Props and frocks…

Anyone that knows me knows that I’m the worst person ever to take to a formal social event.

Stuffy balls and formal pow wows seem to bring out my naughty side.

The euphemisms are real with this one.

Oi stop snickering behind your screens. This is a serious blog with serious…oh who am I kidding?

Our university summer ball, however, was an outdoor garden event with live music, dance tents and zorbs. Perfect for this country bumpkin.

What could go wrong?

Rain.

Much rain.

Exeter city centre became a witch hunt for reasonably priced and outfit coordinating wellie boots, and I’m afraid to say I was no Matthew Hopkins.

You know the famous Essex witch hunter?

No?

Ahhhh I’m such a history geek.

I returned home sans-Wellington boots and decided to wear my lovely new faith heels I bought for the occasion.

Well they did match my dress that I’d painstakingly searched for over the course of the summer term (no it had absolutely nothing to do with exam procrastination, how very dare you, it’s completely normal to buy and return six dresses and two pairs of shoes before a big event).

I almost got away with it.

Turns out being 5’1″ you can fit your entire body into a zorb, and so when someone runs into you and pushes you over, though you may be stuck legs akimbo for ten minutes waiting for professional help, you stay fairly mud free.

Bloody fantastic.

Add that to my CV…”doesn’t get wet in zorbs”.

Hey it’s 2014, I need all the help I can get.

In the end it was the mud pit that was once the silent disco tent and the slide (yes slide) into the dance tent that had me caked like Percy the pig.

I didn’t much care. Turns out overpriced jaëger and energy drinks both protect you from the bitter cold and reduce the general number of fucks given about anything.

That was until it was time to go home.

The Ball organisers decided it would be a wonderful idea to try to transport a thousand students back to campus on two fifty-seated coaches.

Cue a sea of very annoyed and sobering students and a general air of rioting.

I decided it was better to sit at the back and watch the drama unfold, of which there was plenty.

Turns out my jaëgerbomb coat came in very handy.

Luckily, by the early hours of the morning, we got dropped home right outside our accommodation as quite happy, if not very broke and muddy, campers.

Every cloud has a silver bus.

P.S. It rained so hard at one point that we got stuck inside the music tent with some very drunk rah’s smoking cigars. Can you get any posher? I of course added even more class to the proceedings by very attractively wolfing down a hotdog.

P.P.S. Even though I lost my shoes (well ok I managed to scrub them up but they did almost go to shoe heaven), I did not meet Prince Charming at the ball. I’ll keep you updated on that one, it’s a work in progress.

Advertisements

Brits Abroad…

In the last week of May my flatmates and I decided to go on an impromptu trip to Malaga in Spain.

Excellent use of student loan I must say.

Yes yes, I’ve realised that it is currently July. I’ve been busy.

Actually I’ve been lazy but I’m turning 20 in two months and apparently adults are “busy” not “lazy”.

*Stoic face*

*Adjusts wire rimmed glasses and straightens pantsuit*

*Smooths hair tendrils into smart work-appropriate chignon with…*…ok you get the point.

I digress.

^ See adult posh word.

As it turns out it wasn’t quite the typical “lads and ladettes on tour” holiday that you would expect.

Well except for the first night where we decided that buying a massive European priced bottle of Smirnoff vodka between three of us (the others arrived later) and drinking it all as screwdrivers was a good idea.

I drank the most and spent the whole night with my head down the toilet.

“Woo party!”.

Bleugh.

There were no late night clubbing adventures (we tried to go clubbing, it was more like a year 9 school disco where everyone was cramped onto a dance floor the size of a toilet and amazing tunes such as ‘Summer Lovin’ were blasted out to a near sober crowd), the alcohol was kept to a minimum….well for me at least, (I have since gained the nickname “pukette”), and there was no sex on tap (well the non-monogamous-long-term-loving relationship type…that’s what you get for living in a flat full of couples).

But we did see a lovely castle which we were given a grand tour of by the famed and internationally revered resident local tour guide (and apparent owner) Mr Abraham (thanks Kolujo 😉 ). And an amazing Flamenco show, and a beautiful cathedral, and we ate some authentic paella and we caught some rays on Malagueta beach and, and….I’ll stop. Haha.

#Tourists.

*Facepalm*

Highlights of the trip included me getting sick (as usual, did you even have to ask) and having to make a confusing and bloody expensive trip to Malaga General Hospital (could we have found a GP? Hell no); accidentally eating at the dodgiest of all dodgy cafés with questionable results; meeting a 30 year old married German man and his best friend on the beach (who surprisingly didn’t try to chat us up but did talk for a bit too long and took a few too many group pictures), meeting som Spanish boys who did try for a bit of how’s your father (with the line “do you like my body”) and arriving at the airport 6 hours to early because we thought our flight was at 6pm rather than 12am.

All in all a very successful adventure, don’t you think?

Greece anyone?

PS, Malaga is wonderful you should definitely go and visit, we stayed in a lovely flat in the heart of the city centre using airbnb.com which was a steal for the location and price! A big cheers to my flatmates for the best holiday ever :).

Christmastime, Mistletoe and Jäeger…

That’s the lyrics, right?

Good old Cliff, the cheeky minx.

And so this post (more than) officially concludes my first term at uni…I clearly have an A* in timekeeping, I actually came home on the 12th.

*Slow clap*

We most definitely ended the year on a bang.

All of my flatmates and I headed to our local-est of local haunts and had the weirdest night ever….we’re convinced we all fell into some kind of Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole.

Think ecstasy without the…err ecstasy.

In my case, after one too many Jäegerbombs (bought by a very nice guy at the bar…did drunk Laura stay and thank him? Nope…she drank two, handed the rest to her friends and strutted off into a door..yes, into #nailedit….I digress) I decided to go for an “epic” adventure.

Aka I tottered off alone to a bench outside our flat to “get some air”.

Seems I have a little bit of a penchant for the outdoors when I’m tipsy (pissed)…I once made my flatmate lap a very drunk me around our uni accommodation eight times because I was “enjoying the breeze”.

There are no words.

(Thanks babe.)

Whilst there a very *handsy* arse decides to try and hit on me…I shoved him off, got up to leave and fell smack bang onto my chin.

It was the heels.

I swear.

It wasn’t.

I lied.

How-to-test-if-Youre-drunk-meme-cat-kitty-kitten

It hurt.

And I didn’t get a kiss under the mistletoe.

Turns out I then decided this was a reasonable enough trigger to get home and full on ugly cry, only to find most of my other female flatmates in tears too.

what-the-fuck-is-this

No one will ever truly know what went down that night.

Oh, hang on…

…maybe it was just that creepy bartender…

…you know…

…the one pouring our drinks.

original

All in all we had a great last night out though, and a great term. I miss them all already!

cover

And so, in the words of my spirit animal, Bridget Jones…

December 16th, year-end summary:

Prison stays, none.
Alcohol poisonings, two.
Lesbian kisses (don’t ask), three (minds OUT of gutters).
Pounds lost, minus one (okay minus seven).
Boyfriends lost but then regained following major diplomatic incident, none #forveralone.
Marriage proposals, see above.
Boys kissed, you guys are such pervs, honestly.
New friends made, six (I hope).

An excellent year’s progress.

Overpacked and Underpaid has most definitely not cocked things up for the very last time.

Pinkie promise.

😉

Workin’ 9 to 5…

So as it turns out, Overpacked may just be on her way to being paid.

Yes you did just read that right.

And yes, I am well aware that I sound like a pretentious twat when I refer to myself in the third person.

Such fun.

Not overpaid mind you, which is what I actually want…just nicely minimum waged up.

I’m actually a little bit chuffed…I thought I’d absolutely cocked up the interview.

In the first place I forgot that I even had it at all.

You know that memory wipe phenomenon you get when walking through doorways…yeah…well I had that in reverse.

There I go lah di dah di dah…walking into the kitchen at half twelve to warm up my soup for lunch then…

…BOOM.

Brain presents me with *interview at 1*.

*Hand flourish*

*Fanfare*

23 19, I repeat we have a 23 19.

Monsters Inc. reference….yes?

No?

I of course lose my shit and run flailing out the front door, calling a taxi and then cancelling the taxi when I realise it’s actually going to arrive too late.

I contemplated walking (power walking…running).

Fuck that.

Bus it was.

I arrive in the nick of time…but then of course my Google maps decides it’s going to lead me in the completely wrong direction.

YOU HAD ONE JOB.

By the time I’d reached the top end of the high street I realised how hopelessly lost I was, and had to call the interviewer and ask for directions.

Professionalism?

Nailed it.

Anyways, I must have done something right, in the New Year I should be settling into the position of Customer Service Assistance at a beautiful little high end espresso cafe.

She said they needed smiley people like me at the front of house.

I think she confused “smiley” with manic.

Personally I think I looked a little more like this:

And what do I have to do in that position you ask?

LITERALLY smile and wave boys.

Smile and wave.

…Oh and carry (smash) the crockery.

P.S. Keep your fingers crossed for me will you? Pretty please. Pretty please with a cherry on top?

Do you have a plaster?

Based on recent estimates, I now believe that I spend around 90% of my free time (and 100% of my…err….non-free time) staring at pictures of men…

Hundreds of them, all on my phone.

No…I haven’t just gotten cozy with the university rugby team, or the football team, or the lacrosse team…

Le grande sigh.

And no I haven’t (more likely) discovered Porn in Your Pocket or Porn2Go or Porns ‘R’ Us or whatever those sites are called (please tell me none of these are actually real websites)…

In actual fact my flatmates persuaded (forced me pain of death) to get Tinder.

Now I’m addicted.

In the words of Howard from Fresh Meat…I’ve already completed it once.

Yes, you heard me right…when I first got it I was so interested on flicking everyone into the no pile, I actually exhausted all the men in my area (HAHAHA….hahaha ha..ha…no…I wish).

I’ve now had to make a new profile which I shall handle with more care.

Must….resist…the….X….button…

*Hand shakes*

Don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely no intention of actually talking to these people…

In fact I was actually quite pissed off when I found out that the whole purpose of the App was for it to be a dating tool…why can’t I just stalk people in peace? In the privacy of my own home…without them knowing about it….

Plus the majority of the guys on here are absolute twats.

No offence.

But seriously.

You don’t even want to know some of the chat up lines I’ve been sent.

The only one I could give credit to so far would have to be “I wish you were my big toe”….”so I can bang you on all the furniture in my house”.

I spat out my water.

I am in no way recommending you get this App.

For the sake of your own sanity and yes, physical health (The Illest MF Alive guy popped up on screen just after I logged on for the first time…I fell off the bed in shock…you know that weird feeling people are watching you…yeah…that) DO NOT DOWNLOAD IT.

In fact, your general sense of paranoia will be permanently increased…like what if you accidentally bump into one of these people in real life….what if they recognize you from your profile…what if Facebook decides that they’re going to suddenly post everyone’s dating preferences and subsequent conversations online…

You just downloaded it didn’t you.

Naughty.

I tried.

*Surreptitiously opens App*

The Illest MF Alive…

Oh yeah, the title of this post is totally a Kanye West reference…told you I was gangsta.

*Tumbleweed*

In all seriousness though, once again some sneaky bastard has infected me with their pathogens…I’ve only just managed to surface from the depths of my bed fort to write this.

Not only do I have a hacking cough, a fever, a sore throat and nausea, but I’m also sporting a fucking sexy nose whistle.

Thank god I’m a girl…the sheer amount of tissues overflowing my litter bin would have raised a few eyebrows by now.

Maybe I shouldn’t say “sneaky bastard” I do kind of know the reason I’m sick.

Ok fine, I know exactly why…

I went out with my friends the other day to my favourite club and had a bit of a “moment”.

There I was boogieing the night away when a cute guy came up to dance with me…

*Cue slow motion turn around, eyes meeting, seductive smile*

Pfft, yeah right.

Come on guys, this is me we’re talking about.

I, in fact, didn’t notice him and carried on dancing, flailing my arms around and by accident punched him on the nose.

TWICE.

Of course I turned around and apologised profusely, he lifted me off the ground in a hug and said it was all fine.

We danced together.

Ten minutes later, I look down and notice I have blood on my arm.

Turns out I hit him so hard he got a nosebleed.

…I’ll let that sink in for a minute…

…How much better do you feel about your life right now?

Uh huh.

Anyway he ran off to go and get cleaned up and I legged it to the bathroom and met back up with my friends, not expecting to see him again.

A little while later I turn around and there he was so we dance together for a while until the DJ says “in ten seconds I wanna see everyone jump”.

On one he picks me up in front of the whole club and kisses me.

THIS.

THIS ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME.

I DIED.

Then he did it again.

We sat down for a bit and exchanged numbers, and I had to resist his advances with the whole ‘wrong time of the month’ excuse, which I can inform you, is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever had to say to another person in my entire life.

Praise the lord for vodka.

Don’t you just love mother nature?

When I got up to leave, instead of a sexy sashay away,  I managed to walk straight into a bar stool and almost stacked it in my heels…

FAIL, Laura, FAIL.

And yet for some unknown reason I arrived home to a goodnight text.

I handed to my more experienced flatmate to deal with.

Bad idea.

Rather than the mysterious allure I was going for, it resulted more in a bit too much obvious flirtation and way too many winky faces for my liking.

Then the alcohol buzz wore off and now everything is just very awkward.

In fact I walked past him on the way back from the Co-Op the other day and had to resist the urge to throw myself sideways into a hedge.

*Cringe-fest*

And I wonder why I’m still single.

Oh, did I mention he had a “cold”?

So now I’m both sick and sad.

All care packages to my bedroom please.

Stop it, minds out of gutters.

What am I going to do with you guys.

*Smh*

Having nun of it…

They’re dropping like flies…

I’ve just found out that a SECOND person from my school year has gotten engaged…at NINETEEN.

I, on the other hand, have decided to become a nun…

According to Wiki How all I need to do is be single (check), not be on my deathbed (check), lack any dependents (check) and be in good physical and financial standing (well if you ignore my overdraft and penchant for bacon sandwiches, check).

I then have to socialise with the “in group” of nuns, do research on the internet, attend a weekend at a Mother House and go through an initiation process…

…hang on a minute, this sounds suspiciously like rushing for a sorority.

Who would have thought…Wikipedia…unreliable?

Ok, so maybe I’m not going to spend the rest of my life in a convent…but you know you’ve got a problem when your fifty year old mother has a better sex life than you….

I spoke to her this morning on the phone…I was moaning about the fact I’m forever alone and she was all…

“Oh I’m so tired *yawns*, I was up all night with him”

“Oh we’re just popping over to Tenerife together for a few days to get a bit of sun”

*Throws up in plant pot*

If you can’t tell me and my best mate alcohol have been reunited over the past few days…

…well I had to do something to counteract the fact that I now own a Sainsbury’s Nectar card, spend my weeknights baking cookies and sometimes find the walk in heels to the club in town too much of an effort for it to be worth going out.

Hand me the Ovaltine and no one gets hurt.

Maybe its time to invest in that BOB.

He he.

What just happened?

If I could only use one word to sum up the past few weeks it would have to be bizarre.

To be honest, I’m surprised that I can even remember my own name…

Lets cut the crap.

*Life update klaxon*

One of my best friends from school came down from Essex for an insane night which started with a bottle of Belvedere…progressed to an out of character club snog (me), going back to another random fresher girl’s flat (it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds, she fell over in the road, we helped her up, she invited us over) and jacking a packet of smart price custard creams and a jam sandwich from the Christians (her…don’t ask)…and ended with a trip to a Catholic church (really, don’t ask).

My flatmate turned 20 so we had an amazing Mexican themed night complete with sombreros and fajitas and a whole bottle of tequila…or at least that’s what I can remember of it…turns out we went to a club afterwards…all I remember is waking up in my bed next to one of my flatmates having thrown up said bottle of alcohol and fajitas.

Note to self, medication and alcohol DO NOT mix…

I spent the majority of reading week barricaded in my room genuinely thinking I was going to die…

*Shudders*

I now have a second gold star on my flat’s chunder chart (a star being an exceptional chunder).

On that note, ever since I have been on a self imposed alcohol ban…it’s like being in the AA except I’m neither an alcoholic nor anonymous…

7 days sober…surely I deserve a prize by now?

Like maybe a bottle of champagne?

Actually scratch that…even the thought of anything stronger than orange juice sends chills down my spine…

I got the marks back for both of my first assignments (English and History). As it turns out procrastination is the key to the entirety of life, anyone that says otherwise may let themselves out…

Seriously, now.

Go.

Halloween rolled around and thanks to the general YOLO-ness and IDGAF-ness of my flat, we had no tickets to any events, and so we found ourselves queuing up for two and a half hours outside our student union club in the rain. I dressed as a flesh eating zombie and spent the whole night trying to ignore the fact that I was stone cold sober. The only guy we danced with was one who came up to us and creepily stood there “seductively” flapping the fake hand stuck to his forehead for ten minutes while we tried to escape. UV paint was blasted from canons…by the end of the evening my reflection gave me nightmares.

I somehow managed to procure my first ever job interview and then had to call to postpone it because of my flu *cough* alcohol poisoning *cough*. How I even managed to pass the online assessment is beyond me…no I can’t identify the “most likely” and “least likely” course of action if all your answers are bloody the same! It was more of a case of click one with your eyes closed and hope for the best…

I, the queen of all social awkwardness, went to a history social at a small local cocktail bar and…well…socialised. I finally managed to meet some people on my history course, all of whom were lovely and none of whom I remember their names. I have also developed a massive crush on almost every guy on my history course…and my friends said I didn’t have a “type”…

I’ve somehow found myself on the competition team for the wrong dance society, and now am going to be off to Southampton this weekend to compete. I came to practice one day to find I’d been paired up with a random guy by the captains and so I have to wake up at 4am and spend 6 hours on a coach after a late night out…

..why?

…Just why?

Bonfire night celebrations have snuck up on me and I’ve spent the last few days feeling horribly homesick…I’m almost at the point where I’m watching firework displays and bonfires on YouTube…

…ok so it’s way past that point.

I’ve even downloaded my Christmas playlist onto my iPod to console myself…

…A good old sing along to Michael Bublé’s White Christmas never fails to put me in a good mood, if you know what I mean.

No?

*Ba dooby do do do do be do, ba dooby do do do dooby do*

Don’t even try to tell my my Santa Baby dance isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen…

…I even used a tin of soup for a microphone.

Two days ago I stayed up ALL NIGHT chatting to two of my third year flat mates and then got up to go to a group meeting and dance practice the next day…

…I haven’t pulled an all-nighter since secondary school.

I didn’t choose the thug life.

The thug life chose me.

Admittedly I did sleep for 12 hours the next day…

Shhhhh

The Hangover Part IV…

I have to say, I think last night was was the worst nights out I’ve had so far at uni.

Having not been out out for three weeks (flu, home, sleep), I’ve literally been chomping at the bit for a good evening of partying; but far be it for me to have a decent clubbing experience…

Oh no, I can’t be a normal person and get completely trollied, have a bit of a boogie with a hot guy, snog a stranger and stagger home with my flatmates.

Instead last night turned out to be some sad low-budget parody of The Hangover.

And you want to know the worst part of it all?

I WAS DOUG.

I’ll start form the beginning…

I did a bit of pre-drinking with the girls and then we headed out to our Wednesday night haunt where, as per usual, we had to wait in a “queue” for half an hour before we even got to the door.

I am too short for this shit.

Do you know how painful it is being mosh pitted against metal railings by drunk rugby and football guys when you’re 5’1?

I’ll tell you…

…VERY.

When we finally made it to the entrance, we were given a tag and told to come back half an hour later when our colour was called…

..really?

NO.

So instead we MI5’d it into the club and managed to procure a different colour tag that would get us in earlier.

At half eleven, after an hour of sitting at a bench covered with spilled beer, we were finally allowed into the R&B room where I danced with one of my friends for a bit…

…until she stared getting off with a random guy and my third wheeling got to a stage of painful awkwardness.

So then I Marco’s Polo’d it and found my two other friends outside where I stayed and chatted, until I was dragged back in for some more dancing.

Queue EVEN MORE AWKWARD THIRD WHEELING while the same friend got off with one of the guys in her seminar group dressed as a Mexican (who later turned out to be a creepy dick).

At this stage I somehow managed to make friends with a guy called Will who told me I was stunning but he had a girlfriend (bullshit but…LIFE, WHY?) and a girl called Sophie,  and danced with them while my flatmate played tonsil hockey.

We then dispersed and I buggered off to try and find everyone, sans phone, thanks T-Mobile for your wonderful signal coverage…best UK network my arse.

I can’t even remember how long this lasted until I finally got pissed off and decided to leave.

When I got back I had a load of texts and missed calls from my other two friends who it turns out were wandering around on their own looking for eachother as well.

NONE of them pulled…

…Guys, THE END IS NIGH.

So now I sit, hanging without a cause.

Admittedly when I woke up on my mattress it wasn’t on a roof…and my only souvenirs of the night were my (accidentally) stolen entry tags rather than a small child or a tiger…

And to think I’m meant to be showing my Essex friend how to party wop-a-uni-style (geddit, Gangnam Style? Haha..ha ha..ha…ha?) this weekend.

So far all I’ve got is get drunk and wander around on your own like a twat.

Eggy bread and aspirin is happening…right now.

image

image

image

image

Stalk Me (No, Actually)…A Day in the Life…

Well considering today is the two month anniversary of Overpacked and Underpaid, I thought that you and I would…you know…get to know eachother a little more…intimately.

Here, I found your mind, I think you dropped it in the gutter…

Boom boom!

I’ll let myself out…

Anyway all of you lovelies that actually read my posts, (and I know some of you do…you can run but you can’t hide, I have wobbly bar charts and numbers…I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE…actually I really don’t…but…err…I KNOW WHERE YOU BLOG…occasionally…when you follow me via WordPress), will know that I am studying History and English with Spanish at university, and so I thought I’d let you in on a typical day in my life…

Ooh aren’t you lucky!

https://i2.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/7d/UoEx_Forum.JPG

Monday 21st October 2013

Wake up at 7:30 to the unsurpassable sounds of radio Devon; listen to news of national and international importance such as “man in Devon has been going around shooting signs, to prove this, other man in Devon has been going around taking photos of said shot signs”, “outrage as lollipop man quits after being threatened with suspension for high-fiving kids rather than watching the road” and “small village interviews for a new local witch, no experience necessary” #srsbusiness.

Roll out of bed, shower and simultaneously flood and steam up bathroom, eat breakfast (cereal in a cup, stirred not shaken) and make my way up the hill for my first 9am history seminar on “the supernatural in early modern England”. Discus white witches for two hours, stare at hot history boys.

Walk back (making conscious effort not to pencil roll down hill) and whip up lunch out of remaining ingredients in fridge (eggs and…well…eggs), frantically do Spanish homework.

Head back up the bloody hill for double Spanish, spend two hours trying to stop myself doing something inappropriate/naughty out of sheer boredom (see: I’m Bored or How To: Procrastinate) as the class is a little too easy for me and I’ve done everything before.

Hot foot it over to my English lecture and search for tall friends so as not to look like a complete loner…try not to fall asleep or do any of the aforementioned inappropriate things, take lots of notes with one hand whilst simultaneously covertly stalking Facebook and Tumblr with the other.

Head back to flat, chat to flatmates and cook some dinner out of remainder of cupboard ingredients (tacos and…well…tacos).

Change into dance wear and head down to my beginners jazz class…roll around floor for an hour trying to ignore the indigestion from the food I’ve only just eaten and not poke one of my fellow dancers in the eye with my flailing hands and feet.

Head back to flat, spend evening in the kitchen with flatmates chatting and generally avoiding doing any work.

Do blogmin.

[Insert non-existent sex life here].

Sleep.

Well wasn’t that just…thrilling?

So there you have it, a day in the life of a British university student.

P.S. THANK YOU to all you lovelies who have been reading, following and commenting on my posts over the last two months I really, really appreciate it! Please keep sharing Overpacked and Underpaid with everyone you know, too many readers don’t spoil the blog ;).