Swapping High Heels for Trainers: How the Ultimate Girlie Girl Survived Sports Camp.

Well, I've shaken off the jet lag, caught up on those two months worth of sleep, and the green tie-dye on my fingernails is finally starting to fade. A month ago I was a camp counsellor in Maine. I'm amazed at how quickly I got back into the monotony of the real world and began to feel as though it was all just some kind of hazy dream.

There's no excuse for abandoning you all for so long again without a post. True, my first four days back on UK soil were dedicated purely to sleeping with short intervals of napping (and a brief pause for pizza on the fourth day), but since then I've had ample opportunity to sit down with my laptop a write about my experiences in the USA. The only thing that's been stopping me is...well, where do I even begin? How do I organise two months worth of memories (99% of which now seem totally bizarre when I look back on them) into a blog post?

Well, I'm going to give it my best shot.

For those of you who don't already know, my agency paired me with an all boys' sports camp. Yes, yours truly, collector of high heels and avid lip-gloss enthusiast, was went to work in an all boys' sports camp. Have I ever given any indication to anyone that I am good at or have any interest in sports? (Aside from cheerleading, of course, but come on! Half the fun of that is the sparkly bows!)

No, I don't do sports.

But all the same I ended up in an all boys' sports camp with only three other girls to keep me sane company. Naturally everyone else there was a sports enthusiast. It didn't take long before I was exposed as the freak who couldn't so much as kick a ball.

At some point during the first few days of orientation, we were sent to meet the basketball coach for a talk. Alarm bells started ringing as soon as I realised the 'talk' was taking place in the basketball gym. By the time we got to the gym and the coach told us all the line up at the edge of the court, I had by-passed panic and had simply resigned myself to the fact that humiliation was imminent.

"Ok, I want you all to sprint up to the free-throw line and back."

Wait! What? Why are you making me run? I didn't know this job would involve compulsory sprints! I don't run. I fall!

But, above all that, was another concern. I put up my hand.
"Ok, it's just...which one is....I don't know...which line is that exactly?"
The coach looked at me like I was a Martian (which was actually pretty accurate in this instance) and said, "You do know you're in sports camp, right?"
"Yes."
As if I could forget!
"Wait, which sport are you coaching?"
"...Arts and crafts."
And just like that my secret was out. But at least from that moment on we were all on the same page. Don't ask me any sport-related questions. Don't throw any balls my way. Don't expect me to care about the difference between Michael Jordan and Lebron James.

That's not to say I managed to avoid sports for the rest of the summer. After all, it was a sports camp!

There was the afternoon I was scheduled to coach tennis. I'm not entirely sure why, when there were two professional tennis coaches, they had to bring in the arts and crafts director who hadn't so much as picked up a racquet in over ten years. I quickly got demoted from teacher to student...and was by far the worst student on the court. It's very demoralising when the nine-year-olds you're meant to be teaching are significantly better than you.  

Then there were football games I was asked to referee ("I'm sorry, I have no idea what the offside rule is so you'll probably need to find someone else"), stray balls I was asked to throw back to their owners, the afternoon the ice rink was opened up for free-skate. As much as I tried, there really was no way around it. I had managed to avoid sports for the first 23 years of my life, but suddenly there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

All I could do was try my best and hope I didn't get hit in the head with a ball.

And maybe all that compulsory sport did me some good after all. I mean, by the end of the summer I could actually catch a ball and, for the first time in my life, I could do a respectable push-up! 

But even so, I think I'm going to be taking a break from sports for a while. You know, like the next 30 to 40 years.

I've Returned with my Sanity (ish): My Summer at an All Boys Sports Camp

Well, what a long, bizarre two months those were! I successfully survived a summer working at an all boys sports camp in the USA, although my opinion of cheese has been dramatically altered forever and it may be some time before I can look at a football without being reduced to random outbreaks of twitching and tears. In fact, I may have reached my quota for all things sports related for the next thirty five years. 

I had every intention of keeping my blog at least somewhat up to date while I was out there. I lugged my out-of-date, 5 tonne laptop all the way to Maine with the best of intentions, honestly. I just didn't have the time. I mean, how is it even possible to be awake for so many hours and still have so few minutes free?

One night I did find myself with a little bit of extra free time and, being the dedicated blogger I am, I opted to attempt writing up a post through my haze of utter exhaustion instead of collapsing on my bed to indulge in some American Netlfix.

And this is what I wrote...

Hey y'all! Apologies for abandoning you for over a month without much more than a few half-hearted snaps on Instagram, but when you're a camp counsellor time is like gold dust. I work anywhere from 12 to 17 hours a day and, during my one break, I face the daily struggle of trying to decide whether my highest priority is showering or napping. I never thought I'd consider shaving my legs to be a luxury, but now that point is long since passed.

And yet, even though the days are seemingly never ending, even though the bags under my eyes have gotten so bad I'm concerned they may be permanently engrained on my face from this day forward, and even though I've been reduced to wearing my hair in plaits and cutting eyeliner out of my life completely, I really am enjoying myself.

I arrived in the USA on June 21st after a 4 hour car ride, a punctured tire, a 7 hour flight and a 90 minute wait at border patrol. I was welcomed into the country by a grumpy Bostonian at border patrol who sounded eerily like an angry version of Buddy Valastro from Cake Boss. Thus my American adventure began.

What do I even begin to say about camp?

This job ranks very highly on the list of most bizarre things I've ever done and, let me tell you, that says a great deal. At least five times a day I look around and find myself thinking, 'is this just a long, drawn out, extremely bizarre dream?' Of course, it could just be that I'm so sleep deprived by this point that my brain is actually starting to melt out through my ears, but...

And that's as far as I got before I literally passed out on my keyboard. I am not exaggerating when I say I was like the living dead. Most days I survived solely on questionable coffee and sheer willpower.

But, despite the long hours, sleep deprivation, being forced to watch more sports in seven weeks than I'd planned on watching in my entire life, and constantly finding glue in my hair, it was fun. I made some good friends and I have some amazing memories. Yes, there was also plenty of humiliation scattered throughout, but, for this post at least, let's skim over that.

And now I'm back! I hope you didn't miss me too much!

A Trip to London Part 1: I Take on the US Embassy

In the midst of my stress-ridden daily routine of filling in online paperwork, making my endless way through lists that never seem to get any shorter, staring into my wardrobe for hours on end without ever coming to any kind of conclusion on what needs to be stuffed into the case that I have yet to purchase, and countless other anxiety-inducing preparations for my trip next month, let me tell you about my trip to the US Embassy in London.

Perhaps it will distract me from the cruel blow of waking up this morning to find we were out of Nutella.

In a world where tourists need to be screened by the DHS before they can hop on a plane to Disneyworld, it probably goes without saying that I needed a visa for my trip to the USA next month. Applying for a J-1 visa was (in my case at least) a long, convoluted and slightly terrifying experience. It involved excessive amounts of paperwork, bizarre security questions (“Are you planning on entering the country to become a prostitute?” “Are you a drug smuggler?” “Do you plan on becoming a drug smuggler in the near future?” and so on), an array of important reference numbers, passwords and memorable information (all of which seemed to disappear as soon as I needed them) and, of course, a hugely unflattering visa photograph that makes me look like I actually could be a prostitute and/or drug smuggler. And, when all of that was done, I still had to head up to London for a face to face interview.

Naturally my mother wouldn't hear of her fully-grown adult daughter heading into the city alone so she tagged along too.

Our first issue was trying to find the embassy. As if I wasn't already hampered enough by my non-existent sense of direction and complete inability to read street maps, my phone died as soon as we stepped off the tube so Google wasn't around to save us. As it happens, there’s a big square where all the embassies are and, once we found the square, it was simply a case of working out which one was the American embassy.

“Do you think they’ll have a flag outside?” My mother asked as we aimlessly wandered around the square.

“There’s a star spangled banner on the moon. I’m pretty sure there’ll be one outside the US embassy.”

Looking back, I’m still not entirely sure how it took so long to work out which one was the right building. The US embassy was about the size of four or five of the others, with an enormous eagle on top along with what was probably the most gigantic flag I've ever seen in my life. 

There was a lot of queueing involved to get into the embassy. Queueing to get my forms checked, queuing to have my bags searched, queueing to explain to the security guy that the suspicious electronic device in my bag was my rape alarm (“because a girl can’t be too careful”), queueing to get my fingerprints taken, and, finally, queueing for the actual interview.

The interview itself was actually the quickest part of the whole experience.

“What do you plan on doing in the USA?”

“I’m going to be teaching arts and crafts at a summer camp in Maine.”

“Ok. Well, I’m going to approve your visa!”

It was as simple as that.

Obviously it was a lot more upbeat and enjoyable because the interviewer was American and therefore wonderfully friendly and happy. In fact, I got so caught up in the moment that I told her to “have a nice day”. I hope she didn’t think I was being facetious…

And so trauma of my visa application was over (apart from the ordeal of trying to get hold of it a few weeks later when the embassy released it to a mystical courier service whose location is so well hidden it might as well be protected by a magic spell that makes it invisible to muggles. But that's a story for a different day). And so, with my appointment at the embassy behind me and a full day in London ahead of us, we set off to explore.

But first we had to deal with her crippling fear of the tube...

Bethan's Birthday Bowling Bonanza (and other B words)

This week my friend, Bethan, turned 23. The same Bethan I travelled Europe with. The Bethan who got head-butted by a horse in Berlin, forced a drunken Irish man to take off his top and bench-press a keg in a nightclub in Prague, and is always my first choice for karaoke partner. Yes, that's the one.

To celebrate we went bowling. It's difficult to say which of us is the worst at bowling. Bushell seems to score quite highly. but that's only because we keep the rails up and he ricochets the balls off them. Hayleigh is particularly good at aiming her ball at small spaces where there are no pins to knock down. For my part, I repeatedly start off well, all strikes and spares, only to totally lose all control of my arms during the second half of the game, sending the bowling balls off in weird directions and eventually coming last out of everyone.

Actually, as far as the first game goes, I blame my failure purely on the garlic bread I was eating. I was too afraid to set it down when my turn came around in case one of my friends ate it or hid it somewhere weird so I took it along with me.  Unfortunately my brain couldn't grasp the idea that my right hand needed to release what it was holding (the bowling ball) whilst my left hand needed to keep a firm grip on what it was holding (the garlic bread) so I ended up throwing them both.

Naturally, as it was a celebratory occasion, we had some drinks. We each had one free drink as part of our package (along with chicken nuggets, burgers, fries, and all kind of glorious junk food) and, when I went to the bar to get my second I asked the barman, "What would be the difference between a Bells and a Jack Daniels?" (Look at me, being all frugal!)
The barman misunderstood, thinking I meant, what's the difference between these two different kinds of whiskeys. Really? I was wearing a Jack Daniels t-shirt and cowboy boots. This girl knows her whisky!
"No," I said. "I mean, the difference in price."

I did not add, "Anyone with taste-buds would know Bells is a scotch, while Jack Daniels is a Tennessee sour mash, most comparable to a bourbon."
As it turns out they were the same price (when does that ever happen?) so no prizes for guessing which I opted for.

When bowling was over (needless to say I lost both games) we went on an adventure. Or rather, we almost went on an adventure. We drove out to an old abandoned police station, sat in the cars discussing whether or not to go in, and eventually decided it was way too scary and drove away again.

But, creepy-horror-movie-type moment aside, it was a really fun evening. The only thing that could have possibly made it better is karaoke (although I don't know many places that combine bowling and karaoke). So happy birthday Bethan! Here's hoping you don't get too drunk this weekend.

My New Year's Resolutions (with the best of intentions)

Last year my New Year's resolution was 'to be better'. I'm not sure that I ever truly understood what I really meant by that other than that I wanted to improve every aspect of my life in one fair swoop. I had a vague idea that it would include everything from getting up earlier to reading more, dabbling in the Welsh language to becoming some kind of vegetable-loving, meditating, eco-friendly woman of the world who also puts time and effort into getting her hair to lie flat and wears good shoes.

Clearly this was not a good resolution. It was way too vague and ridiculous. I couldn't keep up with all the different aspects of it, partially because they changed from one day to the next. This year I'm going to set myself a list of clear cut, attainable goals with the best of intentions (which, as we know, the road to Hell is paved with) and I'm sharing them with you guys so that I'll feel more obligated to actually get up and do them.