Too Much Monkey Business

Friday March 28th/2014

Time has somewhat aided in my getting used to the strange sayings, words, rituals, and overall daily normalities of life in the UK. Even the smallest thing like a few added letters at the end of a word makes all the difference out here. Especially if the company you keep finds a great deal of pleasure in pointing out how silly Canadians sound. Take "chill" for instance. 

"How was your night?"

Canadian: "It was chill."

Brit: "It was chilled."

How such a minute variation can lead to such a substantial amount of mockery, and even the occasional, "What does that mean?", is beyond me.

The worst though, and one that took me an embarrassingly long time to get over, is the way you are greeted. The first time it happened to me, I was completely taken aback. 

Me: "Hey! How are you?"

Everyone else: "Hey, you alright/you ok?"

Instantly you check yourself for blood, or some other sign that something is wrong with you. Am I bleeding? Do I look ill? Did I forget to put on makeup, or a shirt? You start to wipe your face, pull your hair back, and scan for a reflective surface. I think I am ok, or at least I thought I was. Then once you confirm you are in fact wearing a shirt, and your makeup is actually quite flawless today, you're suddenly on the defensive. 

"Of course I'm alright! Why wouldn't I be? What a rude thing to ask. Are you saying I'm ugly? You're ugly. Good day, sir!"

After about a week's worth of questioning my outer appearance and overall health with every hello, I came to terms with the term, though I will fight with all of my being to not pick up this off-putting slang for as long as possible. 

I still struggle with the whole chips versus crisps situation. And I can almost guarantee I always will. Again, mention french fries and you've opened up a can of taunting worms. 

"Ya, could I get some chips please?"

"Sure, any particular flavour?"

Silence. Confused stare. 

"Salt and vinegar, cheese and onion, regular salted, smokey bacon, prawn cocktail (gag me)?"

More silence. A slight cock of the head sideways, and a sudden realization that I'm stupid. 

"Oh shit, ya ok I'll order you some fries."

The "you're stupid" stare enhances. 

I mean people just expect you to know things that are simply ridiculous. When a woman tells me she'd like a fosters lager with a top, why wouldn't I assume she means she wants a lot of head? That's a logical conclusion to make. No, it's not. How, if you have filled the glass with a ton of head, will you fit in the lemonade? Yes, a top means splash in some lemonade with my lager. Lemonade, that in fact, isn't even bloody lemonade! It's 7-Up. There is nothing lemonade about it. I am a fairly open minded person, but this is just dumb. And decide what you want to call it, if you're not going to call it what it is. Don't have two names for it, because now you're just confusing me on purpose. 

"Ya, can I get two vodka whites?"

What is that? Like vodka and milk? We don't serve milk. This is a bar, not a farm. Oh, you mean vodka and lemonade, which isn't even fricken lemonade?! (Don't say fricken either, you will be judged heavily) So a vodka seven. Coming right up, even though you're still dumb. 

How about buck's fizz? Ever heard of this? Not likely. I woke up one morning to my flatmate, Dan and his lady friend sipping mimosas in the living room. 

"There's stuff in the kitchen to make a buck's fizz, if you'd like." Says Dan. What the hell is that monstrosity, and why do I have to drink it when you guys get to have fabulous mimosas?! They're one in the same. What a horribly unattractive title for a mimosa. Buck's fizz. Sounds simply wretched. Buck's fizz. Just sucks the class right out of such a elegant cocktail.

Crossing the street has become less stressful. I mean you'd think that after walking solo in New Delhi for three months, London roads wouldn't be an issue. But people are dumb and habitual. Spending twenty four years of your life looking left isn't something one easily quits. Luckily for me, London seems to know just how dumb the human race is. On every cross walk, if you look down at your feet, the road will tell you which way to look. I can promise you, if it weren't for this I'd be dead. Total road kill. There are some smaller roads that don't offer cheat arrows, and I basically just look straight ahead and hope for the best. 

I'm learning to get over the fact that cafes here serve one size, and one size only. A very small size at that. I struggled, a great deal. A venti girl can't be expected to cope with this loss overnight. 

"It's quality, not quantity over here Chels. Learn to appreciate it." Says Josh. No. Me need triple shots. But the loving brother that I have, made sure to show me a cafe with the biggest cups he had come across before he left, and for this I am grateful. It has made for a smoother transition, even though while holding said cup in one hand, it still practically disappears. I will say this much though, there is not a single cafe that you'll go to that has shit espresso. Perhaps some slightly less smooth and creamy than others, but never shit. The standard in Canada is hardly comparable. In an recent hung over state, I was desperate for a venti and knew I wouldn't survive work on a 10oz flat white (basically a latte with less milk/foam. Long black is another one to wrap your brain around. It's an americano. I know, it's just too much.) So I ran to the nearest Starbucks. Just god awful. I mean even in Canada, I could tell you Starbucks coffee is shit, but after a month of the most incredibly delicious espresso, I could have been drinking sewage water and enjoyed it more. 

Eating over here is something that is next to impossible to avoid, and because of this i've been forced to buy fat pants. Fat pants that with every day are beginning to look more and more like a sausage casing, than boyfriend jeans. My diet generally consists of cheese, wine, chocolate, and the occasional chorizo sausage. And peanut butter of course. After about a week of pretending to be a grown up and buying healthy grown up things like bananas, I quickly grew bored and realized there are so much more horribly rich and delicious foreign foods with impressively high caloric levels at my disposal. Now you might think, "Gosh, Chelsea, if you're only eating cheese, chocolate, liquid grapes, and the occasional sausage, you truly couldn't be gaining that much weight. That doesn't sound all that bad." Well if I was eating one slice of cheese, a few slices of heaven ham, and a glass of wine, then yes. You'd be right. And I generally enter into eating with this intention. I go into the kitchen, cut a single slice, put the cheese away, leave the kitchen satisfied with said singular slice, only to return moments later and repeat the process. After several trips, I finally just give up pretending and take the entire brick with me to the bedroom. Why lie to myself? And before I know it, I've devoured an entire block of cheese, half a bottle of wine, three quarters of a tub of peanut butter, half a jar of marmite, and somehow there is a cream egg missing from my stash. Ok two cream eggs. I also have an incredibly unhealthy relationship with croissants. Even worse, I have discovered cronuts. The most beautiful cross breading of a croissant and a donut. And there you have it. My sausage casing situation explained. And I had come to terms with my obesity, embraced it even. Why beat myself up over a little added junk in the trunk, when I'm so much enjoying devouring every morsel of delectable edibles? I'm fat and happy. Why mess with a good thing? But my blissful ignorance regarding the junk in my trunk could only last so long. One slow Friday night at the pub, I got to talking to some non regulars. Two older gentlemen, both more round than tall. Our conversation led to me being a dancer and having an audition coming up in the next week. One of the fat bastards turns to me, with his ever so endearing British accent and says, "So you'll have to lose some weight for that then, ya?"

Though still witty enough to respond with, "Keep talking and your next round will be more spit than guinness." I was livid. With myself. It had become official. Undeniable. Unavoidable. Fat. And not so happy. 

The next morning I squeezed my junk into a pair of stretchy pants and cried my way through a yoga class. 

I supposed I should really thank the fucker for pulling my double chinned head out of my white cheddar filled clouds. Time to buck up, Chels. Your fat kid days are over. 

Strangely enough, being the fattest I've ever been has not stopped me from having an incredibly active dating life. The amount that I get hit on shocks me. I almost judge men for finding the inflated version of me attractive. I'm tempted to pull out my iphone and flash them a photo of me from 4 months ago. You think this is hot? If only you knew. There really is no better place to be single than in London. Every date is just an excuse to get to know the city. New restaurants and bars every night. An exploration of unchartered territory. Having a guy on my arm is really just an added bonus. But I've quickly discovered that as a single woman, it seems I have taken on the distinct qualities and habits of two well known television characters. Jerry Seinfeld and Charlotte York (McDougal-Goldenblatt). I begin with the determined romantic of Charlotte and soon take on the neurotic tendencies of Jerry. With every guy I meet, I am thrown into a whirlwind of heavenly thoughts. Like Charlotte, every man is a total dream boat, bathed in perfection. And if I had myself a Carrie,  I'd most likely utter the words, "I think this could be it, Carrie." upon meeting each and every one. If I had a diary, it would be flooded with pages of "Mrs Chelsea Calver" or "Mr and Mrs Sean Francis". Luckily for me, this ridiculous behaviour doesn't last long. The Seinfeld in me, almost instantly rears it's sceptical and overly judgemental head, and wipes the Prince Charming persona right off the map. You see, much like Seinfeld, the smallest of things irritate me, to the point of unbearable. And I am a master at finding these unbearable things in pretty much every man I meet. Just as Seinfeld found "man hands", the naked squatter, the woman that wears only one dress. And so on and so forth.

Take Simon. Simon was a man. A very tall, smart, witty, and financially sound man. Simon made for great conversation, and a good laugh. But he made funny faces when he talked. It was like having drinks with a muppet. Or a cartoon character. Or the penis face from the film, Bridesmaids. No. He would not be receiving a second date. 

Then there was Tom. Tom was a boxer. A pretty enough man. Short, but tolerable. Easy to talk to, and interesting enough. For our first date, he decided on a Mediterranean restaurant called Del Aziz. After researching it, as I always do, it looked impressive and I was keen. Two days before our date I get a text telling me to meet him outside Del Aziz at eight o'clock. Why? Why must we meet outside? How ridiculous. That's not normal. What kind of man asks a girl to wait outside? No. That date never happened. Two weeks later, the still persistent outside lurker had asked for a rematch so many times that I pitied him enough to say yes. I was attending the preview of Yves Saint Laurent that night at the picture house so I told him to meet me in the lounge afterwards at nine. Nine o'clock comes and goes and he is no where to be seen. This is because he's been standing out front of the cinema, waiting for me. Again with the loitering outdoors. Was he some kind of caged animal in another life and gets anxiety about entering buildings? No. And a whole lot more no to a second date. 

Ben. Ben was very funny, and quick witted. And lovely to look at. We exchanged numbers and began texting. This man didn't have a hope in hell dating me. He used "their" instead of "there" twice in one text message. Once is forgivable, twice is a deal breaker. No. 

Even very tall, very handsome Sean lost me. Granted, our second date went well. Very well. I took him to an amazing tapas place close to my house (things must remain convenient for me or I won't bother). Another three hour dinner passed, him still gazing into my eyes just as much as before, if not more. He showed me that he had scabs on his elbows from leaning so intently on the table towards me while we talked on our first date. I had no idea I was so engaging. Well, ya I kind of did, but that's impressive. He also informed me that while I swayed to the bathroom at one point, the man sitting at the table next to us leaned over to very tall, very handsome Sean, and said, "I'm not sure what your situation is with your lady, but I just had to say, you two have the most incredible chemistry. And you look absolutely amazing together. She is really something. I'd hold on to that one, if I were you." You know how I feel about hearing strangers sing my praises. Just ghastly. Tell me more. Really something, you say? Please, elaborate. 

He wouldn't let me pay, which I wasn't about to argue with, and when we got home he asked if I was feeling a bit peckish. This man has yet to discover I am always peckish, and that peckish is a shit adjective for my hunger. He walked to me Charlie's fish bar and introduced me to my first saveloy. Battered and deep fried sausage. Are you kidding me? This man has literally just won my heart. The next morning/afternoon, I took him to Brixton food market for the most insanely delicious and mouth watering pulled pork sandwich nestled between the most fluffy brioche bun. Correction, this sandwich won my heart. Hands down. No question. He finally let me pay which was fine because the pretty, yet slightly simple waiter only charged me for one sandwich.  As we walked home arm in arm, we talked about everything and nothing, and it was all good and fine until I brought up favourite movie of all time. He said The Last Samurai. No. I haven't seen him since.

Needless to say, when my date with Chris arrived, I assumed it'd only be a matter of time before he would expose his unforgiving flaw. We met at The Jam Tree (at the bar, not in the entrance way like savages). He had chosen the place, and I was quite surprised. It was the most adorable cocktail bar. Regardless of the outcome of the date, if for no other reason, this man will go down in history for taking me to a bar that serves a peanut butter martini. No one could possibly trump this.  Three dirty gins and one life altering peanut butter martini in, I awaited the inevitable. A possible overuse of the word, "awesome". Sitting cross-legged, knee to knee. Ridiculously small and overly frequent beer sipping. But nothing. Not a single thing irked me the entire evening. And what was worse, I was having an amazing time. Shit. He's a funny fucker. Not only can he can keep my attention span, but I'm genuinely engaged. I wouldn't say I scabbed my elbows over it, but I don't hold that against him. Not everyone can be as intriguing as yours truly. The night found us at The Royal Oak, yet another bar where everybody may not know your name, but chances are they'll know Chris'. And without fail, we completed our evening with the biggest screwdriver I'd ever seen (the drink, get your head out of the gutter). "It's all about the vitamin C". He says. Well I totally called that one. 

Five days followed consisting of us in each others presence and still no sign of Seinfeld stamp of disapproval. Shit. Of course, word of our date spread like wildfire at The Alex, and before I knew it, people I didn't even know were asking about Chris's new woman. "We're not dating. I'm not his woman." This statement continues to leave my mouth more times than I care to admit. And as much as I will remain adamant about keeping said statement a fact, it looks as though I may like this one. This, I was not expecting. Nor do I welcome very openly. My want to be someone's girlfriend at this moment could be closely compared to wanting Syphilis. Or Gangrene. Neither of which appeals to most. But when he plays me old Irish songs, or kisses my nose, or surprises me with candy (yes, the man's a genius) it makes comparing a relationship to an unwanted STD rather challenging. But I shall stand my ground. I'm not going down without a fight. And unlike the incident with crazy drunk bitch and my two swollen cheek bones, I'll be prepared. Leathers up and ready to go.