So Close Yet So Far

Good news, you guys! My dissertation has been marked. Bad news: No one can tell me what my mark is. The professors at my university are participating in a marking boycott. They were actually marked before the boycott began but not finalized by the committee, which did not meet when they were supposed to because, again, marking boycott. When someone in my class asked if we could at least have a look at the preliminary marks, we were told that because dissertations are classed as exams he couldn't tell us.

It's not as big of a problem for me because I have never had any intention of doing something with my degree in terms of a career or more advanced study - mostly I was just planning to shout "GENDER STUDIES!" every time I make a horrible misogynist joke and obnoxiously correct people who confuse biology with gender. But a number of my classmates were meant to go on and study more things, and a lack of any grades to show the coordinators of the programs they want to study means they can't get accepted to said programs. It's a real pickle.

Anycrap, I'm still waiting to find out whether I can write on an academic level or if years of blogging have lead to my being unable to write a coherent sentence without swearing or sarcasm in it.

Answers That Aren't 42 And Also A Thing About My Birthday

MIXED NEWS, EVERYONE! I have finished and turned in both of my papers (yay!) which I am pretty sure are both complete garbage (boo). But I'm back for now and I'm going to write some blog posts, starting with answering the questions you guys left for me in the comments:

exoticchemist said...

I'm curious as to what exactly triggers you to feel homesick. Is it just randomly wishing you were back in the US? Missing family and friends? Or is it specifically the differences between the US and UK? Maybe this is a dumb question...

It's not a dumb question, but it is a hard one to articulate. For one thing, I am now having a completely different cultural experience from the rest of my countrymen. While I don't miss snow (AT ALL), and I certainly don't want to be living in temperatures that can kill you in minutes, the whole polar vortex episode was hard on me because I felt...I don't know, left out. I still like to imagine that I am from Chicago and Chicago is my home and everyone at home was having this shitty but nevertheless collective experience and I wasn't there. And what made it worse was the UK was having a different collective experience with seriously damaging flooding seemingly everywhere, which is the experience I had, but it was the wrong one. And by the way, I'm crying right now. Sure I miss my family and my friends, but I can talk to them because the internet is magic. What I can't do is go back in time to when everyone was at the terrifying weather party and show up this time and be in on the jokes and know the stories.

Maya's comment was spot fucking on, and I really just wanted to post it and write "THIS ------>" next to it, but I'll elaborate instead. Maya said this: " I think, for me anyway, it was the fact that most things in the UK are so similar to North America that the differences, even the little ones, felt like a personal affront." I would say especially the little ones; the kind of things you never notice until they are different. In America, almost invariably, when you go inside a public building you just walk into it without breaking stride because the door is going to shut behind you. But in England where many of the buildings are older than my country, you walk into the building and you have to remember to shut the door behind you or it will just swing in the wind until the person at the desk gets up and closes it while glaring at you. There are no screens in the windows because there aren't that many bugs; you go shopping several times a week because the bread and the vegetables haven't been engineered to last for 2 months; the toilet doesn't flush the same way. I cannot fucking find wax paper at the store - grease proof baking paper is the closest thing. I know these things all sound dumb and petty because they are, but they add up into this sick feeling that this is not your home, no matter how much you want it to be.

Ok, that was sad. Let's do a different one:

Anonymous said...

44 degrees celcius here in Australia today, nature is bi-polar (and yeah that whole global warming thing). my question - did you ever choose a stripper name? or did I miss the big reveal in one of your posts?

Well anonymous, I'm pretty sure all of North America hates you right now, despite the fact that if it were 44 degrees there (111 F) they would be complaining that it was too hot. I did choose a stripper name and I did write a (half-assed) post about it. For the show I went with Phoebe Moon because I am a nerd. Now that I am in the UK however, I'll be using Poppy Cox because it's better and people get that joke here.

S said...

What have you learned about Brits/Britain by living here that you didn't learn by visiting?

Many many things, actually. I've learned that the words "noodle" and "pasta" are in no way interchangeable. In related news, I've learned that I'll need to bring a shit ton of Ramen back with me when I visit the states because the equivalents here are yucky in comparison. I've learned that people will fall over laughing if you pronounce squirrel as "skwerl". I've learned that driving students aren't allowed on the motorway, which means that when people get their first driving license, they have not learned to drive on one, which seems kind of dumb. Just last week I learned that when I say "look at those cans" no one realizes I'm talking about boobs. I've learned what stollen is, and that I hate it (raisins. why must everybody ruin perfectly good bakery with raisins? Knock it off already). I've learned that Christmas tree skirts aren't a thing here. I've learned that StereoNinja can't say prosciutto correctly. One thing that I already knew, but can't seem to get used to is being greeted with the phrase "You all right?". The American equivalent would be "How are you?". "You all right?" is what you would ask if someone just fell down the stairs or slipped on some black ice and landed on their head or just was walking around looking all sad. So whenever I'm asked that I immediately am confused about why they think I might not be all right. Gets me every time.

Thank you all for your questions. I like answering questions, so send more if you like and ask about whatever you want: stuff about me or why do Americans do that weird thing or where can I buy dildos or what is it about Patrick Stewart that makes him so sexy or Chris Christie, seriously, wtf is with that guy - whatever you want.

I'm not going to do a birthday wrap up post because it was overshadowed by paper writing and homesickness, but I did want to mention that StereoNinja bought me a telescope. HE BOUGHT ME A TELESCOPE. A FUCKING TELESCOPE. This feeling that I'm feeling is I think what it would be like for a normal person if their partner bought them a surprise Ferrari or a diamond as big as their hand. I HAVE A TELESCOPE YOU GUYS, and I live somewhere that I can actually use it. If it ever stops being shitty weather, that is.

A Question Deserves An Answer

Anonymous said... 

Where for art thou Amberance? 

10:49 PM 

Very good question, anonymous. It's been a rough couple of months. Moving to a new country, even one that you love, is emotionally more difficult than it is possible to prepare for. Christmas, which is normally my FAVORITE THING IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD, was mostly a nightmare, and my birthday, which is Sunday and which I would normally have been reminding you all about on a daily basis for the last six weeks is only being observed at all this year to appease StereoNinja, who has made it very clear that my strategy of hiding in the bedroom ignoring him (and everyone else) while failing to engage in any of my beloved hobbies (blogging, my birthday, gratuitous nudity) is no longer acceptable. Having now spoken to a number of people who have already done this, I've had to severely lower my expectations for the foreseeable future, as the collective wisdom of those who have gone before me is that I will continue to burst into tears at completely random intervals due to vicious and overwhelming homesickness for at least 18 months. I don't even want to talk about how miserable I was on New Years, though at least I managed to leave Devon the day before it disappeared into the sea.

I have two papers due in a week, so as I said in November, let me get those written and turned in, and then check back here as I plan to reward myself by writing the next Fifty Shades review and/or going to Prague (oh yeah, I've decided I want to spend a weekend in Prague though I have absolutely no idea what is actually in Prague or why I want to go there - my main motivation seems to be the ability to say "When I was in Prague over the weekend..." - so advice on what I should actually DO in Prague would be lovely). I've been ready to write it for a while actually, but have been putting it off because I felt that I was upset about the wrong things and was trying to adjust my rage to match my logic. It hasn't worked, so I'm just going to write it the way I'm feeling it and then pack my bags for my journey to Hades since I am a terrible person.

Where I am at this very minute is sitting in my living room looking out at the sea. While all you guys in the U.S. have been at the travelling Antarctica Experience exhibition this week (the first time I saw someone write "Chiberia" made me laugh much harder than was probably warranted), the U.K. has been dealing with its own disastrous weather since roughly Christmas, mostly in the form of massive rainstorms combined with extremely high tides and a recent habit of building homes on floodplains. In typical British fashion, this was described on the news in the most hilariously understated way possible as "unusual weather". Living on an island in the Thames as I do, it is impossible not to notice. The field directly across the river from us which is typically filled with sheep first became a lake (which I named Lake Titicacao because tits! and chocolate! and I'm a massive child!) and then a few days ago even that was swallowed up and now the whole thing is just part of the river. Our marina is entirely flooded, the water covering not only the gangway that goes around the outside of the marina but also the first two steps leading up to our garden It is an inch from covering the third, which would leave only two more stairs before we go from living on riverfront property to living in the actual river. There are two roads leading into the island, but only one road that leads away from it, and that road is also flooded, meaning I actually drove my car through the Thames twice this morning. I was lucky I made it through - on my way back, there were two cars stranded on the road who had tried to drive through the river but were too low profile to get through and were now stranded in non-working cars waiting for rescue. If the river doesn't crest today I may be stranded here all weekend. Every once in a while, a helicopter flies over and I imagine them looking down at us and saying "Yep, still flooded." I think I should write a really rude message for them or draw some tits so their day will be more interesting.

Anyway, give me a week to finish my papers and I will write you guys a scathing review about how E.L. James has apparently never been to a bank and being threatened with rape is super romantic. 

P.S. I have enjoyed answering this question. Feel free to send me more questions you would like answers to and I'll answer them in a future blog post. It will be like a conversation!

Second Delay

....and NOW I can't tell you about the party because apparently today is self-hatred and depression day. It's pretty piss poor timing too, since I have a presentation due Thursday and today I've worked on it for exactly zero minutes. Other things I haven't done today: get dressed, work out, turn any lights on, have a rational thought, be nice to StereoNinja, make plans for bonfire night, answer my email or put my contacts in. Things I have done: eat cookie dough, cry, tell H-Town and the cake master that I am a selfish monster, and look at one way flights to Chicago because giving up sounds really good to me today.

I absolutely HATE this part of myself, because I really am not this person. I want things to be fun. I look for things to do that might be fun. I take mundane or unpleasant activities and try to inject them with fun, because if I have to do some chore, it might as well be fun. I made swearing into a hobby reading that 50 Shades of Horseshit right here on this blog. But today it's like I've never even met fun. Like if fun was walking toward me down the sidewalk, I would cross to the other side of the street to avoid it because that dude looks like a creepy weirdo and is scaring me and I want no part of it. And fun is jumping up and down and waving at me like "Hey! HEY! We were supposed to make robot sculptures out of canary feathers and cooked noodles today! Where are you going?" and I'm pretending like I don't see him and muttering "Fuck you, fun. You don't know me. You're not the boss of me!" And then fun starts crying and says "Why are you being like this? I thought we were friends." and look you guys, I JUST MADE FUN CRY. I'M THAT BIG OF AN ASSHOLE TODAY.

So, HOPEFULLY, tomorrow I will not feel like a bag of flaming elephant shit, and I can tell you about what happens when a stripper goes to a party with a bunch of old people, which by the way, is not what you would automatically think would happen. Um, at all. If not, I promise to challenge fun to a fist fight and see if I can make him get stitches in his stupid fun face.

Oh Hi, Internets. I Sure Do Miss You.

Let me tell you about moving to another country:

Take the amount of time you are estimating it will take you to get everything you own organized, packed, sold or given away and all of the paperwork done and everything else that needs sorting out, and multiply how long you think that's going to take you by 30. Then, a month later, look back at your revised estimate and laugh at how naive you were to think it would actually be that simple.

I started writing the above paragraph two days ago. I read it aloud to StereoNinja and he laughed when he was supposed to. Then, today, my visa came in the mail, at which point I started looking at flights and found one weird random flight that is EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS CHEAPER than any other flight, so I booked it because EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS CHEAPER YOU GUYS. The only flaw in this plan? This flight is 8 days before the day I had planned to leave. So basically, all the freaking out I was doing about how am I going to get all this stuff done OMGWTFBBQ I have just deliberately multiplied by 1000 BECAUSE I AM A CRAZY PERSON.

When I made the decision to move I deliberately did not think about it. I just made a decision and started working on how to get it done because if I had given it the kind of consideration one would normally give a decision of that magnitude I would have found 1000 stupid reasons why I shouldn't do it.But between getting the visa and booking a flight that leaves ridiculously soon, reality hit me earlier this evening like a bad simile for something very heavy. Because seriously, I am moving to a place where nothing is open on Sunday and where bleating lambs wake me up in the morning, and I have no job, and I'm going to school for the first time in 15 years for something that is a complete departure from my former career, and I have to learn how to drive on twisty, narrow streets because there are no straight roads in the whole country and it is 4000 miles away from Chicago, and oh yeah, did I mention that my new house has SPIDERS EVERYWHERE?

Our new house is on an island in the Thames and there are so many spiders in the house oh my god. StereoNinja is hilarious in that he thinks that all the spiders are there because the house sat empty for a year before he moved in, which I'm sure hasn't helped, but the real reason there are spiders everywhere is because we are surrounded by water, and therefore bugs, and therefore if you are a spider it is Thanksgiving EVERY DAY at my house. StereoNinja has bought me multiple cans of Raid for each floor in our house and I have been instructed to spray them with it and then leave the dead bodies there until StereoNinja gets home, which actually works ok except that I sprayed one who was on the ceiling and he fell and sort of floated to the floor which meant he could have GOTTEN ON ME so now I don't want to spray the ceiling ones. Which if they behave like the spiders in this country is where I most often find them. I'm trying to talk him into bug bombing the house before I get there. Failing that I am just going to have to hope that the accidental forced exposure therapy will serve to make me less of a crazy person.

And that's why I haven't told you yet about that thing I did where I took all my clothes off on stage.

This Post Will Not Be Funny

I just wanted to point out here that it was in no way my intention to write a post saying I was back from hiatus and then immediately disappear for another month. I had thought that when my job ended and I had all kinds of free time, I would fall right back into regular blogging just like old times. What I neglected to take into account is that stress and depression are fabulous at inducing writer's block whilst simultaneously making even the smallest task seem like such a gargantuan effort that you are already exhausted before you even begin.

Here's a thing they don't really tell you when you are being treated for depression on a long term basis - being properly medicated and being able to cope with life for long periods of time can cause you to develop a false sense of security about yourself. This only becomes a problem when you get into situations in your life that you aren't able to effectively cope with, and something that would have been a really bad low before you  got help and learned how to deal with things becomes even worse because you know, logically, that you are over-reacting and yet you still can't make it stop. The whole thing becomes one big downward slide into a pool of self hatred and an inner monologue is telling you that you KNOW what the problem is, so just fucking FIX it, but you can't fix it, so obviously you are a COMPLETE FAILURE AT EVERYTHING. And since you are a complete failure at everything, you start to reason that no one likes you because WHY SHOULD THEY SINCE YOU SUCK, and you fail to reach out to the people who love you and could help you back. But again, you KNOW, logically, that this is stupid and it's just the depression talking, and of course you should have reached out and asked for help, dumbass, but you're stupid and now you've let everyone down AGAIN because you are a COMPLETE FAILURE. Et cetera, et cetera, until either you crash and have a public meltdown on Twitter, or someone close to you calls you out on your poorly hidden breakdown and forces you to let them help you. Or both (I have amazing and supportive Twitter followers and the most incredible boyfriend on the planet, THANK YOU).

Anyway, enough of that. My point is, being done with work did absolutely nothing to alleviate the stress of moving to another country, or going back to school in the hope of starting over from scratch with a completely different career, or choreographing and costuming a solo burlesque dance routine for the first time, or, as I finally got around to yesterday, breaking the news to an emotionally fragile and somewhat dependent roommate that I am moving 4,000 miles away from him and he's on his own (it is not going very well). And that's why I disappeared again and why I can't promise you that it won't happen yet again right after this post either. But I'm trying. And I have plans. One of which is that I am thinking about reviewing another horrible book for NaBloPoMo this year. If you think this is a good idea, feel free to leave me some suggestions on what you think I would really hate (excluding Twilight because Mark over at Mark Reads has already done that as brilliantly as it will ever be done). I WILL get back to where I remember how to do this and be funny at it, I just can't promise you exactly when. I am really hoping it's now.

Delay

Hey everyone - I read some chapters last night and was all set to write you a nice little ranty review with lots of rage and burning hatred, but then some shit went down this morning and it seemed like posting sarcastic comments about how much Christian sucks at guns would be in exceptionally poor taste today, so I'm going to post that on a different day. Instead I'm going to head home and sort out my vacation photos so I can illustrate some of the nonsense I got up to this last week. I'll post the next review over the weekend.

Great big old sad face, y'all.

Deja Puke

I stayed up very late reading last night and only got one chapter done, but it was enough to make all the rage come rushing back, and I had to call StereoNinja who patiently listened to me scream about how E.L. James has obviously never seen a map. I also shot a video of me reading it, which I plan to edit on Saturday as well as read a couple more chapters, but I am telling you right now - the spoiler of knowing she's going to get pregnant in this book is making me read everything through a whole new filter and the idea that these two fuckwits are going to breed makes me want to cry.

I need a nap. Or a drink.

Day Eight And I'm Now Just Posting Links To Other Things

The one drawback to living in Chicago is that it's rare to be able to watch an entire Browns game. However, after Sunday's abysmal performance, this may actually be a blessing.

Witness here Cleveland area comedian Mike Polk Jr. (the same guy who did the Cleveland tourism videos) speaking out on behalf of Browns fans everywhere.

I'll see you Sunday.

I'm With The Band (And Other Things Currently Scaring The Shit Out Of Me Right Now)

Whenever someone comes along and rips my heart out of my chest, then stomps it into mush, scoops what's left into a glass jar and puts the jar on shelf in a display case to keep as a trophy, I always react in the same way - by immediately engaging in a series of terrifyingly out of character behaviors that outwardly appear to be exciting new ventures but are really half-assed attempts at self-destruction. If I ever tell you I have taken up skydiving as a hobby, have decided to study entomology, or wish I had more opportunities for public speaking, you should probably assume I am actually just very sad and suggest moping about the house in sweatpants eating ice cream out of the carton as a safer alternative.

In news that may or may not be related to the preceding paragraph, I have recently joined a band and taken up burlesque dancing.

I signed up for burlesque classes in what can only be described as a fit of rage - reading through an awful e-mail (!) for the hundredth time, I suddenly went all Right Said Fred, decided I was too sexy for your party, and googled "burlesque lessons chicago" which led me to the fucking brilliant Studio L'Amour and the associated Everleigh Social Club, where after about 15 minutes into my first class, I decided I was going to become a Starlet as soon as possible. Then I actually saw the Starlets perform and thought "Holy shit, I will never be that good". Then I went home and decided I damn well will be that good even if it kills me because there really is no way I'm disco dancing, so I'm just going to have to shake my little tush on the catwalk. Now, I know there are a few people out there who don't know me as well as they think they do, and are wondering why I think taking my clothes off in front of strangers is out of character. I assure you that none of these people have ever seen me naked, and anyone who has knows that this is, in fact, very out of character for me. I'm just saying to watch out, I don't want you to trip over the irony. The point is, I'm doing that.

Almost immediately after signing up for the burly class, I got a message from my dear friend TTN Jon inviting me to audition for a band he was playing in called the Newburys. The singer they had sort of quit unexpectedly, and with a gig coming up they needed someone to fill in pretty quickly. I went to the audition and they liked me, so I started very quickly learning songs since all told we had precisely four rehearsals (including the audition) before the gig. So here's the thing - as much as I like to pretend to be all punk rock n' that, I've really only been to rock shows as a spectator. I've never actually been in a band before. Ever. Sure, I've been on stage singing loads of times, but classical music is an entirely different experience, one that seems custom made for me since having a personality is largely frowned upon. Fronting a rock band, however, almost invariably means talking to strangers, which falls squarely into the bucket of Things Amber Doesn't Do. Another problem - the friends who were coming to see us have all been in rock bands before and know what they are doing and I quickly developed a massive complex about sucking in front of them. I was also wholly convinced I was going to forget all the words, which terrified me until my amazing roommate pointed out that the songs were originals and no one in the crowd actually knew the words, so if I forgot them I could make something up and no one would know the difference.

I spent all day Saturday freaking the fuck out. I would frantically go over songs for an hour, then become worried I was over-preparing and start worrying about something else. Such as what to wear - I walked to Taboo Tabou and bought a corset because I obviously did not own one single thing I could possibly front a rock band in, which I then didn't wear because it seemed like I was trying too hard. Then I got worried I didn't know the words and went back to frantically going over songs. This cycle repeated itself until I finally just said "fuck it" and got in a cab before I could chicken out of the whole thing. This was my best move, really - I had a posse of supportive friends around me who kept me from disintegrating, plus the door guy who gave me some advice on my way in and lifted me off the ground in a giant bear hug on my way out.

I did ok, mostly. I remembered all the words, stayed on pitch and faced out at the audience, where Scott was taking millions of photos for me with my camera and holding my purse (he's a great purse holder, you can tell he's married) and Phil was standing down front giving me a thumbs up and mouthing encouraging things every time I looked at him (which was a lot). What I didn't do was sing particularly loud, move around very much or talk to the crowd really at all. The volume thing was mostly mechanical - many of the songs were at the far end of my range, and all the air in my lungs was being used up to hit the pitch correctly. The lack of movement was less stage fright and more a function of performing really depressing songs. Even with a catchy melody and an upbeat tempo, dancing around to a song with lyrics about spousal abuse seemed fairly inappropriate. Not talking to the crowd? Ok, that was all on me, but for real I HAVE NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE so, you know, lay off me. We did well enough that the crazy guy with biking gloves on dancing in front started screaming for ONE MORE! which was really the only time I managed to speak to the crowd. "Oh thanks, but we can't. Seriously. We genuinely do not know any more songs. Really." This was not a lie. (Later crazy guy would say I was good and ask me to "touch" him. I put my hand on his shoulder and he thanked me and left.)

The one thing I hadn't thought to prepare for was that after our set, people I didn't know would come up and talk to me. I really have no idea why I didn't think of that, and it wound up being by far the most frightening part of the whole experience because HOLY SHIT PEOPLE ARE TALKING TO ME. Overall, though, I didn't die, which was where I had set the bar so I win.

Next up on the tour of Shit I Shouldn't Be Doing: I'm going to Baltimore to run a 5K while being chased by zombies. FYI - I don't run. Ever.

Not Feeling It Today

Today marks 13 years since I lost my mom to cancer. I wrote a whole thing about it over on MySpace, but I'm not really in the mood to talk about it anymore. I will say here what I said there:

Do me a huge favor and go hug your mom or call her and tell her that you love her. Because you can. You never know how much of a luxury that is until you lose it.

Sorry I'm not a barrel of monkeys today. I'll return you to your regularly scheduled nonsense tomorrow.
(P.S. Spell check wants to replace "MySpace" with "mishaps" which I think is a great idea.)

Crickets

Is this thing on?

Sweet Dreams

A poem I wrote a couple of years ago and forgot about, then rediscovered today when I was cleaning old crap off my hard drive:

Sweet Dreams


I dreamed a dream last night.
The air was warm; the breeze blew in so softly
The garden was alive with scent and light
The sun shone down and wrapped us in its arms.

I dreamt last night that you were at my side,
We walked along a path of fragrant roses
You held my hand; we spoke in wordless motions,
My love reflected back from in your eyes.

The wind turned cold last night
Your touch was gone, I stood in lonely silence
My tears fell on the roses, made them wilt
I reached for you, but you were never with me.

I woke from sleep last night,
And shivered in the bleak and stony darkness
My love returned by nothing but the walls,
The memories yielding slowly to the night.

I dreamt of you last night…



I remember that I wrote this in Buffalo when I ran away from home because 1153 did something mean to me. I also remember that I got so hammered that weekend my cousin ended up taking me home because he couldn't handle how obnoxiously drunk I was. And I really really wanted to go see strippers. Which I told everyone. At the top of my lungs. Repeatedly. I also said that if my brother had been there instead of me, that they probably would be seeing strippers, and that the only reason he wouldn't take me was because I was a girl, and that he should really rethink that and take me instead because "Brandon is a PUSSY". I think he over reacted. If he would have just pointed me in the direction of strippers, I'm sure I would have shut the fuck up, or at least reduced the decibel level some. Anyway, after the poem, the drinking binge and the blunt tongue-lashing from my Auntie Margaret(which are always that much harsher for being delivered in that brogue accent - she's Scottish) I felt better and came home. I showed the poem to 1153, he felt it was unduly hard on him and criminally unfair, so I saved it on my hard drive at work and forgot about it until today. Ahh memories...