How much do babies love the feeling to clawing and biting their way out of the womb? A whole heck of a lot! Which is why the makers of Peekaru invented the this: a wearable pouch that your little minion can fit into so that you guys can re-create that scene from Alien whenever you want to.


Can you imagine walking down the street that that face staring our from your chest? Also works for dogs and midgets whom you have forced into cooperating with your sick fantasies of Siamese Twins.

I've seen some pretty horrific British fashion in my time, but the 'WTF de Jour' at the moment seems to be the wearing of legging as pants or trousers.
I have now lost count of the amount of times girls have walked by our flat on their way to the ever classy Lava/Ignite wearing nothing but leggings, high heels, and a short shirt. As in the shirt does not hang past the hips, so that you are treated to a lot of leg...and in many cases, butt.

Even if you're Lindsay Lohan, wearing just leggings is a little too much. While I love pairing 'em with a long tunic dress, short skirt, or even really long shirt, so long as my ass is sufficiently covered, it's fine. But clearly I am in the minority here.

The other day I saw a girl who was about 5'3", 14 stone (196lbs) in Sainsburys wearing not legging, but black tights. And a shirt. The shirt covered her bum by about half an inch, and in the front, it only skimmed her va-j-j by about a quarter. SO NOT OKAY! Why would you do that? That is basically displaying your lady bits out there for all the world to gawk at.
In my perusing for images of ladies in leggings, I came across this site. I'm with ya dude! If only your wisdom was shared with the general Scottish populace.

I've been musing over Twitter these past few days. While I got a Twitter account ages ago because it seemed everyone was jumping on the bandwagon, I had no idea how to use it. 140 characters to say...what? In my head, it was just another Facebook status, and since everyone I knew was on Facebook, then how lame would you have to be to be on both?

Then I found out that celebrities were on Twitter and it open my eyes to another dimension of stalking. From reading The Superficial, I learned that apparently John Meyer Twitters like a crazy crack monkey, and that Ashton Kutcher just TwitPic'd Demi's bikini clad arse while on holiday. Why do you need to buy gossip mags when the celebs are laying out tidbits of their lives in 140 character blurbs ever 30 minutes?

And the sad thing is that we 'follow' them and get drawn even more into their lives than we already are and need to be. The other day I casually mentioned to a friend in Chicago that Stephen Fry is currently filming in South East Asia. "How the hell do you know that?" she asked, and I have to say, it was a little embarrassing to mumble out that I had read it on his Twitter.

But I think there are different levels of sad stalkage. While I may follow a few celebs (only Fry, Eddie Izzard who is SUPER boring, and Andy Murray), there are those who follow and try to force themselves into that persons life by replying to the Tweet. For instance, after Fry posts a TwitPic of, say, a monkey, about 70 people will reply with comments like 'Whoa, Fry, have you got a new pet?' or 'Aww, how cute. Now don't you go being a cheeky monkey'. I think this is retarded. If I were anywhere near famous and was actually doing something like working, I would definitely not be spending my time reading uninteresting comments that are attempting to bury their way into my life with their brown little noses.

That being said, I was almost one of them tonight. I know, hang head in shame. But Murray just won his first match in the Sony-Ericsson Open and is going out tonight to celebrate with court side seats to a Miami Heat game (STALKER). And I almost replied. Almost. I had hit the 'reply' button and had the blinking cursor in the little white square...but just couldn't do it. So I quickly just closed out of that tab and pretended that I was never there in the first place.

So while I love my Twitter updates telling me that Fry is rooting for Cambridge in the boat races today, I still don't really know what to do with the thing other than stalk other people more famous than me. This is made worse by the TwiterFox Mozilla application what lives in a corner of my browser and gives a little pop up evertime some celeb needs to tell me that they are going for a walk. And then that they were back from their walk. And that they are now going for sushi. And that they are going to sleep now. I'm looking at you, Izzard. Are there seriously people out there that give a damn and care? Oh, yeah, I guess me. Saddo.

This has been buzzing around the news for a while, so I thought I might as well weight in on it. Earlier this month, a primary school teacher confiscated a pupils' crisp bag because it was unhealthy. This then prompted a big hullabaloo over who should decided what to feed school children- parents or teachers.

I think the only papers who covered it were the Daily Mail and the Telegraph- not really the place you turn to for unbiased, legitimate news. And true to their tabloid form, they made sure to bulk up the quotes which called the school 'Guantanamo Bay', or the teachers 'Food Gestapo'.

Next, Channel 4 news ran a segment on it asking whether or not this was appropriate, with some wanting government intervention to keep these sweets away. I'm not sure about the rest of the UK, but the Scottish Government already passed legislation outlawing 'unhealthy' food to be served in school cafeterias, including all vending machines. However, there is no such legislation stating that parents cannot pack a candy bar or soda into their child's lunch box along with their meal. So it has now become a battle between who thinks what is best for the children.

Now, I am all for healthy eating, but personally, I think this has become WAY out of hand. As much as I love the UK, I can't help but feel that the government plays a wee bit too much of a determining factor in people's lives. While I am all for healthy initiative, such as the smoking ban that has made everyone's life better in cramped, dark pubs and clubs, snatching a child's soda away from a packed lunch their mom gave them is too much.

Although, there are very marked differences between how I was raised and Scottie. When my mom did have time to pack me a lunch, I always got crap. Carrot sticks, dried seaweed, soymilk boxes and peanut butter and wheatgerm sandwiches on whole grain bread. I was so envious of everyone who got the small crisp bag, the lunchables, and a soda. If I were a kid, my lunches would totally consist of all those things I didn't get to have. But since my mom packed my lunch, I had to eat what was in there or starve.

Scottie had a TOTALLY different upbringing. As a kid, he got a packed lunch and 25p to buy a milk. As he got older, the kids were allowed to LEAVE campus to buy food from any of the shops around the school. He told me that his diet used to consist of a chocolate milk (which apparently he became addicted to and HAD to have everyday), and then either a portion of chips and a chocolate bar, or a deep fried pizza, or crisps and a chocolate bar...you get the picture. Let a kid choose lunch in a convenience store or chippy, and obviously what do you think they'll pick?

I see a few ways the UK can cure this. Closed campuses for one. I never heard of a US school that wasn't a closed campus. Hell, everyone I met at SD thought I was lucky to NOT have a 8ft chain link fence around the school. If you're a kid and you're stuck on school grounds, you will have to eat what you have. Since schools are now supposed to serve only healthy meals, be happy with your lasagna, apple, salad and milk.

And for those who opt for packed lunches, packed by parents who load up the lunchbox with chocolate, crisps and sausage rolls, there's a way to make them not want to eat them: fear. Prey on their insecurities by constantly showing them pictures of obease people eating pie. Surround them with images of people too fat to get out of bed, who are suffering from painful bedsores, and can't function anymore. And then tell them it's because they ate chocolate in primary school. And pizza in secondary school. 12, 13, 14, 15 year old girls ( and probably guys too) are SUPER self-concious at that age! Get them while they're young! Tell them that if they drink that soda, they will never look like Miley, the Jonas brothers won't want to talk to them, and Zac Effron would totally laugh at their overhanging belly pooch.

Of course I'm not serious about all this (even thought it would totally work- or create a nation of aneroxics), but it's not more ridiciously than outlawing what parents can pack for their child to eat. If the parents want to frack up their kid's life, fine. Eventually the kid will hopefully learn (like Scottie did) that a roll filled with butter and chips is not a healthy sandwich.



I bet you totally don't want that second helping of ice cream now, do you?

To make up for that last, self-pitying moan, here's something worth a cruel chuckle. Or maybe it's because I'm just evil like that.

Anyway, my living room window looks out onto a busy street, a bus stop, and one of the corporate offices for Bank of Scotland. Next to the bus stop is a parking bay- but only after 6:30. Otherwise, you are not under any circumstances allowed to park there. It's 5:00 just now and I saw someone drive up in a very flashy sliver porsche. Then Mr. Parking man walked by, took 3 pictures of the car, from every angle, AND a picture of the sign saying 'no parking' and slapped him a ticket. The owner of the car came back just in time to see the parking man walk around the corner. Hoo, but I love seeing people with more money than me getting slammed with little inconveniences like that.

I know everyone has one of those days when they just don't want to get out of bed. But for me, its seriously become a 'why even get out of bed- there's nothing to get up for' kind of depression. And I hate it. I wish wish wish I had something to get up for. Because waking up for something denotes a purpose, and at the moment, I have no purpose!

Every fracking day is the same: I get up when I force myself to, spend all day online looking for jobs, filling out applications, and sending off CVs and cover letters. Sometimes, the only time I leave the house is when Scottie gets home and we go out to buy groceries. Sad, super sad, I know. I have been trying to make use of the clear weather to get some walking and exercise in, but lately, the Arctic winds of death are driving invisible ice shrapnel into my blood stream, while a deluge of grit and dirt make a bee line for my eyes. At the moment, being outside walking about is so not the place I want to be.

Today was one of those days that I wish I just never left the house, much less my bed. In order to be somewhat productive and do something with my life that isn't moping around the house, I've been tossing around the idea of joining a gym. My friend Zonko has been getting on my case about it and said that it would at least perk me up and give me something to do. I'm not so sure about that perking up thing, because the last time I went with her to the gym I came home and had a emotional meltdown- talk about total endorphin fail- but at least she is right about it giving me something to do.

So today I had a meeting with someone from Virgin Active to get a tour of the gym there. Nice, I suppose, and the lady gave me a free pass to use tomorrow, so we shall see if I survive that, but then came the payment details. £46 off peak. WTF?!? Being unemployed as I am, I was really in hoping for something under 40 quid. I mean, it was a nice gym and all, but soooooooooo not worth £46. Especially since I wouldn't be able to attend any of the classes I was interested in.

After hicking it back from Virgin, I then left to trek over to the opposite side of Edinburgh to the Barcelo gym found in the Carlton Hotel. They had offered to give me a free 3 day pass starting next week, and are £37 a month. They are a very small gym, but have all the bits and bobs I suppose you would need. However, they only offer 6 or 12 month contracts. Since I may not be in Edinburgh in 6 months, I don't really want to commit to that. After treking back from the Carlton, I went on line to do some more job searching and found one for a cafe in Cannongate, posted on the 23rd. It said to drop in your CV, and because I'm desperate for a job, back across the city I went. To be told they had already filled the position. In less than 3 days.

This right here is a VERY SAD PANDA.So basically, today I walked a total of (and I totally just calculted it on Google Maps) 5.5 miles today FOR NOTHING. The job was a bust, the gyms as waaaaaaay too expensive for someone unemployed, and all the while, it was FREEZING, it was WINDY and after and hour of being camped out in front of the heater, I am still cold inside.

Bllllllllllllerrrrrrrrrrrrrg.

I know I just posted about wanting shoes and dresses, but I can't seem to tear myself away from the idea of spending money I don't have. This time around, I think I have convinced myself that I do actually truly need this.

You see, the weather in Edinburgh is slowly changing...getting closer to 20c rather than 10, and I it's getting to the point where my big ol' heavy wool coat is now transforming me into a sweaty pig everytime I walk more than two blocks. It doesn't help that Edinburgh has an almost mystical way of being humid AND cold at the same time, so wearing the big coat is just making me smell faster. But it's still too cold to be outside without some form of extra protection (and I neurotically need to always have a coat-like thing on me to hide my belly from the public).

Solution: Buy a jacket! A nice, lightweight one that will keep the artic winds bite at bay while also not overheating me.

Man, why as I so good at talking myself into things? Is there a term for self-peer pressure?

As per usual, I start craving expensive items during periods of extreme poverty. Why must the Powers That Be inflict such strong desires for retail therapy when there is absolutely no way I can afford it? It's very evil. Evil, cruel, and masochistic me just has to exacerbate it by 'looking' online for all the lovelies that I can't afford. Because I am pretty sure that I would have NO restraint if I were to actually enter a shop and see these shiny, pretty objects in person. Shiny, pretty objects, specifically shoes. My new crack: Irregular Choice.
Also, the sun has finally started peeking out from behind the blankets of clouds, and that immediately sets every Edinburgian's mind on the upcoming spring/summer seasons. And that means that even though the wind chill factor is still freezing the city in 8 Celsius temperatures, the fact that the sun is shining is causing everyone to bust out the skirts and dresses. And I fall into that category that goes 'Oh my god! Sun! I want to wear a dress! I don't have a dress! Must buy dress for sun frolicking fun!' Luckily for me, the British are flooding the dress market with 'tulip' inspired styles- aka, they add exceeding poof to the hips and ass, and then taper down. They have the uncanny ability to make the size 0 mannequin appear chubby. Seriously: why would you do that? Esp. if you're someone like me who is normally bell shaped and is trying to slim down the ol' hips. So thankfully my hips and wallet are going to be spared this time around...but that little nagging voice is always going to be reminding me that I should be looking for that flowery, light, summery dress...while the other little nagging voice reminds the first one that the only thing abiding in my wallet are a few moths resting on a small handful of coppers.

This is just way too impressive to NOT talk about. Once upon a time, there was a land called Wales. Apart from funny accents, Charlotte Church, and Catherine Zeta Jones, Wales is primarily know for sheep. Lots and lots of sheep.

And apparently, shepherds have waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much time on their hands.




Beat that, New Zealand!

Like the rest of the world, Britain seems to be throwing itself behind the idea of eco-friendly, earth saving initiatives, like using cloth tote bags and energy efficient light bulbs. But they are still not quite sure what recycling means.

I remember when I was studying abroad here as a third year student, we were given three blue recycling bins in addition to our trash can. Good first step- learning to separate trash and recyclables. However, only the trash was ever removed from our university dorm, meaning that in order to recycle any of our stuff, we would have to do it ourselves. This wasn't so much of a problem because lucky enough for us, there was a recycling station only a block away. And by recycling station, I mean a series of large bins delineated for clear glass, green glass, brown glass, paper, and clothes. The British (or at least the Scots) still haven't discovered that Aluminium and certain plastics are also recyclable.

Anyway, after uni, me and Scottie moved to the Tollcross, where I'm sure the closest recycling centre is still way the hell up in Marchmont, a good hike away when you're loaded down with countless glass bottles. Since Scottie and I don't really drink alcohol a lot in our flat, we didn't really have to deal with recycling anything, although it killed my a little bit and made my soul cry to toss the odd glass jar or coke can away.

When I came back to do a Masters, I was in disbelief. This time around, I was shocked to see a lot of recycle bins in the back next to where we have our trash bins. It was amazing! Even though our only recycle options were paper and glass, it was still better than nothing, and I made sure to have everything sorted. I think I even increased wine consumption with the joy of knowing that Mother Gaia was smiling at my recycling efforts.

Then I came back to the UK after my victorious battle against idiots at the LA British Consulate. After celebrating wit copious amounts of wine, I went to deposit the bottles in the recycling. EXCEPT THEY WERE LOCKED. Out of 5 glass recycling bins, all of them were locked. Apparently one restaurant owns a key. No one knows who owns the others. And it's not like CA, where you can save up your recyclables and cash them in for moolah. Nope. You either recycle them or you don't. Since I didn't want to throw my bottles away, I stacked them on top of one of the locked recycling bins, in the hopes that someone would see how stupid it was to lock recycling bins.

So now, a select few get to feel all high and mighty and lord over the rest of us because they hold the fabled keys to keeping the earth clean, while the rest of us are forced to see the bins, but not use them. How, Scotland, can you espouse green living, when you don't even provide ways of recycling to residents who are so green (or poor) they don't even own a car?How can I get in the 'I have a key' club? And why don't you know that aluminium is recyclable!?!

After weeks of applying for jobs, I finally landed an interview. FINALLY. Because so far, these temp agencies are epically failing. I even signed up to another one yesterday and nothing.

So yes, my first interview in weeks, and lo and behold, I am also the first candidate scheduled. Excellent. I've read over the job details, I know I could do this with my hands tied behind my back, and I'm feeling really good about it. I even woke up this morning excited, danced around the flat to Britney Spears, and totally pumped myself up with the 'Yes, you will totally GET THIS JOB' spirit.

The bus, even though it came 6 minutes late, dropped me off exactly in front of the building's doors and I found the room with no problem. I was even 10 minutes early.

After reading the brochure on what the school was all about, I was led into the interview room and asked questions by two of the ladies in charge. So far so good. Then, when it came time for the second woman to grill me, the fire alarm goes off.

'Don't worry, it's just a drill'
'No, the drills are on Thrusday'
'Oh yeah....maybe I should go see what that is'
The one lady gets up to check while I just sit there with a dumb smile on my face.
'Yeah, it's not a drill. We have to evacuate'

So halfway through with my interview, the building is evacuated and the firemen are called to make sure that we won't die. Turns out the cleaner was hoovering up some dust left by the builders. Some how the dust got blown up into the fire alarm, and apparently dust and smoke are identically because the alarm went off. Or so went the rumour around the students.

Anyway, we went back to the interview and fingers crossed, they want to hire me. However, they still have 2 more days of interviews. BUT, I am hoping that my attitude of 'I already HAVE this job, so stop wasting your time and tell me where to sign' will transmogrify into reality.

I applied for two positions at the school but only received the information for one of the positions. So I thought they had just thought me a better candidate for the academic assistant position. Turns out they just forgot to send me in information on the other position, so the lady just said to send her an e-mail after looking the information over to see which one I preferred. I WANT to see this as a sign that they totally have already hired me in their head for something and just want to know which one to give me.

Of course, I always tend to leave interviews feeling like I aced them. Obviously that hasn't turned out to be true because all of my jobs have been through temp agencies, where the employer is just suck with you no matter how crappy or amazing you are at your job.

Oh- I did get a look at some of the competition. While we were waiting outside for the fire trucks to arrive, I saw this woman who didn't look like a student standing around. But then, on the other hand, she did have black tights with a MASSIVE run down the front from knee to ankle and was wearing a short frilly little skirt with flowers on it. Kinda like the one I have from H&M that I only wear on a drunken night out. Then I saw here again in the waiting room...yep, candidate numero duo. She had a total smokers grovelly voice too. Shady 2, unprofessional looking smoker, 0.

SUPER stoked about this hat I knit. I think I have to make one for everyone now. Took me two days, and I must say, it's the ONLY hat ever that I've found actually looks decent on my not-made-for-a-hat face.






Ah yeah.

Oh god, I was just about to post another, completely different post, when some crazy NED walked up to my flat and started knocking with my mail flap.

Now, the problem is that I have a ground floor flat on a busy road, AND could totally see this dude walk up. And he looked SUPER SCARY! Like, if I opened the door he would push me in and rape me. But the window is open, so I can totally see him, meaning that he can totally see me. AND, he has a trail of two waif-like women following him, equally sallow of skin, with dark sunken in eyes and looking like they would gladly slit my throat for a few pounds, just as long as they could use it to feed their crack addiction.

I have to say, I totally DO NOT recommend living on the ground floor flat ANYWHERE. I remember a few years ago, some dude totally tried to break into our flat by using a coat hanger to pull down out L-lock. Too bad for him, 1) our flat is 18 feet long and we can see everyone who enters our front door because it opens right into the nucleus of the flat 2) Even if he did get past the first door, there is still our inner glass door to get through and 3) oh yeah, both Scottie and I were home. When we told C-dog this, Scottie's Police officer brother, he said that using the old coat hanger/l-lock trick is super popular and that most people try it with student flats late at night on the weekends, where any noises will most likely be attributed to your drunk flatmate down the hall coming home. Good times. From now on, we make sure to bold AND lock both doors.

Another fun thing about having a ground floor flat is how many disturbing things you get to see every day. Like that one time a completely drunk-ass hobo leaned against our railing and peed down into courtyard of the basement level flat. This meant that his wynkle was whipping around about kneecap level to us, and that we could actually stare him in the eye as he peed away. Note- as much as I advise AGAINST ground floor flats, I totally, unconditionally am against basement level flats.

Our flat is also along a pretty busy road and across the street from the Napier student housing, which means we are also privy to late night cacophonies of drunken singing, bottles breaking, and bins being kicked. And once, of some wanker actually coming up onto our wee stoop and knocking on our bedroom window (probably as a dare, as you could hear his mates laughing it up in the back), scaring the crap out of me, and making me actually feel vulnerable in our home.

But not all of it is horrible. I have to say I quite enjoy watching people rocking out in their cars while stopped at the traffic light- oh, if only they knew they had an audience. Also, there are some right weirdos who walk around, so it's always fun watching people who think that wearing pink tutus with Marty McFly hightops circa Back to the Future 2015 is a great way to prove their individuality.

The unbelievable (at least in my life) has happened- I'VE BEEN GIVEN A BLOG AWARD!

I know, it's not quite up there with the likes of an Oscar or Nobel Peace Prize, but hey- it's a big deal to me because it means that someone else other than my mom likes and reads my blog.

Booyah!

Super big THANK YOU to Erin over at And Her Heart Is In Ireland for bestowing me the totally awesome Lemonade Award.


Apparently I'm supposed to keep the love flowing (award virgin here), so here are my new instructions:

LEMONADE



1. Thank the person who was so thoughtful for giving you this award by linking their blog to this post.
2. Put the logo on your blog or post.
3. Nominate 10 blogs which show great attitude/gratitude.
4. Link your nominees to your post.
5. Comment them to tell them about the award they've won!


10?!?! I don't think I read enough blogs to be able to list 10....okay, that's a lie. I don't leave enough comments/knowish enough people to list 10. They'll just think I'm a crazy, begging for their love and attention like a matchstick girl. Instead, I'll go with 5.

I hereby pass the award along to:
1) Miss Em in ...pardon my English
2)My fellow Wanderlust over at Como lo vevo yo
3)Zonko at Culturally Confused
4)Kiki at Make My Funk
5) Sakura at The Gutter. The Stars (seriously, I am captivated by her blog!)


Thank you all for making my day more bearable!

xx

So, while killing time, waiting for my awesome carrot cake to bake, I came across this amazing little contraption. Okay, I didn't actually find, it, I saw it on one of my other favourite blogs , but that's beside the point.

It's a sword. That is cleverly hidden in your belt. And naturally, you must be naked to use it.

Click here for the mind blowing video of how a hot, naked chick like yourself might use this ninja sword to protect yourself from those lecherous, poon-obsessed rapists who keep trying to take pictures of your hot, naked self.


Now that is totally McNinja.

And for those of you who aren't swayed by the naked chick to immediately go out and buy this little lethal beauty, then there are also videos of a Medical Student and an 85 year old grandmother, as well as some man named 'RazorMan'- because obviously something this ninja appeals to a wide demographic.

So I since the job hunts has turned stagnant (still waiting for the jobs I applied to to close their applications), I decided to use my time (apart from looking for jobs that don't require me reaching into a ewe's vagina to pull out her lamb) to uber domesticity.

This happened last time I was looking for a job too.

Because of yesterday's sleet storm, I am knitting myself a fancy lacy beret hat. Somehow, all the hats I knit end up being given away, so I'm rushing to get this one done because I feel guilty that I'm making one for myself instead of the hat/scarf/water bottle cover/gloves that I've promised other people.

I'm also baking again. I LOVE baking. I enjoy it more than cooking, probably because I have an addiction to baked goods. While cooking is nice and can produce some delicious meals, baking always wins because all baking in delicious.

I figured, what with Easter maybe around the corner ( I have no idea when it really is, but since all the shops are catapulting chocolate eggs at me, I figure it might be coming up within the next two months) , what better signature Easter treat than carrot cake? I can even decorate the cream cheese frosting with mini Cadburry eggs. Genius.

What's not genius are the recipes I am finding. Like this one, courtesy of the BBC:

Ingredients

• 300g plain flour
• 2 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp baking powder
• ½ tsp bicarbonate of soda
• 200g soft brown sugar
• 4 eggs
• 250ml oil
• 1 orange , zested
• 1 lemon , zested
• 150g walnuts , chopped
• 227g tin pineapple pieces, well drained and chopped (optional)

Yesterday I went to register with my SECOND temp agency. Because I figure, you might as well sew your seed in as many places as possible.

The good news is that it turns out I didn't really lie on my CV. On my CV, I stretched the truth to say I was 'Extremely proficient in MS Office' and 'Can type over 50 words/min'. Honestly, I had no idea if this was true when I wrote my CV up. All I remember is that in High school computer class, I got a B+ because I had 'shifty eyes' (thank you Mr. Asshole. Shifty eyes is NOT a reason to give someone a B. I think you were just being RACIST!) and that I used Word a lot to write papers.

Turns out that I can in fact type 53 words a minute with 98% accuracy (holla!) and scored above average on Microsoft Word. Giggidy.

The bad news is that the temp agency said they were swamped and that it might be a while before they could find placement for me. But I figured as much in this economy.

Which is why, in true Shady style, I stole all the pens. What, they were really nice pens! Good weight, smooth writing..just begging to be put in my purse. I also might have grabbed all the candies in the interview rooms. Yes rooms, I was placed in one to fill out paperwork, and another one to have a 'chat' about what kind of jobs i was looking for. Both held little dishes with candy in them. Well, not any more. Now I have a pocket full of pens and candy.

Totally owned you, temp agency and your lack of jobs!

I have the sneaky suspicion that I'm ageing, and for the record: I really don't like it. Back in the glory days of 21/22, it was almost nice being mistaken for someone older because it meant you didn't have to go through the hassle of fishing out your ID.

But then I came to the UK where the drinking age is 18. And let me say, it was wonderful never having to show ID, and when you did, you felt a little giddy because that meant you were totally looking hot- aka those bags under the eyes, the stark beginning so crows eyes, and the tired looking skin had magically buggered off and you were left looking and in turn feeling all spry and rejuvenated.

But now Scotland is facing a crazy problem with teen binge drinkers and in an effort to stop (besides trying to pass legislation to prohibit drinks specials in supermarkets), they are raising the age limit you have to look in order to buy alcohol. So even though you can still legally drink at 18, you are supposed to get ID'd no matter what if you appear to be of a certain age. First it was 21. Which totally scared the crap out of me because I had just returned to the UK and was very confused by all the red buttons on Tesco employees that proclaimed 'UNDER 21? I'LL NEED TO ID". I don't know why this bothered me, I was 22 at the time, but I still felt like time had somehow shifted me laterally into another age, and it took a bit to gather those familiar berrings again.

This time around, when I retured to the UK I was met with bright yellow signs announcing 'IF YOU LOOK UNDER 25 I HAVE TO ASK FOR ID'. 25?!?! I mean, sure, the drinking age is still 18, but are there really that many under 18yrs that look over 25? So when I approached the front counter and asked for a bottle of port (which ended up here), I was expecting to have to whip out the ol' dusty ID. Nope. And the crushing thing is that I'm 24. So I should look under 25. Meaning that yes, in fact, I just look old. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

To make matters worse, I popped into Farmfoods on the way home for a cheap jar of pickled onions and bog roll and the kid behind the cashier desk CALLED ME MA'AM. Like I have kids or something. If there is any title someone can call you besides Mom and Grandma to make you feel like you're really old, it's ma'am.

Also, today I totally saw a bus crash into another bus. No, it wasn't nearly as awesomely exciting as the wreckage on the right, but there was quite a lot of noise as the two behemoths ground against each other, causeing light protectors to crumble into glitterly plastic pixie dust. Sooooo glad I wasn't in the drivers seat when that happened!

Today I met with a wall called Scottish Government tyranny against words. I spent quite a while trying to 'clean' up my e-mail to my friend working there, but no matter what I did, it was 'offensive and inappropriate'. And the worst part, was that the e-mail itself wasn't very interesting. It was just annoying trying to get my message through. Here are the different stages of that e-mail :

Duuuuude, had the strangest dream EVER!

I was at the gym, but since I hate gyms, the fitness instructor signed me up to be in a tennis group. So I go along to the group, and it turns out to be 140 totally fit, totally hot men- gay men who play tennis NAKED. So I'm playing tennis with all these astronomically sexy gay naked men.

Inappropriate. I'm gonna say that it's because the Scottish Government is homophobic and don't like gays. I for one know that using gay to refer to someone's sexual orientation in San Francisco isn't seen as offensive unless it's used in a derogatory, negative, offensive way- which I don't believe I was doing.

Second attempt: Duuuuude, had the strangest dream EVER!

I was at the gym, but since I hate gyms, the fitness instructor signed me up to be in a tennis group. So I go along to the group, and it turns out to be 140 totally fit, totally hot men- g-hey men who play tennis NAKED. So I'm playing tennis with all these astronomically sexy g-hey naked men.

Inappropriate. Okay, maybe this time around it was do to the fact that I said 'naked.' But what if I wanted to used 'naked' in a metaphorical sense? I know I wasn't exactly doing it here, but what if I was discussing how the gaze of someone felt like they were standing naked before God? Okay, one more go.

Third attempt: I was at the gym, but since I hate gyms, the fitness instructor signed me up to be in a tennis group. So I go along to the group, and it turns out to be 140 totally fit, totally hot men- g-hey men who play tennis sans habiliments. So I'm playing tennis with all these astronomically attractive g-hey men clad in only tennis shoes and what the Lord bestowed upon Adam.

Wrong. Try again. By this time, my friend is desperate to see what I've been writing...too bad it wasn't more exciting that just a silly dream. Don't know what there is offensive, but try again. Maybe this time they had issues with the term 'Lord'?

I was at the gym, but since I hate gyms, the fitness instructor signed me up to be in a tennis group. So I go along to the group, and it turns out to be 140 totally fit, totally gorgeous men- men who tend to like others of the same persuasion- who play tennis sans habiliments. So I'm playing tennis with all these astronomically attractive men clad in only tennis shoes and what the good deity who resides in the heavens bestowed upon Adam.

FUCKING MISSION! Seriously?!?! So, if you work at Scottish Government as a gay naked Christian, you are NOT ALLOWED TO SEND E-MAILS ABOUT YOURSELF.

I woke up Sunday morning at 8:30 with the taste of Micky Finns and port making my tongue all fuzzy feeling and an incessant, dull headache that made me want to disappear back into my fluffy sleeping bag for another 5 hours. Yep, welcome back to the Kingdom of Fife.

Saturday was a day of joyful reunions: I finally got to see Scotland play in 6 Nations, which I haven't seen in a year, and they WON! I got to see my friend Blonde H and Amy who I also haven't seen in a very very very long time, and I got to experience my first proper night out since I've been back in the UK. In the wild, untamed town of Kirkcaldy.

After the dominating win over Italy in 6 Nations, Blonde H drove up from the Boarders to pick me up and off we went. Getting to the Lang Toon was no bother, but finding Amy's flat was an epic adventure since Kirkcaldians obvious don't believe in signpost or proper road identification. After driving down every bloody street we could find, we somehow magically found ourselves on the street perpendicular to where we needed to be. Amy was less than useful, and kept giving us directions based on where her old highschool or Asda were, as if we knew where those places were and could be helpful, but in the end we found it.

Now, because of when the game ended, when Blonde H had picked me up, and when we got to Amy's (3 hours later!) no one had had any dinner. So starving, we snacked on what food we did bring- Doritos, Chocolate fingers, Haribros, and pistachio nuts. And then followed it down with multiple glasses of Port and Blue Caribbean (our ghetto version of Cheeky Vitmo), Peach Schnapps and Lemonade, and of course, shot upon shot of Micky Finns. I'm sure my stomach was super happy about all this, but I was in no state to really care.

We got to the club by 11:30, and from there on, everything just kinda flows together. I remember some dancing, being terribly outraged that they don't serve tap water and make you fork out £1.40 for a bottle, and being told by Amy's friends that they hate Americans.

We stumbled out around 2:00 am dead tired and not looking forward to waking up 5 hours later. Poor Blonde H had to work the next day from 11-8. Ouch.

My dad getting attacked by Freezer, the lamb he's trying to save from...the freezer.