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.

It's Saturday again

Three weeks, baby. The laughter, the tears, the second pitcher of sweet tea chilling in my fridge in as many days...

I heard about the farmers' market around the castle today, so, fondly reminiscing about Pepper Place and Murphree's, I headed over this morning to see what I could find. The biggest difference, aside from the crowds of tourists I had to pass to get there, was the range of items for sale - Birmingham's idea of a market involves tomatoes and various grits-like substances, but Edinburgh's market consists mostly of meat and fish products, with one lone fruit stall thrown in for good measure. Still, there were two guys playing fiddles, neither one particularly in synch with the other, so it sounded vaguely like Pepper Place...

£4.40 later, I emerged with 250g of fresh frozen raspberries, 100g of yellow cherry tomatoes (surprisingly earthy and good - I didn't know they did tomatoes well over here), and a baggie of tablet (sounds like something illegal, but it's actually this really sweet butter and sugar confection). What amounted to $8 didn't get me that much - it's not like anyone was selling 10-pound baskets of peaches - but it's a beautiful day, the walk was good, and the best part was when an English couple stopped me to ask for directions. Did I know where to send them? No. Did it matter? Not really.

On the way back, I stopped in at the store attached to the Whiskey Experience place (sounds like overpriced fun) and did a little window shopping. I have orders to bring home as many bottles of The Macallan as I can fit into my suitcase, and so I've been doing a bit of price comparison. These folks actually had Macallan 18, and it was only £75 per bottle - a steal if you've grown up with Alabama's alcohol taxes. They also had a spiffy Christmas idea - a special Millennium crystal bottle of Macallan 50. Yes, 50. As in produced in 1949 and left to mature for 50 years. I'm sure it's superb, and if my dad would like to advance me £2,650, he could find it in his stocking this December.

Yeah, the chances of that happening are statistically akin to the likelihood that I'll find the keys to my very own gilded Boxter Christmas morning. Though really, what would one do with a gilded Boxter? Go through the McDonald's drive-thru? Get gold spinners? Fuzzy dice?

I'm sure I'd think of something.

Best warning ever

As much grief as we give them, they do something right over here when it comes to cigarette packets. To discourage smoking, a large black and white warning label is affixed to each pack. This isn't some wussy nagging by the Surgeon General. No, these labels cover most of one side of the pack and spell it out for you in various ways: Smoking Kills. Smoking Hurts You and Those Around You. Smoking Causes Cancer.

My new favorite, seen on the sidewalk this morning: Smoking May Inhibit Blood Flow and Lead to Impotence.

Hit 'em where it hurts, I suppose.