Sometimes You Think the Grass is Greener...

and then you realize you've ended up in the desert.

Please, pardon my absense. I've been busy deciding to stay in America for another year and subsequently feeling sorry for myself because of the decision. That and I just haven't been inspired lately. But for those of you still around, if indeed there are any at all, I promise to start this up again. America still has plenty of idiots out wandering around for me to rip apart...

I'd Rather be Sleeping Alone

I wouldn't believe this story if it didn't happen to me...
I'm sleeping last night, dreaming about lord knows what and not looking forward to having to wake up at 4:30 to go to work, when I am suddenly awakened by a shooting pain in my left leg. At first I think maybe I'm still dreaming and can't quite figure out what is going on. But as the pain increases I realize this is no dream and I feel the back of my thigh and top of my foot to discover a hot rash quickly forming. My first thought is that I've been bitten by a spider but then I remember the mother f-ing scorpion that was on my ceiling when I first moved to this god forsaken state and it dawns on me that the bastard's friend has invited himself into my bed. Not only that, the f-ing mother f-er has stung me not once, but twice. Now, you may be well aware of my flare for the dramatic so it should come as no surprise when I tell you that the moment it all clicked together I started sobbing like a child. It wasn't so much the pain, I can deal with that, it was just the shock and fear. I couldn't find the little bastard right away and was terrified he'd find me first. Luckily, I was able to control myself long enough to find him and kill the little f-er with Chuckie (good ol' Converse pulling through again). Unfortunately, I'm allergic to bees, so even after I kill the s.o.b, I'm still crying uncontrollably because I'm thinking I'm going to die alone in my parent's house. I can't decide what to do; hope the pain just goes away, call 9-11, call a friend, call my parents. Finally, I decide to call my mom who is nearly as hysterical as me about it (this is actually very surprising since she is generally a very calm person) and she tells me where to find the number for the local hospital. I call them and they put me through to poison control who tell me the immediate pain will last for about 6 hours, but the numbness can last for up two weeks. They call me back about an hour later to make sure I'm still alive and reiterate that it is OK to sleep and that as long as my vision isn't blurred I will be fine. I figured I'd wake up in the morning with a bit of swelling and pain, but nothing poison control told me prepared me for what was really going on; complete and absolute numbness. I couldn't feel my hands, legs, nose, ears, tongue, lips or throat. It was unbelievably uncomfortable and frustrating. I went to work anyway thinking it would get better only to learn from the pharmecist afterwards that although I'm over the worst of it, the numbness will continue for several days. Lovely. I'm OK now, but still don't have much feeling in my hands or left leg. Apparently I'm going to live, but I'm not going to lie to you, it was pretty touch and go for awhile.

America's Gypsies

One of my most vivid memories of Bulgaria is the many gypsies we encountered on the drive across the country from Sofia to Varna. There would be little gypsy girls no older than 12 or 13 prostituting themselves along the road and caravans full of scared, unsure adults being carted across the country in hopes of work.

Last week while driving to work it occured to me that although America does not have gypsies per say, there are certainly similarities between the way gypsies are treated throughout Europe and the way Mexicans are treated in the US. These cheap laborers are carted around in the back of pick-up trucks while their foremen drive in the cab. In one case there were four workers in the back while the club cab was only occupied by the boss man. These men, who often don't speak a word of English, sit by the road and wait for the white man to come along and offer them a day's work. They get paid next to nothing to do work that no self-respecting white man would dream of. They are pushed aside and ignored, they are taken advantage of and abused, they are considered second class humans. They are the gypsies of America.

What is the cost of freedom?

Apparently it is your ability to think for yourself, and sadly many are willing to pay that price.

I am always willing and open to discuss my time abroad and my desire to go back, and I have been pleasantly surprised at how accepting and interested most people have been. Indeed, the most common response when I tell people is "Why would you ever move back to the US?!". Only twice have I come across people who cannot comprehend my decision to move outside of the US in the first place, and I have chalked this up to ignorance. However, the most appalling of which occurred the other day with a girl from work and I can't get it out of my head. Perhaps because up until that point I had viewed this girl as one of the few people I have connected with since moving to Phoenix or at least had potential to connect with.

What had started off as an innocent conversation ended with my jaw dropping in shock and horror. Somehow the fact that I had recently moved back from London came up in the conversation to which she responded "Did living there make you appreciate your freedom?". Now, I'm thinking she is referring to living on my own and personal freedom, but I decided to ask for some clarification and instantly wished I hadn't. As a matter of fact, she was referring to something quite the opposite; the "freedom" American citizens have in America. Once I understood the question properly I quickly gave a resounding "NO", and told her of how it showed me the other side of the spectrum. I explained to her that I went through a phase of being deeply embarassed about being American and how I wanted to disassociate myself with anything related to America, but that I had come around. Now I have found a balance between being proud of being American but not wanting to live here. I understand now that wanting to live in London does not make me unpatriotic, despite the Republicans might think.

She was not convinced and didn't seem to understand why I would want to move back. In fact, her exact words when I told her of my plans to relocate in September were "Well, just don't become a terrorist". Because clearly, if you aren't with us, you're against us. I guess I know where I stand.

A Story to Disgust and One to Scare the Be-jeezers Out of You

I have been meaning to write for several days now and have just given myself the time or perhaps have finally mustered up the energy.

Last week I was at the pool tanning (this obsession is for another blog) and was thoroughly disgusted by the behavior of one senior citizen. Now, it is important for me to mention here that my parents live in a gated community for those over a certain age - really, it's only 45, but I would venture to guess that the median age of my neighbors is 65. Now, back to the point, as I am there basking in the mid-morning sun and dreading the thought of having to go to work in a few hours, I look to my right and notice to older women. At first I am thinking, "good for them, strutting there shit and such" and then I notice that one of the women has out her Bic razor. Now I'm thinking, "what would one need with a Bic razor at the pool?". Well, I'll tell you, one brings their Bic razor to the pool when they plan on dry shaving in public. No, I am not making this up - I don't think I could even if I wanted to - she whipped out the Bic and started shaving her legs right there poolside. And of course, there was no shame, no second thoughts. I guess once you reach a certain age you aren't so concerned with offending young people.

Now, if you found that story scary, wait until you hear this. Late last week Phoenix was experiencing some unusual weather and we found ourselves suffering through nearly 24 hours of rain. I'm not talking a bit of spit, I'm talking properly pissing down for an entire day. So I'm at work (big surprise, huh?) talking about my disgust for such weather when one of the girls I work with tells me how rain brings out scorpions. This wouldn't normally get me frazzled except for the fact that last year my parents had a small infestation of scorpions and were told by the exterminator that they can live for over six months after you have sprayed. To further my concern we had found one outside on the patio just after I moved here. All of this, however, is washed from my mind as I became more concerned with running to my car in the pouring rain. That is until I am getting ready for bed and take a look up at my ceiling fan. And what do you think I should find there? That's right folks, a mother f-ing scorpion! As you are most likely aware, I consider myself to be a pretty tough chick and force myself to remain calm as I walk to the bathroom to grab a massive wad of tp. I stay collected as I return to my bedroom and attempt to kill said m f-er. I am brimming with pride until the little s.o.b falls off of the ceiling onto my bed and begins running around. This, this is when I lose it. I being screaming bloody murder and leap from my bed - now is a good time to mention that I'm allergic to bee stings and would undoubtedly be allergic to scorpions as well - and in the mean time I hit my head on the fan and my foot on my dresser. Despite my throbbing head and foot I continue on with my mission and after several blood curtding screams, I regain my composure and kill that little bastard where he stands and flush his sorry as down the toilet. I then attemt to sleep and thank God for the first time that I am generally so exhausted that even fear induced insomnia is out of the question.

Stupid American Story of the Day

Technically this happened yesterday, but if I hadn't told you that you would never have known...

I was working the walk-up window at work (that's Starbucks, not Gap - they haven't gotten that advanced yet) and this woman comes up and asks if it is OK for her to leave her car in the handicap spot so she can watch her kids. I ask her how long she plans on staying there and think that I hear her say that she's just going to leave the car there until she orders her drink. We go back and forth for a bit and finally I tell her that the decision ultimately has to be hers because it's illegal and clearly I can't recommend she does something illegal. As I'm making her drink I'm thinking "what a sweet mom, she doesn't want to let her kids out of her sight for five minutes". However, this illusion was shattered when she and what I assume was her boyfriend take their drinks and go to sit down and smoke a few fags. Now I'm not just talking about a quick chuff, no, they smoked and finished their drinks.

You may be thinking this isn't that bad, certainly people have done worse. But let me tell you the kicker, the kids (a boy and a girl) were no older than 4, it was at least 90 out and all the windows in the car were rolled up. This is how kids die! I was absolutely irate and the only thing any of my colleagues said to acknowledge it was "well, at least she isn't smokig in the car with the kids". Excuse me?! Like this is going to matter when her kids are dead from heat exhaustion (OK, I'm not actually sure that that is what they would die from, but I know they could die).

While I continued to rave, she did come back to the car and I thought "finally, she's going to take them out of the car with her". No. Instead she took the boy out (I couldn't see for what reason) and immediately put him back, going back to her nicotine and caffiene binge. I was about 30 seconds from calling the police when she finally pulled away. I probably should have called child services anyway.

I was absolutely disgusted and even more so because none of my colleagues seemed to think this was remotely disturbing. I can't imagine this going unnoticed other places - even in America - and shutter to think this woman will continue to do this because no one will ever say anything.

She Works Hard for the Money

After all the shit I have talked about America and Americans, I have somehow become a slave to coporate America without even batting an eye. I guess that is what happens when you are driven soley by the need for money. Grad school isn't going to pay for itself and if that means I have to pick up yet another part-time job, so be it. I'm not using this experience as a chance to make new friends and have the time of my life. I have plenty of great friends already and although I do want to enjoy myself over the next six months, the most important thing is saving money to get myself back to London. And more than that, to further my education because if I have learned anything in the past 48 hours it is that a bachelors degree does not guarantee your ability to make a Frappiccino.

Having said that, I do want to continue to learn from this experience; about myself and and America. I want to continue to make observations about what I see around me and share them with others who will hopefully find the same humor in my situation as I do. That of course is assuming that I will have the time; working 50+ hours a week may cut into my blogging time. So while you are enjoying sleeping in past 6am, think of me wearing my green apron and taking some poor saps e-mail. And while you are heading out for a night with friends, think of me folding and re-folding thirty stacks of boot leg jeans.

Here Comes the Sun

What is a Londoner meant to do with all this sun? I'm still not sure how I'll handle it and am slightly concerned my intense need/desire to be tan will cause me to turn into a prune by September. But at the very least I'll be tanned and fabulous.

The job hunt is off to a quick start and hopefully I'll have some dollars rolling into the old bank account soon. Grad school isn't going to pay for itself, folks.

After a bittersweet visit to London I'm ready to get my life here started. I've finally accepted that this is the way things are going to have to be for awhile, so I might as well make the most of it.

Don't worry, I'll still be making clever commentary about my fellow Americans wherever and whenever possible.

London Calling

I have become increasingly engrossed, engulfed and consumed by my grad school applications and the terror they induce. My mind is adrift in a sea of questions. None of which I have any desire to attempt to begin to answer here.

Instead I prefer to focus on the event I have been waiting for since the second I stepped foot on American soil: my return trip to London. Exactly one week from today I will board a plane to Detriot...then spend 7 hours at Wayne County Metropolitan Airport...and then board a plane to London's Gatwick Airport. I can wait for the 7 hour layover (I'm still not sure how my mom managed that one, but beggars can't be choosers), but I'm almost to the point of an hourly countdown for my arrival in L-town.

Despite the progress I am making here in the good ol' US of A, I can't wait until I can feel like I'm home again.

Let's Pollute!

Correct me if I'm wrong, but America is the world leader in pollution, right?

Now, I am by no means an enviromentalist. I've been known to litter, I don't always recycle, I happily drive my mom's SUV and I take long showers. But after having a fairly heated discussion with my parents the other evening (who are card carrying Republicans) I have become much more aware of how ignorant Americans are when it comes to matters that concern the rest of the world. Don't get me wrong, I love my parents and consider them to be two of the most intelligent people that I know, and really, I don't blame them because "when they own the information they can bend it all they want". Americans just aren't getting the same news the rest of the world is.

With this in mind, I was extremely appalled when I went to the grocery store yesterday and was given 3 (!) plastic bags for 7 items. Yes, I did say plastic when Joe check-out boy asked (Hey, I re-use the bags as garbage bags), but never did I imagine that Joe was going to go so overboard. Seriously, are plastic bags going out of style and I was just not informed?! I guess I've learned my lesson, it's paper only for me from here on out.

Sad? I think so!

Saturday night at the Beard house and what's going on? The rents are out at a party while I'm home sitting on my butt watching Desparate Housewives. I'm in bed by 11:30 and they aren't home until almost 2. They spend the afternoon napping because they're "tired" (I think that is grown-up code for hungover). Although they are adamant that they aren't - sure, that's what we all say!

The bright side? There apparently is life after 50.

Downtown Driving and "British" Pubs

Tonight I ventured into downtown Boston to meet up with a friend from London newly (and temporarily) relocated to the US. As she is a Boston native I left the location up to her and she promptly suggest a British pub, Elephant and Castle, appropriately located on Devonshire Road. Equipped with my Acura's GPS system, I was confident that I could make it to said pub without any difficulties. Wrong!

Mr. GPS voice-man is confusing as hell. He tells you to stay right and then you are suddenly off the route. He tells you to take the second left, there is no second left! The screen shows you the names of the streets, but there ain't no way you are reading street names in downtown Boston at night, during the end of rush hour. I'm concentrating on staying alive and keeping my car from being hit, not on trying to read non-existant street names. However, after about half an hour of driving around the same square mile of one way streets, I finally found myself on Devonshire Road.

Helen was already at the bar when I arrived, a pint of London Pride in hand. A good start. Suspending reality for a few minutes, I felt like I was home again. But then it struck me, it just wasn't right. There wasn't a cloud of smoke covering every table, Justin Timberlake was pumping over the sound system, everyone was American, the menu offered bangers and mash with baked beans (I know, what??) and the carpet was far too clean. But...some of my favorite beers were on tap and I left not smelling like an ashtray. Despite the inaccuracies, the overall feel was right, my pint of Hoegaarden was huge and my fish and chips was just as good as any I've had in London (See, I can find the positive side of things). Sure, it could have been better, but probably only if it was in London, so I guess it was as good as it could get.