~LIVERPOOL, England: 28/11/09, 10:00pm.

Sitting in my hostel room with three French(?) girls and a German(?) dude who just surprised them by asking them if they were done with the bathroom in French. They had a mini conversation, like “Oh! How do you know French?” “sabuh-dah…” And then he had a serious conversational fail.
1) He said “Euh… et… le ’same thing?’ ” LA MEME CHOSE.
2) He said “Et qu’est-ce que vous faites dans la nuit?”
Thus I revealed the extent of my French by nearly falling off of my bed, laughing. Instead of innocently asking them what they planned to go out and do that evening, it was basically the equivalent of asking them if they’re prostitutes for hire. The French girls knew what he meant, but they informed him of his grievous error in conduct.
What is it you do during the night? versus what are you doing tonight?

We got better acquainted and talked about Paris after I blew my poker face. When I told them I had stayed in Barbès-Rochechouart three weeks ago, their jaws dropped in amazement that I’m still alive. (I TOLD you Friends Hostel was a shithole!) And then the conversation was over and they switched to talking in Spanish.

Before that, I had walked into the room across the hall, which was filled with drunken Irish men who insisted I must be Danish because of my bone structure. Then they tried to offer me a billion drinks and I sprinted back to my room because a boy named Dave tried to stick his hand in my butt. (What is it with the Irish?! My first day in Dublin, a guy purposely shoved his umbrella into my buttcrack!) / (I’ve never met so many guys named Dave!) I doubt it’s any safer in here with my hostel-mates, but at least they won’t be sticking their hands anywhere.

John(?) from Cherry Hill/Pennsylvania, a biophysics major studying abroad in Leeds, sat down on the bed next to me and just taught me how to adjust the shutter speed on my DSLR. Interesting people you meet. He tried pretty hard to get me to go back out into the world with him and his mates (the German guy– Sebastian– and two Spaniards: Sergio and Alberto.) John left his Canon DSLR just sitting out on his bed. I told him that was a stupid idea, but he said he trusted all of us. Here I am, sleeping with my purse next to my face.

But anyway, I didn’t mean to start in medias res. I ended up alone for the evening in the hostel and denying 3+ separate opportunites to hang out with strangers because I felt like crapola. For a moment, I seriously thought I might’ve been developing swine flu. I even called my mom to check.

The run down: We woke up at 330am and left New Cross around 430am in order to get to Euston Rail Station for our 605am train. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, but we were leaving so early, the tubes weren’t open yet. Gam and I both wrote down bus directions, but I forgot something and the buses were running so infrequently that we basically walked/ran from Tottenham Court Road to Warren Street Station. DUH. I was irritable at myself and everyone I was with.
The train to Stafford was alright, I guess. There was a man on the train who REALLY needed a tissue. I could hear him sucking up his mucus every 10 seconds even through my headphones.
We had less than 2 minutes to find the train from Stafford to Liverpool Lime Street and I wanted to murder everyone for being so American. I also wished Chris was there so I could make sourpuss faces at him.

Our first thought about Liverpool was “HOLY CHRIST AMONGST MEN, IT IS COLD.” The weather got worse throughout the day, as it tends to do when we’re out on vacation. We got there a little before 9am and walked to our hostel. We thought it was a nice place, until we saw the stains on the linen… Between blood, pee, and sweat, we half-expected the infamous Doodoo Bandit to show up and trash the place.
Daria, Andy, Gam, and I hung out for two hours alone in the room until noon, when we took a BEATLES TOUR. Called the “Fab Four Taxi Tour,” we had our own personal tour guide who was also our black cab driver. He took us to places like: John’s birthplace, his university, Ringo’s “soap opera” neighbourhood, Paul’s house and the caretaker who looks like him, George’s house, Eppy’s birthplace/party flat, Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields, and this church that had Eleanor Rigby’s grave, etc. So cool. [edit: I'm pretty sure we had THE BEST cab driver out of the whole lot, now that I've looked at the whole list on their website.]
What was not cool was the incessant change in temperature: in the cab, out of the cab, minimal warmth, freezing wet toes, no gloves. Daria and I had to pee. I started feeling feverish by the time the tour ended at 330pm and I just deteriorated every hour.
Danny, the cab driver, dropped us off at The Cavern Club and we watched a live cover band of kids my age. The Grace: http://www.myspace.com/thegraceonline They had an… interesting… interpretation of The Beatles’ “Taxman”, but I really loved their cover of Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust.”

Ah! Another two invitations to go out! The German guy, Sebastian, let me stay but a Spaniard (Sergio?) pulled me out of bed and dragged me to the door, despite my lack of shoes. When I feinted getting ready/looking for my shoes and he realised I wasn’t coming, he gave me what an American would interpret as the “I love you” symbol. Apparently it means something QUITE different in Spain. [edit: difficult to interpret, but I guess his gesture at me implied I am Satan's whore.]

After Danny dropped us off at The Cavern Club with little idea how to get back, we wandered into some pub with INSANELY cheap food. It was next to the holiday skating rink, for future reference. I ate some crappy lasagne, even though I wasn’t hungry. I felt stupid, because when Andy and Gam asked me what was wrong, my voice quavered and I almost burst into tears. I wanted to crawl into my too-small bed in Spotswood and have my mom make chicken soup, listening to terrible TV shows in the kitchen while my dad yells at someone on the phone about gun parts.
To be funny, I ate all of Gam’s peas. The effect wasn’t very funny.

We wandered back to the hostel even though we felt like we were back in Amsterdam (a feeling I simply cannot describe.) All of us took an hour-long nap around 6 because we felt like death and we were all laughed-out over the “Doodoo Bandit” and his work on the duvets.
We went back out– after much effort and many complaints about the cold– to a pub at the corner of the street called The Flute. It was also a throwback to Amsterdam, with the lighting and couches and open space and circles of people doing their thing. I was delirious by the point. The bartendress told me bluntly she “didn’t have time for my questions,” which made her the ONLY person in the ENTIRETY of Liverpool who was less than cheerful and welcoming and fantastic.
We left The Flute around 10pm in search of more interesting pubs/night life, but I came back here and tried not to die. Here I am. It’s not 12:20am and no one in this room is content to leave me alone.

~LIVERPOOL, England: 29/11/09

I woke up, well-rested and alive, at 10am. We were downstairs by a little after 11am. Because we were lazy and the other three were in various states of their hangovers, we ate at the cafe attached to the hostel/hotel.
Something compelled me to order a vegetarian English breakfast, and now I’m seriously considering reverting back to vegetarianism for health reasons.
The Smiths’ “How Soon is Now?” was playing in the cafe and I nearly spit out my toast. I frenetically bobbed along to the music, paralleled by the cafe-worker, a bespectacled guy in plaid who looks like he could be from Williamsburg, or a member of Grizzly Bear, to be more accurate. We caught eyes mid-bop and exchanged a little courtesy nod in honour of Morrissey.

Sebastian wound up talking to me until 2am about everything and nothing. After initially offering me a cookie (IT WAS A TARWEBISCUIT!!!) we fell into discussions about different education systems and the class structure of Germany. He asked me about my honest traveller’s opinion of the world (London in particular) and he told me about his town Germany. We also sat around and talked with the French girls, sabuh-dah, who were actually only 2/3 French. Cristina was from Spain, but Clemence and ____ were French, renting a flat in Paris.
(Funny story: They told me my French was really good. They were FASCINATED that I was American and that I was capable of speaking a different language. They admitted how mean that was, but it made me feel awesome. The three of them kept inviting me into the kitchen to share a bottle of wine with them, and they wouldn’t leave me alone until I told them off in French. MERCI, MAIS JE RESTERAI DANS MON LIT POUR LA NUIT. They applauded.)  

I said goodbye to Sebastian and his friends three separate times at this point. Before he left the room the first time, he chucked a packet of Trolli Sour Glowworms at my head from Germany. Maybe that’s a token of dour German regard, where he comes from.
It got me to thinking about Tidmarsh’s lessons during Shakespeare’s London, which made me miss Chris again. Jung’s coniunctio and fusion between individuals and all that cal. It was bizarre and wordly and true.

After walking around Albert Dock, we saw them AGAIN. Sebastian, John, Sergio and Alberto were sitting in the window of a restaurant. So grand total, we said goodbye to them 5 separate times around Liverpool.
Our group shuffled into a giftshop on the docks to get out of the rain, and the radio played a “new” Death Cab for Cutie song. I felt so acutely uncomfortable for not knowing it, which led me to ponder on exactly how long I’ve been away from the United States.

Albert Dock is the perfect place to meditate on your sorrows, we think. We stood over the water and fell silent. That’s how sombre it is. We cheered up by paying 5 pounds to ride Liverpool’s ferris wheel. Much like London has the London Eye, Liverpool has The Big Wheel.
Everything about it was retarded, in the most accurate sense of the word.
It was so incredibly stupid that it was actually worthy of 5 quid.

Lunch at Gourmet Burger Kitchen was no big affair. (Home of the MOST GORGEOUS BURGER.) The waitress gave us horribly wrong directions to get to The Jacaranda, which is this pub that John and Paul used to work in, so we hopped in a cab. Love how cheap the cabs are.

Jacaranda was cool. Someone selected Morrissey’s “Panic” on the jukebox and I nearly crapped myself –> fulfilled one of my bucket list wishes.
Jacaranda is also where I got married.

Just as I was discussing with Andy about how all these guys spend their days by going to work, coming home, and farting around a pub to shout at each other, these four guys come over and start talking to us. It’s only 530pm and they’re completely pissed. We didn’t really get their names, but they got our first names and continually asked why in hell we Americans were in Liverpool. Did they forget about the tourist lure of the Beatles? Probably. Duh. One guy, the nicest and most gentle, looked like Dave Foley. Another looked like he could be George Lopez’s cousin gone to seed. One guy was as rowdy as a five-year old boy who just got a new action figure and kept giving people high fives. And then my husband was a fat balding guy who stole a ring off of a girl’s finger in order to propose to me.
This was all so incredibly hilarious and unreal that I had to immortalise it by calling my parents. I’m POSITIVE they were alarmed by the voicemail they left, but I prefaced it with “Please don’t be offended.” I hoped they saved it, because I could barely what they were shouting into my phone.
The rowdy guy bonked Gam on the forehead once (hilarious) and kept up with the high fives after everything he said. He tried to shake my hand when I said something brilliant and instead, I did the swipe-my-hand-over-my-hair move like those cool people do, and it was like I had just invented it, by the response those guys gave me. I felt like a million cool bucks and a number ten on the cool scale.
The Dave Foley look-alike told me that my husband, who’s name is something like Mark McCally, is actually proposing to his girlfriend on Christmas Day this year and he wanted to get in a bit of practice.
Mark got down on his knee in the middle of the bar and presented me with the gaudiest blue piece of costume crap I’ve ever seen, but I did my duty with a perfunctory knod and a squeak. Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing to stare at us. You should see the pictures Daria took on my camera.
What I was not expecting was when he picked me up and twirled me around in the air. Touching was limited to that, thank goodness, or there would’ve been a serious problem between our two parties.
When we said goodbye to these fellows, the mood shifted from conviviality to sobriety in less within 15 seconds. They clapped us on the arms and gave us each a kiss on the cheek (I got enchanté kisses on my hand instead, like a proper lady.) They wished us a safe journey to wherever we call home, and hoped we’d remember them all fondly.

The train station was freezing cold again, so we spent the hour waiting in the only enclosed space in the vicinity, which was a pub. Naturally. Things of note about our time spent in the pub: 1) Another drunken Irishman tried to cozy up to us, but split when Andy came back from the ATM. 2) One of the bartenders selected Peter Sarstedt’s “Where Do You Go To, My Lovely?” on the jukebox and I literally did not know what to do with myself. This would’ve been on my bucket list if I could’ve even considered it as a possibility.
It was outrageous. I was so happy.

Train back to London Euston was boiling hot. Andy and Daria wrote the first two scenes of a play and performed it for us. I passed out. Getting back to New Cross is always really GLLAIGHT** when we come back from a trip. Hot showers and dry socks.

———————————————————————————-
Overall, Liverpool is probably worth another trip, if I had a different group of people to go with (ie- my parents.) They’d love to see all of the Beatles junk, plus it’s a completely underrated tourist location. The people are all out-of-this-world friendly and it’s the cheapest city I’ve been to in Europe thus far.
Plus, the accents are the best. Since yesterday, we’ve been yelling “GREAT” at each other in the Liverpudlian accent (which has a Welsh twang to it), so our GREAT would phonetically be spelled as “G-L-L-A-I-G-H-T” **
GLLAIGHT. gll8.
IT WUZZA GLLAIGHT RECORD, YEA?
The end every sentence with “yea?”
So now we end every sentence with “yea?”

Today I felt like crap again, and my politics seminars were made exceptionally difficult.
I somehow- somehow- thought this could be cured by eating Iceland fishcakes and Thai chilli pickles. I was wrong. There is NOTHING more masochistic than eating my Thai chilli pickles. I was actually crying and yelling when I made them last week, they’re so spicy. I could never get chillis like that at home, much less from a screaming Cockney vendor off of the street. Brilliant. Another thing to miss.

GLLAIGHT BLOG POST.

I spend a lot of my time thinking of puns for both business and pleasure (by business, I mean I do it at work fairly often).

This week, I had two fairly successful brainstorms with my roommate Kristin via gchat. Having spent the last two years of college speaking almost exclusively in puns with my roommate Patrick, it was nice to get back in the groove of extensive, fast-pace, word play.

Task One: Think of a name of a television show involving as many of the following traits as possible: procrastination, disdain for your friend, being trapped in a closet, the apocalypse, the future, suicide.

Elapsed Time: 40 minutes

Suggestions:

Purgastory
Too Loose Noose
Pull the Trigg..eh…
Limbo Akimbo
Limp Wrists, Limp Dicks
Schizofriendics
Suicide-by-side
Suistand By Me
Russian Coolette, Russian Rouldebt, Russian Foolettes, Russian To Let (something happen), Crushing Regret [a stretch, aware.]
Double Barrel Buddies
Shotgun Circle Jerks
Bullet’s Be Friends
Cock and Bullets
Sherlock and Load
Friendly Misfires
Gun Powdered Go-Nuts
A Salty Rifle, Assaulty Rivals
Puttin’ Off the Ritz, Puttin’ Off the Fists, Puttin’ Off the Fits (of Anger), Puttin’ Off the Slits, Puttin’ Off the Hits, Puttin’ Off the (River) Styx
Procrastobliteration
Laser Laterz
Blastphemous
Oblaterated
Blast Place Ribbon
Laserious Issues
Laser Heir Removal

Eventual Winner: Blast Man Standing

Task Two: Think of a punned out theme for a Holiday Housewarming Party

Elapsed Time: 11 minutes

Suggestions:

Joy to the World, Our House Has Come
Welcome to the Sleighborhood
Jingle Bell Block Party
Chestnuts Hosting on an Open Fire
God Rest Ye Merry Housewarming
Here We Come A’Haussailing
Grandma Got Rum Over By A Reindeer, Grandma Got Rum Over By A Grainalcoholdeer
Frosty Brews the Snowman
Feliz New-vidad
Rum Rum Brewdolph
Please Come (to our) Home for Christmas

Eventual Winner: Grandma Got Rum Over By A Reinbeer

Woof. That’s like, a pun a minute, give or take a couple pundred seconds. Some are terrible. Some are terribly delightful.

I am, as always available for pun challenges at all times. Also, if you own a weird greeting card company and are looking for an employee, I work cheap, particularly if you’re looking for gun and alcohol related puns/portmanteaus.

Hello,

Tip of the day: Inspired by a simply stunning sunrise this morning, my thoughts were these. Yes, there’s more than enough to do – removing dying hedge plants, tidying up perennials etc. – but sometimes you must just stop, look, smell and listen, whether you’re surveying your allotment or your 10,000 acre estate and award winning garden, like me.

Brando - Trifle Guzzler!

Now. Much jollity! I became a member of Twitter yesterday and already have a host of new garden-loving chums. It’s quite dear really. My plan is to garner enough electric friends and then throw an enormous party at Chatterley. It will be an hoot!

One has to come to terms with Twitter slang, or ‘twang’ if you will. We had a jargonese of our very own at Chatterley, instigated by Lord Cavendish when guests came to dine…

FHB – Family Hold Back. Used when cook had prepared enough guinea fowl, or own one occasion when Marlon Brando charged through a trifle designed for twenty, on his very own.

MIK – More in Kitchen. On the Brando occasion, Lord C whispered FHB, but cook whispered back MIK. She had prepared a back-up trifle. Phewf!

NQOCD – Not quite our class dear. Used regularly for most guests including that grocer’s daughter, Thatcher.

NWA - HKLP!

Work can wait until the tomorrow. Today, I say, enjoy.

Ever,

Jen

Welcome to our new blog!

I have decided to open this platform to complement our work during the lessons. I hope it’ll help you improve your English and communicate with your friends in English.

My first post will be  a song Molly taught you. After her lesson I decided to use it with my first year students, who actually were your students for a day too.  Some of you might have seen it in their blog “Castígate”, but if we are going to use this all4that It might be a better idea to post it here again, don’t you think?

First the lyrics

Johnny wanna be a big star

Get on stage and play the guitar

Make a little money, buy a fancy car

Big old house and an alligator

Just to match with them alligator shoes

He’s a rich man so he’s no longer singing the blues

He’s singing songs about material things

And platinum rings and watches that go bling

But, diamonds don’t bling in the dark

He a star now, but he ain’t singing from the heart

Sooner or later he’s just gonna fall apart

Cause his fans can’t relate to his new found art

He ain’t doing what he did from the start

And that’s putting in some feeling and thought

He decided to live his life shallow

Cash in his love for material

[Chorus]

And its gone… gone… going…

Gone… everything gone… give a damn…

Gone be the birds when they don’t want to sing…

Gone people… all awkward with their things… gone.

You see yourself in the mirror

And you feel safe cause it looks familiar

But you afraid to open up your soul

Cause you don’t really know, don’t really know

Who he is, the person that’s deep within

Cause you are content with just being the name-brand man

And you fail to see that its trivial

Insignificant, you addicted to material

I’ve seen your kind before

You’re the type that thinks souls is sold in a store

Packaged up with incense sticks

With them vegetarian meals

To you that’s righteous

You’re fiction like books

You need to go out to life and look

Cause… what happens when they take your material

You already sold your soul and its…

[Chorus]

You say that time is money and money is time

So you got mind in your money and your money on your mind

But what about… that crime that you did to get paid

And what about… that bid, you can’t take it to your brain

What about those shoes you’ll wear today

They’ll do no good on the bridges you burnt along the way

All that money that you got gonna be gone

That gear that you rock gonna be gone

The house up on the hill gonna be gone

The gold purse on your grill gonna be gone

The ice on your wrist gonna be gone

That nice little Miss gonna be gone

That whip that you roll gonna be gone

And what’s worst is your soul’s already gone

and then a nice video to illustrate the story

Do you remember the slang Molly taught you?

If you have any other suggestions of music you would like Molly to present to you, post a comment to the blog and we’ll see what we can do.

Post 1

“Gayby” is yet another portmanteau word (one that combines two words into one) of the words “gay” and “baby” and refers to the little tykes that are adopted or conceived by a gay, lesbian or LGBT couple.

While this word might not yet have caught on in wider circles, there are already “gaybys” being featured on primetime television, as on the ABC sitcom, “Modern Family“.

1. noun: a child that is adopted into a gay, lesbian or LGBT family or home.

Ex: “Chuck… Larry!  Your little Fuschia is just the cutest little gayby I have ever seen!”

[Origin: Most likely American.  Related words: "gaydar", "gaysian", "gayborhood", etc.]

Frog and toe
leaf
another stretch
a spark
red oliver
dangles
the ogles.

New York City
autumn
another year
a diamond
gold moon
seduces
the eyes.

De RC Ratelslang is een op afstand bestuurbare Ratelslang.
Deze leuk uitziende ratelslang  bestaat bovendien uit verschillende delen zodat zijn bewegingen er uitzien als een echte slang.
Je kan hem naar links en naar rechts bewegen waardoor hij naar voren gaat je kan zijn staart laten ratelen en zelfs zijn tong laten bewegen.
Hij beweegt zich voort door wieltjes onder zijn kop en lichaam en je zou er eventueel zelfs mensen mee bang kunnen maken wat ik persoonlijk aanrad want dit is natuurlijk altijd leuk.
Daarbij heeft hij ook nog eens een leuk uitziende afstandsbediening die het plaatje helemaal compleet maakt.
Hij werkt op 4 AA batterijen waardoor je hem dus niet voor een  vervelende lange tijd aan een accu hoeft te leggen maar gewoon als ze op zijn ze kan vervangen en verder spelen.

Wil je hem kopen of gewoon nog eventjes bekijken? klik dan op op afstand bestuurbare ratelslang

Every geographic area has a language all of its own. Sometimes it’s an accent. Other times it’s a unique slang. Either way, communication may become muddled and amusing. On our first trip to Australia in 2005 for our son’s World Solar Challenge Race, we visited Kangaroo Island by way of ferry. Upon arriving, we met our tour guide and group in a van.
“Did you see any wiles, mate?” asked the guide.
Bob and I scratched our heads. We didn’t have our “wiles” about us at that moment.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
The guide repeated his question.
“Did you see any wiles?”
Again, Bob and I eyed each other. What now? Play charades?
Then it hit us. The guide was asking if we had seen any WHALES while we were on our ferry ride.

This time we noticed signs in Darwin. POKIES. Poker is a big game in Australia. With a British influence, Bob ate bangers (sausages) one day and I had fish and chips for lunch.
We hiked in the bush (Australian’s country’s wildlife area) and saw a willy willy. (dusty wind that spirals upward) Saw a kiwi (person from New Zealand) and ate a dog’s breakfast. (messy!)
Upon entering an early morning tour bus, the guide greeted us and said, “Don’t worry, we’ll stop for a bit of breaky soon.” (breakfast)
I took a picture of a kangaroo and with a “joey” in her pouch and she examined me closely for any signs of food for sharing. Alas, they don’t recommend feeding them, so I couldn’t give her anything at all. But she still did a thorough search.

Writing Exercise: What slang is prominent in your area? Are “your people” known for an accent? When I came from Wisconsin, I was teased here in California not only for my Midwestern drawl, but for my “Milwaukee-ease.” Later, I turned this type of slang into a humor article for a San Francisco newspaper.
1. List as many various slang words from your region as you can recall. You may begin this list today and continue it for awhile. Ask friends to help you! It might consist of phrases as well as words themselves.
2. What about the accent? Try and describe the accent and how it varies from other dialects you here.
3. Work your unique area into a short story, personal experience piece, poem or article. It can be humorous, serious, or a mixture of the two styles. Feel free to share any part of your dialect and slang. We’d love to hear the fun way the world communicates differently!

CHICAGO OVERCOAT

Coffin.

CHICAGO LIGHTNING

Gunfire.

DEAD SOLDIERS

Empty beer bottles.

DIME DROPPER

An informer (someone who drops a dime in payphone to call the cops).

FACE LIKE A RUSSIAN FLAG

Embarrassed, ie red.

FREE TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT

Out of work, unemployed.

HAEMOPHILIA OF THE LARYNX

A blabbermouth.

HARLEM SUNSET

Knife wounds.

HAVE ONE ON THE CITY

Drink some water.

KNOW YOUR GROCERIES

Be hip, aware, alert to the situation.

OLD ENOUGH TO VOTE

Vintage liquor or wine.

PREPARING BAIT

Putting on makeup.

ROUNDHEELS

Party girl (deriving from a supposed natural ability to regularly fall over backwards).

SINHOUND

A priest.

SNIFFING ARIZONA PERFUME

Going to the gas chamber.

STRAIGHT FROM THE FRIDGE

Cool. Obviously.

TAKEN OFF THE PAYROLL

Killed/assassinated.

THAT VIBRATES ME

I’m impressed, I really like it.

VOMIT ON THE TABLE

Speak up.

YOUR ROOF IS LEAKING

You’re a bit crazy.

Intro footnotes…

1 Listen up 2 You cheap crooks 3 Late-night person

4 Brain 5 Doing drugs 6 Have a sit down 7 Shut up

The third edition of Straight From The Fridge, Dad by Max Décharné is out now (No Exit Press)

SOURCE

Casino in Vaulx-en-Velin (French supermarket)

I really hate prepping lessons, especially when I don’t have a curriculum and don’t really know the level of the kids.

Sometimes, this allows for some flexibility on content.  Sometimes, I just flounder.  It always helps if the kids give me something to talk about.

A couple nights ago, Algeria beat Egypt in a World Cup qualifying match, and with a huge percentage of my students having some Algerian roots, excitement was in the air.

So I got to use that as a topic, teaching them the verb to beat, which is always fun, because bite is a word in French (same pronunciation) which means ‘dick’.  In any case, the kids were excited to learn a few words related to soccer matches, at least for a bit.

They told me that the night of the win, people threw rocks at Casino, a French supermarket chain.  I checked it out and took the above picture.  I expected more damage, but I guess it shows something about the area if people are so excited that their team won that they go and try to destroy the local supermarket.

As for the subject of this post, I have the troisieme (3rd, in French), the last grade in middle school in France.  Kids that know they are going to trade high schools, not to a university and go to school out of obligation.  This means I need to go doubly out of my way to keep them interested.  I figured I would do this by giving a healthy dose of slang and perhaps personality quizzes and the like, from teen mags.

Sometimes, material falls from the heavens.  While waiting to get my half of the troisieme, I saw one of the girls take her gum out of her mouth and give it to another girl.  There was a good 5-10 minutes of class right there, as I taught ABC gum (already been chewed).  It took them forever to understand what I was talking about, but once they did, they understood that I brought it up because of what they did early.

While I was walking to school, I realized my fly was down.  And hence another 5-10 minutes, when I taught XYZ (examine your zipper).  The kids were especially excited about this one, as I used a scenario with their English teacher as an example.  (“So, if Mr. M walks in and I say ‘XYZ’, what am I saying?”)

When they were angry with their English teacher after class, they yelled at him ‘XYZ’!

It’s good to know I make an impact.

Recently a friend told a story involving a woman he had hit on at a bar.  While describing her revealing outfit he used the word “breasts.”  I remember it was an awkward moment – not because he was talking about her cleavage, but because of the self-conscious pause before he said the word, as if he was searching for the appropriate term to say in front of women friends (which is kind of hilarious considering he didn’t think twice about telling us the lewd story to begin with).  He was obviously uncomfortable saying Breasts and it got me thinking that I don’t really care for the word either and rarely use it.

I don’t remember what slang we used in high school – I’m sure my Midwestern circle of friends avoided the embarrassing topic as much as possible. There wasn’t much to say about my AA-cups anyway.   Later, in my  early 20s, I adopted Tits.  I felt Tits was an appropriate description of my perky As, and was fun to say.  I was definitely uncomfortable with the anatomically correct Breasts.   Breasts had a lot of weight.  They were mature and I was not.  Breasts feed for crying out loud – my bee stings were hardly more than glorified nipples.

.

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Breasts seemed to me to be the opposite of anything sexy or fun. Anita Hill was testifying before Congress about listening to discussions at work about pornography and “large breasts.”   Breasts were something that got harassed.   They could potentially be fondled – another word with only creepy uncomfortable connotations.

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Moving into my late 20s and a B-cup, I stopped saying Tits and began to prefer Boobs instead.  The strange thing is I don’t really like the word Boobs.  It’s not an elegant word – it’s silly and goofy, which I suppose is kind of how I felt about my boobs.  I finally had all I’d ever wanted – actual cleavage! But the thrill of buying something other than a triangle bra quickly wore off when I realized I could no longer just throw on anything in the Juniors department.   But Boobs is a happy sounding word too and over time I’ve grown comfortable with it and my bouncy boobs.

What I still haven’t grown to like is Breasts.  In fact, my associations with that word have become more negative over time.  Breasts get cancer.  Breasts have lumps.  I think it is not a stretch to say that I am confronted daily with that very specific shade of pink and its shouted reminder.  I’m not suggesting the elimination of the word – it would be quite strange to be asked by a nurse practitioner how often I do a Self Ta Ta Exam.  But the ever-present awareness campaign certainly removes the fun from the Funbags.

Last but not least, the use of the word Breasts that most annoys me is the most mundane.  That would be pertaining to chickens.  Chickens and chicken advertisements.  Plump Breasts! Healthy. Natural. Perfectly Portioned. White.

It’s not just all the specifications for the perfect Breast that irritates me – it is the implied ownership.  Chickens (with their tender, juicy breasts) are the property of a farmer, who in American folklore is a man.  They are owned and sold.  Not my rack, sister.

Now that I’m in my mid-30s astoundingly, amazingly, I wear a C-cup.  I still use Boobs most of the time, but have also started referring to my bust as The Girls.

This is something my DD friends have always done.  Now I get why – The Girls have a life of their own and will not be ignored.  Often I have to hold them to run down stairs.  Sometimes I can’t even sleep without a bra, a concept I couldn’t have fathomed back when I was a card carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee.  Gone are the glorious AA days of running around in just a tank-top.  I didn’t know how good I had it.

What I need is a word somewhere in between the goofiness of Boobs and the seriousness of Breasts.  Until then I guess it’s just me and The Girls.  They may make it more difficult to pick a swim suit, but I now look great in a sweater.  Not to mention purchasing lingerie is much more rewarding.

And finally, to all those mean girls who made fun of me for having a chest as flat as a waterboard:

How do you like them apples?

Moto: “liberastule,fraternule,umanule sa-mi bag picioru in tine si in toata gasca voastra de rapanosi ca sinteti niste curve,. curve fatarnice si as fi gata sa-ti frec vreo doua in nas cum a facut-o un sfint lovindu-l pe un fatarnic{ostas} ca alde voi care uneltea mereu impotriva crestinismului…si asta anume din dragostea pe care o avea fata de Hrisots{nu fanatic} -o persoana cu adevarat libera in Hristos,. dar nu libera in legile pagine…” (Ion)

- Gopnik?
- Nuuuu!
- Zăk?
- Nuuuu!
- Blatnoi?
- Nuuuuu!
- Tiuremşcik?
- Nuuuuu!
- Ubiiţa?
- Nuuuuu!
- Jlob?
- Nuuuuu!
- Bâdlî?
- Nuuuuu!
- Mafiot?
- Nuuuuu!
- Shi blea s shii? Hai vsio, gata ma dau bătut. Flagu alb. Nu ştiu.
- Iiiiii, cum nu ştii uăi? Îi creştinu, cu credinţî ş cu fricî di Dumnezău. Tu ştii shi di tari credi? Ti omoarî dac spui sheava rău di Hristos, spasiteliu nostru.
- Daaaa blea. V naturi îi veruiushii. Cum nu dagadalsa eu? Ladna blea, hai sî-ţ pun piva. Am perdut jî sporu..

Overseas they are up on something called gash.  If you know what that means, let me know in the comments so we can share the true meaning with this side of the world. Enjoy!.

The definition is too raunchy for my site so i will link it from the urban dictionary for you.

One for the road. Not quite gash, but it is hard to deny the prevelance of the word in this flick.

Some of the funny things I’ve dealt with over the past year in Korea has been getting used to some of the slang here in Korea. While some is really easy to get used to, some others just seem unnecessary.

For example, in the US and other countries, we use our mobile or cell phones extensively. In Korea, the term really isn’t used that much. Rather Koreans refer to these devices as handpones (because there is no ‘F’ sound in Hangeul). Getting used to that term is really easy.

As an active member of the YouTube community, I often refer to my work there as making movies or making videos. However, those terms really don’t translate well in Korean culture. What does translate is calling those projects UCCs. The term stands for User Created Content. The abbreviation does make sense, but I do have to admit, that I have a hard time using it. I often speaking about making a video with my ex-pat friends and making UCCs when discussing the topics with Koreans.

One of most aggravating slang terms I’ve come across here in Korea is PPT. This term is used to describe Powerpoint presentation. The term is derived from the file extension that Microsoft affixes to its presentation files: presentation1.ppt. The computer geek in me really rebels against falling presentation files PPTs, since there are several different types of programs that can create presentations. Furthermore, I dislike calling anything by its file extension, since they can easily be changed. That being said, PPT is firmly entrenched in the Korean culture and I find myself working today on a PPT file for school.

Another little bit of slang has recently come to my attention: RSP. Anyone who has ever been to Korea, knows that the only game more popular than Soccer and Baseball is Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Seriously.

Any number of things can be won or lost on a simple game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. However, the youngest generation of Koreans seem to think that actually saying “Rock, Paper, Scissors” takes too long and have shortened it to RSP.

Probably my favorite slang term in Korea is: FIGHTING! This phrase is used for encouragement rather than as a challenge. So if you’re out and about at a team sporting event… you can use this with pride, knowing that it won’t land you in the slammer for trying to instigate a riot.

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Taylor and I are going to have some peking duck at Chinese Cafe Eight tonight with the wonderful Natsuko.  I’m killing time by reading pink tentacle’s top 60 Japanese slang phrases of the year.  Of particular note is #24, the sekushii buchō.

24. Sexy buchō [sekushii buchō - セクスィー部長]: Sexy Buchō (”department chief”) is a popular character with humorously exaggerated masculine sex appeal who appears in skits on the NHK sketch-comedy show “Salaryman NEO.”

(via Tokyo Moe)