Mistress Quickly (Or, how the tube is stupid)

I have decided that London public transport gets me around too quickly.

Now, I'm sure many of you who are also in London may disagree. And I understand that this is not the case when you have line closures and tube strikes and people on the tracks. But I'm not talking about those times, I'm talking about all other times.

You see, Miss Mia here has always had a habit of feeling the need to arrive early to everything, shows, parties, class, work, and so on. To add to that, I also have the habit of always being scared that I'll be late to important things. Therefore, even when I plan to arrive early, I still leave a bit earlier and get to things very early.

But, see, this is all talking about when I walk or drive places, aka, at Ithaca or home. But here I am using public transport, therefore my need to be early doesn't seem as crazy, yet somehow the tube is always against me and gets me places far too early.

My main (and possibly only real) example is yesterday. Yesterday I got off work early, at 6, because I had to see Henry IV Pt. 2 at the Globe at 7:30. To take my time, I first took out some cash. I then looked at the time, it wasn't even 6:05, so I got a Soy Chai Latte at Starbucks. It was 6:10. Went into the station, waited a bit, drank my chai, put on some Arcade Fire. Train came, and Mansion House is a fair amount of stops from Gloucester Road. I get off the train, wander slowly in the rain to Millennium Bridge, pull out my iPod to see the time... it's 6:21!

And it was raining.

And I didn't have my umbrella.

And the Globe wasn't even letting people in yet.

And I had finished my chai on the train.

So I stood under a doorway and cursed fast London transport. And later cursed it more for my early arrival because I then bought some nerdy things in the Globe shop (a Tempest mug and a Tempest shot glass).

Basically, either way you look at it (meaning slow or fast) London transport is an evil evil thing and should never be trusted. Not with your life, your money, your cat, your grandma, or your plans.

Speaking on cats and the tube, here's something I completely forgot to mention in my Cat Fancy blog post.
Last week it think it was, or maybe the week before that, in one day, I saw three, yes three, men with cats ON THE TUBE. All of their cats were in closed in baskets (two wicker, one plastic) that they placed upon their laps.
Well... actually, one man didn't do the placing, his wife did. She entered the train, placed the kitty basket on her husband's lap, then left the train. This left me wondering, did she buy a train ticket simply to place a cat on her husband's lap???

My overall conclusion?
I could really go for some high tea right now.

The Curse of Bevan Jones Pt. 3 (There is No Cure)

This cure will be my demise, I am sure of it.

This morning the curse was at it's worst. It decided to strike right away. Therefore poor cursed Mia found her eyes closing whilst writing notes. How awful is that? Quite awful would be the answer. I am pretty positive that if you were to look at my notes you could spot the words I fell asleep during because they trail off and smoosh together (yes, at the same time).

I has one quick dream during the lecture where for about 2 seconds I saw only black snowflake TV fuzz. (I of course opened my eyes straight away after that). I also think there was a 5 second dream about woman in sweaters. There was one moment where my eyes closed for the longest, maybe 10/15 seconds, and I actually woke feeling quite refreshed and awake... for about a minute.

It was simply awful. I feel so terrible about it, because I am quite interested in the things Bevan has to say, but his Welsh (sheep) genes dust my eyes with sleepy sand (or whatever the hell the Sandman sprinkles over your eyes to make you sleep). Though maybe in Bevan's case he sprinkles wool...

Here's the real kicker though. I thought I found a cure! (note the word thought) You see, there was a coffee talk this afternoon during the break in the middle of class (wherein I discovered that others in the class seem to feel the same curse I do, they just must be too scared to talk about it as much, clearly). At the coffee talk I had a nice cup of coffee and a couple lovely chocolate biscuits. When I returned to class I felt quite peppy and awake, ready to take on Bevan, his curse, and the documentary of the day.

And it worked! Boy did it work well, I was alert, awake, and not feeling sleepy at all... for 75% of the documentary. But, as always, eventually the curse slowly but surely hit and I felt those sheep in my mind, heard that Welsh music, and felt my poor poor eye-lids getting heavier and heavier. Try as I could, I could not break that Jones-y spell.

It's sad too, cause I was sitting there thinking about how exciting it was that I found a cure. But alas, there is no breaking the curse, I am sure of it now.

Lastly I will leave you with a picture...

And a thought... Ever notice that there's only a one letter difference between Sheep and Sleep?? (think on that and get back to me.)

My Dark Depression (A Tale of TV Loss)

There are many things that could make a girl far from home horribly upset. These are things like... homesickness, dealing with strange food, not being able to understand some of the British accents, hating tube closings and strikes, cold rainy weather, fridges that don't work, or toilets with no toilet seats. (only some of these apply to me).


But what makes Miss Amelia Hanson quite upset, nay... almost deeply depressed, about being abroad?
American TV and Hulu Queue updates.


Last week marked the return off most of my favorite shows in the US. That means last week marked a flooding of emails from Hulu teasing me with that fact that my Queue is full of lovely, beautiful, entertaining, eye watering television shows, that I am not allowed to watch because I am in the United Kingdom. And trust me, I've tried, I've tried SO hard to watch them, but it just doesn't work.


It's the most depressing moment of my day, checking my email and finding out that Bones, The Office, Glee, Cougar Town, Modern Family, Community, The Good Guys, Parenthood and many more, are just waiting for me, wanting me to watch them before they expire (which of course is before I come home).


It's like sending a fat diabetic child pictures of cakes and cookies and cupcakes and pudding and ice cream waiting for him at home, but adding that it will all be gone by 2pm that day.


Poor fat diabetic child.


To make matters worse, British TV taunts me by showing me last years season of my favorite shows and calling them new.


They aren't new if I've seen them before E4!!! You crazy purple bastards!!!!!


Or, there's ITV, which teases me with commercials for the real new season of House, the one you all get to watch right now, but then fucking me over at the end and saying, Oh! By the way you silly sad American, this show is going to be on a channel YOU DON'T GET!!


YOU ARE MEAN ITV, VERY MEAN.


Therefore, (along with watching some lovely British shows which does fill a tiny void), I watch shit loads of Friends, last years Big Bang Theory, How I Met Your Mother and Glee. And I watch season 2 of True Blood every Thursday night for the 3rd time in oh... a year.


This is my depressing life, TV wise. You may not understand my pain, but I know it's there, and I know it's read, and it make me cry EVERY SINGLE COLD DARK INTERNET-LESS NIGHT (oh yeah, by the way, we will never have at home internet, so that doesn't help my strife).


But I will leave you with a completely unrelated story.


While I was writing this blog post, the large old Asian man sitting across from me turned his laptop (with camera on) to face me directly. (meaning whoever he was chatting with was now watching me) When He noticed me looking he quickly hid the scree that showed what was on camera, you know, so I couldn't see. He left his laptop there, facing me, for at least two minutes while he "read" his newspaper. He then turned it back to him, smirked at the camera, and started chatting with that person again.


That's creepy large old Asian man, that's creepy.

Large Rocks, Love Triangles, and Lionel Richie (or a list of things for you to read)

Here is a list of strange, interesting, and amusing facts, events (and possibly words) from this weekend.

Morgan, Sean and I are in a bizarre love triangle. Sean and Morgan love each other like 5 year olds love each other. Morgan and I love each other like a mother (me) loves her 3 year old daughter (Morgan). And Sean and I love each other like 7 year olds love each other.
      Note: This is all plutonic, innocent childish love of course (just so Sean doesn't throw a hissy fit)

You know you are the youngest people in a club when the only song the DJ plays that you know is All Night Long by Lionel Richie.

Brits don't know how to make real milkshakes. Not to say their milkshakes are awful, they just aren't right.

If one is to drink warm Scrumpy Jack, one should drink it as a shot.

White Russians are lovely, even when they cost £7.

British people REALLY like cats. I found two more this weekend.

Ancient British people liked large rocks, a lot. Like, a lot a lot. This is a rock solid fact. (pardon the pun please)

Morgan and I enjoy sheep chasing, but the sheep do not enjoy Morgan and Mia.

Morgan has gone from being simply a mermaid to being a vampire mermaid. This mean she attempts to bite me whilst kicking and flailing like a mad-woman. It's a serious problem.

Shops in Bath close way too early.

Fudge shops use very very sneaky ploys to get you to buy their tasty fudge.

I stumbled upon the Friends Meeting House in Bath and was quite pleased with myself.

There is currently a rabbit and a carrot drawn inside my TV tattoo. These things happen in strange situations at 3am.

I have a problem of always getting the loud beds when sharing a room with Morgan. I think this upsets her quite a bit sometimes.

In closing I would just like to say that I am extremely tired from this weekend, I do not wish to fill out an RA application or read a book... but alas, I know I must.

And I would like to add that currently my right arm is a world of hurt. 1. I cut my index nail too short, so it hurts to type with it. 2. Stone Henge gave my a splinter. (I know it's made of stone, and you can't touch it, but it still gave me a splinter, truth). 3. I have a very painful arm bruise from hitting a banester in the London Center whilst closing Wednesday night.

I hope you enjoyed this blog post and didn't find it too much of a cop-out (because there is a faint possibility that it was, but I could be lying about that)

A note for you, Starbucks just started playing Shaft. (the song)





PS
I am a Quaker, I'm not meant to lie.

Cat Fancy (Or, What's Up With the Cats England?)

Let's talk about cats.
More importantly, let's talk about Brits and their cats.
I have come to the conclusion that British people are cat obsessed. This isn't really a problem with me, cause I love cats (I also love dogs, and yes, you can be both a dog and cat person) in fact I have two cats.

(let's now take a quick break to talk about my cats shall we??)
One cat I have is very old. Her name is Louisa, she is 16 I think, very cranky, quite skinny, very talkative, but quite energetic for her age, in fact, she has just recently ventured into rooms she hated for years and goes outside. Good for her, good for her. The other cat is Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc is crazy. Jean-Luc look like a French man (or some say Elvis) because he is totally white with the exception of his tail and his head which is patterned to look like a head of hair and a beard. It's true.
(okay, end of American cats)

Back to Brits and cats.
The first thing about Brits and Cats that caught my attention was an Ikea commercial that featured cats roaming free inside an Ikea store. Upon further investigation I discovered that this commercial was created by some people getting 100 house cats and releasing them into the store and turning on some cameras.
People are strange, mostly, British people are strange.

This is that commercial
Ikea Cats

Next... Brian Eno and his cat. Yesterday in British Pop we watched two documentaries about Brian Eno. In the 2nd one, a pretty recent one done by the BBC, he had a black cat. This cat wandered around his home, and was often the focus of countless shots, including some nice close-ups of this cat just chilling around Eno's pad. Still, the real kicker was when they showed about 5 minutes of Brian Eno holding his cat and chatting about music.
For your viewing pleasure, here is a picture of Brian Eno and a cat. This picture is from a time long before the documentary we saw, and with a different cat, but you get the idea.

Lastly I shall tell the story of Bubbles.
Whilst walking back into Stratford-Upon-Avon from Anne Hathaway's cottage a few weeks ago, we (being myself, Shena, Latrice, and Therese) happened upon a cat. This cat was quite friendly and cute, so I picked her up and cuddled her and discovered her name (according to her tag). I then put her back down, Shena petted her a bit, and we headed off to find a pub. But Bubbles hadn't had enough, and that little cat followed us all the way to the pub, and into the pub. She then was discovered in the pub by the workers, questioned, picked up, and gently placed outside.

And now I leave you with this.
Do Brits like cats cause they are sometimes snobby and independents of their owners? Or because they are soft and cuddly?
(consider that tricky one)

For Josiah: A Life Update from His Little Sister

Dear Brother,
Hi! My name is Mia, though I assume you know that since you gave me that name. My real name, in case you forgot, it Amelia. Currently, I am aged 20 years, but in a month (exactly) I will have reached 21, and my sources tell me that the day I become old enough to drink in the United States of America (which I will not be in on that day) you will be leaving on a jet plane with our father for South (or Central?) America, so you have no excuses to forget about the anniversary of my birth. But, again, all this is information you should know.

Let's move on to information that you may not know.

You do know I'm currently in London. You may not know that this weekend I will be traveling to Bath, Stone Henge, Avebury, Wells Cathedral and Glastonbury. This should be a lovely trip. I will take lots of pictures, though I have a feeling they will never be quite as nice as the ones you took 7 years ago. Though it does help that we only went to two of those places, so I'll get pictures you didn't get a chance to get.

Now let's go back further, so you can know what happened in my life before London.

This summer I didn't go very far from home. My friends and I did spend a week up at Michael's cabin, it was quite different than the weekends we used to spend there, but very fun. Our mother, her eldest younger brother and I also visited our Hanson grandparents, there I helped canoe a loon island across the lake. I also walked two dogs all summer long and made enough money to get a very nice new camera and a 2nd tattoo (your sister is such a rebel).

As for your questions, the ones you asked in a comment (in case you forgot those already) I will now answer them.
1. Yes, I went to a mega church far in the suburbs, I went with Julia and our friend Kiya, who you have never met (Julia is the girl you've know since forever, and once disliked, in case you forgot). This church was massive, it even has a restaurant inside it, and a gift shop. There were thousands upon thousands of theatre like seats, a large stage, and two screens that displayed the band, preacher, videos, ads, and lyrics to their hymns. The church also didn't seem to care that Asia has many countries in it, it's just Asia. Well... China too. The church was scary, I feel sorry for those people, because they are teaching their selves and their children an extremely skewed view of the world. There is much more that could be said about that church, but I think I am attempting to wipe it from my mind right now.
2. "How's the accent coming?" What accent?? I'm not picking one up, if that's what you mean. If you mean my Minnesotan accent, I like to believe that I am in good control of it, you know, just hints of it here and then, and of course large hints of it when it comes to worlds like bag, dragon, and Agatha Christie.

In closing Josiah, dear brother of mine that I rarely see or speak to, I believe we need to learn more about each other evetually, especially as you are my only brother (though, I suppose I'm a bit less special to you as I am not your only sister...). Hopefully you will visit me when I am in LA this winter/spring (or I you, or somewhere in the middle). Maybe we can go to Disney Land together, though that may break our banks.

Whatever is it we end up doing to reconnect, I have decided it must happen, because it seems that as brother and sister, we sort of fail (but not really, cause we're the best right??).

That is all for now. Hopefully you feel better updated on my life now, I think you should.

Much love from your little sister,
Mia

P.S.
Remember that time you wouldn't leave my closet and threw part of a cucumber at me?? Yeah, that happened.

The Curse of Bevan Jones Continues

Well, the curse reared it's ugly head again today.
I was well awake during the first half of comedy as we learned about Music Hall and comedy traditions and the start of sitcoms in Britain and discussed the Carry On films.
I was even quite awake as we watched part of a documentary about sitcoms (and I was quite happy watching that documentary I might add).
But as soon as Professor Jones popped Hancock for us to watch an episode of, my body started to notice how dark the room was, and how warm it was (especially considering that the London Center is perhaps the coldest building in London, no matter how warm it is outside, though maybe the cells in the Tower of London are colder, but somehow I doubt that).

So there I was, sitting in a warm, dark room, surrounded by the soothing sounds of silly Brits and recorded British laughter mixed live American laughter, and in the presence of the Welsh sheep Professor himself, and of course I found myself drifting off.

But! Since I intend to be a good student no matter how asleep I may be during class, I put in the effort to raise my head slightly every few moments to laugh along with the show, and then slip back into my dream land.

And don't take any of this that badly, my nap was maybe 5 minutes of sleep consistantly self-inturrupted by my own personal, well placed laugh-track. After the sleep/laughter started to hurt my neck I promptly sat upright and finished watching the show.

Given this story, it is extremely clear that I am cursed by the sheepish (and when using that word I do not mean shy) Professor Jones and his neverending Welsh ness.

Though... I was up till almost 3am finishing a novel for Irish Literature and after was unable to fall asleep for quite some time... but I mean, that obviously can't be why I fell into a quant doze in class, because I was smart and had some fairly strong coffee this morning.

My conclusion: Don't blame the Irish when you sleep in class, blame the Welsh. They've faced a bit less hardship, they can handle it.

Mia Goes Out or The Story of Creepy James

As a precursor to this blog I will state that due to the fact that my family does read this, therefore there may be a few small details left out of this story.

Last night my flatmates and I (minus Latrice, who was busy far away enjoying Oktoberfest, and with the addition of Sean who wanted to go out in hopes of finding a lady-friend) went out to a club in central London called Tiger Tiger.

Of course, before heading out, and after making ourselves presentable, we enjoyed a few refreshments. Because you know refreshments are always more affordable at home.After much enjoyment at home it was time to head out.

We lost one flatmate along the way as she neglected to bring a proper form of identification and thus was not allowed into the club, so we headed in without her, and she headed home in hopes of wine.

Not long into dancing (and after one refreshment inside) I was spotted by a fairly handsome man in a grey sweater and we began dancing together. During this dancing I discovered his name was James, and I discovered he was wearing a very legitimate sweater, which I must say I found quite odd. The dancing was fun, I was enjoying myself, until James asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend, a question I'm sure I must have made him repeat at least 5 times because it was impossible to hear anything over that music (seriously, those bartenders must have mad listening skills). And it was at this question that I choose to take my leave from James, because he was nice to dance with, but I did not want to be his girlfriend, no sir.

Sadly this was not the end of James. A few minutes later, after my friend and I had left the dance floor for a bit and returned, the ever lovely James could be seen watching me though the crowd. Dear, sweet Morgan attempted to save me as James slowly but surely found the most direct route to me by informing Sean it was his job to be a man and protect me by dancing with me. Sadly, Sean is not the best dancer and doesn't understand that when trying to show other men that a girl is yours (as that is what is needed for protection) that you must actually touch said girl. Needless to say, James made his way to me. He said a fair amount to me that I couldn't understand over the music, all I made out, I think, was that he was sorry if he offended me, I said it was fine and signaled that I just was done and wanted to be with my friends. He did back off a bit, but Creepy James spent at least another five minutes just standing back and watching me. Thus the name Creepy James.

Eventually though, he simply disappeared, like a creepy ghost, never to be seen again.

That, my friends, is the story of Creepy James.

The remainder of the night included Morgan and Sean being 5 year-olds in love, holding hands and jumping up and down while singing along to Lady Gaga. Morgan purchasing a £5 shot from a shirtless man in hopes of licking it off his chest. Sean failing at dancing with girls because all he does is stand next to them. Morgan and the panini press. And waving at a very enthusiastic girl between our two bus tops.

And of course the night ended with a a slumber party of chatter in my bed with Morgan.

The Curse of Bevan Jones (or maybe just lack of sleep)

I have a teacher here at the Ithaca College London Center.
His name is Bevan Jones, he teaches British Comedy and British Media. He is also Welsh. I believe that because he is Welsh, because there are many many sheep is Wales, he has cursed me.

You see, I take class with Prof. Jones Monday and Wednesday mornings. Each morning, in each class, he spends the first half lecturing, and we take notes. Now, this part of class goes just fine for me, I feel as awake as I should for the time of day, I take all the notes I should and everything goes just dandy.

Then we take a break and come back to watch a film (a comedy if it's comedy class, a documentary if it's media). And that's when the curse kicks in.

No matter how awake I was before the break, no matter how interesting I find the film, I begin to fall asleep. And I do truly try my hardest to stay awake. I will stare at the ceiling to keep my eyes open. I attempt to quietly slap my face a bit, or just shake my head awake, but despite all my efforts, I still always find my eyes slowly closing, my head falling back, and then I will dream for a few seconds before one of my flatmates usually appears in my dream telling me to wake up.

Personally, I do think it's due to Bevan's Welsh-ness, because, as stated before, sheep are the majority in Wales, humans the minority, and sheep help people sleep. Therefore, having a Welsh teacher puts people to sleep.

Or maybe I just don't sleep enough...

New! Improved! London! Blog! Words!!

Everyone here in London is Blogging, and as a writer I started to feel a few twinges of guilt for not doing a blog myself. Therefore I decided to revamp my Quest blog (seeing as the Quest pretty much ended after the mega-church, which I never did write a blog about...) and turn it into something else. Even if some people think I'm a bit late to join the trend.

So here we have it!! The adventures of Amelia "Mia" Hanson as she travels across (parts) of the Western World! Aren't you excited? I would be if I were you. Though I'm not sure if I'd be excited to BE you as I'm decently satisfied with being me... moving on.

LONDON!!

(that's where I live!)

I live in a flat lovingly named The Shining (which I will explain in a post once my flat has internet so I can give you a nice visual explanation). The Shining is a long, thin flat. With a long, thin kitchen that we still have managed to fit all six residents (that would be Shena and Sam in the front bedroom, Morgan and Mia in the middle, and Theresa and Latrice in the back, with their own toilet) in at one time. The Shining's kitchen also holds a (soon to be replaced) half-dead fridge that keeps our food longer than without a fridge, but not as long as with a good fridge, plus the freezer doesn't freeze, just chills better than the fridge. There is also a sort of courtyard outside two of the bedroom windows in The Shining, but we are not allowed to enter it. Therefore the only use of the courtyard is for Morgan and I to hear Theresa and Latrice giggling into the wee hours of the night, and for Latrice and Theresa to hear Morgan inform me that she is a Mermaid the moment I close my eyes.

(this is my life)

I’m actually becoming quite fond of London, or at least the parts of London I spend most of my time in, which would be Kensington, Notting Hill and Bayswater. I haven’t really bothered to see too many touristy sites yet, though I do want to, I just never really want to when I actually have the free time for it. I suppose that’s just how it goes isn’t it?

I’m starting to realize that this blog entry is quite random. I think in upcoming posts I will attempt to have a clearer theme, maybe add more funny (because I want to work on my funny) but that could be an epic fail, and knowing me, my writing may end up so tragic it’ll make you tear up a bit, but let’s try and avoid that shall we? Yes.

As far as my “Quaking” goes, I suppose I’ve been a bit of a bad Quaker, as I haven’t really attended meeting since high school... with the exception of that one time this summer. Though I did look up meetings in London and I may try one out sometime while I’m here. I also never do my own personal silent worship. Though! Sometimes I do literally quake (mostly when working in the library) so that’s something isn’t it?