Wanna go home? Why, honey? When? We may never get this chance again.

So I have been trying to squeeze as much out of my life as possible lately. I'm wringing it dry.

Couple of notes, an outline sort of, of my life.

1. I will be taking Paul's (Irish guy, hot chocolate guy?) picture on Wednesday when I go in to say goodbye. He thinks Another Bullshit Night in Suck City is a great title. I agree. I think it also happens to be a fantastic book.

2. The guy who runs the quizzes we've been going to has turned out to be a much larger jerk than any of us ever dreamed him possible of being. "Our friend is leaving the country to go home, could you maybe say a goodbye to her after you announce the winners?" "Sure." And then he didn't. (There was something else, but that's not a story I care to tell.)

3. My cousins are awesome.

4. I miss you all very much.

5. No one wore mustaches to the mustachio bashio. LAME.

6. Not lame? Watching the sun rise over the ocean... from an extinct volcano. I'm going to miss Edinburgh.

7. The sun sets at 9:30-ish and rises at 4:45.


My life lately has involved plaid skirts, sweatshirts, street magicians complementing my handshake and my eye color, being chatted up by thirty-somethings, obnoxious quizmasters, casually naked men wandering into pub quizzes, lots and lots of pubs, and friends, and laughing. It has also involved mustaches. I'm really excited to see my family in three days, but I'm really sad to leave behind everyone I met here. Don't worry, I'll be coming back as soon as possible. I love you.

Ok, picture time!

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is Ben. Ben thinks he's a pilgrim.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is Will. He is one of my favorite people on the planet and I'm going to miss him SO MUCH.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is Beth. I feel the same about Beth as I do about Will.

We might go skiing in Italy together.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is the face I make when I realize I know too much about Britney Spears.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is Jordan. She lives in Vancouver and does not watch Degrassi.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is David Hume. He didn't actually dress like that.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Robert ordered a gin and tonic.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Kevin ordered a whiskey.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

He is the scary-skinniest person I've ever met. This is at Aspen, by the way.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is the Meadows. It feeds my soul.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

They suit us.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Cara turned into a floating head.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Jessica and Owen. They're so cute together.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

This is Cara's roommate.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Because we're tough.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

MUSTACHES

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

They trapped me!

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Seriously. Sunrise. From an EXTINCT VOLCANO.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

CARA

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Sun's up.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Pheasant! (Who just thought of Danny?)

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

There were hundreds of them and they weren't afraid!

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Scaling Arthur's Seat

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Almost at the top now!

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

Castle. Roughly 5:30 AM.

From Eagle Flew Out of the Night

I love my camera.

I'm about to get my mind blown by spring.

Oh, hey! I remember you. Sorry I went AWOL. Classes and stuff. It's okay, though, since I'm back now. Let me give you a brief overview of how my past couple weeks have gone.

Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Sleep.
Eat.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Sleep.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Sleep.
Watch Meet the Spartans.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Throw up in kitchen sink while friends are present.
Finish eating.
Go to class.
Eat.
Sleep.
Write Division III proposal.
Sleep.
Snood.
Eat.
Snood.
Sleep.
Eat.
Sleep.
Eat a Big Mac.
Skype.
Sleep.
Eat.
Read.
Eat.
Sleep.
Eat.
Climb Arthur's Seat.
Eat.
Snood.
Sleep.

There's the basic outline. Let me fill in a few details, however. Like what I ate. And why I got sick.

I made a corned beef. This was our "Second Saint Patrick's Day," or more accurately, "Ashley couldn't find a corned beef anywhere in Edinburgh and so instead they had 'Evacuation Day Burgers and Guinness' and now they need to eat that corned beef" Day. I bought a brisket from a butcher, made a lasagna for dinner that night and friend came over to help me eat it. It was delicious, if burnt. Anyway, the brisket. I poured salt all over it, wrapped it in damp paper towels, and put it in the fridge. Then I left it, re-salting every so often. On Tuesday, I prepared it by simmering it for five hours. There were concerns from some of the residents of Flat 13 that the meal would be too greasy, and a certain Flat 8 person (okay, okay -- Robert) wanted to fry the cabbage in butter. I was given eyebrow-waggles for cutting the carrots into pieces too big to cook and the potato into pieces too small to dominate the other vegetables. However, when the meal was ready to eat, there was Irish soda bread (made by eyeballing the ingredients because, hey, there's no such thing as measuring cups in the UK). They use scales.

Helpful hint: if you enjoy baking and plan on studying abroad, I advise you to bring your own measuring cups.

Either way, the meal was delicious, even if I didn't slice the meat properly. And also, I made the most amazing burgers ever made in the UK. Because Wannaburger was a huge, over-priced disappointment. The meat had been over-worked; they added too much and didn't let the beef speak for itself at all, which is a real problem for me. You shouldn't taste the pepper more than the cow. Also, they call it seven ounces, and that may be. But it is not juicy -- it's dry, possibly a result of the meat being over-mixed -- and it's certainly not thick. I felt like I was eating a veggie burger. The patty was made with a press so it had the perfect uniformity of pre-fab burgers bought in bulk for a cook-out. And about as much succulence, as well. Also, price-wise, you were paying between 8-10 pounds for the burger. The burger. Doesn't come with fries. You have to order the fries on the side. And then, they give you a very small serving of them, for a pound-twenty-five. They don't even have a very impressive selection of them.

I also learned that Robert and his mother convince his father to go to the Mall of America by promising they'll go to Hooters afterward. Why is that so upsetting to me? I ask because I feel like my mother might actually have the answer to that question.

My creative writing workshop -- well, Will, Beth, and I -- had lunch together before the last class and were sitting around. Will said something really funny when I had a mouth full of drink and, uh, no, it didn't go out my nose. I know I've been known to spray things out my nose before. But no. I held it in and ran to the sink, thinking I could spit it out there. And I threw up because I was laughing too hard. In a sink full of water and dishes. With the stopper in place. Hallelujah.

Eh, it's funnier than it is embarrassing.

Yeah, I also wrote my Div III proposal and have my Div III committee pretty firmly in place.
Chair: Lesy
Member: Michele Hardesty
Just Because She's Awesome: Professor Hillary Moss, from Amherst

Then Lloyd made us watch Meet the Spartans and a little piece of my heart died. Granted, the "Shaq, Kobe, Tommy Lee" list was kindasorta funny, but it was only funny if you actually knew serious details about Carmen Electra's love life. Which I happen to know. Kill me now, please. I am offended by the existence of this movie, which was so unfunny it hurt. How stupid do filmmakers think people are? And Lloyd had been doing so well, too. I was willing to forgive him for Sign of the Cross, but when I went to hand in my logbook and he laughed, asked me if I "enjoyed that," referring, obviously to Meet the Spartans, everything in my body revolted. I stared at him, the other Ashley-face firmly in place. I waited, trying to find words to express my distaste. And finally settled on simplicity. "No."

But now I'm done with classes and loving the new episodes of Gossip Girl. I got a package this morning and I don't know who it's from because I need to go pick it up. But the post offices here keep the strangest hours. 6:00-12:30. What? Who does that? That just means I can't pick it up until Tuesday, which is fine. I'm used to waiting to see who sent me stuff, though it used to be easier to guess.

Arthur's Seat is really beautiful. It's the Queen's property and I heard rumors that you can drink in public there, camp, etc. It's also scary going up if you're the least bit klutzy, because you'll fall or stumble at least once. It's not a long hike, but it's intense for something so short. I did it in about twenty minutes and was hurting a little bit. But the view is incredible and totally worth it. It was really nice to see the water, too.

Spring is about to pop here. Today, I am wearing capris and a tee shirt. No sweater. No coat. It's gorgeous. The trees outside the windows in the kitchen and my room are turning green with buds so ready to burst I'm surprised they haven't yet. There are blackbirds everywhere; I'm almost afraid to bake a pie. (Come on, you know where that's from.)

Anyway, I'm off to London with Robert and meeting up with Byron for some musical pilgrimage that Byron and I have planned since, uh, well, I was in tenth grade. At last, my loves, at last! I'll be back on the 6th, but I'm hoping I can con some sports bar into playing Opening Day at Tropicana. (God, I hate indoor fields.) Then on the 7th, I'm off to Shetland for Easter. So you may or may not get updates before the twelfth. I can make you no promises, other than that you WILL hear about London and Shetland both, eventually.

Cheers, lovey.

From Edinburgh

Every girl should get daisies

Today, I cleaned my room, did my laundry, vacuumed, and bought a wallet. [Yes, K, truly. I know, right?] And some Gerbera daisies. And I think I figured out how to put my pictures into my blog so that you can see the whole thing... For dinner, I made myself a delicious Monte Cristo sandwich, and decided that I want to write more about food here.

Like how I sometimes go online and look at Bartley's menu and daydream.

But really, tomorrow night is a Flat 13 dinner -- I'm making macaroni and cheese and already the "But it's not orange" and "You use extra sharp? I use mild" comments are pouring in from all sides. And then I'm told that it's a traditional Scottish dish, but I'm pretty sure that it's American. Unless it's American the way Harry Potter is American, which I doubt.

Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well.

Podcasts were pretty clearly invented by the devil. Podcasts, blogs, facebook, email, all of it. Invented by the creepy androgynous floating creature in The Passion of the Christ.

Star lyrics I'm dying over:

"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'

The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.

You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."


Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.

He deserved it.

"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."

It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."

I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.

At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.



Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.

Father. My. Children.

Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."

Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)


Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.

"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."

Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.


Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.


Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.

Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.

By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)