Tonight I've been thinking a lot about animal hybrids. Mind you, I did spend all day at my ole alma mater, Seguin High School. I'm also gearing up for tomorrow night's premiere of the Syfy Channel Original Movie Sharktopus.
Just how does that happen?
I will use this opportunity to explain the birds and the bees to my four-year-old cousin: when a shark and an octopus love each other very much they have a mutant baby- "...that's why you have blond hair and your mom has brown."
Three cups of coffee and a re-run of 'Haven' later, all I've come up with is 'beird'- a bird and a bee hybrid. It could peck you and sting you at the same time.
I've recruited my roommate, to which her first response was, "'show,' as in a sheep and a cow." Take that Syfy channel.
My roommate told me that she can just imagine the type of guys who come up with ideas like Sharktopus. She is officially one of those guys, sans Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts and baseball cap, which is what I imagine "those guys" look like- sitting on plastic chairs in a circle in some trendy office space, drinking forties in Koozies. I've given this a lot of thought. Doesn't it sound amazing?
I think I will give up being a journalist and join the creative forces at Syfy.
There has to be some sort of animal hybrid generator. Yes, yes, there is! You can play God and create your own animal, they even make noise! This is what I do on a Friday night. It'll pay off... one day Syfy will call me up and ask me for movie ideas that involve mutant hybrid animals created by the military and I will tell them all about the sqrrk- a part squirrel, part bird, part shark that terrorizes Canadians.
Mutants, by their very nature, are supposed to be bloodthirsty. It doesn't matter if it's piranhas (regardless if they're in 3D), humans, sharks, birds, etc. However, mutants make us appreciate who we are and the things we have; the little things in life- they are a staple to American cinema and to society as a whole. Thank you, mutants, for helping me realize that I need to get out of the dorm more often.
Join in on the fun. Send me your animal hybrid ideas.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Three Months Too Long
I have been in the U.S. for three-months, after a six-month study abroad in England, and I feel like I have come semicircle: I left the States with one runny nostril, sounding like Stevie Nicks, and now, once again, I'm in desperate need of those hankies I rambled on about in a previous blog post.
I say semicircle because I feel as though I've returned not fully whole- there's pieces of me scattered on park benches, playgrounds, trains, and other forms of public transportation that are a lot easier to navigate and more reliable than the VIA in San Antonio. Then again, I feel like I've grown (totally disregarding the five-ten lbs I gained by living off goat cheese ciabattas and frappes), matured- if you call learning how to smoke a cigarette properly- "It's like you're sucking a straw"- maturation (thanks, Vanessa), and made more whole by the people I met and the experiences I had.
Some people are told they get six months to live. I felt like I wasn't living and told myself that I needed six months to live, away from the predictable, away from Texas, away from the U.S. I proved myself, my family, and my friends, wrong by "surviving" in a "strange foreign" country.
To My Family, Friends, Etc.:
1. Shockingly, the majority of people in England speak English.
2. I spent a month studying abroad in Canterbury July '09.
3. Surprisingly, there are dentists in Canterbury.
4. ASDA is a chain of grocery stores now owned by Wal-Mart. The American influence is growing. Cue evil laugh.
I went back to Canterbury knowing a handful of English people (whether I wanted to or not). That's it. I didn't know any of the Americans who were also studying abroad in Canterbury. There were no other Texans (that I knew of), no one from my university. I knew all this ahead of time. I chose this. Some may call me "adventurous" (why, thank you), others may call me "irrational" (or stupid, once done reading this blog entry).
When I was eight, I told my mom that I wanted to go to summer camp for a week, just like two of my older cousins had year-after-year. I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn't the six-year-old who cried because she "missed her mommy." The first night at camp, well, I was homesick and cried myself to sleep. By Tuesday, I was calling my mom on the phone in the camp director's office in hysterics, saying, well, that I "wanted my mommy." My mom(my) did eventually come to get me the day before camp ended.
Around the holiday season, my aunt likes to regale the family with memories of my attempts to spend the night at her house, which usually ended up with me in her bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, crying. Two other aunts tell similar stories with different mirrors.
To my family, that's Jordan: the only child of a single parent, totally and utterly dependent on her mother, something of a 21st century Norman Baits without the cross-dressing and, oh, schizophrenia. That's not to say my family isn't partially correct. A part of me does enjoy seeing 'Mom' flash on my phone four-ten times a day, or seeing her name in bold line my inbox. I even enjoyed the time when she called me around 2 a.m. (England/ Western European Time) while I was in the older English boy's flat- with his friends- (for .15 cents a minute) to make sure that I was OK because I hadn't called her that day. I didn't want to tell her where I was because I didn't want the (cute) older English boy and his friends to know that my mom(my), who was over 3,000 miles away, was checking up on me. Somehow she knew where I was and I had to call her two hours later and leave a message when I got back to my dorm so she could stop worrying.
This six-month study abroad was a test for our present and future mother/daughter relationship. I'm pleased to report she's still calling me at every inopportune moment, making me feel, eh, about six-years-old. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
I say semicircle because I feel as though I've returned not fully whole- there's pieces of me scattered on park benches, playgrounds, trains, and other forms of public transportation that are a lot easier to navigate and more reliable than the VIA in San Antonio. Then again, I feel like I've grown (totally disregarding the five-ten lbs I gained by living off goat cheese ciabattas and frappes), matured- if you call learning how to smoke a cigarette properly- "It's like you're sucking a straw"- maturation (thanks, Vanessa), and made more whole by the people I met and the experiences I had.
Some people are told they get six months to live. I felt like I wasn't living and told myself that I needed six months to live, away from the predictable, away from Texas, away from the U.S. I proved myself, my family, and my friends, wrong by "surviving" in a "strange foreign" country.
To My Family, Friends, Etc.:
1. Shockingly, the majority of people in England speak English.
2. I spent a month studying abroad in Canterbury July '09.
3. Surprisingly, there are dentists in Canterbury.
4. ASDA is a chain of grocery stores now owned by Wal-Mart. The American influence is growing. Cue evil laugh.
I went back to Canterbury knowing a handful of English people (whether I wanted to or not). That's it. I didn't know any of the Americans who were also studying abroad in Canterbury. There were no other Texans (that I knew of), no one from my university. I knew all this ahead of time. I chose this. Some may call me "adventurous" (why, thank you), others may call me "irrational" (or stupid, once done reading this blog entry).
When I was eight, I told my mom that I wanted to go to summer camp for a week, just like two of my older cousins had year-after-year. I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn't the six-year-old who cried because she "missed her mommy." The first night at camp, well, I was homesick and cried myself to sleep. By Tuesday, I was calling my mom on the phone in the camp director's office in hysterics, saying, well, that I "wanted my mommy." My mom(my) did eventually come to get me the day before camp ended.
Around the holiday season, my aunt likes to regale the family with memories of my attempts to spend the night at her house, which usually ended up with me in her bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, crying. Two other aunts tell similar stories with different mirrors.
To my family, that's Jordan: the only child of a single parent, totally and utterly dependent on her mother, something of a 21st century Norman Baits without the cross-dressing and, oh, schizophrenia. That's not to say my family isn't partially correct. A part of me does enjoy seeing 'Mom' flash on my phone four-ten times a day, or seeing her name in bold line my inbox. I even enjoyed the time when she called me around 2 a.m. (England/ Western European Time) while I was in the older English boy's flat- with his friends- (for .15 cents a minute) to make sure that I was OK because I hadn't called her that day. I didn't want to tell her where I was because I didn't want the (cute) older English boy and his friends to know that my mom(my), who was over 3,000 miles away, was checking up on me. Somehow she knew where I was and I had to call her two hours later and leave a message when I got back to my dorm so she could stop worrying.
This six-month study abroad was a test for our present and future mother/daughter relationship. I'm pleased to report she's still calling me at every inopportune moment, making me feel, eh, about six-years-old. But I wouldn't have it any other way.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
January 8
Kristi's gone back home to Texas. It's definitely weird to think that right now I may be the only Texan in Canterbury, England. Yesterday, I met an English girl who's a student at CCCU (and girlfriend of one of my roommates)- the university that I'll be attending, starting Monday- who didn't know the location of the Great State of Texas. She asked me if it was in America. That was a first. I mean, I thought Americans were the ones who were supposed to be bad at geography. I think the English girl knows where Mexico is, at least. I was trying to explain the location of Texas in terms of North America with crazy hand gestures in lieu of a map.
I spent my first night in my dorm (I don't think they call them "dorms" here because I keep getting strange looks when I say dorm) last night. I didn't think the CCCU International Office was serious when they sent me an e-mail about a month ago outlining my expenses- I seriously have to pay 65 pounds for a "bed roll" and some dishes? I wasn't even given towels. The "bed roll" includes thin sheets that look like someone ate too many bananas and drank too much orange juice, danced a whole bunch and then proceeded to throw up on my bed. The patterns supposed to resemble peach "marble." The mattress is about as comfortable as the one in San Marcos Hall. I miss the hostel. I have to go back and give them Kristi's room keys. Maybe I'll steal a comforter, put it under my shirt: Hey, it's an immaculate conception.
It really does take about 30 minutes to walk to the North Holmes campus, where all my classes will be, from my dorm on Parham Road. It takes about 15 minutes to walk from my dorm into town. I should have legs of steel by the time I get back home in June.
My flatmates (roommates) are really nice, strangely enough. I was expecting the worst. Not only are they English, but they're male. It's still going to take some getting used to, living with people of the male persuasion. But their rooms and bathroom are on the first floor- I live on the second. There will be four people downstairs and four upstairs. I've only met two of my flatmates. There's supposed to be one other American living in the dorm, a girl. Some of the Americans are supposed to arrive tomorrow, the rest on Sunday. That's not long to get settled, seeing how Monday we have to be at some building on the North Holmes campus by 8:45 a.m. for "orientation" that lasts until 6 p.m. Geez, Louise.
I'm glad I get my own room, but the walls are really thin. That won't stop me from singing, by golly. I just hope none of my roommates like to sing or bring home their lady friends. I can hear everything downstairs, even with my door completely shut.
Wednesday evening, around 8:30, Kristi and I took the "coach" aka charter bus into London. It cost us 17 pounds each. Cheaper than a train ticket, but I have a BritRail Pass I've already paid $439 for, so I can ride the train for two months (I'm hoping I can somehow use it after it's expired).
There were no trains going from Canterbury to London Victoria because of the weather, so I had to take the train into Faversham and switch to Canterbury East. Then, once I arrived in Canterbury, I had to walk about 15 minutes to my dorm. I was pretty exhausted, since Kristi and I spent over eight hours sitting against a pillar at her terminal in the London Heathrow Airport. We maybe had 20 minutes of sleep. My bag did not make a comfortable pillow. I had Kristi's pink Snuggie over me (those things really aren't that warm) to block out the light. In the morning, as I was waiting for Kristi to check-in her carry-on bag, there were these two guys, one with an American passport, the other with a UK passport- who kept reminding the American passport holder that he owed him "30 kilos" upon his return. Both men appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent, but the one with the UK passport had a Middle-Eastern accent. I tried to hide the front of my sweatshirt, which read: Shalom From New York. You can never be too cautious.
Kristi said she saw some cops with a drug dog roaming through the airport as she was waiting in line to check in her bag. Instead of German Shepherds, they use English Cocker Spaniels as drug dogs. I'd be mighty terrified if a freakin' Cocker Spaniel was on my ass lookin' for drugs. Wouldn't you?
I spent my first night in my dorm (I don't think they call them "dorms" here because I keep getting strange looks when I say dorm) last night. I didn't think the CCCU International Office was serious when they sent me an e-mail about a month ago outlining my expenses- I seriously have to pay 65 pounds for a "bed roll" and some dishes? I wasn't even given towels. The "bed roll" includes thin sheets that look like someone ate too many bananas and drank too much orange juice, danced a whole bunch and then proceeded to throw up on my bed. The patterns supposed to resemble peach "marble." The mattress is about as comfortable as the one in San Marcos Hall. I miss the hostel. I have to go back and give them Kristi's room keys. Maybe I'll steal a comforter, put it under my shirt: Hey, it's an immaculate conception.
It really does take about 30 minutes to walk to the North Holmes campus, where all my classes will be, from my dorm on Parham Road. It takes about 15 minutes to walk from my dorm into town. I should have legs of steel by the time I get back home in June.
My flatmates (roommates) are really nice, strangely enough. I was expecting the worst. Not only are they English, but they're male. It's still going to take some getting used to, living with people of the male persuasion. But their rooms and bathroom are on the first floor- I live on the second. There will be four people downstairs and four upstairs. I've only met two of my flatmates. There's supposed to be one other American living in the dorm, a girl. Some of the Americans are supposed to arrive tomorrow, the rest on Sunday. That's not long to get settled, seeing how Monday we have to be at some building on the North Holmes campus by 8:45 a.m. for "orientation" that lasts until 6 p.m. Geez, Louise.
I'm glad I get my own room, but the walls are really thin. That won't stop me from singing, by golly. I just hope none of my roommates like to sing or bring home their lady friends. I can hear everything downstairs, even with my door completely shut.
Wednesday evening, around 8:30, Kristi and I took the "coach" aka charter bus into London. It cost us 17 pounds each. Cheaper than a train ticket, but I have a BritRail Pass I've already paid $439 for, so I can ride the train for two months (I'm hoping I can somehow use it after it's expired).
There were no trains going from Canterbury to London Victoria because of the weather, so I had to take the train into Faversham and switch to Canterbury East. Then, once I arrived in Canterbury, I had to walk about 15 minutes to my dorm. I was pretty exhausted, since Kristi and I spent over eight hours sitting against a pillar at her terminal in the London Heathrow Airport. We maybe had 20 minutes of sleep. My bag did not make a comfortable pillow. I had Kristi's pink Snuggie over me (those things really aren't that warm) to block out the light. In the morning, as I was waiting for Kristi to check-in her carry-on bag, there were these two guys, one with an American passport, the other with a UK passport- who kept reminding the American passport holder that he owed him "30 kilos" upon his return. Both men appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent, but the one with the UK passport had a Middle-Eastern accent. I tried to hide the front of my sweatshirt, which read: Shalom From New York. You can never be too cautious.
Kristi said she saw some cops with a drug dog roaming through the airport as she was waiting in line to check in her bag. Instead of German Shepherds, they use English Cocker Spaniels as drug dogs. I'd be mighty terrified if a freakin' Cocker Spaniel was on my ass lookin' for drugs. Wouldn't you?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
January 4
I don't know if I trust British toothpaste. Maybe it's their toothbrushes. Maybe it's all the crappy American/Canadian music that's been rotting their teeth out. I had no idea that Nickelback was this popular in England. At least, in Canterbury they have a devoted following (I wonder if Nickelback knows? They should totally milk that). The All-American Rejects and Kings of Leon, too.
It snowed again last night. I knew that at some point today I'd slip and fall. I had what some would call a premonition. Low and behold, as I was stepping out of the train onto the Dover Priory platform I slipped and landed smack on my ass. It's quite hilarious in hindsight. They need to throw some salt on that damn platform. I should start carrying some with me. I'll be like the Morton Salt girl.
Today, Kristi and I went on the hunt for the elusive Sun Bear, sometimes known as the Honey Bear (thanks Wikipedia). It's even harder to find than an attractive British guy. We heard they were endangered, but that there some just chillin' in Sandwich. No, not attractive British guys, Sun Bears. There's this nature conservatory about an hour away by train in Sandwich, England. Kristi and I have been going on and on about these damn Sun Bears for days. We were all excited to see them today, Kristi was even speed-walking to the station. So, we hop on a train to Dover Priory, then waited around for over an hour- I got some disgusting coffee that cost me 80 pence (I'm still a little bitter about that one), then we hopped back on the train headed to Sandwich.
Of course, we didn't know where the conservatory was once we arrived in Sandwich. Kristi did have the pamphlet. The train station was closed and deserted, so we couldn't ask someone. Kristi called the conservatory, no one answered, but there was a voice recording saying it's only open on Saturdays and Sundays during the winter. Jumpin' Jahosafish, are you kidding me? The conservatory Web site says nothing about it being open only on Saturdays and Sundays during the frickin' winter. It actually says their open daily from 10:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. So, not only were we waiting another 20 minutes in the freezing cold for the train back to Dover Priory, Kristi spent over six pounds on the damn train ticket- that no attendant checked. The things I do for endangered species. Like talk to the people from Greenpeace.
Tomorrow's our last night at the hostel. We were lucky, last night we had the eight bed mixed dorm all to ourselves, tonight it looks to be the same. Now I just jinxed it. Saturday night some dude kept snoring, loud. And this French couple checked in after 11 p.m. and came into the room like they owned it our something. Good thing everyone was outta there by the time we woke up. I've been feeling like going into hibernation, the bears have the right idea. With the sun setting at 3:54 p.m. everyday and the doggone radiator not heatin' up properly, the cold just makes you kind of tired... and hungry. I do have to give props to my super badass boots from the L.L. Bean web site, though. They are so warm. Don't have much traction, but they're warm.
It snowed again last night. I knew that at some point today I'd slip and fall. I had what some would call a premonition. Low and behold, as I was stepping out of the train onto the Dover Priory platform I slipped and landed smack on my ass. It's quite hilarious in hindsight. They need to throw some salt on that damn platform. I should start carrying some with me. I'll be like the Morton Salt girl.
Today, Kristi and I went on the hunt for the elusive Sun Bear, sometimes known as the Honey Bear (thanks Wikipedia). It's even harder to find than an attractive British guy. We heard they were endangered, but that there some just chillin' in Sandwich. No, not attractive British guys, Sun Bears. There's this nature conservatory about an hour away by train in Sandwich, England. Kristi and I have been going on and on about these damn Sun Bears for days. We were all excited to see them today, Kristi was even speed-walking to the station. So, we hop on a train to Dover Priory, then waited around for over an hour- I got some disgusting coffee that cost me 80 pence (I'm still a little bitter about that one), then we hopped back on the train headed to Sandwich.
Of course, we didn't know where the conservatory was once we arrived in Sandwich. Kristi did have the pamphlet. The train station was closed and deserted, so we couldn't ask someone. Kristi called the conservatory, no one answered, but there was a voice recording saying it's only open on Saturdays and Sundays during the winter. Jumpin' Jahosafish, are you kidding me? The conservatory Web site says nothing about it being open only on Saturdays and Sundays during the frickin' winter. It actually says their open daily from 10:30 a.m. until 4:30 p.m. So, not only were we waiting another 20 minutes in the freezing cold for the train back to Dover Priory, Kristi spent over six pounds on the damn train ticket- that no attendant checked. The things I do for endangered species. Like talk to the people from Greenpeace.
Tomorrow's our last night at the hostel. We were lucky, last night we had the eight bed mixed dorm all to ourselves, tonight it looks to be the same. Now I just jinxed it. Saturday night some dude kept snoring, loud. And this French couple checked in after 11 p.m. and came into the room like they owned it our something. Good thing everyone was outta there by the time we woke up. I've been feeling like going into hibernation, the bears have the right idea. With the sun setting at 3:54 p.m. everyday and the doggone radiator not heatin' up properly, the cold just makes you kind of tired... and hungry. I do have to give props to my super badass boots from the L.L. Bean web site, though. They are so warm. Don't have much traction, but they're warm.
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