Wednesday, January 20, 2010
You know you go to the LSE when...
You see an advert in your 'Student News' E-Newsletter for a Managing Perfectionism Workshop.: "This workshop will look at common difficulties with excess perfectionism, and cover a wide range of practical approaches to help you manage your studies."
Thursday, January 14, 2010
You know you're in England when...part three
You know you're in England when people use umbrellas in the snow.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Highlights of Christmas break
Sons of Maxwell’s “United Breaks Guitars” video, the saving grace of my mission to get my guitar home for Christmas without checking it. (Me: “Is there any space for this in the cabin? I really can’t put it underneath…” Flight attendant: “Yes, don’t worry, I’ve seen the video. We’ll find a place for it.”)
The brewery tour of the RO with Troy – even if I suffered for it.
My father as Herr Drosselmeyer in “The Nutcracker” and his ridiculous mutton chops; clapping for my parents with my sister at my side. Being there for Terry’s last Sugarplum was also pretty special.
Making Italian Christmas cookies with my mom – and Em and Michelle – for the first time in probably a decade. And throwing said cookies into frosting to thwart the Master Baker’s neat rows. “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’… Keep those cookies rollin’… Raw batter!”
Two consecutive visits to Dietsch Brothers on the way to and from my grandparents’ house in Indiana, where my 89-year-old grandmother announced, “I’m going to bed,” and my 88-year-old grandfather responded, “Well, we’ll miss you. We were going to have an orgy in here.”
The Troublesome Trio, reunited for the first time since one became a Dannenberg, one became an Englin and one moved to England – followed by a night out with the Dondero ’04 kids.
A slightly pathetic sleepover with Sarah, Sami and Em where we struggled to stay awake past 12:30. Also, where we concluded that borrowing Chris Schulte’s flannel PJ pants was “not as weird” as borrowing my boyfriend’s father’s bicycle shorts, which I have also done.
The Christmas Eve traditions: cinnamon rolls, front pew of the balcony at church, the street with candles in bags, the Washington house, “It’s A Wonderful Life”, “The Night Before Christmas” and Luke.
Reading old journals, to endless amusement. Talk about vivid recollection: I recorded a phone conversation with my seventh-grade crush in painstaking detail, and even notated the music from the adagio at my first Hope audition on a hand-scrawled treble-clef in the margins.
Two bedrooms, an attic and fourteen people: the Crisafulli Clan descends upon Uncle Dave’s house for a week. Somehow, it works.
My cousin Ian: “Papa, it must be strange to be at the bar with your kids and your grandkids.” My grandpa: “It’s strange just to be at a bar!”
A half-hour debate among the offspring about what my (other) grandfather’s upcoming date: what he should wear, where he should go, what time he should go, what he should order, whether he should stay in one spot or move and whether he should kiss the lady at midnight on New Year’s. Poor guy’s head was probably about to explode.
Uncle Tom, gloating about the “great deal” he got on a blanket over eBay – to discover, upon its arrival, that the $3.80 plus $8.00 shipping he paid far exceeded the $4.98 shelf price of the felt rag printed with Americana kitsch. This led him to defend his purchase even more valiantly.
My cousins Maggie and Matthew, ages four and two, who perform a routine called “Dance Kids” every night before bed, which consists of them jumping, whirling, twirling, falling and bouncing to three Queen songs. The finale? “Fat-Bottomed Girls.”
Said cousin Maggie devouring a chocolate chip cookie as big as her head and an equally-large hot chocolate with whipped cream. (“I would have to drink a KFC chicken bucket full of hot chocolate to drink the equivalent of what she’s got.” –Dan)
A day trip to Brighton: girly time, pier walk and shopping, followed by Eastern Star, Pompoko and Battle of Trafalgar. Home.
The homeless man we served at FoodWorks who drizzled about a quarter cup of olive oil on each helping of soup or vegetable loaf, and then asked whether the flapjacks or scones were healthier when he returned for dessert. (He ended up eating several of both.)
A ski lesson in Switzerland, surrounded by pine-covered peaks, and the thrill of arcing down a mountainside for the first time.
The muesli, cappuccinos, pumpkin seed oil, Cailler chocolates and free-flowing wine that evoke my summer in Switzerland so well, thanks to Di and Malcolm.
Looking at old photos of Murray, Roland and their parents. Conclusions: Roland has thankfully grown out of his propensity for long bowl cuts; Murray’s facial expressions have changed little over time; and South Africa was much like the States in the ‘70s in at least one respect: short shorts galore.
All right, London. All right, Lent term. I'm rested. Bring it on.
The brewery tour of the RO with Troy – even if I suffered for it.
My father as Herr Drosselmeyer in “The Nutcracker” and his ridiculous mutton chops; clapping for my parents with my sister at my side. Being there for Terry’s last Sugarplum was also pretty special.
Making Italian Christmas cookies with my mom – and Em and Michelle – for the first time in probably a decade. And throwing said cookies into frosting to thwart the Master Baker’s neat rows. “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’… Keep those cookies rollin’… Raw batter!”
Two consecutive visits to Dietsch Brothers on the way to and from my grandparents’ house in Indiana, where my 89-year-old grandmother announced, “I’m going to bed,” and my 88-year-old grandfather responded, “Well, we’ll miss you. We were going to have an orgy in here.”
The Troublesome Trio, reunited for the first time since one became a Dannenberg, one became an Englin and one moved to England – followed by a night out with the Dondero ’04 kids.
A slightly pathetic sleepover with Sarah, Sami and Em where we struggled to stay awake past 12:30. Also, where we concluded that borrowing Chris Schulte’s flannel PJ pants was “not as weird” as borrowing my boyfriend’s father’s bicycle shorts, which I have also done.
The Christmas Eve traditions: cinnamon rolls, front pew of the balcony at church, the street with candles in bags, the Washington house, “It’s A Wonderful Life”, “The Night Before Christmas” and Luke.
Reading old journals, to endless amusement. Talk about vivid recollection: I recorded a phone conversation with my seventh-grade crush in painstaking detail, and even notated the music from the adagio at my first Hope audition on a hand-scrawled treble-clef in the margins.
Two bedrooms, an attic and fourteen people: the Crisafulli Clan descends upon Uncle Dave’s house for a week. Somehow, it works.
My cousin Ian: “Papa, it must be strange to be at the bar with your kids and your grandkids.” My grandpa: “It’s strange just to be at a bar!”
A half-hour debate among the offspring about what my (other) grandfather’s upcoming date: what he should wear, where he should go, what time he should go, what he should order, whether he should stay in one spot or move and whether he should kiss the lady at midnight on New Year’s. Poor guy’s head was probably about to explode.
Uncle Tom, gloating about the “great deal” he got on a blanket over eBay – to discover, upon its arrival, that the $3.80 plus $8.00 shipping he paid far exceeded the $4.98 shelf price of the felt rag printed with Americana kitsch. This led him to defend his purchase even more valiantly.
My cousins Maggie and Matthew, ages four and two, who perform a routine called “Dance Kids” every night before bed, which consists of them jumping, whirling, twirling, falling and bouncing to three Queen songs. The finale? “Fat-Bottomed Girls.”
Said cousin Maggie devouring a chocolate chip cookie as big as her head and an equally-large hot chocolate with whipped cream. (“I would have to drink a KFC chicken bucket full of hot chocolate to drink the equivalent of what she’s got.” –Dan)
A day trip to Brighton: girly time, pier walk and shopping, followed by Eastern Star, Pompoko and Battle of Trafalgar. Home.
The homeless man we served at FoodWorks who drizzled about a quarter cup of olive oil on each helping of soup or vegetable loaf, and then asked whether the flapjacks or scones were healthier when he returned for dessert. (He ended up eating several of both.)
A ski lesson in Switzerland, surrounded by pine-covered peaks, and the thrill of arcing down a mountainside for the first time.
The muesli, cappuccinos, pumpkin seed oil, Cailler chocolates and free-flowing wine that evoke my summer in Switzerland so well, thanks to Di and Malcolm.
Looking at old photos of Murray, Roland and their parents. Conclusions: Roland has thankfully grown out of his propensity for long bowl cuts; Murray’s facial expressions have changed little over time; and South Africa was much like the States in the ‘70s in at least one respect: short shorts galore.
All right, London. All right, Lent term. I'm rested. Bring it on.
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