Blogs on a Plane

Let’s talk flying.

Currently I am sitting in a two-seat row on a Delta flight to Atlanta from London with both seats to myself. That’s pretty much the only luxury of this flight. At the moment the girl behind me is doing God knows what with my seat but it keeps moving and it’s really pissing me off. And as I stare at the cheap fake blue-green leather seatback in front of me I can’t help but remember the lovely seats and personal screens on my flight to London.

But I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much, at least I’m finally going home (well, not home, Atlanta, then hopefully Seattle), and an hour earlier than expected, so that’s decent.

Still, my enjoyment of returning to the country of my birth is slightly hindered by these ridiculous flight attendants. First there was Miss Bitch who asked me what I wanted to drink and snapped at me when I asked what they had, saying “We have everything, what do you usually drink?"

Excuse me lady, but no, you do not have everything, this flight would not fit everything, so there! That may not sound that mean, but she was really mean, trust me, I felt personally hurt by her. Still, I got a Coke, cause I decided it’s too early for a beer.

Then we have the silly flight attandent who showed her age when informing us that they needed to start the movie over again because the sound wasn’t working for everything. This one said “I know for those of you who could hear the film you’ll have to watch the same part over again, but sometimes with these modern movies it’s hard to follow the plot so it’s a good thing to see it again.”

And let me tell you, this movie is not complicated, not at all. Seriously, so far… boy gets dumped, girl is in internship, boy meets girl, they sleep together and hang out multiple times, but girl is leaving in 6 weeks, girl leaves and guy says “Let’s make this work” girl says yes.
That’s about it. But sure, I suppose that’s a really complicated plot as opposed to old movies…

I am very critical of these flight attendants… maybe it’s due to the fact that I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night and instead of Santa coming to Sean’s flat for a visit, we just got more pigeons cooing at the window at all hours of the night. Stupid pigeons.
Speaking of pigeons, I always think there should be a d in that word, but there never is, what up with that?

So… the movie stopped again. No explanation this time, and we didn’t even make it to the boy meets girl part. LAME. At least I now know that we have passed Ireland and are now over the ocean, isn’t that lovely?
There is faint calypso music playing though the static of my headphones on the airplane sound system. Way to show some holiday cheer guys… Oh! Now I get to hear chirping birds.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS FLIGHT!
THEY ARE GOING TO SERVE US PIZZA AS A SNACK BEFORE WE LAND! WHAT?

I give up on this flight. I mean… I know I can’t just walk off it, and I don’t want to, cause I think I’d like to have a few hours of Christmas, but I give up on my hope for a pleasant flight, that’s gone out the double (triple) plastic-paned window with the tiny round hole at the bottom.

(Oh yay… the movie’s starting ALL OVER AGAIN, wait, nope, it’s a different movie… lovely, we’ve gone from cute witty Rom-com that I wanted to see to Salt…)

Christmas Eve in London

What does Christmas Eve in London mean?

Well, it involves Latrice stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to dance to nondescript music coming from a strange flat.

And there's cooking in the London Center kitchen where we discover that we set the oven way too low and therefore having to cook things for 3 times as long.

sssaaqqaaa (a contribution from Latrice, how nice)

We make houses and men and balls of various sizes from Christmas play dough (which, by the way, is the same as the normal stuff).

There's bitching about the fact that we're in London on Christmas as we track Santa and our flight statuses.

And there are pumpkin cookies and spaghetti and tartlets and cheese sticks and garlic bread and oranges and Christmas pudding and such and such, a good portion of which was donated by the amazing staff of the ICLC.

Of course there's a bit of bickering and stuffed animal stealing.

And what would it be without a quick synopsis of the Finnish movie Rare Exports, a new Christmas horror movie about just how evil Santa really is (but can be defeated by the Finns).

Exchanging of camels is a must.

There was even opening of presents from the lovely ICLC staff!

There's skyping with my mother, who I think needs a bit of a haircut, but don't tell her I said that.

Then of course we have the watching of E4's Christmas Friends marathon!

But I suppose it's really about spending the evening with 6 other beautiful stranded girls from Ithaca College.

(but really it's about chocolate)

Merry Christmas from Mia and Latrice!

Trapped in London

You may or may not know this, but right now I should be sleeping at my dear friend Rosalee's apartment in New York City getting energy for my flight to MN later the same day.
Instead I am sitting in the computer lab of the ICLC, a place that, as of Friday, I thought I wasn't going to see again for years, if ever.

And why is this?
This is because on Saturday London got four inches of fluffy pretty snow and suddenly the entire country shut down.
Take Heathrow, that once the snow came, instead of keeping the workers at the airport to get rid of the snow and defrost the airplanes, they sent all the workers home for two days, leaving the wheels frozen to the ground on Monday.
Way to go London.
Let's see what else London did stupid...
Well, they don't know how to fucking shovel. The sidewalks were icy and covered in snow for 4 days. The street cleaners were trying to use brooms, and I have personally seen that they don't know how to use a shovel to chip away at ice.

But, on the bright side, it's not a lovely 50 degrees in London with no sidewalk ice and lots of melting snow.
Thanks for being on the ball London.


Now I am living in Sean's tiny flat for free with my lovely flatmates Shena and Latrice until I leave for Seattle on Christmas day.

So what do we do with our time?
We play on Sporcle.
We sing songs like Fuck You and The 12 Days of Christmas.
We bitch and moan about Virgin Atlantic.
We grow to hate some of the British things that just days before we loved.
We eat free muffin that appear magically before you (from the hand's of Latrice)
We yell at each other and ask if weird travel sites are real.
But mostly we just try and kill time until we have a flight.

It's really just so lovely...

THANKS LONDON!

The Curse of Bevan Jones Pt. 4 - Ode to Bevan

London is dusted with white snow today, on my last Friday and last day of work at the ICLC.
It's almost as if London is doing it's hardest to prepare me for my return to the land of ice and snow where Metrodome roofs falls in and my 60-year-old mother shovels 3 feet of snow like a 24-year-old man.
So on this epic day there really is only one thing to write my blog about...

Bevan Jones. (I mean come on, did we ever REALLY finish the curse?)

Therefore, for your reading pleasure, I bring you
The Curse of Bevan Jones Pt. 4 - Ode to Bevan

It is quite important to start by reminding everyone that, despite all hope and in class dreaming, there really is no cure to the curse. Even in my final days with the great, and curse ridden, Bevan I felt my eyes growing heavy as the documentaries and TV programs carried on.

To prove this, let's look back on my final day of class with Bevan. It was last Wednesday, and as I watched the funny and lovely old British movie that Bevan played for us I found myself slipping into a dream land that seemed like the film, but not quite.

But that is not the point of this blog entry, the point of this blog to to honor the wonderful Bevan.

Bevan, the man who looks like he could have easily been the secret member of The Pythons.
Bevan, the man who will make you smile in a picture by saying 'lesbians'.
Bevan, the man who, according to Latrice, dresses a bit like a 4-year-old and sometimes looks like oatmeal (clothing wise).
Bevan, the man who is confidant in his belief that TJ is called TG.
Bevan, the man who never gave us quite enough information about our papers, but always trusted us to make them great.
Bevan, the man who has connections EVERYWHERE.
Beven, the man who will give his class a confused look if they forget to greet him with a cheery 'Good morning!'
Bevan, the man who, according to the ICLC library database, needs to return his copy of Eureka Street, when in reality it's probably in the hands of a young man with the same last name. (yeah Claire, I threw some work in here)
Bevan, the man who knows pretty much everything there is to know about British media and comedy.
Bevan, the man adored by all his students and can do very little wrong.
Bevan, the man who can do every British accent perfectly. 
And, of course, Bevan Jones, the man who cursed me with sleep every Monday and Wednesday morning because of his Welshness.

So now, in the words of the great Bevan Jones...

Oooooo-kay, I think that's it.

Who Dubbed Who?

British TV does a lot of weird things when it comes to American things.
This includes doing fake American accents on the voice overs for shows like Ugly Betty and Desperate Housewives, which bother me, but I've gotten over.

What still bothers me though, dubbed commercials.

The first time I noticed a dubbed commercial was when I first saw one for Gladd air fresheners.
You see, there's a specific lady (and a really annoying one at that) who is in all the Gladd commercials back home. And guess what? She's in them here too. And even though she and her various different families in all their different homes are all really US citizens (we assume, and if they're aliens it's a-okay with me). But here, in the United Kingdom, where people have different accents, they decided it's best if the Gladd lady and her American family have British accents, and crappy dubbed ones at that. Gross.

Then we have M&M commercials, which we all know where made in the Sates (cause those little guys are very American) and which are rarely new, but sometimes they are. Now, thankfully, they don't dub over the M&M voices, cause those are far too distinctive to fuck with, but they do dub the voices of the humans in the ads.

Still, the worst one happened recently.
See, there's this cute ad for wireless photo printers that plays the song "Brand New Key" (you know the one, it goes 'I've got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key'). Well, it's an adorable commercial with a baby in a little rolley-baby thingy zooming through the streets while this song plays.Then in the end the (American) parents say something or another about their baby and the printer and blah blah blah who cares what they say but teh point is, even though this commercial was seen in the UK, they had accents like me (well... know quite like me, since I'm a bit more... from Minnesota, but you get the point).
BUT THEN! Just this weekend, after the commercial had been playing for like... two months, THE PARENTS WERE BRITISH!!
And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure no part of the UK looks like New Mexico/Arizona (did I mention they were there? cause they were, one of those places).

This really upset me (and Theresa cause this is actually her favorite commercial ever)

In conclusion, I don't like dubbed commercials.I know they happen sometimes in the States too, and those upset me just as much, but here they are more obvious.

The lesson here is that if you're not careful, your favorite commercial may be next. And who knows, maybe it'll be worse, maybe it'll get a Canadian accent.

My Magical Power

When I'm at work and... working really really hard (on catching up on Misfits and Dexter) I often like to play minesweeper.
Cause... you know, it's mindless enough to focus on my... work, but it works my mind enough so I don't completely turn my brain to mush.
Besides the fact the playing minesweeper reminds me how awful I am at minesweeper, it also reminds me of the stupidity of my childhood.
Namely, it reminds me of how I used to think that there were normal bombs and one red bomb and I was always so unlucky that I always ended up pressing the evil red bomb.

How was I always that unlucky? It wasn't fair, just not fair, I don't even know why there's a stupid red bomb or what it does but I always always end up clicking the stupid special red bomb.
This was the bane of my childhood early computer experiences.

Now though, I know that really clicking the special red bomb is a magical power reserved only for very very special and magical people.

Like me!

Not At All Product Placement

This blog may seem like a product placement blog, but it's not, I mean... at least not on purpose.

I love Pret soup. I adore it.
Sometimes I bring lunch to the ICLC, and it's okay. But it's not Pret soup.
Currently, I am having Pret's tasty chili beef and rice soup. I taste and see no rice in it, but that's okay, because it's so delicious. And so affordable! The soup is only £2.99 and a mini baguette (with butter) is only 50p!
That means that I can get a lovely, tasty, fairly healthy, filling lunch for under £5 and be so very very happy.
I could list all their soups... (like the lovely tomato soup, or the very tasty (and rare) Italian meatball) but I won't, that might be too much product placement...
eat at Pret
I just want to share with you my joy for lunch.
I believe that everyone should have a wonderful lunch, and I am proof that a lovely lunch doesn't have to cost you an arm (legs are much more expensive, let's not even go there).
I'm sure right now you're wishing you were me, as you sit there, reading my blog, no chili by your side, no mini baguette, no joy.
But you know what?
I believe in you, I believe you can find my joy one day!
(in fact, if you go to Pret, you just may find it today)

Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish my soup.

Power Lost (To a Moroccan Girl)

I spent this last weekend in the beautiful country of Morocco, and I had a wonderful time.
I ate amazing food, bought beautiful things at amazing prices and saw the wonderful Julia Gibas who I have been having sleepovers with for 21 years.
And though there were many experiences to talk about in Morocco, the most important story is how I was bested by an 8 year old Moroccan girl.

Her name, was (and still is) Selma.
Selma doesn't speak English, she speaks French and Arabic.
I don't speak Arabic and quickly realized that I no longer speak French either.
Saturday morning, right after breakfast, Julia left me for 5 hours... and Selma took over.
My hand was taken by her tiny one and my power was lost forever.

About an hour and a half was spent spinning her around, having her run into my arms, jumping with her, carrying her around and kicking and sweeping a soccer ball, exhausting stuff, let me tell you!

Finally we retired to the TV room, where she had me dictate her French so she could grade me...
I received an 8/10, much to my surprise (seeing as I didn't even understand half of what she said, and the rest I did not remember how to spell). She then made me memorize the names of her family by looking at a photo album, and when I failed (as I of course did because I am terrible with names) she yelled the names at me, quite fun. Then we drew pictues of me, Julia and her.
Then she drew in my tattoo.

It's blurry, I know, but it's a picture of a little girl and a sun.
After we had lunch she dragged me back to the TV room, said a lot of random things to me that I didn't understand and eventually somehow tricked me into giving her a massage?
I have no idea how that happened, that's the power of 8 year old Moroccan girls I suppose.

Frankly, it was all quite stressful (though at times fun).
But thankfully I somehow managed to get a fair amount of Irish Lit reading done, and somehow snuck in an hour long nap (mostly due to the fact that Julia was 2 hours late getting back)

What's important though is the lesson you should have learned from this blog post.
LEARN FRENCH!
Or else a small Moroccan girl will control 4 hours of your life.

Goodbye from all three of us!

Who's On Mia's TV? (I'm Thankful for My Boredom Cure)

It's almost Thanksgiving time!
A time to think about what you are thankful for.
A time to stuff your face full of turkey and mashed potatoes.
A time to be American.

Which is why I probably shouldn't write a blog post about Thanksgiving (you know, cause I'm in the UK)

But I will write about something I'm thankful for... and that's my TV tattoo.
As many of you know, this summer I had an old fashioned TV tattooed onto my left forearm (I named it Phil). And as you probably know if you've seen this television, it has a blank screen.
And what does that mean?
That means my arm has a lovely little box just begging to be drawn in whenever boredom strikes me.

Take, for example, when I was bored in British Pop early in the semester.

This was my first project, I was pleased.

Then there's the not so impressive bored waiting at Glouster Road Tube Stop for the Circle Line.

While I was pleased with the pink TV, the screen just ended up looking a bit stupid.

Then of course we have the lovely, weird, strange, I was not tired at 3am and got an idea for a computer project one...

 

This one really made me happy, even if the quality isn't the best.

There's also the only one ever drawn by someone other than me.

Or there is the time I found Nessie on my arm after coming home from Scotland, who would have ever thought he'd be there?

Lastly we have one for you to figure out.
Last night I was watching a British program online while at work and decided that I wanted the star of that British Program on my arm. So, I found a picture of him, flipped it upside down, and drew it on my arm.
Can you figure out who it is?
(special prize if you can)

PS
I'd love to know what your favorite piece of TV art it. Though of course there will be more as time goes on. Maybe you even have ideas for what I can draw next.

NOW I AM OFF TO MOROCCO!!!
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Bake Sale!

At this very moment people are telling me that they hate me, over and over again.
But it's all for charity.

In front of me, greeting every person that enters the building, is a table full of (mostly) home-baked goodies from cupcakes to chocolate cookies to blondies to "bites" and then of course are what I like to call Mia's Wonderful Chocolate Mistake Cookies.

You see, I was planning to make chocolate chip cookies. Last Thursday I bought two boxes of Betty Crocker Chocolate Chip Cookie mix so I would be ready for my bake sale contribution on Tuesday. I even made a batch for my flat simply to test out my skills. The outcome was interesting, but tasty (and made on a homemade baking sheet comprised of a broken down box covered in tin foil). The cookies themselves where a sort of mini-scone cookie hybrid.
I think this is due to the fact that the British simply don't know how to make real cookies.

Needless to say, I expected my cookie making to go flawlessly, and at first I thought it did. I mixed it all together, formed cute little cookie balls, placed them all nicely in row on my cookie sheet and popped them in the oven. Then I sat down on the couch with the remaining cookie dough to wait the ten minutes, but the moment I finished off the dough I realized that I never added the egg to my batter!

OH NO!

I pulled those little cookies right out of the oven, popped them back in my mixing pot (we don't have bowls) cracked an egg over them and mixed. The turned into a chocolate sticky mess (you know, cause the little chocolate chips got all melty after sitting in the oven for a minute).

I was very concerned, but my mistake cookies turned out more cookie like than the batch made on Sunday and turned from mini-scone cookie hybrid to brownie cookie hybrid. Joy!

Now the only bad this is that there are two cookies, a cupcake and a handful of tiny brownies staring at me and making me want to eat them. But, I mean, it is for charity...

We Were Raised Well (Creative Students Make Drinking Games)

Because my flatmates and I are in college, because we have no internet at home, because we were raised with loving families, and because we like spending time with each other there are two things we enjoy doing on weekends.

Drinking and playing games. Sometimes both. (it's about 50/50)

We should not be judged for this.
In fact, I think, in part, we should be a bit admired for this. It proves that we do not spend all our time in front of our television or shut away in our rooms. Of course, who knows if this would be the case if we had an internet connection, but that is not what's important here people!

What's important is we bond over games like Set and BS and Kent and War and Go Fish and Old Maid. (maybe you see a pattern here?) If you don't see the pattern, I'll spell it out for you. We only have Set cards and normal playing cards. It gets a little boring.

So what do we do?
We get creative and find ways to play branded board games without owning the game.
Namely Things... ! (a wonderful game I often play with my family or on Girl's Nights)

But this weekend we're taking that creativity even further.
That's right, we've turned Things... into a drinking game! And what a game it will be. I have fully prepared us by looking up bootleg Things cards online and when I go home I will prepare the paper.

We are wonderfully motivated and creative children (who are actually fully legal adults, some even in two countries), so don't ever doubt us!

And of course, we must be praised for finding ways to embrace the college lifestyle while clinging to our childhoods!

(sorry mother, love you!)

Not to Be a Downer, But... (A List of Complaints)

I feel like being a whiny little brat and complaining today, so what follows is a list of complaints from yours truly.
Enjoy!

People who use their laptops in class because they think the class isn't worth their full attention really annoy me, and I think it's very rude. I want to slam their computers closed.
But I don't.
Because that would be rude.

I don't like headaches either, they are also annoying, and I have had one all day.

Wobbly desks, and desks that things slid off are stupid.

My fingers are cold, but it's hard to type in mittens and I have no gloves.

I hate when no one in a class will respond to a question, even though you know they all have an answer, they just can't be bothered.

It's a bit of a bother that no matter what face Jimmy Carr makes he still looks funny.

I don't like how cold the London Center gets, I'm pretty sure there are areas inside this building that are at least five degrees colder than it is outside.

I wish the Christmas elves had decorated my flat...

Slow wifi upsets me, mostly because I've been trying to download a song I bought for days but it always says it will take an hour.

I am not a fan of how stupid HomerConnect is, even if I personally had no issues with it today.

I have had "These Eyes" stuck in my head for about a month now... Thanks Latrice.

I don't want to write a Hamlet paper by next Thursday, I really really don't.

I find it quite annoying that because the thin white part covering the raw leather has come off just over my right big toe in my older pair of Nike dunks, the toe of my sock get died red whenever it rains.

I am not as annoyed as I should that I currently only have one pair of jeans, but it is more annoying when it rains.

My mittens tickle my wrists, which makes me not want to wear them, but then my hands get cold.

Though I am pleased that I get a king sized bed next semester, I am annoyed that I own every size of bed sheet except king sized.

My landlord makes me very angry.

I want a kitty, or a puppy.

I am sick of finding long hairs that aren't mine on my clothes.


On a bright side, I am quite amused that someone at the London Center totally has a Morrissey haircut.

Truth.

Elves and Goblins: The Christmas Explosion

The moment November started in London Christmas exploded.
I have a theory that there were elves, disquised as goblins of course, waiting all around London Halloween night and the moment midnight struck they popped out and decorated EVERYTHING!

And now it is impossible to going pretty much anywhere in London without being reminded that Christmas is... MORE THAN A MONTH AWAY.
Still, I'm not allowed to complain, because this country doesn't have Thanksgiving as a buffer between the goblins and the elves.
And, I must admit, there are a few pluses to this Christmas explosion.
That would be food, because now that Tesco has been taken over by the Christmas elves there is lots of Christmas food.
Like...
Cranberry and Orange Jaffa Cake Bars!
And Mince Pies!! (which I have been wanting since I got here)
And best of all, in case I was missing the idea of Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches (which I wasn't yet) the elves have given me a wealth of British Turkey Feast sandwiches (which I am currently eating and finding quite lovely)

Mostly though, I'm happy about the mince pies.
And excited that this year's Christmas theme in London is Narnia.
Thanks elves!

Thanks Victoria...

The goal was to meet at Victoria Station at 9:45am at the bottom of the escalator by Yo! Sushi and the pub. The plan was to go on a tour of The Daily Telegraph at 10:00am with the rest of the class. But instead of standing by an escalator at 9:45, Latrice and I were just stepping onto the 52 bus to Victoria.
Talk about epic fail.

Today there is a tube strike in London. Not that many lines are down, but the only two lines that could have quickly taken us to Victoria, just weren't having Notting Hill, probably because it's too posh for them, but we're not posh, just our neighborhood...

About 3 buses had already rejected us before a man told us that if we went to a different bus stop, one just around the corner, we would be greeted by countless buses going to Victoria. He lied. This magical Victoria transport land did not exist, only one bus went to Victoria from there. I think he just didn't want us to steal his spot on the 148, bastard. Not only did only one bus go to Victoria, Victoria was the last of many stops on this bus. And of course there was a large group of children on the bus whose teachers didn't realize that Royal Albert Hall was their stop until the bus had been sitting there for 2 minutes, and then had to sit for ten more while the massive load of children shuffled off.

Finally, at about 10:45, we were at Victoria Station, an hour late. We sort of... stumbled into the Daily Telegraph building and informed them that we were part of the tour group, and that we were very late. They let us up. We then informed the security guard that we were part of the tour group and that we were very late. He agreeded to let us in and then took us into the actual newspaper area in search for our group. We looked all over, asked a women where the tour guide was, she told him that the tour guide was giving a tour at the moment... our guard/giude/search party man informed her that we were part of that group, and needed to find it, she couldn't help.

Finally we found them, they were amused we were so late, but impressed that we hadn't given up. Then the tour giude finished his sentence and... the tour was over.

At least we were in the group picture...

There's only one person to blame for this.

Ode to The Tempest

(I have decided that my letter to the men of Holland hostels is enough on Holland, so now we're moving on)

I would like to talk to you about my obsession.
The Tempest.
I love The Tempest. I adore The Tempest. I almost worship The Tempest.
Here's how much I love it.
I wrote a full length play adaptation of The Tempest.
I think directed my full length play adaptation of The Tempest at my high school.
My theatre teacher gave me a copy of The Tempest from 1923 for graduation, because she knew I am infatuated with The Tempest.
I have only seen two productions of The Tempest, and this upsets me extremely.
I was extremely upset to discover that I had arrived in England just too late to see the RSC do The Tempest.
When we went to the RSC I bought a The Tempest t-shirt. I adore that shirt.
When I went to the Globe giftshop I bought a The Tempest mug, that reads "Thought is free," and a The Tempest shot glass that reads "A howling monster, a drunken monster."
Lately, I have been brainstorming how to improve my adaptation of The Tempest and make it a screenplay.
Today I saw a trailer of the new film version of The Tempest and my mind nearly exploded.
I. Love. The. Tempest.

For your viewing pleasure...
The Tempest Trailer

To the Men of the Hostels in Holland (You Ruin My Life and I Hate You)

Dear Men in Holland Hostels,
Hi there men in Holland hostels! You probably don't remember me but I sure as hell remember you. Now, don't take that as a compliment, because it most certainly is not. See... there was that time you decided to sleep on you back, shirtless, like you were lounging on your Australian beaches. Not only did that make you look like an ass, it made you sound like an ass. Literally. You sounded like a barking, braying, snorting horrid ass. To make matters worse, another one of you asses decided to enter into a sleep-ridden snoring and snorting competition with the first one of you. It made for a simply horrid first night in Holland.

You ruin my life and I hate you.

Then there were those things when these large South American hords of you stormed the room. Do you know what you lot did? Do you know?!? I'll tell you what you did. The moment I reached the line between life and dream, that lovely cusp, you destroyed my world. Flipping on lights, chattering on and on in Portuguese and Spanish, thumping, bumping and canoodling around the room at 3am. The worst of you was you, mu bed neighbor. What did you do? You threw your coat on me and sat on my feet. Yes, you did, don't deny it. And I'm pretty sure I was clearly in that bed, and seeing as you and your awful friends turned on the lights, I knew your eyes could see just find.

You ruin my life and I hate you.

What else do you do? Well, let me tell you. You stick up the room with your dirt and your sprays. You throw yours things around every which way. You let in strangers, forget your keys and chatter no matter what time of day. And then, of course, we'll never forget, that you snore and snore and endlessly endlessly snore.

You ruin my life and I hate you.

Of course, that was just in the bedroom. When we enter the bar the creepers come out, the drunks, the stoners, the weirdos and all. You lot are endless and hard to define 'cause you're fat and you're skinny, you're young and you're old, you're Irish, Israeli, American and more. You're unshakeable, persistant and horribly awful. You make me uncomfortable.

You ruin my life and I hate you.

I know I sound harsh, brutal and mean, or maybe simply judgmental. I will gladly admit there were lovely men, and there were plenty of horrible women. Yet the point of my letter remains at the end. To the men of the hostels in Holland, there's just one thing I want you to know.

That you ruin my life and I hate you.

Love,

Amelia B Hanson

Holland Blogs Delayed Until Further Notice

I have much to write:
A Letter to Males in Holland Hostels
Stupid Americans and Creepy Israelis
Why Miniature Things are Lovely
English - At Least It's Not Dutch
And other possible blog topics created during different states of mind whilst in Holland.
I have attempted to start these blog posts, but it appears that my head refuses to write a light hearted lovely blog post as this blog is accustom to. (or... I'm in the most rotten mood of the last two months and if I were to write those posts they would be mean, cold and very bitter.)
Therefore it may take a few days for Mia to... get her groove back.

Please don't cry Friends (oh, there's a double meaning there!) when those posts do appear, they will be worth the wait.

Caution: Wet Paint

My time in Holland so far has proven to me that it was a very smart idea to make my I'll Never Tell blog post.
I have also realized, thanks mostly to my 1.5 day stint so far in Amsterdam, that there are things that should have been added to that list. Oh well, I'll just know what I'm not telling you, and you won't.

Now, instead of talking to you all about those things that I will not talk to you about, I am going to talk to you about wet paint. Sadly, I don't have too much to say about wet paint, but I'll do what I can to keep you all happy.

Wet paint is evil.

When we first arrived at the London Center, we couldn't use the toilets.
Why?
Wet paint.

When we came back to the hostel today, trying to escape from the hail on the Amsterdam streets, going up 90 some extremely steep stairs, we needed the banister. But when we looked at our hands we realized we couldn't use it.
Why?
Wet paint.

Conclusion?
Wet paint is evil

Mia's Fall Break Travel Guide

All my papers have been finished and printed, all my classes attended and all my things packed.

It is time for Fall Break in the Netherlands!! (that is, once Morgan gets out of class...)

I could think of a topic to write about and leave you with as I head off on my travels (which will surely result in some wonderful blog posts) but instead I have chosen to share with you a lovely, and relavent, article that I wrote for the just published Fall Break edition of the Skint, the magazine put out almost monthly by the ICLC. 

So... you know... enjoy!!! (and be careful out there)

Mia’s Fall Break Travel Guide

Disclaimer: If the country of your origin has been insulted, sorry? And if you feel I was too mean to Norway, it’s okay; I’m so Norwegian one of my middle names is Fjerkenstad.

Let’s talk travel folks.

You’re all about to venture into the big wide world that is Europe for a week, and whether you realize it or not, that’s a very scary thing. Sure, you may have gone to Mexico and Canada for spring break, spent a year studying a broad in France during high school, maybe you just spent a week in Dublin, and gosh you are spending 4 months living in London, land of pick-pockets and that awful awful thief Charles Dickens, but trust me, it’s not the same.

You’re about to go to uncharted, dark and scary lands like Italy, where there’s never enough sauce on your pizza. Or Germany, where women named Olga will kill you with their giant breasts. Maybe you’re going to Iceland, and you’re thinking, “I’ll be fine, that unpronounceable volcano already exploded, and Bjork lives in American most of the time.” But what you don’t know is that if you can’t pronounce their language, they’ll make those hot springs just a little too hot. And Holland is the land of tulips, clogs and Amsterdam right? Maybe, but it’s also the land of thieves who steal not only your bike, but also your soul, and throw both into the canal. What about Spain, where you never really know if you’re eating bull testicles, baby squid, or maybe just chorizo? And don’t even get me started about Scandinavia… Swedes will make you cry, Danes will throw skulls at you, Finns never stop playing heavy metal, and, oh man, Norwegians… those guys are just the worst. Just imagine being forced to eat lutefisk while watching the complete works of Ibsen, in the original language, in a town where the sun never rises. And that’ll be the good half of your week.

Now that you know the truth and have changed all your travel arrangements, what are your options back in the UK? There aren’t many. Northern Ireland just has potatoes, Wales just has sheep, and Scots are so scary even Nessie left. What about visiting various places in England Mia, you’re asking. Well, I suppose that’s an option, but if you go too far North you won’t understand them, and they won’t understand you. Too far South and you’ll just fall off the Cliffs of Dover. West, and really, you’ll just end up in Wales, and we’ve covered that. And East just is not an option, so don’t even ask.

Right about now you’re probably thinking to yourselves, “Gosh, I should have never come to this terrible side of the ocean, why can’t I just go back to pretty, peaceful Ithaca?” But seeing as you can’t go back there just yet, I’ll let you in on a little secret that may make you feel better. See, Ithaca isn’t safe either, because in Ithaca there’s a large purple radioactive duck-billed platypus named Graper who lives in lake Cayuga and the moment you feel safe and cozy back in Ithaca, Graper will strike.

After all this, what’s my advice? Go to Switzerland, they have chocolate, are always neutral, and really the Swiss never do anything mean, if they even feel a mean urge, they move to Germany and change their names to Olga. So come on guys, let’s pack up our bags, hop on a plane, go to Switzerland and eat chocolate till we burst. Best ICLC fall break ever!

Like a light bulb, in a dark room... that will never ever get turned on.

Today marks the last week of classes before fall break here at the Ithaca College London Center which means that on Thursday Morgan and I will be off to Amsterdam.
Today also marks only 10 days left until my 21st, and golden, birthday.
Today also marks that I have even fewer days left now to finish (and in some cases start) my final 3 midterm papers (as one was just handed over less than 20 minutes ago to Mr. Bevan Jones himself. And might I note that despite the fact that over half his class today was spent watching various videos, I didn't even feel a hint of sleepiness!!).

So, knowing that I have less than 3 days to write 6000 words on Shakespeare, Irish women and British television there really is only one thing that I can write about.

And that, my friends, is useless light switches.

Ever since I was a small child I was haunted and tormented by useless light switches. My most vivid memory (probably because the light switch is still lurking around my house) is of the horrifying light switch in my brother's tiny little blue bedroom.
Why, you find yourself asking, is this light switch so horrifying?
I will tell you why. It is because this light switch does... nothing!
That's right folks, you read correct, it is a light switch with absolutely no point whatsoever!!!
Therefore, whenever I enter that room, I see that white light switch watching me from the side of the door, just teasing me, daring me to switch it, saying "Hey, you don't know, maybe today will be different."
But you know what? IT IS NEVER DIFFERENT

Moving on...

There is a light switch by Morgan's bed. This switch is next to the 2nd bathroom door that is not in use due to Morgan's bed being firmly pressed against it. When we discovered this light switch we first thought maybe it affected our light.
It did not.
Then we realized that was a stupid idea because, of course, it was made to turn on the bathroom light as the other switch was outside the bathroom in the living room. It made perfect sense.
But guess what??
IT DIDN'T DO A THING! NOTHING AT ALL!
Pointless!

And then... we have out kitchen.
Oh god, that fucking kitchen, that awful, horrible kitchen.
There are more pointless switches in that kitchen than I can even dare to count.
There are they to not turn on outlets. To not turn on under-counter lights. And to not turn on over stove lights.
WHY?!?!?! Why do you torment kitchen switches??

Just wait though, it gets worse.
You see, there are two switches on the wall when you enter the kitchen.
One turns on the light.
The other... nothing.
This was annoying, but we got used to it.
Then... an electrician came in to to install new smoke alarms and such and in that process he decided, for god knows what reason, to switch the kitchen light switches.
Now, the one that didn't do a thing, turns on the light.
And the one that turned on the light... DOES NOTHING!

I DON'T UNDERSTAD!!

Our conclusion?
Never, ever... EVER place useless light switches or change them. JUST DON'T DO IT?

Okay?

Okay. Good. We're solid.

I'll Never Tell

Here is a list of things that I will never discuss (further than this list) on this blog for fear of a bamboo thrashing (or... you know, just cause I don't want to upset people...)

• Shameful drunken mistakes made by my flatmates
• What I think the London 2012 logo looks like
• Arguments between flatmates that I think are really hilarious
• The dark, twisted fetishes of those close to me
• Why those Jaffa Cakes were so cheap
• My fuming hatred for various people
• The real reason I'm laughing at the TV
• Interesting facts about my sex life
• Where the gold is buried
• The secret about where I put your toothbrush
• Who my secret drunken crush is
• The reason I like to sit in the dark
• Who I really dreamt about last night
• What Quakers really do during the silence
• And, of course, what I'm thinking about the person sitting next to me. (Hello sailor!!)

A Very Sam Neill Blog Post

Sam Neill and I are friends. Sure, we've never met, never even saw each other from a distance. We don't know much about each other. And... well, Sam Neill doesn't even know I exist, but we're friends. Let me tell you why.

First, of course, is that he was Damien in The Final Conflict. And any man who can rock the look of the Devil's son is good in my book (and should be good in yours as well).

Also, he was like this close to being James Bond in The Living Daylights and GoldenEye, so, if Devil's Son wasn't good enough, almost 007 should be.

He was also almost Doc Ock, not that I really bothered to see that movie, at least, not after the first half hour cause I really just got bored. I mean don't get me wrong, I like Spiderman, he's usually a cool dude, but I just never was able to watch Spiderman 2, never in the mood I suppose?? And I didn't even consider Spiderman 3, and boy howdy am I ever glad I avoided that beast of a movie, let me tell you.

But I'm getting off topic, let's get back to why Sam Neill is lovely.

If you aren't impressed already (though you really really should be, cause, I mean, come on it's fucking Sam Neill) then these next to facts about Sam probably won't impress you (we'll get the worst one out of the way first).

Mr. Neill is being silly, honoring the fact that he's half an Aussie, and he was just in Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole... as an owl of course (with Jason Stackhouse!!).
Shame Sam Neill, shame.

This next one... well, I enjoy it, it pleases me (even though WE NEVER FOUND OUT WHO THE MAGIC MAN WAS BEFORE IT GOT CANCELLED!!!). Sam Neill was on the wonderfully bad but great, short-lived, totally non-Minnesotan but Minnesotan show Happy Town. He was the movie obsessed, Magic Man obsessed strange but wonderful British man in town.
This is what brought Sam back into my vision.

And last we have Sam Neill's pride and glory, the movie we all know and love him for...

Jurassic Park!

No more need's to be said there.

So I will leave you with a quote Sam said when he was to be on The Simpsons (another reason you should love him)
"I'm playing a cat burglar. I've made it. This is the high point of my career. I'm really chuffed"

The Omen(s) (Or, how I learned to find the Devil's son)

This last weekend was probably my most exciting weekend yet.
(totally beats my return to Oxford after 6 years)
Instead of going out in the evenings to experience the vivid night life the London may or may not have to offer, Morgan and I stayed in... and watched The Omen trilogy on Film4.
That's right folks, every night at 11pm we plopped down on the couch (though often we were already there) and watched the epic trilogy consisting of: The Omen on Friday, Damien: Omen II on Saturday, and The Final Conflict (Omen III) on Sunday.
I took notes... so let's compare!!!!!!

Let's start with Damien himself.
The Omen which has the all time classic creepy tiny evil child of our nightmares

This Damien is a classic, and of course a career killer for this actor, but what do we care right?? All we need that tiny devil child for is to be a tiny devil child. Point for the Omen.

Next we have Damien: The Omen II, the movie where Damien is getting a bit older, realizing he's not normal, and being a stupid little shit.

This Damien sucks. He's not scary. He's not all that evil. He's got a British accent, but it sucks. He doesn't even really kill half the people that die, which would be fine, since first Damien really kill no one, but this Damien does kill some of the people so... what up with that? No points.

Lastly we have The Final Conflict, where Damien is in his 30s, sly, (sexy), evil, and lovely. Of course his lovelyness is all due to the fact that he's played by one of my favorite random actors, Mr. Sam Neill.

I personally was quite pleased with this Damien, you knew he was evil from the start, but you still didn't totally hate him. He knows not to ooze evil, to not always look mean. Pretty much, he's what you want your grown up Sam Neill Damien to be. Point for The Final Conflict.

Next we have the hell beasts. As most good movie goers know, The Omen has the wonderful scary hell hounds. But much to our surprise, Damien: Omen II decided to stray from hell hounds and choose... hell birds?? (aka ravens). Thankfully, The Final Conflict brought the hell hounds back. So points for I and III.

Parts I and III also gets points for having nice, clear plots. Stupid part II had the most confusing, pointless, weird and stupid plot ever. In fact, the plot was so awful, I am going to take a point away from part II (despite it having no points)

Now, how about the deaths?
The Omen has some scary, dramatic, classic deaths. Nothing beats them.
Damien: Omen II has the stupidest deaths ever. First off, the first deaths are two people getting trapped in some ruins. And the second death is a heart attack caused by a raven... and all the death you know will happen because pretty much as soon as someone knows for sure that Damien is the Devil's son they die. Lame.
The Final Conflict has some pretty good deaths. The first death is an epic suspenseful hell hound caused public suicide (hey... what's that remind us of?). And really all the deaths are pretty good, well done, and not too easily figured out.
Points for this: The Final Conflict - 1 Damien: Omen II - 0 and just because the deaths in The Omen are so classic, it gets 6 points (one for each death)

Speaking of the number of deaths in The Omen, let's get to our last section for points, DEATH COUNTS!
The Omen - 6
This is a good number for a horror movie, they are spaced out enough that you don't know when they'll come next, but you also are never waiting too long for the next one.
Damien: The Omen II - 11
As to be expected, the sequel has more deaths than the original. And all of them pretty much suck. I mean, sure, the elevator death is not exactly what you think it'll be, and the train death is awful is a good way, but they still suck. If you're horror movie has a raven causing a heart attack in someone by looking at them, you know the deaths are stupid. Also, the first three deaths were less than 20 minutes into the movie, and 6 people had died 40 minutes in...
The Final Confilct - 29
Now, this needs to be defended. First off, it's not as bad as it seems because still, only 2 people had died 40 minutes in. It took over an hour for the count to reach five, and three of those died in one scene. The main two reasons the death count is so high is because 1. There were 7 priests after Damien, and of course they all had to die and 2. 17 babies died in the span of less than 2 minutes... (they were tasteful and never showed the babies dying). And of course (spoiler) one of those deaths is Damien. And in total 18 babies die, the final baby being the 2nd coming of baby Jesus, named Harvy Jr., who was ironed to death.
So you know... think "Hey, Jesus, come 'ere, I got some iron'ng to do!"
Points: The Omen - 1 for having the lowest and most tasteful death count. Damien: Omen II - 0 for having too many stupid deaths. The Final Conflict - 2 for having the highest death count but also having good deaths and good reasons for the high death count. But then we do have to take away a point for all the dead babies.

Final Scores:
Loser - Damien: The Omen II with -1 points
Runner-up - The Final Conflict with 5 points
Winner - The Omen with 10 points!!

Now, since I took notes for this blog post, I do have a few extra tidbits to share with you (most coming from The Final Conflict, as that's what was on last night)
(buttsex)

First, an honerable mention to Damien: The Omen II for being the one in the trilogy to mention Bugenhagen the most (though of course all three mention him)

I also feel it's important to mention that in part III Damien totally has a Hamlet-esque monologue to a backward Jesus about how he will beat Jesus.

You also have to know that Jesus totally shows up in the end, once EVERYONE IS DEAD.

Keep in mind that Damien was born of a jackal so, as Morgan said, "His mother was a real bitch."

Lastly people, remember, the Devil's son is marked by the Sign of the Beast, aka a 666 birth mark on the scalp.
"That's why you have to pull guys hair during sex... Oh, Devil's son, penis out." (from an anonymous source)

Tick Tock on the Clock (No, this has nothing to do with Ke$ha)

Today I am going to write a blog post through most of my 6 hours of work, we'll see where that takes us, it'll be a hoot!!

Today's topic is...
(not the fact that I'm being stupid and eating my lunch 26 minutes into a 6 hour shift)
But what it really i... is clocks.

(Hey look, according the the copyright initials, I drew that!)


11:27am
There's an Ithaca College London Center clock that sits on my desk. It was clearly made in the 90's, it's style is a dead give-away; chunky but streamline, trying to look a little modern, all black with gold paint around the clock. I've played with it some before at work, spinning it around (because the clock sits on its chunky stand held by two little nubs), also seeing if you can easily lift it off the stand (you can't). But it wasn't until today that I noticed the most important thing about this clock...
It doesn't work. For this ICLC clock, it will forever 1 second to 11:23 (pm or am, no one knows).
And I suppose it may not be that time forever, cause you never know, I might feel devious and change the time, or add a battery!
ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!!!

12:01pm
I really don't like how loud the clock on the wall of this office is.

12:27pm (according to the computers)
I just discovered that most of these clocks don't agree. The phone says it's 12:50, the wall clock says it's 12:49 and (obviously) both computers, desktop and laptop, say 12:47.
Note: I had to subtract a minute from all those times because they changed as I typed...

1:41pm (also know as 13:14)
Let's talk army time.
I've been having issues with it. Which is really annoying because I didn't have that big of a problem with it when I was in England 7 years ago, but now that I'm 20 it seems my mind refuses to figure it out. I mean, sometimes I'm pretty darn good at it, because I know that you just need to subtract 12 (but really you just need to subtract 2) but I swear, sometimes when I look at a digital clock and it's in army time, as most in this country are unless fiddled with by an American, my mind shuts down and just will not figure it out. It's quite the problem and I very strongly dislike it (the issue of army time, not so much army time).

2:13pm
Lately I've noticed a faint ticking in our bedroom. I thought it was maybe just dripping out in the courtyard, because that happens a lot, and also I knew there were no clocks in our room so usually I could ignore it and it would seem to go away. But last night when I heard it I remembered that our water heater/furnace thingy that's in our room has a clock on it and realized, to my complete and utter horror that the ticking was a clock. After realizing this the ticking got louder and more pronounced. I was very upset. I hate clocks and the way they tick.
I like the way they look though. I wish there were more pretty clocks that just didn't tick. Now that would be a perfect world.

2:20pm
I saw the oldest clock in the world last weekend.
It didn't seem that old.

2:50pm
The loud, constant ticking of this clock is a reminder of the endlessness that is this work shift.
The only person who's come in here today so far was Bill.
Clocks are evil.

2:55pm
This is completely un-clock related, but I just need to say that House makes everything better.

3:15pm
I have decided that I have no more left to say about clocks. So... I am going to (wait for it) CLOCK out!!

I'm so funny.

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?