Hogmanay Forecast

Edinburgh -- city of arrogance, pseudo-culture, and the worlds largest collection of drunken Australians (outside of Australia)-- all on display the last day of every year. Sadly, while the first two are regular exhibits, the "slurring down under while up north" presentation can only be seen at and around the Edinburgh Hogmanay street party. Which just happens to be the largest street party in Europe.

Without parents near enough to make the threat of dismemberment credible, I've been debating whether to hop on the wee train and see the mayhem first hand. It would be like christmas candy, just with blood and puke and public urination... which is so much better!?! Right?

The Glasgwegian syndicate of Mr. Miyagi in the highly acclaimed "Hypothermia, Puke, and Burgers for £6" gives rookie party goers 7 basic guidelines. 5 of the 7 involve handcuffing yourself to friends so as not to get separated and/or singly mugged (apparently group muggings are considerably more enjoyable). The remaining two rules involve copious amounts of warm clothing and a transporter beam (to make a fast exit if and when necessary).

Alas, I won't be making it to this annual mother-of-all-destruction since I'm base-jumping in Glasgow that night. And ya'll thought I hadn't any common sense.

Attack of the Brussel Sprouts

Christmas dinner in Scotland includes wonderful tasties. The turkey (basted in a 1/2lb of butter), the gravy, potatoes, and carrots only begin the list. Most delicious of all, is the mound of perfectly prepared brussel sprouts. One, two, ten... is not enough. The mind demands more more more!

Every year, in the wee hours of Boxing Day, scientists see a dramatic increase in GHG levels. That's right -- every year! (Not to mention a funny odor.) Olfactory infiltration aside, this is a serious problem in need a credible response. We need to end our unsustainable dependence on the almighty brussel sprout.

The development and use of alternative vegetables for turkey dinners needs to be promoted; both in the scientific community and in primary education. To do so will not be painless, costless, though it will make our noses happier. But your culinery sacrifice may well be the greatest gift you ccould ever give a child.

So decide today to make a difference.

Because, together we can make Boxing Day less flatulent for future generations.

a tale of two shows

ER nurse 1 :"Doctor... Doctor... the patient is crashing. Tell us what you want us to do."

(camera pans, slows, speeds up, gets a bit blurry... indicating uncertainty, time-space suspension, time-space acceleration...basically confusion....)

ER nurse 2: "Doctor! You have to tell us what you want us to do. Now."

intern 1: "Alright, push one of epi and ventilate. Charge paddles to 250. Clear...

(monitor shows normal heartbeat)

nurse 1: "Now what doctor?"

intern 1:"Page neuro... And get fashion up here. Stat!"

(Intern leaves room and is stopped by angry resident in hallway)

Resident:"Dyou want to tell me whaut just happened? Because, I, think, I saw you, sittin on your behind, waitn to be told what tadooh. Yuh are a docta, act like it!"

(Resident waddles off muttering something disparaging about interns)

later...

Attending neuro: "Who is presenting?"

intern 1: "Mhairi Anderson. Age 19, student at Glasgow University. Admitted early this morning with multiple seizures."

Attending neuro: "Cause?"

intern 1: "Nothing in the patient history. But her skin... its orange."

Attending neuro: "Humph. Are you suggesting that the fake tan is somehow seeping into her brain? Interesting. Get her up to CT and get a full lab work up."

Attending fashion: "We don't need a CT. What this girl needs is a catwalk. I mean look at her... look at what she's wearing: pink striped bubble skirt with boots pulled up over the green polka-dot leggings. Unless she bought this all in the last 24hrs, that application of fake tan isn't explanation for what is going on here."

intern 1: "Do you want a psych consult?" (raises eyebrow)

Attending fashion: "No, between my stints with Mayo and Project Runway I spent a few months in glasgow. This is a classic case of fashion-myopia-glasgwegium... Glasgow Syndrome. Do your homework, I'd expect you to know that!"

Attending neuro: "I still want that CT. Sure, you have a hunch but.."

Attending fashion: "Look, run your tests, but I've seen this hundreds of times... with and without the fake tan. The fashion patterns around the campus at Glasgow uni cause seizures. Its like overexposure to strobe lights... but in this case its toxic levels of really bad clothing choices. Mismatched fashion is dangerous-- but, not operable. (Pause) Unless of course you are one of a handful of fashion surgeons who know how to separate fetal blood vessels... I mean... separate a girl from pink fishnet stockings and furry sweaters. Lucky for her, I am."

intern 1: "But she's wearing polka-dot tights."

Attending fashion: "Exactly. We only have a small window of opportunity before she's auf'd."

Drops of Jupiter

I suppose its cliche to note that day-to-day life is an often surprising conglomeration of non-consequential incidental amusing events. Not to be confused with trivial. A life is defined by this odd-assortment and only the silly (or wicked) would be foolish enough to pretend that the proverbial "box o' chocalate" isn't important in a unique little big way. Its enough to unsettle even the hardiest cliche-slayer into a doubting depression, Is my life really little more than an over-used cliche? who will then curse the ridiculous redundancy of their thought.

Of course, embracing the fact that life maybe just won't be as serious as your alphaness demands might be a tad more... shall I say... livable. But before you dance al0ng the light of day, and though you act like summer, walk like rain, listen like spring, and talk like june, remember, that the big it isn't away out there.

For what its worth, my theory on the location of it... and one should note that while T, K, P, L, and J were all instrumental in this formulation, none should be held responsible for the end result... is that those drops of jupiter are adjacent to the fish bones.

Ok, not actual fish bones... metaphorical ones!!!

At the End of the Term

Tomorrow I attend the final lecture of the fall term. Monday the major assignment is due. By Wednesday, the small econometrics report will be finished. Christmas break starts Thursday.

I'd love to describe what the last 3 months have been like. And words don't fail me to describe the various new experiences, insights, friends, reflections, and desires that have grown in this time. It would be easy to write a "snapshot." Place a short caption on the back-- Growing Up 9/06-12/06 -- move on.

But I'm not going to do that.

The chalk cliffs of Dover are no secret. In the harbour below is one end of the world's busiest ferry service. Immortalized in song and film, by the rendering of artists and digital cameras alike, one way or another, the world has seen their striking beauty. Snap the picture, move on. Beyond the pure white limestone flecked with flint is an austere subtlety. For within the pretty face, these cliffs are endowed with character and silent strength. You just know. A caption is insult to the manifested grace.

PB without J

Mr. Miyagi (the irish-american one) recently brought to my attention the need for more golf musings (since I am in the ancestral seat of the game and all that). The Sensai also indicated that he would be extremely disappointed if highly flattering remarks to himself were absent from any such anecdotes. As I must attempt to accommodate my readership... Besides, while I know most of you don't care a fig about overly-involved golf yarns, do you really want to read yet another post about the rain in Spain or Scotland/Glasgow/whereever? [For those of you who like the reflections on nearly-arctic climate, I've got a charming piece planned on abandoned umbrellas.]

Now, you may not have had the first-hand opportunity to observe the oddity of the Scottish, but trust me when I say they are very special. For one thing, they are proud of securing a world championship; that it is in Elephant Polo doesn't seem to detract from the splendour of the accomplishment though they do call it Elephant Pole in hopes that the naive will think that it is a track and field event. I've only been here a few months, but I've yet to see any Elephants in Scotland. (For those of you unfamiliar with EP...it's literal.)

And then there is "football" which they claim to have created. For the rest of the world, this is historically significant though most Americans probably scratch their heads and wonder why anyone would voluntarily confess to such an act. Whether they actually invented the sport is rather immaterial. That they are completely daft about it, is not. For whatever reason, watching a live tie (match) is provocation enough for very round men with pasty white legs to don kilts. (And I was foolish enough to think that this was merely an urban legend and move here anyway.)

Then there is that activity they thought up which has placed them continuously atop the most-hated-nation list of golf-widows the world over. By this point, I should hardly be surprised that sanity and Scottish golf don't exactly walk hand-in-hand. Then again, they caught me off guard. Minutes prior to the start of today's match I was asked if I preferred to play off mats or out of the first cut. I couldn't possibly have heard that correctly... so I took out my headphones and asked them to repeat. Yes, I was being asked if I would rather carry a mat around with me all day to hit shots off of or merely move all balls into the first cut. The fairways, they explained, were so wet that playing off them would ruin them for the winter. (Maybe the fairways are trying to tell us something... ever think of that?)

I might be in Scotland but I've still retained my reasoning ability. A quick back of the scorecard probability distribution indicated strongly that I was likely to be in the first cut anyway --on the margin, a mat would be superfluous. As it happened I hit an unusually high percentage of fairways on the day, though I quickly started aiming for the side of the fairway so as to enable the shortest walk between where the ball was hit and where it would be hit from. It was sort of like cart-path golf, just with sink-holes, boggy fairways, and bunkers-turned water hazards (and I'm not even going to start on the "winter greens").

At the end of the day, a pair of triple salchows followed by a double axel/eagle lutz had landed me atop the leaderboard. I blame my sensaishea... after all, he was the one who showed me that golf without comedy was like peanut butter without jelly. In other words, it would be a sane Scot!

Saturday Reading

I picked up the novel "To Kill a Mockingbird" from the library yesterday. As a result, today my host family (and their two cats) discovered what happens when I get lost in a book. I think they found it mildly amusing to be utterly unintentionally ignored. Mr. Tom, the ornery cat who often as not will dig his claws through my shirt, finally decided to curl up between my sweater and t-shirt. It took me a few minutes to notice his cheeky locale. When he proceeded to lick my face I merely altered the angle at which I held the book. He seemed satisfied with the compromise.

As the cat can attest, I was thoroughly involved in the novel. It is a well-written, powerful tale of fear, integrity, and fighting battles that can't be won-- at least not yet. I know most folks read this book (or the synopsis-- definitely not the same thing) in high school and considering that many individuals stop reading when assignments are no longer being doled out, maybe that is the only way thebook would be read. Depressing thought albeit unlikely. This however is not children's literature or even adolescent. Not due to the subject matter, but entirely because of how well it captures childlike curiosity and understanding. It is unquestionably written for adults, framed by a child to challenge the attitudes of an older generation.

I ought not to generalize. All I mean to say, is that there is a certain level of emotional understanding, maturity even, that this novel inescapably requires. To be honest, I might yet have been too young... it felt that way. Stories of innocence lost and of innocence regained are heady plains. The world will shift ever so slightly, ever so subtly. Rather unsettling.

As I finished the last line, I gently moved the cat off my lap and realized that I needed to reread Last of the Mohicans.

Hardly Worth Reading (Really)

Vindication has this tendency of being sweet. Knowing that you can tell the world or even just one person "I told you so!" is an amazing emotional high even when basic manners restrain you from actually verbalizing those four words. Who needs Prozac, alcohol, or even chocolate when vindication has come aknockin on the door? Talk about endorphins?!!!

But lets be honest, when we have the chance to herald our "rightness," how often do we actually pass up the opportunity? Even when we attempt the near impossible exercise of restraint, our body language will inevitably give us away. Of course, that's no excuse for not at least trying to demonstrate a modicum of self-control. After all, pride is considered the deadliest of the seven deadly sins. Pause and contemplate-- is all that endorphinal-causing-rightness really worth possible eternal hellfire?

Warnings aside, vindication, like a good wine, gets so much tangier with age. A good "I told you so" will mature into a swagger exponentially more powerful if given a bit of time... say, 21+ odd years. Throw in multiple doses of ridicule over such a time period and... (need I really say any more?)

Imagine, if you will, a man, a self-professed sale-rat, insist that his very pregnant wife drop everything and proceed without delay to a closeout sale to purchase a heavy, thick, bulky coat in the midst of a warm California winter. True, the coat may never be worn, may be absolutely useless, but it's on sale. OCD kicks in. The man insists!

Following decades will see many wars waged against the Gestapo-Coat (as it is snidely called) in futile attempts to win back prime-closet space. OCD persists. The GC remains.

Many moons observe the tentative cease-fires and uneasy occupant/occupier relations, all too indicative of irreconciable attitudes and beliefs. The GC is no longer just a coat--it is undeniably a representation, a talisman, of a man's right to his own closet space.

Dad, smile! The GC has finally been worn and lovingly christened in a proper Glaswegian downpour. It is a great coat, warm and dry-- it was just in the wrong city! And all I can say is, thanks... thanks for keeping it... cuz I absolutely LOVE it.

Oh and yes, we know... you told us so!

Would you say I'm cold?

As I bounced out of bed early this morning... Oh, wait... my nose just got longer. Hmmm, wonder why? But, as I was saying, early this morning as I awoke from my peaceful slumbers I energetically began my... Oh dear, my nose is looking abnormally long. :-(

Fine, Jimmy Cricket, I'll try to keep this slightly more factual.

I rolled out of bed this morning (late morning) doing my utmost to not fall on my laptop. I think I was successful. After stumbling into the kitchen for some porridge (with lots of added brown sugar and milk) I managed to open my eyes enough to take in the brilliant blue skies and occasional lazy cloud that awaited me in the great outside. I wasn't fooled. Sure it looks lovely and all, but its ffrr-ffrrigid.

A few weeks back I made the mistake of wearing only a t-shirt on a day like today and was outside only a nanosecond or so before I darted back inside to begin the normal layering process. The point is, here in Scotland, the sun won't actually generate heat during the fall, despite what the bright blue skies would indicate.

Compared to the past few days, I ought not to complain about 6degrees. That is until I look up the high temperatures in New York (11) or in San Jose (21). In fact, the projected low in SJ is 10. Yes, that's 4 degrees warmer than our high.

Now I recognize that ya'll warned me that Glasgow was a bit cooler than even Salinas. In fact, my Dad was very helpful before I moved here and showed me on a globe just exactly how close Scotland is to the Arctic Circle. (For the record, I thought the globe was exaggerating... its not!)

Maybe its time to stop wearing shorts...

McYucky

So I have the flu. That's the uncomfortable, germladen, can't-be-too-far-from-a-bathroom, reality. Its ok. I didn't have class or a soccer match or anything terribly important to do today other then writing a few odd essays due (soon), cleaning a room that has taken on FEMA like qualities of disorganization, and preparing for my upcoming LSAT that will only determine my career. Like I said, not a problem...

Being sick in a foreign country has its advantages though. Not once today was I sprayed down with Lysol, advised to lie in the "teenager on the phone" position, or reminded of just how much nicer I become when I'm sick. Like I said, there are advantages...

As a proactive sick person, I've utilized all the family's favorite remedies:I've been drinking lots of liquids (mom), taking my vit.C (dad), watching TV (DeedleD), sleeping (oh wait, that's mine), and I even did the whole "exercise till you're better or collapse" routine which my big brother swears by.

The final diagnosis? There is such a thing as too much tea and it might have been better if the apple juice wasn't expired. Seriously!

Married in Mexico

An Open Letter to my Mum and Dad

I can't recall the first time you two told me the story of your "meeting," falling in love, and getting married. I'm pretty confident that I failed to grasp the depth of your lunacy. Had I understood, no doubt I would have run away from home desperately hoping that this sort of thing wasn't genetic. (Ok, so I didn't actually know about genes and stuff like that at 4 years old...).

By the time I was a teenager, I began to wonder whether this was just a really long-running joke. After all, you tried to convince us that there were people living alternate lives in the mirror, so maybe, ages before, the two of you concocted this story about getting married in the back of Tijuanan barber shop after meeting only once. I could imagine Britney Spears doing that sort of thing (wait, that actually sounds like something she did do), but not my upstanding parents.

The point is, every anniversery I expected, I hoped, you would come clean... "No, we were married in Conneticut in a church with a white picket fence... the whole Tijuana thing was something that got laughs on a nationwide stand-up tour we did in 1983. We never told you that we were a famous comedy duo? I'm sure we mentioned it... honey, are you sure you never told them? Well, alright... we have told you where babies come from...yes?" (You did always know how to get out of a conversation.)

In recent years, I've grown quite attached to this tale and I sincerely request that should it be in fact, well... a hoax, that you will never ever admit it. Let your soon to arrive first grandchild believe that back in the day, "gramps and nana were pretty cool." Sure, its not what most people would term dignified or even "romantic"... but nobody ever said that about Rocky & Bullwinkle, Abbot & Costello, or Bert & Ernie and thought less of them. All I'm saying, is that from where I stand, you guys are in pretty good company.

So allow me on the eve of your 31st wedding anniversery to lift my can of Lysol and offer up this traditional Scottish toast to the two of you and to the entire family (especially including my brother and his absolutely gorgeous wife).

May the best you've ever seen
Be the worst you'll ever see;
May a moose ne'er leave yer girnal
Wi' a teardrop in his e'e.
May ye aye keep hale and hearty
Till ye're auld enough tae dee,
May ye aye be just as happy
As I wish ye aye tae be.


Sincerely,

the kid not in the picture

Signs

Someone is trying to tell us something.
It may be inconvenient.
Will we heed the signs...


Global Warming: the Cause, Duration, and Cure (look closely-- it's all there)

Strangely reminiscent of how Congress allocates money for environmental purposes

Thou shalt not engross on thy neighbor (#s 6-10)

Harmonizing the marginal cost curve you face with the marginal social cost curve you create



The holidays have been dangerous for a long time...



Don't expect to blame belated Christmas gifts on a shipwreck. That excuse was old in 1887! Shop early, ship early, and even if you go postal from all the insipid holiday cheer...I'll have gotten my presents. Better yet, be environmentally sensitive and just e-transfer the cash.

The above is intended strictly for educational purposes... the writer accepts no liability for practical applications and/or uses. Should the reader find an aspect not funny, they are advised to proceed to a part they do find amusing. In the event of a hot-flash, the reader is highly encouraged to sit in a tub of ice… under no circumstance should the reader relocate to a polar region as this could result in further shrinkage of the polar ice cap. Donations should not be considered tax-deductible, which the writer sincerely regrets. Water should only be drunk out of clean-clean glasses—it is advisable to regard all others as contaminated. Merril is encouraged to swing away.

High on a Hill (with a lonely goatherd)

11:30
Where: Loch Lomond area
Who: Catherine (member of tripartite girl pact); Paul (center) videographer;Alan our fearless leader and soon to top my "most-hated" list. Not pictured... 20 or so others from church.
What: Euphemistically called a "hill walk," Alan is taking us up to the top of Ben Ime, highest peak in the area at 3,317ft... and more importantly (if you happen to be Scottish) it is classified as a Munro. [To fully understand this significance, google Sir. Hugh Munro.]
Why: Completely beats me! Just hoping that I've got the "moderate-level of fitness" Alan tells us is required.


12:15

After about 85minutes of hiking uphill, Alan stops us for lunch. With the cloud-covered Cobbler looming in the background, Catherine, Andrew (the crazy Scot wearing shorts), and myself are discussing the possibility that Alan may not actually be human but instead a mountain goat. I ponder whether "moderate-level of fitness" was in reference to mountain goats. When everyone has caught up, Alan starts describing the next part of the day (to give the faint of heart a chance to turn back). It sounds absolutely miserable... but sitting on a really cold boulder hasn't been so much fun either. Besides, it is made perfectly clear that I don't have the option of turning back... everyone else can do as they choose, but apparently no one will let me quit. I'm starting to dislike Alan, Catherine, Karin, Mark, Andrew and a bunch of other people whose names I don't know.

With the exception of Andrew, who insists that he isn't cold... "ya dien't sieme ta liese ta mouch height thro yar leages" (he hadn't brought any additional clothing), we start layering. I don a sweatshirt, my rainpants (excuse me... raintrousers), 2 mismatched gloves, and my bright blue beanie. Within seconds I've transformed into the Michelin man which is sad, because up till this point I had looked quite cute.

13:40

We haven't been on a proper trail for nearly 30minutes but we have reached the base of Ben Ime whose summit is hidden by clouds. Beginning to think that this is Alan's idea of a cruel joke. Tripartite girl pact (no girl left behind) is beginning to demonstrate its strength. Walking through bogs (extreme casual water) has me privately reminiscing on the landscapes portrayed by favorite author, John Buchan, in his thrilling novels.

14:45

Alan said the climb up Ben Ime was a gentle slope. Seriously?!! Maybe for a mountain goat.

Stiff wind in our face isn't helping matters much. Girl-pact is doing well, though one of us (I'll just say it was the Scottish one) keeps sitting down. Her husband is pulling her up the hill currently... saves Catherine or I having to do it.

How did Paul get ahead of me... again? He keeps stopping to video us scrambling up this boggy, mud-laden slope... I get past him and then 3 minutes later he is once again above us catching for posterity this very forlorn looking cast of characters (needless to say, Alan is in no way included in this description).

Begin to remember my fear of heights... or more specifically fear of falling down. Not really problematic on the way up. But those who go up are supposed to come down and its going to be a balancing act with the wind at our backs. Alan informs me that I "can't have a helicopter pick me up" so I decide to figure out how I'm going to get back down once I've reached the top.

15:20

While trying to keep my mind off of what its going to be like coming off this mountain or just how much my calves are burning, I start to realize that the first love of my life, Richard Hannay, was not only terribly and understatedly intelligent, courageous, and charming but was also in amazing shape. Buchan had this guy running around these hills -- suffering from bouts of malaria, shot-up appendages, folks trying to kill him, all while trying to save the world-- without missing even a single clue. Hotdiggitydamn...Hannay was one hunk of a ficticious character!

How did Paul get in front of me... again?

15:45

I have climbed to the top of a Munro. Course, I didn't realize that it was the summit until Alan assured me that this was in fact the end of the line (so to speak). Given the cloud cover, we can't see much... but we are above most of the clouds... wow, that wind is blowing them at a amazing pace and I can just catch a peek at the valley and loch below.
This has been really cool. Speaking of cool... its positively freezing up here. Andrew (Mr. I'm Wearing Shorts) is still claiming that he isn't cold. His legs have turned a simultaneous shade of blue and red. I'm starting to think that Alan may not be the "ruler of all that is evil." But maybe I'm just thinking that because I have proven that I have a "moderate-level-of-fitness" (for a mountain goat).

15:50

Catherine and Karin have made it. I point out that while we are standing at 3,317ft, I'm actually higher up than they are... at almost 3,323ft. Before we head down a bit to find a spot slightly more sheltered from the wind, we pose for a shot. What we are thinking... "Is there snot blowing out of our noses?"

From Right Where I Am

It rains in Glasgow. Frequently. Usually it's not really a wet rain... more of a descending dampness. Sometimes though, the grayness opens into a soaking downpour. Then umbrellas open and folks attempt to avoid contact between the respective 'instruments of relative dryness'. In the wind, the concern is centered on keeping the umbrella right side in; a losing battle. As the unreliability of inanimate objects is again demonstrated, sorrowful and annoyed glances appear. Like most days, the rain has emerged victorious.

Maybe this cycle is why I refuse to use an umbrella. I accept the reality of a good soaking in exchange for the chance to be on the winning side of inevitability. I hold my head high as I march past those cowering next to buildings trying to get their inside-out umbrella ready for a second go. I smile at the unfortunate few who left the umbrella at home and now are hunched over, eyes squinting, trying desperately to stay dry.

Or maybe, I can't be bothered to carry an umbrella around when its not raining. Or possibly, I'm cheap and won't spend that 4quid. A few knowledgeable voices would argue that my chronic forgetfulness has impeded the purchase of an essential item. I won't lie, the above all ring true... to a point.

In the end, getting wet isn't that much of an inconvenience, provided of course, that one isn't desperately trying to stay dry. It's relaxing, it's beautiful, and in Glasgow it's inevitable.

Descriptive Statistics

44 days, 28 cups of tea, 14 classes, 13 shortbread cookies, 12 new (crazy) friends, 11 soccer practices, 10 pages of assigned reading, 9 sweaters, 8 loads of laundry, 7 rounds of golf, 6 shots (not inclusive of penalty of two-strokes for ball hitting my person, per rule 19.2b) to exit a St. Andrews fairway bunker, 5 kilograms, 4 attempts to like curry, 3 wrong buses, 2 cartons of goat milk, and 1 really lousy hamburger from Burgher King (moment of infinite weakness) later... I have decided upon my dissertation topic. Isn't that great?

Eden

St. Andrews: cow pastures gone wild...with an amazing view

(and this sorta tingly goosebumpy feeling behind the knees)

If You "Wish They All Could Be..."

Upon arriving at church last evening, one of the greeters informed me that three girls from California had stopped in for the service. Like many of his fellow countrypersons, he labors under the impression that I am acquainted with most of the roughly 36 million people in the state... or at the very least, any Californian lost in Glasgow! After being provided a minute description I scurried upstairs to grab a spot in the non-arthritic- hip pew area... but only after promising to say hello if I saw my fellow Calinationals.

As I assume is traditional Scottish presbytery style, the balcony area forms a thick U which is supported by three walls and numerous dual-purpose support beams (the other being to obscure any view of the speaker for those unfortunate to be seated on the ground floor.) I'm describing this so as to not be accused of twisting around in church... for just across the U, were three girls roughly matching the police-sketch I'd received. In the end, I could have ID them anywhere. Only California girls would ever-so-coolly sip Caramel Macchiatos during a sermon.

Baby Blue

For the two weeks preceding the commencement of school terms, I inevitably recall how much I hate lectures, homework, and the overall structure that academia enjoys. Generally, this feeling absents itself until the time in the semester when all the major essays are due; at which point, I have been known to whip up favorite childhood ailments such as chicken pox or appendicitis to give myself genuine reasons for procrastination. Say what you like about procrastination... it gives the procrastinator a tremendous feeling of accomplishment. After all, it takes persistent dedication to accomplish so little over such a great amount of time.

I digress.

Classes began on Tuesday and I rediscovered that in actuality I am not entirely antagonistic to school. To be sure, it was slightly disturbing when the professor started lecturing on thermal dynamics but in the main, I have managed to find my way to the economics lectures.

In other news:

Golf in Scotland is fantastic though I did have quite the shock last week when two Scotsmen and one Irishman decided that it was "too wet and muddy" to play an afternoon 18. The disillusionment was comparable to discovering that Santa still brings gifts for the "naughty" children as opposed to the promised switch. (It is only when you are older that you discover that Santa is a code word for the World Bank.) As we left the parking lot, a threesome of middle-aged women wearing waterproofs last seen sported by fishermen on some decrepit haddock boat, informed us that "te cauz jist naight pliyaible." Who were we to disagree with such stalwarts of all-weather play?

On Wednesday I sported the 1 in my first proper 11-a-side soccer game. For those of you ignorant of soccer tradition, this is the jersey worn by the starting goalie. Looking back on the match it is difficult to determine which was harder on my ego: giving up a goal in the first 20 seconds of the game,wearing an all baby-blue uniform ( another "privilege" of playing in net is your own unique and ugly outfit), or having to change my shorts on field after my team realized that I had them on backwards!

for the idiomatically challenged

Dear JRP

Many Americans believe that they are unique in their need and use of the toilet. As a result, this activity is euphemistically referred to as “going to the restroom” or “bathroom.” It is a mystery why our more evolved fellow-countrypersons still frequent these areas; one plausible explanation has is it as a socially polite way for a group of girls to have a quick gossip session.

There are a few areas of society that generally recognize this activity as a more universal need. Typically speaking, such individuals are parents of children between the ages of 2 and 7, or pre-school teachers. These aberrations can be identified by their almost constant queries regarding “needing to go potty” or in general, the mere use of the word “potty.” For some parents, such expressions may continue well into their child’s adolescent years though many behavioral scientists believe this is merely a sub-conscious way of publicly humiliating the teen.

Enjoy your newfound knowledge.

Sincerely

The Idiom Answerman

Seven and Counting

In a far-away land, a long long time ago, my mum and dad introduced me to something they called manners. This notion did not come naturally to me, as it is in fact a concept quite foreign to the uncivilized 4-year old mind. But, like so many things that involve parents, resistance was futile and eventually I became quite the well-mannered, though perhaps slightly sarcastic, girl that you all know and love.

As such a polite young lady, I've attempted to use the proper Scottish terms while residing in Glasgow. Instead of asking where I can buy soccer cleats, I ask about 'boots'. Likewise, 'pitch' instead of field, 'university' rather than college, 'underground" instead of subway, 'half nine' instead of nine-thirty. In fact the only local expression that I actually understand but can't seem to say is 'going to the toilet'... yes, toilet is the operative word out here.

So it is only natural, that I say 'football' when referring to soccer. This is proving to be a bit of a problem. In the past eleven days I've been asked seven different times to clarify whether I was talking about American football or soccer. After time six, I got quite clever and decided to just say 'soccer'. Not surprisingly, I received a charming dressing-down about how the sport is properly and appropriately termed football since it is played with the feet etc etc etc.

I can't put up with another such lecture...I'm up to seven and counting!

Oh How the Mighty Are Fallin'

Everyone and his aunt have a theory of why American superstars are anything but at the Ryder Cup. And of course, these guesses are all rubbish. I admit, I have no idea why Tiger continues to play poorly in this event. He certainly knows how match play is won... he has six straight USGA match play titles to prove that. It's not that he doesn't care... he is way too much of a perfectionist to not care about his less then impressive record. And please don't tell me that the pressure is just too much for him... whatever is the root cause, this I just can't see.

The other superstars... exactly who would you have in mind? Lefty? Sure he's the "people's player" and obviously very good but his icon status has less to do with his game and more to do with his cult following. DiMarco may be the Clay Aiken of the PGA but, that in itself explains the problem.

Furyk may be short off the tee and Toms may be short on the tee, but both are simply fantastic players. Clearly neither are what you'd call dominating, but they play smart golf. Verplank and Zach Johnson probably won't be winning American Idol anytime soon, but these two could easily continue to play spoiler to the Euro squad.

Who knows what might happen if Capt. Lehman took a look at the-Torrance-book-of-gutsy-plays and gaveTiger, Lefty, and Aiken the afternoon off. Those "2nd stringers" have big-time game and can't wait to prove it.

Some Like It Hot

Apparently, the Scots do believe in absolute right and wrong... in matters of tea. According to one older connoisseur of the beverage , "if te waeter's naight boilinn, eye maight ez weaille draink me dishwaeter." Even on airplanes, which have been known to on occasion experience turbulence, nothing below 100C should be served. "Eye knowe et's haight! Eye wainte haight! Eye'm naight goinn te sue baicause ets boilinn." It would seem that the experts have spoken.

In other news, despite trailing by two points after the first day of Ryder Cup play, I think the Americans are in a position to capture the cup this go around. In tomorrows fourball, look for strong play from the duos of Mickelson/DiMarco, Woods/Furyk, and Verplank/ Johnson. Don't be surprised if the Verplank/Johnson pairing surfaces in the afternoon foursomes as well.

On a more serious note, I'm struggling not to read the synopsii of the first episodes of my favorite medical soaps. Additionally, my Scottish health insurance refuses to cover trashy-American-TV detox programs (though they do cover trauma caused by BBC shows involving little old ladies solving murder mysteries every week in the same village of roughly 100 people.) The state of health care these days is truly tragic.

Of Pants and Pudding

After a few nights of 'pudding' that resembled things like spongecake or yogurt, it has finally been explained that 'pudding' isn't a type of dessert... it is dessert. This course is promptly followed by tea and biscuits which really ought to be called "second pudding."

Then there is the issue of my 'pants', or more specifically, the use of the word 'pants' in reference to trousers. Apparently, announcing that one will be ready after "changing my pants" is not a subject for polite conversation... though it is a guaranteed way of making wee lassies giggle uncontrollably.

At least I needn't worry about sounding 'posh'.

Left & Right: Revisited

It is commonly known that I am left-right challenged. The last time this was a particular problem was when I first began driving... when told to turn left, I had about a 77% chance of actually going left. Unfortunately, when instructed to turn right I went left roughly 76% of the time. This led to utter frustration for my poor mom who finally reverted to "hook" and "slice" when giving directions.

Over the years, there has been progress and until recently, this "disability" had only a small impact on my daily life; typically limited to personal embarrassment.

Enter UK right-hand driving. Pedestrians here need to look right-left-right when crossing the street as opposed to left-right-left. This is especially important on busy streets like Byres Rd (pictured above) which border the campus. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure why this is a dangerous situation for someone like myself. Surprisingly, I've only stepped in front of a moving car once. (Dad, don't worry... it was only a little taxi.)

Glasga Uni

Founded in 1451, GU is the fourth oldest english-speaking university in existence and the second oldest in Scotland (St. Andrews has us beat by a few decades.)

This picture is of the east quad. Not only does the west quad look just as fantastic, the archway separating the two continues to give me goosebumps.

While most of this extensive campus continues in both Gothic and Victorian styles, there are a few unfortunate and unpictured exceptions. Sadly, this includes the Adam Smith concrete slab (my home for the next year) which only narrowly misses winning the "ugly building on campus award."



This"beauty shot" of the main tower was taken from the north end of university ave - one of my favorite spots.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the campus really blended in with the surrounding area. Much of the West End and City Centre was built during the late 19th century when Glasgow was the second wealthiest city in the British Empire. As a result, the architecture is primarily Victorian, though some Georgian structures remain.

Of course, by the 1960s the stonework was black from decades of pollution resulting from the extensive industry in the city and coal burning heating of many homes. One Glaswegian I spoke with recalled that during this time it was necessary to wear an oxygen mask just to breath. Pollution combined with the fog making visibility nil.

After the passage of the clean air act in the UK which banned coal burning stoves, the air quality in Glasgow and other industrial cities dramatically improved. In the 80s the city began cleaning the grime off the old buildings and discovered the gorgeous sandstone underneath.

This is not the city of William Wallace and Rob Roy. Rather, much of historic Glasgow is a indicative of the time when Britain was the superpower of the world and young men were expected upon completing university studies to continue the reach of the empire. Might this evidence of past glories be more accurately a silent tribute to a man who transformed the world with an invisible hand?

Welcome to Kasredin

CS Lewis once quipped, "with the possible exception of the equator, everything begins somewhere." So welcome to my initiation into the blogasphere.

Kasredin, will be primarily about me but is entirely for you. It's meant to be fresh, entertaining, on occasion thought- provoking; which means I expect active readers (in the Mortimer Adler sense.) So, give me feedback on what you like, what you hate, what's flat boring, and what you would like to see more of. All I ask is that posted comments be appropriate for all ages.

Enjoy Kasredin