And the end of all our travels…

…isn’t quite now. Though I am back at the beginning, in a way; somehow in the excitement of THE STRIKE and THE ESSAYS and LOTS OF TEA I forgot to mention that I would be, briefly, heading back to EST.

It’s true. There was no jetlag. I am a lady without a circadian rhythm. I am however a lady with a jumbo pack of REESE’S PEANUT BUTTER EASTER EGGS, which has created such an effervescent effect on my bloodstream that EVERYTHING MUST BE IN CAPITALS.

Oh, chocolate (!) and peanut butter (!!). You are lacking in foreign lands. This is a sad thing, but now, you bring me great joy (!!!!!!!).

Anyway. I’ll be ricocheting between the nation’s capital and the nation’s first capital for the next ten days or so. I will not be bouncing back across to the University of Hertfordshire, which is, I kid you not, offering a Master’s in Vampire Literature. I don’t even know.

ANYWAY D.c. is pretty fantastic and Philly is pretty beguiling and probably, if you’re in town, you should say hi.

I dreamt it was 2003

A long time ago, I was sixteen and living abroad and ate too much chocolate, and used too many exclamation marks.

A long time ago, I decided it was wise and sagacious to chronicle this. There was an earlier incarnation of this, a woeful site indeed; one of the relics of the internet. Being an archaeologette, I unearthed it- but no silver stake had I, nor holy water.

I’m sure all of the above will come as a massive blow to the image of the cosmopolitan, suave exact same lady I am, er, now.

You guys. November 19th, 2003.

“Saturday: It did not matter that it was raining. It did not matter that I was getting a cold. Do you know why?
Because I, Judy Barr, bought shoes.
And they are Hot. They are also somehow versatile, in that I can now imitate everyone from Charlie’s Angels to Legally Blonde to …well, there are LOTS of opportunities for these little darlings.
With three inch heels.
Bite me.”

And thus, the first little black stilettos traipsed into my life; a formative experience that would shape the entirety of my mortal coil. Because that was a good choice! I’m glad in seven years I haven’t, you know, grown up. Because that’d be such a shame.

Now that we are twenty-three

Terrifying, and yet strangely reassuring. Bars have stopped carding me, possibly because I live in Europe. Phil is somewhere in foreign parts, which is also pretty par for the last few years. Last year involved Cambridge and a lost application, and buckets of tears; this year- well, I am at Oxford, and if there were any tears, it was my party, eh?

At midnight there was a call! A mysterious ring; strange voices. And to the clamor I ran, sans shoes; sans coat.

To find cake, and sparklers, and a bevy of singing flatmates! Additionally, an alarm and post-cakial sparkling wine, because really, what is one a.m. on your birthday without sparkling wine? (Do not answer this.)

Or, you know, breakfast on your birthday without cake.

Really, recuse yourself from answering all that. Let’s call the day instead a dedication to Our Lady of Pashmina, who ensured that nothing extraneous caught on fire during the great Cake Dedormestration of 2010.

Somewhere in the haze of the next couple of days, which involved Roman coins, Celtic depictions of men with spirals for cheeks and the retreat of Britain into Bronze Age cow pastures, because apparently, innovations like “plumbing” and “walls” were declasse after the Romans chucked down their woolen socks and splashed back to the motherland, Hilary Term ceased to be. It slipped back into the dull and dark reaches of the Sackler, eight weeks of intermittent rain and economic theory later.

In order to forget that there was a Manhattan, sweet and neat, and cheers and toasts all around. Also several hours spent melting butter, melting chocolate (85%, 100%, a soft, crumbling 72%) into the pot, sprinkling salt, pouring wine. Could there be a more auspicious beginning to a cake? “Melt butter. Find the most perfect chocolate in the world, and add the crisp bite of salt; sip a dark red that will taste of late nights and tangos and pour that cup in too”. Take another cup; at this point, the cake is still molten, it is a deep, perfect roil, the chocolate slicks onto the spoon, and it begs to be licked.

(Additionally, there are eggs, and bourbon vanilla, and sugar, because what the hell, it’s cake. (Or heaven, or hell, or  a random collection of letters your tongue shouldn’t be saying, because it should be enthralled by the power of a pound of chocolate, avec amis.) Then you pour truffle ganache over the outside; it was dusted with Maldon sea salt flakes, because I believe in pretentions and perversion of whatever the fudge the New York government is trying to pass off as legal code.)

Although I don’t believe one should extol ones’ friends in the same vein (i.e. melting, licking, cake, dipping in sea salt) it behooves me to note that the lads and lasses of Flat G, St X and the Department of Archaeology that lent their laughter, poetry recitals, crisp white wines and political commentary to the evening are some of the finest folk ever.

What? What’s that? Sap and drivel? Nonsense! Rubbish! No cake for you!

Dear Ladies of England

I get it. We inflicted leggings on the world via our Lohan minions and pint-size actresses; American colleges allowed Uggs to escape from the Australian outback, and popularized a look best described as “things I went to bed with”, up to and including walk of shame hair.

“Leggings are not pants!” went the cry; and lo, American Apparel did actually verify this.

But no. No, that wasn’t enough. You didn’t learn the lesson, and seize the glory of pants. You took the bounty of Topshop, the primal pleasure of the hunt at Primark, the glory that is Hobbs’ tailored, sweet lines, and you created this:

(To be fair, we might have started it. But I have never actually seen this on an American, whereas I now know too much about the knicker habits of Brits.)

Where are the Emmas of yesteryear? Really. Would Mr. Darcy hit that?

Information

Unless it involves death, roiling fire from the skies or dinosaurs, this space will be void of commentary for the next week. Intense pirouetting is warranted. Situational necessity and all of that. Complaints will be met with doggerel and limericks and believe me, the latter is to avoided at all costs.

Shop of wonders

Feed me, Seymour

Wait, wait, don’t tell me

I know, it’s the early hours of Halloween, that scary night when small children are princesses and ghouls and allowed to eat their body weight in delicious sugar.

But you, you somehow have avoided the lure of bedsheets and poorly placed spots. (Are you….a cow? Smallpox? Copy-editor’s discard bin of punctuation?) Perhaps you felt the need to celebrate that noble profession, the one who tells of kings and swords, who touches the stones of old.

That’s right. So you want to be an archaeologist?

Or a….lion tamer?

Let’s try that again. Show me the archaeologist, internet!

….somehow I do not think her life is in ruins, no.

Okay. Seriously.

I mean, that’s…hilarious. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Indiana Bones.

There is a cute guide out there for small children that includes the helpful advice to wear khakis and a shirt, which”should have a cute saying like “I Love Archaeology” or “I dig on Mummies.” This allows for the rather informal archaeologist look to be more solidified.” No! Down with solidity! Archaeologists thrive on grungy khakis and nonaffliated tshirts!

Although I suppose you shouldn’t give children exciting things like articles on “Fixed-point retail location in the major towns of Roman Britain” or pints of beer, so maybe the tee shirt is the way to go.

Stay safe, have fun, don’t let the sexy Spartan Gladiator Wenches in Togas bite!

And so this is Oxford

I know, I know. It’s been, at this rate, nearly a month since I left the boulevards of D.C. A month since drinking a cup of coffee larger than my hands, since eating peanut butter that wasn’t rationed out a jar, since the last time I could say the word “pants” without fear.

You might think I’d have some kind of awesome, awe-inspiring list of images that capture the spires of Oxford, that the streets and the gowns in this town would be carefully archived and labeled and stowed.

Oh, that would be totally wrong. To be fair, there is this:

Peter Pan can't touch this.

Clad in the classic garb of sub fusc, well, at least the updated-for-the-ladies version, this is what happens when you make gowns a necessary part of a Saturday morning.

Also taking up prime Saturday real estate?

Danger, danger Will Robinson

3,000 to 4,000 word essays, due every Tuesday at four.

It is marvelous, this place. No one is here, I think, to study because they have to, or because they must- not as graduates, anyway. There are so many books! So many words, so many professors last seen as footnotes.

And so many cups of tea.

Anyway. I’m alive. There will be an update on the hilarious concept of sub fusc, and that when walking through the streets one can happen upon men in kilts, and women in full dress gowns. John Locke ate brunch in the same halls. William Penn. Oh, they’ll nickel and dime you; there’s no doubt that the number of Americanisms around here relates to international student fees as much as our fervor for acts of the mind, and all that. That, and Ivory Towers are expensive to dust. But there are few places that are Oxford, for better or worse.

(For the record: anassa kata kalo kale, mawrters, that will never be forgotten.)

So a princess walks into a bar…

(Via woohome.com)

If Princess Leia lost a fight to a nuclear meltdown, was rescued by the loving hands of a Beadazzler, stumbled across the famed Crystal Nerf Gun Epaulets and…no. No, this is just clearly ridiculous. 

Jujitsu for the “weaker sex” — 1930s British newsreels – Boing Boing

Jujitsu for the “weaker sex” — 1930s British newsreels

Posted by Cory Doctorow, February 11, 2009 9:10 AM | permalink

via Jujitsu for the “weaker sex” — 1930s British newsreels – Boing Boing.

Notice: she keeps the heels on. Advice for anyone traveling with, nearby, or into the territory of Objectionable People.