MissLeonie.com

I keep wondering what to write about, because my life is currently mostly a mix of sleeping, studying, looking at my computer trying to muster up the courage to study some more, and travelling to and from uni. I feel a little bit under the weather, which is typical. It generally means that I’m just sick, but because my mind has amazing power over my body, I’m not letting myself get fully sick (hee!) until I have time off.

We break up at uni on the 14th of December, and I fly home a day later. Sadly, that’s not the end of it, cause all of my assessments are due about a month later. I think that most of my baggage will be made up of books.

Before then, there’s a Christmas social type of thing, and I have found just the top to wear. I don’t normally get hugely excited about clothes, but this top has been talking to me on every trip to and from the supermarket for over a week. I haven’t bought it yet, because the Calvinist in me gets really uncomfortable with spending money that I can’t somehow justify as absolutely necessary. Chalk up getting over that as one of my new year’s resolutions. It’s not like I spend like Paris Hilton, so I need to stop stressing myself out over money.

This top? I’m buying it, and I’ll post a little picture up with this post.

Update: Now will top-a-liciousness! Isn’t it just lovely? The picture is humongous, sorry about that, but the top! You need to see it in all it’s glory. Any smaller and you’d not be able to tell there’s some sort of pattern on there. Plus, looking at myself trying not to look awkward taking photos of myself in the bathroom mirror? Priceless.

I didn’t get up to much this weekend - it was mostly a McLeod’s Daughters extravaganza. If you’ve never watched that show, you should be. The earlier seasons are better, and I love me some Australian jillaroo (= Aussie cowgirl) action. I meant that not to sound so dodgy. Get your mind out of the gutter!

Sadly, the skin on my hands has decided to become all itchy and dry. I don’t know what’s caused it, except perhaps the hand cream I’ve been using to counter my generally quite dry hands. My skin tends to freak out when I’m under a lot of stress, which, sadly, I have to admit I am at present. It’s happened before, when I was in Australia, for example. I just started growing scales on my waist, which really isn’t a good look. The doctor prescribed Cetaphil moisturiser in addition to a prescription-only ointment, and the two together worked a treat. I’ve been trying to track some down in England, but it appears it can only be ordered directly from the manufacturer at present. It’s wickedly expensive in Germany. It’s not that expensive in Australia, but I’d have to add postage. Hmmm.

For now, I’ve emailed the manufacturer to ask about prices. Isn’t it strange that prices vary so much across the globe? Makes you wonder if they’re just pulling you’re leg half the time.

Anyway, here’s hoping I don’t turn into a fish.

As per Sunday’s post, the weather has changed radically. We were experiencing quite a comfortable autumn, with a tonne of colourful autumn leaves to take photos of. A few weeks ago, I came across a guy who was blowing leaves off the grass near one of the university buildings with one of those giant hoover-like things. At the time, I thought it was a shame, because the rusty leaves gave so much character to the place, and also, now what will the squirrels use as a blanket?

It is now wet and soggy, however, and had the leaves still covered the grass, it would have died, suffocated by the brown grime monster. In a way, the change of weather is beneficial. It’s much easier to force yourself to do research on the top floor of a university library when the alternative does not include sitting in the outside, watching squirrels tumble by.

Today, I had to bring two different versions of a text, any text, to one of my classes. I grabbed a number of versions of Jane Austen’s Sanditon off the library shelves. The novel was never “finished” in the classical sense of the word, because she died before it was published. It’s interesting that both Persuasion and Northanger Abbey are considered fully fledged Jane Austen novels, though, because like Sanditon, both were published posthumously. When Jane Austen died, a manuscript of Sanditon with revisions, written in the first three months of 1817, the year of her death, remained. It was passed on to a niece of hers, and later, through ancestors, ended up at the library of King’s College, Cambridge.

And I currently have a facsimile sitting on a bookshelf. I was completely overwhelmed when I realised I was looking at Jane Austen’s handwriting, her revisions, her abbreviations, 190 years after she wrote it all down. It’s absolutely fascinating. Both professors teaching the class snapped up the little book as soon as I talked about it (we had to quickly present our different editions in front of the group). I’m still scared at the thought of all the assessments coming up, but for this particular course, I feel a bit better knowing I’ve found something truly fascinating to write about.

Also, I have to get my own copy of that facsimile. Damn, that’s some cool stuff.

From Marinebio.org: “The great white shark […] has, according to E.O. Wilson ‘…rightfully been called a top carnivore, a killing machine, the last free predator of man—the most frightening animal on earth.’ While this is a common perception of white sharks, some courageous explorers have not only free-dived with these ‘killing-machines,’ they lived to talk about it. Not that diving with white sharks is recommended, but these bold experiments have shown that these majestic, yet intimidating, creatures are not predators of men.“

Have a look at this: <video removed>

I like watching National Geographic and Discovery far too much. I was talking to my friend Carolien the other day, and we ended up talking about dangerous animals. I’d googled pictures to show her the size of various sharks, when I stumbled across the above video.

I am amazed. I can’t decide whether I find the diver, Michael Rutzen, incredibly stupid or an absolute genius. Of course diving with great whites is dangerous in principle, but it seems like the shark and the diver are communicating on a level I’ve never encountered in my many hours of watching sharks from the comfort and safety of my couch.

The diver taps the shark on its nose to let it know not to get too cheeky. The shark gets fed up with looking like a wuss, so he opens his big gob to show that he is not, actually, a cuddly toy. Note, however, that the shark doesn’t attack the diver. He is right in front of him, and could very well have bitten his head off had he wanted to, but he is merely making a point. He has teeth, don’t you know.

What then unfolds is the shark showing his belly to the diver. When the shark inches closer again, the diver does the same bellyflip towards the shark. I asked Liam whether that was some sort of shark language for expressing trust, cause I noticed both diver and shark did it. Apparently, it is a sign of submission.

What follows is the most amazing footage I have ever seen. The diver is surfing along with the shark, holding onto its dorsal fin and tail. And the big, aggressive, soulless killer Jaws? He’s not in the least bothered.

I hope this video will show people that sharks, although predators, aren’t mad killing machines. They aren’t stupid. They’re too powerful to have to be aggressive. They say that sharks hold the key to curing cancer (since they are immune, in case you didn’t know). I applaud this guy for being brave enough to take a chance on these animals to show the world that they are worth keeping around for so much more than that.

My Nigerian housemate, who had never seen snow in her life, came into the living room going, “It’s snowing!” “What?” “It’s SNOWING!” “Ooooh.” She had a friend over who’d never seen it before either, but honestly, I’ve seen it a hundred times and I was probably still the most excited out of the four of us. I love snow.

It disappears as soon as it hits the ground, so here’s a picture to preserve the memory of the first snow this year! (The very slow shutterspeed goes to explain the loooong snow. But look at my Standing Still Skills - it’s not too unsharp, even though my photos with little light generally look as though they were taken by someone with Parkinsons. I’m proud!)

So, it’s sure been a while. I’ve been a little on the fence about what is appropriate to share, and which things I would be better off keeping to myself. I figured it was important to work that out beforehand, rather than through trial and error.

Uni has been great. I am still knocked out by a paralysing fear every time I think of the final assignments, but at least my two new courses turned out to be fascinating. I caught myself trying to write down every sentence that rolled out of the lecturer’s mouth while discussing some ideas about the topic with a friend from another class and realised that I’d found a good place to be. I don’t know if it means that I made the right decision, but I think it’s a sign that, no matter how hard this course is, no matter how much I miss everyone I love, it might just be worth it in the end.

I just got back from going out for a swim with my three housemates. I used to swim on a weeky basis in my early teens, but I quit when I had all the diplomas we could train for. Being back in the water, nothing but the rhythm of my breathing and the strokes, feeling the water surround me, the bubbles tickle my tummy - I can’t believe I forgot just how nice it is. And I really enjoyed ordering a double choc chip muffin and a bag of crisps in the gym’s bar afterwards. As much as I like doing sports, everything about this Must. Get. Skinny. mindset annoys me, and I truly take pleasure in giving it all the finger. Choc chip. With a THOUSAND calories. Yum.

Besides, if there’s anything I’ve learnt from going to the gym, it’s that bodies get a lot worse than mine. Suddenly, I’m not at all dissatisfied with the shape I’m in. I don’t think that’s quite what the gym was going for when they gave my housemate free guest passes for her friends. Heh.

I’m sitting here, printing out article after article for my literary linguistics course, meanwhile reading my university email and FREAKING OUT. Suddenly this wave of self-doubt washes over me, I can’t swim, and don’t even think about holding my breath, you know I have asthma.

It’s all been pretty laid back so far, but suddenly there are excerpts that need to be picked up from the school office, and by the way, can you please purchase and finish this exact edition of Heart of Darkness before next week… I am completely overwhelmed. Any day now, they will find out what I have long known, that I can’t do this, that I’m simply not good enough. And then there is the rational part of my brain that tells me it’s not rocket science, that I just need to get on and do it, but its interruptions are few and infrequent.

I worry that I’ll never make it to the end, or if I do, that I have picked the wrong MA. I worry about the price of groceries (SO DAMN EXPENSIVE), and about why I’m so tired and why I can’t sleep properly, and then I don’t sleep properly, so I’m tired again.

Gah. I wish there was an on and off button to my brain. Or a reboot function.

There is currently an ad on the side of dooce.com that gives me this unspeakable urge to punch the screen every time I see it (I’m not knocking dooce, I love that site, but the ad.. well, you’ll see). Mind you, I don’t, because this laptop cost my parents and me a rather large chunk of money. I also don’t do it because a laptop screen will just fold flat, and where’s the fun in that?

The advertisement is there to promote a recent book by Jessica Seinfeld. You’d think it’d be a half decent book, with a surname like that, but alas. The title is “Deceptively Delicious,” and it’s marketed as a way to get your kids to eat vegetables. Without them knowing.

Now, I am no mother, but I was a child once, and a very, very difficult eater. I’ll eat any vegetable you throw out me, but I have at various stages in my life decided that I would no longer consume the foul child abuse named (in no particular order) cheese, milk, butter, fish, seafood in general, any meat that wasn’t so lean I couldn’t find a bit of white in it (and I am a detective’s daughter FOR A REASON), or anything that had touched any of the above. My parents dealt with this in a very simple manner: I would eat a chunk of all things presented at the dinner table, if it took me till 10pm to get there. I got very good at loo breaks. And at flushing bits of meat down the toilet. (I’m sorry mum and dad, if the thing ever clogs up you know who to charge.)

The thing is, I now eat most of these things. I still don’t like them, but I no longer peel every last bit of frozen, grated mozzarella off store-bought pizza. I drank tea that had milk in it (I still cry for the waste of perfectly good tea) at fresher’s week just a few months ago, and managed not to scrunch my face up. I ate crab, calamari and random bits of random fish in Australia. I even tried a prawn, but I quickly learnt not to be THAT mellow when it comes to what I stick into my mouth. I cut up my own raw meat for dinner these days, and though I probably don’t eat enough (ha! I totally pre-empted the no-red-meat results of that cancer study, didn’t I?), I eat meat. I’m happy my parents got me to eat these things. I’d be an even MORE difficult person to live with had they not.

I know, straight from the horse’s mouth, that one does not need vegetables to survive. Liam has spent most of his life perfectly healthy and not a plant-murderer; he even refuses to eat potatoes that aren’t deep fat fried. Thankfully, he’s coming around, slowly but surely, but I’ve had to eat some seafood to get him there. Oh, the sacrifices.

My point is - hiding vegetables so your kids will eat them probably means you need to exert a bit more parental authority. And a total ban on toilet trips too, perhaps. I will accept that Liam is a stubborn eejit, and I would totally resort to hiding his vegetables if he were my kid. He’s special like that. However, I feel this book should be renamed. “How to Set Yourself Up for Disappointment” would be a much more apt title. Or, as Liam put it when I informed him that the Dutch meatballs I cooked the night before I left had onion in them, “You know what you’ve just done? Every time you do something like that, I’m less likely to eat something you’ve made.”

Mind you, he totally knew about the onions already, he just wanted me to feel extra bad about it. AFTER KNOWINGLY EATING TWO WITH ONION. If I chose to hide vegetables in his food for the rest of his life, he’d have it coming.

Liam and I are discussing random things when, to his great discomfort, he finds that Motörhead are categorised as “pop” on his iPod. He then informs me that this band holds the record for loudest concert ever, apparently, because at one of their concerts got to roughly 150dB in front of the speakers. Being obsessed with planes, he then quantifies that with, “in comparison, a 747-400 on take off is 155dB.” and then follows up with, “I’d love to go to one of their concerts one day.” His brain is obviously not connected to his mouth sometimes.

“It would send you really deaf.”

“I’d still like to see them.”

“I’d have to shout at you even when I’m not upset.”

“You need to know something. I have a male feature - we call it the panic button. The second you raise your voice, I hit that button, and… peace and quiet. It’s lovely.”

“Do you have a button to stop the kick up the arse too?”

When I informed him I’d have to post about this, he said, “Quick, while you’re at it, mention how I grope you and make some quasi-feminist statement, and then tell me in the same breath that you aren’t a feminist.” (Liam’s summary of your average blog written by a woman.) He’s not really that evil, he just likes to stir me up. Like so:

“Shut up.”

“What I find offensive is that I don’t know of any word that’s the male version of feminism. We just get called chauvinists, and pig dogs.”

“And rightfully so, with that button installed.”

“We need it to maintain our sanity. It’s dangerous to go without it. We need to make sure we have plenty of spare batteries for that happy week every month.”

“So what do women have to deal with men?”

“Fists etc. We can’t hit you back, so you may as well.”

“Come back when you bleed out of your reproductive organs for a week every month, and then you get to complain.”

“I bleed out of my nose as a result of your handiwork, that qualifies.”

Yes, I admit, I’m a boyfriend-beater. I have elbowed him in the nose once, most forcefully planted the back of my head into his face another time, and I believe he’s been kicked in the rocks once too. One of the funnier things I have ever witnessed is Liam explaining to my parents that the reason he had a swollen nose was THEIR DAUGHTER. I couldn’t help the nosebleeds though, I get spastic when tickled and restrained. That said, I don’t even remember what brought on the plum punching, so he probably didn’t deserve that.

“I’m just better at fisticuffs than most women.”

“Back-of-head-icuffs perhaps.”

I had an intake appointment at the local health centre the other day. Basically, I had to go see the nurse there, and fill them in on my lengthy medical history. She was a lovely, lovely lady, who made me feel comfortable and at ease straightaway. That’s a talent, given that she regularly puts women on scales.

She weighed me, and noted down how tall I was. She puffed up an inflatable sleeve and registered my blood pressure, and finally got to the 1000 dollar question: “Do you use contraception?”

“Yes, yes I do. My boyfriend’s on the other side of the world and it works a treat.”

She just looked at me for a second and then lost it. I’ve never been asked that question by a doctor or a doctor’s assistant in the Netherlands, or in Australia, but given the rather large densitiy of 16-year-olds with prams in this neighbourhood, it may be a fair enough question.

It puts that time I was mistaken for the mother of the little curly-haired blonde girl I was babysitting in a whole new perspective.