing the theme song again), I laughed to hear them all cursing in penguin guise. So who forgot to invite the Olsens?

That said, even with the cameos, there's a very good reason this dud went straight to DVD.

Friday

Today has been absolutely lovely.

Yes, it's Friday, which is inherently a good day, but even beyond that, the sun was shining, the breeze (not gale-force wind) was pleasant, and the temperature was at least in the high 40s. In the two months I've been here this semester, the sunset has been pushed back almost two hours, and the lengthening days make almost everyone happier for now.

I finished a draft of a project I've been working on this morning, too, which improved my day tremendously.

I've got some idea of what I want to do for my lit paper, I bought a book of short horror stories (Nocturnes, by John Connolly - not bad thus far), and I took an hour's nap this afternoon. I'd also forgotten how good Wheat Thins are.

There will be a play tomorrow night, and my mother has ordered me to go find something pretty and spring-like.

Yes, I'll keep Friday.

The Golden Hour

I read tonight at The Forest's "The Golden Hour," which was fun, and was helped along considerably by Leigh and Cali, who came armed with strawberry-infused White Zin.

That said, there was only one crowd favorite tonight: the 1989 safe sex video.

Picture the following: a fairly ordinary man and woman are seated on a bed in full daylight, while soft Muzak plays in the background. They are completely nude. The narrator then describes the contents of the safe sex box...

First is latex gloves, because they're just that sexy. You know, to hide calluses and sharp nails, and prevent actual bodily contact.
Then comes gel. One has been "clinically proven" to kill HIV. The man and woman seem rather bored with this.
Next is the...um...other latex glove, during which time the announcer informs us that prostitutes in many countries have wised up to the transmission of diseases and now use condoms. Then the woman does her thing. The man seems bored.
We'll skip the next bit, but it involved yet another latex sheet and more boredom. The last part was the best: the man and woman kiss through a latex safety sheet.

This is the kind of intimacy only Monk, the OCD-afflicted detective, could love. The audience found it amusing, to say the least.

Poor Ben. His piece was funny, but how was anyone supposed to follow that?

It's Mardi Gras?

Thanks to random Facebook status postings, I recently (9:15 PM) realized that today is Mardi Gras.

What the hell?!?

It was always easy to know when Mardi Gras was approaching in college. For three years, I roomed with a Catholic from New Orleans, and we all know what Mardi Gras means to them. Out would come the cans of red beans specially sent up for the occasion, and we would drool over King Cakes we'd had in the past. Then she'd do something silly the next day, like give up all sweets and soft drinks. Lent, I suppose.

Well, to everyone back in the States who actually knew what today was, happy Mardi Gras! Edinburgh, you need to get on the ball. It's not really Mardi Gras if no one even offers you beads.

Presidents Day

Today was Presidents Day, but I wasn't too upset about not having the day off. This is one of those silly holidays - a combination of Washington's and Lincoln's birthdays, no less - that only government employees get. School never closed.

Silly schools.

In any case, I was sent this video today, which is somewhat appropriate and amusing, unless you're a British child...

(Disclaimer: stupid, but at least PG-13.)

Quality journalism

Anyone remember buying cereal as a kid?

For a long time, I chose my breakfast based on two criteria: how much chocolate/candy was in the supposedly nutritious food, and what the toy was. A cereal worth anything at all had at least some sort of prize buried in the box. As I recall, it was usually right near the bottom, so that you either had to eat the cereal quickly and hope your sibling didn't steal the toy, or reach in, root around, and contaminate the box in your quest for treasure. I tended to be impatient, but there were so many chemicals in kids' cereals that I don't think the contamination ever did anyone much harm.

I buy my Sunday paper like I used to buy cereal - by the quality of the freebie inside. British Sunday papers, for whatever reason, give readers something random as an incentive. Today's offerings included a National Geographic DVD of India's empires, a Charlotte's Web color poster, a pack of cookies (to be picked up at a certain store), and my particular favorite, Culture Club: Greatest Hits, Volume 1. Volume 2 is available next week.

I'm no big fan of Culture Club, but heck, it was better than the poster, and the paper had a giant picture of Britney Spears's shorn head above the fold. That, my friends, is world news.

Bad hair day

I thought I was having a rough go with my hair this morning when my bangs half-dried into crazy positions after sitting in a towel for too long. Then I saw this, and suddenly felt better about myself.

Look, Britney: unless you're planning to rip up pictures of the pope on SNL or star in a remake of G.I. Jane any time soon, the shorn look is out. Really. The bottle-black hair was better than this.

And what's with the "dainty" wrist tattoo? And the tattoos on the back of your neck? Britney, hon, you're not doing much to improve your nouvelle-white-trash image.

Bless your heart.

American history, movie-style

For some reason, one of our four channels shows an old movie every afternoon. Don't ask me why, or how they choose their selections. I've never heard of most of them, and only some are in color.

Today's feature was The Raid, a 1954 flick about a group of Confederate soldiers who escape to Canada and then take their revenge by destroying a little town in Vermont. (See here for details.) I learned a few things about history by watching this stunning war picture:

1) Vermont looks suspiciously like the Old West.
2) It's warm enough to go around in little more than shirtsleeves in Vermont in October. Perhaps this was due to nineteenth-century global warming.
3) In the 1860s, it was perfectly acceptable for visitors to carry pistols in their trousers into church. Shooting sprees were par for the course, and no one would suspect anything.
4) In the 1860s, Southern American and Canadian accents were interchangeable. No one would suspect a Confederate officer who claimed to be from Montreal. Then again, they all sounded like Midwesterners, so who really knows?
5) When one owns a bording house, one's offspring should be free to break into guests' rooms via the windows, unless one happens to be harboring Confederate spies. Then the problems start.
6) If one of the aforementioned Confederate spies were to be the ringleader of a massive raid, perhaps it would have been wiser to leave the uniform off. The gray's kind of a giveaway.

Waiting for spring

The sky today was ominous - dark clouds and all - but the rain was kept to a light sprinkling. It was the wind that got us tonight, square in the face as we walked back from the Edinburgh Review launch. (A trumpet fanfare and a reading by Raj? Orange juice and wine? Yes!) I'm eagerly awaiting spring and this mythical summer thing I've heard so much about. Temperatures may get into the mid-twenties (that's mid-seventies for the folks back home). There will still be wind.

Things could always be worse, though: check this out. Man, I wouldn't want to be JetBlue's customer relations department this week.

Happy Singles Awareness Day!

Ah, February 14.

The one day of the year when it's perfectly legitimate to walk into a Godiva store and buy huge boxes of ridiculously priced chocolates, and then consider giving them to someone else.

The holiday that celebrates both incredibly fattening foods and skimpy underwear.

The first occasion for Facebook to introduce new gift icons (though the notorious "box with a hole" remains popular).

I celebrated by writing all day and getting Chinese take-out from Karen Wong's for dinner. But heck, it could be so much worse - how many inches of snow does New York have, again? And something like two feet more today?

Well, at least their latest blizzard is an excuse for candlelight and cuddling, even if it's just to preserve body heat.

And you thought your guest speakers were bad

This is disgusting.

Yes, STDs are a problem. Yes, the youth of America should be warned about transmission. Yes, graphic pictures can do wonders, or at least make the class go, "Eww!!!" in unison.

But teaching STD education by making your audience share chewing gum? What kind of a wacked-out idea is that? I especially like the part where they told the boys that one of the chocolate pieces was actually a laxative.

Just what those teachers needed: boys with the sudden inspiration to bake special brownies.

Trying new things

Tonight was a lot of fun for several reasons. First among them was going to see Benjamin Britten's Albert Herring, which featured Ruth's superior oboe skills and one amazing "May King" costume. English comedic opera is always fun.

Also fun was hanging out in the Pleasance Cabaret bar after the show and discussing the attributes of the various players.

I made up my mind to expand my beverage horizons tonight and actually ordered a shot of The Famous Grouse. It took me nearly an hour, but I drank it straight. Now I see why a little tiny glass of liquor goes a very long way. Not exactly thirst quenching, but that's what the Coke Zero beforehand was for, right?

Sunday

Not the most productive day on record, but tonight was fun. After a Mexican-themed dinner and some suspiciously familiar Bacardi Breezers, we settled in to watch Cars.

The two southerners had seen it before. The northwesterner and the Brit had not.

It's amazing how funny Larry The Cable Guy can be after months in Scotland. Then again, it's kind of sad having to explain why "Mater...like Tomater, but without the 'To'" is funny.

Still, "I'm happier than a tornado in a trailer park!" makes the movie worthwhile. Thank you, Larry. Git 'er done, indeed.

Quite.

Hunting down Tex-Mex ingredients in Edinburgh

For a Tex-Mex-themed dinner, I had been assigned Mexican rice (it appears surprisingly easy, and I actually have all the ingredients on hand for once...we'll see), but I wanted to make a certain dip my mom always makes for these sort of occasions. She sent me the recipe (also pretty simple), and I, rather nonchalantly, told her I'd shop for the ingredients on Saturday.

Scotland doesn't believe in Cajun. It also doesn't believe in Tex-Mex.

The basics - avocadoes, tomatoes, onions, corn chips - were simple enough to locate at Tesco. Their paltry selection of Old El Paso products offered a packet of fajita seasoning, which will serve my purposes. Then came the fun bits...

...like lemon juice. I'm using a real lemon and guessing.
...and sour cream. They have one variety at Tesco, and it's full-fat. At least there's light mayo.
...and shredded cheese. Their selection was pathetic at best, though they do offer approximately sixteen kinds of cheddar in blocks. Cheddar is big around here.
...and bean dip. Tesco doesn't believe in bean dip.

I asked an intelligent-looking clerk where I might find refried beans or bean dip, and he gave me a knowing smile, then showed me to the chip aisle and the salsa I had already nixed. "No," I explained, "not salsa, bean dip." He then led me to their corner of weird toppings and tried to sell me on hummus. "No, it's Mexican. Refried beans?" Alas, he wasn't able to help me, and so I had to fall back on other options.

Keep in mind that it's wet and cold today.

I texted Ian, but he'd never heard of the stuff at Sainsbury's. Undaunted, I set off for the weird little store on Nicholson Street that sells things like prawn crackers and canned pumpkin. The clerk at least knew what I was talking about, but they were sold out. I then pushed through the masses of Welsh rugby fans (Scotland plays Wales today, and the kilts were out in full) to Sainsbury's, where, after browsing though the entire store, I found the ethnic aisle and a couple of cans of refried beans by a brand I've never heard of. They guarantee they're "the true taste of the Americas." We shall see.

To tell the truth, I don't even like refried beans.

Learning new things

Here's to Wikipedia, the font of all useless knowledge, for expanding my pharmaceutical lexicon.

I was at Superdrug today, examining their paltry cold and flu offerings, when I found Sudafed and something called Lemsip, which resembles Theraflu. I brought both home for a little cocktail, then bothered to read the back of the Sudafed box. "Contains Paracetamol," it warned me, then advised me not to mix it with any similar products, and to seek immediate medical advice in the event of an overdose, "even if you feel well."

Okay...

The Lemsip, however, was also high in this Paracetamol, and its warning told me that an overdose can increase the risk of liver damage.

So, paracetamol is a fancy British term for alcohol, right?

Or not. I checked Wikipedia, which explained to me that paracetamol is another term for acetaminophen, which I recognzied as the active ingredient in Tylenol. A toxic dose of acetaminophen is roughly 10 grams in a 24-hour period. I halved the Sudafed dosage and paired it with a Lemsip packet, which gave me a whopping 950 mg of the stuff.

Hasn't done much good yet, but at least the Kleenex is hanging in there.

I miss Rite-Aid

As was pointed out before class yesterday, there's always one plague or another going around Richmond Place. We live in close proximity, we share kitchens, and someone still keeps leaving the windows open.

By 7:30 last night, I was ready for a pack of Tylenol Cold and Sinus. Though conscious of the fact that Tylenol seems not to exist in this country, I nevertheless set off for the drug stores to see what I could find.

Ah, silly me. This is Scotland. The "late hours" chemist across the street closes at 7 PM.

In vain I walked up and down Nicholson Street, but Superdrug, Boots, and even the tiny chemist close to Blockbuster were closed. I stopped into the convenience store that sometimes sells Reese's Cups, but they didn't do OTC drugs, and there were no Reese's. My last resort was to go back to the Co-op around 11 and buy a box of Kleenex from a surly man who pronounced "Two-sixty" and "Two-sixty-eight" exactly the same. I was momentarily embarrassed when I left the store, but then I came to my senses. It was late. I was buying Kleenex, for God's sake - it's not cool to screw around with a sniffly woman. Thinking unkind thoughts about the Co-op man and chemists, I took my tissues and went to bed.

Snow!

I pulled back my curtains this morning to get the shock of the week: this lovely dusting of snow all over Edinburgh.

It's not bad out there - New Haven has certainly provided worse - but I actually wore running pants to the gym in lieu of shorts this morning. Bare legs and snow just don't mix.

Fortunately, the building's storage heaters are working their little hearts out. The kitchen is still a mess, however, because someone constantly leaves the windows open all freaking night. By 9:30, the place is a freezer and the herb garden looks sad. I'm surprised the azalea is still with us.

Getting older

I'll be 23 in just under three months (22 and three-quarters...not as if I'm counting), but that doesn't really bother me. I might be a basket case at 30, but age hasn't done much to me yet. Then again, I'm past all the good stuff - the permit, the license, the vote, legal alcohol - and all I have to look forward to is the ability to rent a car and a condo at 25. Whoopee.

That said, my baby sister - the kid I still sometimes think of as four - turned 21 yesterday.

My kid sister can now legally drink. Not that she does, but the thought frightens me. She's not supposed to be legal, she's supposed to be in high school or something.

You suddenly make me feel old, Jen. Happy birthday!

Nothing like late-night socializing

I was feeling mildly like death for most of the day yesterday, so I decided to make another early night of it. What with one thing and another, however, I didn't get in bed until 11, and was still a bit wired. I eventually drifted off around quarter of twelve, only to be awakened by the fire alarm.

Somehow I ended up in the parking lot with the rest of Churchill House. I noticed that I had managed to put on pants (always a good thing), a fleece, and my watch, and that I had grabbed my flash drive and purse, but the first shoes that came to mind in my half-conscious state were sandals.

Okay, flecce, jeans, and sandals. Perfect for those February nights in Edinburgh.

When we realized there were no flames shooting out of the windows, several of us retreated to the laundry room, where at least we had protection from the wind, and waited for the firemen to come and turn off the alarm.

Someone in the laundry room thought it might have been sweet potatoes. Those had better have been some good sweet potatoes...

Glasgow

Just returned from a day trip to Glasgow, which turned out to be much less expensive than I had anticipated. There was shopping, but it wasn't successful. Too bad. I'll pop in to Jenners soon...

Besides the shopping, there was a trip to GoMA (Glasgow Museum of Modern Art), which was a cool diversion with a gift shop, and a side trek to the Lighthouse, another diversion with a gift shop. I sense a theme. The rain was kind enough to fall while we were indoors, for which I am rather grateful. The Princes Square Mall also has a pit where little kids run around and generally act insane, which was amusing.

On the down side, one of our party is recovering from the plague, I'm feeling kind of crappy, and I have 10 AM class. Joy.

Thank you, Pop World

Britain's non-satellite answer to MTV and VH1 appears to be "Pop World," a Saturday morning program on Channel 4 that offers music videos, news, and interviews with various performers. The two presenters, though both fairly attractive, have the combined IQ of the average reader of Tiger Beat. This morning, they introduced a new segment in which they dissect a few new videos.

Up first was Robbie Williams, a perennial favorite over here, who in the video not only performs to a club full of transvestites, but changes into drag himself. Okay. It's Robbie Williams, fair enough.

Next was The Fray's "How to Save a Life," which has been on the American charts since, oh, summer at least. Decent video, good song, whatever.

Third, however, was the stinker of the morning. The female presenter compared the group to Steps, and I think it was an insult to that other fine group of artists *cough*. Ladies and gentlemen, the newest pop sensation to come out of the Netherlands, Ch!pz.

Yes, "Ch!pz." You know there's a problem when the punctuation is in the middle of the name.

I was so appalled by this foursome's video that I had to google them. Rule of thumb, kids: if you're not singing a country song or you're not doing "urban cowboy," then for God's sake, don't set your video in the Old West. Need to see what makes most Europop so incredibly bad? Check out "Cowboy." Go on, do it. I dare you.

For the record, I did download a Steps song at one point, and I still have my ABBA, Eiffel 65, and ATC CDs. Momentary lapses in judgment, all.

Groundhog Day

Thank you, Punxsutawney Phil.

The Pennsylvanian groundhog, by failing to see his shadow this morning, has predicted an early spring.

Of course, I'm not sure how well this applies to Scotland, but here's hoping. I was able to wear sandals for most of the day without frostbite, which is a promising sign.

The sandal wearing was over the course of a few errands this afternoon, mostly centering around Tesco. I was about to head over to replenish my cabinets when I saw my collection of cornbread mix and decided that might be a good idea. My dad puts blueberries in cornbread - hey, don't knock it until you try it - and I figured I could do the same. Tesco had blueberries on sale (as well as cherries, which I'm eating slowly), so I bought a pack and took my bag of groceries home, where I discovered that I needed eggs and milk.

Back to Tesco. Thank goodness it's just around the corner.

I mixed up the cornbread, but kept the mess in my quasi-Pyrex dish and stuck it in the oven at an approximation of 400 degrees. We're never sure. Twenty minutes later, I removed it, let it cool, and stuck a knife inside. Still gooey. Back in the oven it went for another ten minutes, at which time it resembled a mass of blueberries loosely held together by baked cornmeal.

It's good, but it has the same effect as a blue raspberry slushie on one's lips and teeth. Note to self...

February

I was able to walk to the gym in shorts this morning without feeling like my exposed skin was about to freeze and fall to the sidewalk. Huzzah!

So begins the shortest month of the year. The days are growing longer, the temperature is thinking about rising, and the rain held off today. (We celebrate the small things.) It's strange to think that I have less than two months of formal classes remaining in my academic career, which leads me to the problem of summer. Sure, class is class, but it's also a nice chance to see everyone. This summer, we'll actually have to make our own social opportunities.

I'm not sure I'm ready to graduate again. Ah well, November is a while off yet.