A Work In Progress

Wordpress Again

2012-01-02T18:43:00.000-08:00

Well hi there. Happy New Year!

I have something up my sleeve this fine evening, and no, I'm not talking about dominoes from last night's game of Mexican Train. That was a fair win. Really.

Anyway, here's the thing: we all know that I love to write. We all know that I wish I wrote more, especially where blogging is concerned. And because I'm sick of constantly whining about my lack of dedication and constantly making excuses for it, I've decided to take drastic measures.

This year's New Year's Resolution: To write a blog post every day for an entire year.

Yes, it's bold. Yes, it's tough. But it's also very, very necessary. It's time I got my act together where writing is concerned. It's time I actually followed through with a New Year's Resolution. Plus, let's face it: if I can go without chocolate for 40 days (see Lent last year), then I can do anything.

Here's the other thing: I'm once again ditching you and running toward the shiny professionalism of Wordpress. Rest assured, I will come back. I always seem to.

But for now, this is where I'll be hanging out (http://holly365project.wordpress.com/). I hope to see you there.

Sentimentality

2011-12-29T20:59:00.000-08:00

Sentimentality is not an uncommon feeling for me. I embrace it, as a matter of fact. I stalk it. I sit on its front steps and wait for it to come home so I can beg for more. (Creepiest metaphor I've ever come up with. Sorry.)

The point is, I often do things just because they seem romantic to me. Just because, I suppose, I've read about them in a book somewhere down the line.

So it shouldn't surprise you that on December 11th, 2011, following my last Ultimate training in Austria, I had an emotional walk home. It was a long walk, too; down a lane lined with trees and bordered by fields. There were mountains in the distance. I trudged along, past families out for their Sunday strolls, couples heading for the Christmas Market at Hellbrunn, and equestrians guiding their horses gingerly around the walkers. I was thinking, as I walked, about my frisbee playing, and how it was the very last thing I expected to be doing in Europe, and how it was also the best. I began to make up a poem in my head. Sometimes when I do this I don't write the poem down; I tell myself I'll copy it out later, and then I never do. On December 11th, however, I veered off the path, found a curb to perch on, leaned my back into the late Fall sunshine, and wrote my poem on a scrap of paper I found in my backpack.

Here it is, not fancy or fine, but small, and dripping with the sentimentality I can't help but adore:

I love the feeling of throwing a frisbee,
of knowing as soon as your wrist releases
and the disc leaves the curl of your hand
that no matter which direction it goes,
it will fly straight
and without a wobble.

December 11th, 2011
Hellbrunn, Salzburg, Austria

A New Era

2011-12-25T20:43:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas!

Tonight, because I'm waiting for Dad to get out of the bathroom so I can get to my toothbrush, and because, self-centered as it may seem, I'm incredibly excited about the gifts I received today, I'm going to tell you about them.

Here's the haul:

A Clarisonic (yeah, I know I'm weird, but I love trying new beauty products/gadgets. And this one is supposed to help a lot with dry skin, which I have in abundance this time of year.)

A watch (so I can time myself running (or at least have the option. When it comes to running, sometimes I lie to myself about how long I actually go for. And yes, I do sleep well at night.)

2 movies (the new Jane Eyre (Amelia we're so watching this together sometime), and the final Harry Potter)

A lovely sweater

2 books (the prettiest edition of Gone With the Wind I've ever seen (my old one is a gross little paperback that looks like a trashy romance novel from a distance), and Inheritance (FINALLY I GET TO READ IT. I'VE HAD TO WAIT FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS)

A Madison rowing team t-shirt so I can cheer on my baby sister properly

Slippers

An itunes card

Mittens

A word of the day calendar (yes, yes: my family knows me well)

A pair of Tom's

Aaaanndd....an iphone.

I am now the proud owner of an iphone. It's so funny, because I didn't have an iphone on my list, and have never really hinted about wanting one. I mean, obviously I have always admired them and thought that down the line I'd like to own one. But they're just so expensive, and frankly, I didn't think I was cool enough or high tech enough for an iphone. I don't think I'm quite the type to carry around a fancy phone, just like I'm not the type to wear a pantsuit or apply eye shadow successfully or walk down the aisle on my wedding day without tripping (fingers crossed, folks). However, now that I have one, I think that maybe I can change.

This is a new era, my friends, and I'm beginning it proudly, with iphone in pocket and confidence in heart.

Merry Christmas.

Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T20:29:00.000-08:00

Well, I know I've been MIA for awhile, but as it's Christmas Eve, and as I have a tradition of doing a post every Christmas Eve night, I thought I would pick up here.

Dad is currently watching Celtic Women on TV. I don't understand it, nor do I share this taste, but he just loves the Celtic Women. I catch him watching it all the time, and it's gotten bad enough that he knows which women have left the group to pursue solo careers, and which women put in hair extensions in between numbers. I worry about him sometimes.

Amy is curled up on the couch, puke bucket pulled close. She's been sick since this morning with the flu. We're all hoping she feels better for Christmas. Mom says I can't keep her presents if she doesn't.

I just finished making my study abroad slideshow on iphoto. If you see me on the street, I'll totally stop and show you this slideshow; I put in music and everything.

And now I think I'll settle down in bed with Gone With The Wind.

Tomorrow will be church and prime rib and ping pong on the table my cousins got from Grandma and wondering if I finally got the pony I've been begging for.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Stay gold.

Welcome to Finals Week

2011-12-12T15:52:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Finals Week.
This semester, it is comprised of cigarette smoke wafting in from the hallway
mixing with the raspberry in my tea.
This semester, I pore over my German book,
leaving International Conflicts
(Oh blessed easy class)
for tomorrow morning.
This semester means no music for the 1 a.m. student
The pounding headache is enough
And there are some verbs that even Paul McCartney
can't conjugate.
This semester is looking around and wondering, once again,
how things will look next time.
And how oh how will everything fit in my suitcase
And how do I get more people to follow me on Twitter?
This semester creeps to a close, me teetering on the edge between night and dawn
Still studying,
Trying not to think that in a few days
I'll be standing on American soil again
And my parents will be there to greet me
In English.

December 8th, 2011

2011-12-08T03:02:00.000-08:00

I hear the bells of Salzburg
Ringing for the Immaculate Conception.
Stores are closed today
in honor of the event.
Even the athletic field lights won't turn on tonight,
So instead, we toss the frisbee
back and forth
under the sunshine in the park
As couples stroll along, basking in December
The promise of a Savior
Hands wrapped around the spicy smell of Glühwein.

Holly Gruntner's Aha Moment

2011-12-06T15:24:00.001-08:00

Everyone has moments of clarity in their life.

Some people probably have theirs atop mountains and on tropical islands.

Mine tend to happen on buses, during rush hour, when the driver slams on his brakes.

It is then that the real "aha" moment comes: I realize that my body is hurtling into thin air, and that I've neglected to secure a proper handhold.

And so I tumble to the floor, landing, as only I can land, on my butt with my feet in the air.

As I pull myself upright (against the dead weight of a Finals Week backpack, I might add), I begin to laugh hysterically. And the Austrians on the bus are staring at me politely, probably hoping that the crazy American girl will get off at the next stop, and my friend is contorting her face, deciding whether to laugh or look sympathetic, and when my stop finally comes I give everyone on the bus a big smile and make my exit.

Two hours later Salzburg receives her first snow of the winter, and 2.5 hours later I discover a large bruise on my arm.

I decide these are reasons enough to put off my Literature paper for yet another evening.

Ultimate

2011-12-01T13:54:00.000-08:00

Have I ever told you about Ultimate Frisbee?
I probably should now, because the sport makes me so, so happy. In every way.

I was going to sign up for badminton, or volleyball, or basketball, but by the time I got to the registration office, everything was full. Every sports class I had ever dreamed of taking was full, leaving me to take the one class I had never dreamed of taking.

Ultimate, of course.

And I love it. I loved it from the first day, when I could hardly throw a frisbee, to the second day, when we all discovered that I can catch. Not to brag, but I can catch, my friends. I attribute this talent to many years of tossing footballs and softballs (no frisbees) around the front yard with my Dad. Our coach proclaimed me the wide receiver, and I went home happy.

The best part of Ultimate, however, is not the sport itself. It's the people. I'm one of four Americans on the team (the other three are some AIFS buddies of mine), and the rest are Austrians. Frisbee came during a time when I was really feeling down about being in Salzburg. I felt like I didn't have any friends, my roommate treated me like the devil's spawn (well, not everything has changed), and I was desperately, daily, gut-wrenchingly homesick. And then I'd go to Ultimate, and I would be on a team. And everyone would be helping everyone and making jokes and speaking a confused mix of German and English and I felt like I fit in without a hitch.

I was worried initially that since so many people on the team are really good players, they would grow impatient with my sorry incompetence and shun me forever. They did not do this. Everyone has been helpful and friendly. They even refrain from laughing when I fall on my butt, legs up in the air (which, let's be honest, happens at least two times every practice).

And sure, I'm still not the best player out there. Like I said, my catching is fairly good, but my throwing definitely needs some work. I'm still getting used to using my wrist instead of my entire arm, and I currently can only throw backhand. But I have glorious amounts of fun on the field.

Tonight it was my friend Maggie's (an AIFS kid) birthday. We had talked about it casually at the last practice, and I guess everyone remembered, because two different team members showed up with baked goods to share. Let me tell you that eating a piece of raspberry cream sponge cake and a piece of brownie, and then running two large laps around the field is not a fantastic idea. But it sure is delicious.

Anyway, we all sang to Maggie, and she blew out a candle, and then we did our drills and scrimmaged for an hour. And then we ate more cake.

And now I'm back in Internationales Kolleg (my dorm), sitting with Mac on my lap. I'm still in my Ultimate clothes. I should probably take a shower, but I don't really want to. I don't really want to wash this evening off yet.

Tuesday Observations

2011-11-29T07:44:00.000-08:00

A few observations:

Chai tea is gross. No matter how much you want to like it, no matter how convinced you are that you've finally become a tea drinker and can sip with the best of them, somehow you still can't stomach the odd gingerbread-y taste of chai tea. Even when the nice man behind the counter puts honey in it for you.

Swiss watches are expensive. And just because you're a college student, and want one for a Christmas present, and spotted the perfect one in a store window, doesn't mean that the price drops down from the thousands where it currently lingers with a Grinch-like grin.

It's Been Six Months

2011-11-26T14:39:00.000-08:00

Remember this post, when I said that in six months, I could very well be here?

Ahem.

The Year Without a Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T06:44:00.001-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! This is the fourth one we're celebrating together (if you can believe it).

There was the 2008 Thanksgiving Narrative

There was the 2009 Cranky Thanksgiving Post

And there was the 2010 Thankful Thanksgiving (yes, it took me three years to actually figure out the purpose of the holiday)

This year, however, is radically different. This year is the Year of No Thanksgiving.

They don't celebrate it over here, you see. I had classes today as usual. Stores are open. There are no touch football games going on in the park, and there are no driveways overflowing with out-of-town cars.

It's an ordinary day here in Austria, and I have to say, it makes me a little sad.

AIFS is trying to make it up to us by organizing a fancy dinner concert for tonight. We're going to the oldest restaurant in Europe to eat a three course meal (traditional Austrian food, not turkey) and listen to Mozart. Dresses and suits are required.
And while this is all very nice, and while I appreciate the program trying to make us feel less forlorn about missing Thanksgiving, I would much prefer jeans and sweatshirts to a cocktail dress. I would rather eat my Dad's homemade stuffing than schnitzel. I would rather sit across the table from my young cousins than from people who don't know the first thing about me. Heck, I would rather suffer through another Packer win than listen to a string quartet.

I'm thankful for the opportunity to study in Salzburg. I'm thankful for all that I've seen and experienced. I'm thankful for my health and my newfound independence and for my family and friends back home who love me. I'm thankful for Special K Cereal (red berries).

And I'm thankful for you, especially if you stuck with me after the 2009 Thanksgiving post (that was rough to reread).

Have a wonderful day, you guys. Eat plenty of turkey for me.

Reasons Why I'm a Goon

2011-11-22T13:16:00.000-08:00

1. I post way too many lists on this blog

2. I thought of my New Year's Resolution today, and got so excited about it that I wanted to start immediately...but then decided to wait until January 1st so that I can call it a New Year's Resolution.

3. I began drinking tea about a month ago because it's a romantic thing to do.

4. I cried four times watching Finding Neverland last night.

5. I read books aloud to myself sometimes.

6. I don't just love movie trailers; I analyze movie trailers as I watch them, picking out what's good and bad about how they're put together.

7. I secretly want to make movie trailers for a living.

8. I asked for a subscription to National Geographic for Christmas

9. I've had the same plastic key chain on my backpack since 9th grade. It's a plastic light-up skull that I found in a Froot Loops box, and I like to think that it got me successfully through quite a few Speech seasons. Now I just use it as a general good luck charm.

10. I spend a lot of time reading food blogs and bookmarking recipes to make at a later date. When I have an actual oven. And counter space. And money.

11. To fall asleep at night, I listen to an episode of the Stuff You Missed in History Class podcast. A few nights ago I made the mistake of listening to the episode about the Lindbergh baby kidnapping. Then I got scared and had to turn the light back on.

We Meet Again

2011-11-21T12:06:00.001-08:00

That crazygeniusbastard (maybe if I run it together, no one will notice the profanity. Oh hi Mom.) Hemingway and I met again today.
For literature, the assigned reading was For Whom The Bell Tolls.

Remember last summer, when it took me almost a month to read that book? Remember how I was intimidated by it, and then hated it, and then loved it?

So do I.

Anyway, it was lovely to discuss the book with actual people and an actual professor of literature. It was also reassuring to discover that the themes I gleaned from the book last June/July are real, live WIDELY ACCEPTED HEMINGWAY THEMES. Hoorah!

There may be hope for me and my English major after all.

P.S. I have officially come to terms with the fact that I am taking a class entitled "Gender and Sexuality in Literature of the American Tropics" this spring. I have to fulfill a human diversity requirement for my major, and Multicultural Literature was full. I'm on the waitlist, but things aren't looking good on that front. So...gender and sexuality it is.

Don't get me wrong here; there is absolutely nothing wrong with the subject of this class, and as a matter of fact I've always thought I should take a GWSS course whilst at Morris, as it's not an area I'm familiar with. That's the thing, though. It's not an area I'm familiar with. And the course sounds so...specific. With the English classes I've taken thus far in my college career, readings have spanned many eras, topics, and writing styles. If I found myself uninterested in a topic (ahem. Romantic British poets, I'm looking at you), I merely had to grit my teeth and wait it out. But with an entire class dedicated to one topic, if I find it uninteresting, I'm pretty much stuck.

Still, I am looking forward to trying something new. I'll let you know how it goes.

Things That Make Me Happy, A Continuing Saga

2011-11-15T02:26:00.000-08:00

Things that make me happy:
1. Movie trailers
2. Bad Christmas Music (Bob Dylan's "Must Be Santa," anyone?)
3. The neverending story that is "John Adams"
4. Meeting people on trains and talking to them for the whole 3 hour ride
5. Getting emails signed "your esteemed friend"
6. Debating international conflicts over Facebook chat
7. Snow on the mountains
8. Sweet potatoes
9. Sleeping in a sweatshirt and socks
10. The fact that I'll be home in a month

Sweet, Sweet Justification

2011-11-10T03:25:00.000-08:00

You see that? IT'S NOT WEIRD THAT I READ LITTLE WOMEN ONCE A YEAR. IT'S NOT!

What a Letter Means

2011-11-09T14:29:00.001-08:00

I got a letter today. A miraculous letter that stuck its white corner out of my postbox. Even that corner looked like a miracle.

Last night I had to turn someone down, which is always a horrible experience. I usually tread softly around these things, but last night I decided that the only way to bring a sense of finality was to be honest. I wasn't cruel; I simply said that I wasn't looking for a relationship, but thank you for the offer. My friends, who I had consulted about the whole thing (I'm a consulter; I know this about myself), applauded my efforts, saying that honesty is always best, saying that the cruelest thing, really, is to give someone false hope.

I went to bed decently contented, and woke up horrified. This someone, you see, is the sensitive sort. The sort that maybe shouldn't have to contend with honesty all the time. The sort who maybe just wanted my friendship more than anything else. And I, tall and terrible, made brave by Facebook, tromped all over any semblance of hope or promise. I woke up thinking that I should have just gone to dinner with this someone. I should have talked with him, really talked and really listened. I should have seen this as an opportunity to get to know him better, instead of running scared at the prospect of him liking me in a different way than I like him.

So that letter, as I'm sure you can now imagine, meant a lot today. It meant so much, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to open it. I had things to do today; studying, running, classes, etc., and I didn't want any trivial thing getting in the way of my letter. I waited 12 hours to open it, until just now, when I was properly in bed and comfortable, with no German grammar tugging at my conscience.

It was beautiful, that letter. Blissful. I cried twice. Not because of anything sad, but because it means everything to get something from home. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's still true. The very hardest part about being here is that there isn't anyone who knows me, really really knows me, within 5,000 miles. And this letter made me cry because it reminded me that 5,001 miles away, there is someone who knows me. And they wrote me a letter.

Two Stories

2011-11-07T07:08:00.000-08:00

I have a few stories for you. Story No. 1 : Sprechen Sie Englisch?

Some nice young man just came up to where I'm sitting fiddling around on Mac, and started speaking to me in rapid-fire German.
Here is what I do when I hear rapid-fire German:
1. I don't interrupt (even to tell them I don't understand; it seems rude).
2. I try to erase the deer-in-headlights look I know is probably plastered on my face
3. I throw in a few nods for good measure
4. I try to pick out words I actually recognize to see if I can get a general grasp
5. When the person finishes, I give a little laugh to see if he/she was just quipping. If they look confused, I set in with the "Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

Anyway, it turns out that the poor guy just wanted to know if there is a place where he can smoke indoors.

Story No. 2: Karma's a...Well, You Know

Ever since I've left America, I've been finding money. This, I realize, is a strange concept coming from someone who is horribly unlucky at cards, someone who is a terribly distracted driver, and someone to whom generally ridiculous things always seem to happen (ex: getting pooped on by a pigeon whilst in Venice. Don't make me tell that story, please).

But, despite the various scientific arguments against my newfound lucky streak, there it was all the same. In the Toronto airport, on my very first day of travel, I found about $10 of Canadian money lying on the floor. In Venice, I found a 5 Euro bill drifting between walkers' feet on the sidewalk. In Berlin, I found 15 cents lodged between cobblestones at the zoo.

Before you ask me to buy your next lottery ticket, let me tell you what happened to me this morning. I went for a run (yes, yes, still working on that. I want to do a 5K in the spring with my Mom and sister, so I have an actual goal now). Before going for said run, I stuffed a 20 Euro bill in my shoe, thinking I could stop at the grocery store on my way back (the Special K addiction marches on). You already know where this is going, don't you?

When I got to the grocery store, so very excited at the prospect of cereal and milk for breakfast instead of the Nutella-smeared toast they offer at hostels, I bent down to retrieve my cash, only to discover that it was gone. It had fallen out somewhere along my route. Although it was a windy day, and although there had been dozens of other people biking/walking the same path as me, I still went back to look.

No luck, dear readers. I can only attempt to console myself by viewing this as a mere $4.85 loss. Doesn't help much (I really, really, wanted that cereal).

The Dreaded Writing Sample

2011-10-30T16:32:00.000-07:00

Here's that writing sample that terrified me so much last night. It still terrifies me, but I'm happy to have it done and sent in. I could have used some old material, but everything saved on Mac just seemed so juvenile. So, in true Holly fashion (well, in true Holly Fantasy Study Abroad fashion), I spent the entire day dashing about Paris, staring at Marcel Proust and Oscar Wilde's graves (asking for some help in the inspiration department), and I whipped out this tidbit an hour ago. I hope it's all right. I know it's nothing wonderful, but it reflects what I've been dealing with today, and I actually think it's kind of funny. I hope the professor agrees...

I tried to count, once, how many times you complained. I used my fingers, because I thought keeping a tally in my notepad would be too obvious, and maybe too concrete. One for your feet hurting, two for having to use the bathroom (yet again was what I didn’t say out loud), three was that you have to work over break, and oh man, you have to drive to Springfield to cosign your house lease.

After three, my fingers clenched into fists of their own accord, and I found myself swinging my stiff arms like an upright gorilla. Steam was coming out of my nose, thick as King Kong’s breath on some unsuspecting townsperson’s shoulder.
I huffed and puffed with that pent-up tally as you ordered a crepe. The man swirled the batter deliberately, used his fingers to lift and flip the pancake. While the other side sizzled you dug in your purse for change. One coin short, you moaned about high prices, and I ticked four in my head. I also handed you fifty cents.

Your crepe was warm, but you apparently were not, as we picked our way through the nightlife. Five was tallied walking past a porn shop. I ducked my head stupidly as a woman with big hair and big shoes beckoned us in. The neon lights glittered against puddles in the street, which you hated, hated to walk through. You paused, and I wondered, only half jokingly, if you expected me to offer to carry you across the water. I couldn’t anyway, because one entire hand was already carrying your complaints.

You hit six and seven waiting for the crosswalk to turn pedestrian green. My fingers clawed and jutted against my hips, and I trembled a bit. You get uglier every time you talk. Someday, when you’re not so old, I think your chin will melt against your neck. It’s used to being there as you look down your nose at puddles and people and such. Someday your eyebrows will fuse together in a permanent scowl, and then you won’t have to flex any muscles at all to achieve your favorite expression. I think how happy you’ll be, and then remind myself that you won’t be, of course.

Eight was a beggar who clung to your arm for a few seconds until you shook him off. I’ve sorry, sir, I mouthed, I’ve given my fifty cents away to someone else. I don’t think he understood.

Nine was schoolwork, and ten was me. Me, the dawdler, who couldn’t be bothered to appease beggars or glare at prostitutes or ferry over puddles. You threw ten over her shoulder as you continued on, leaving me out of fingers and gasping on the sidewalk. I felt my jacket shred off my arms, felt the fur burst onto my forehead and nose. I was on all fours behind you, pawing the ground with strong feet. You sashayed away, and I sat back on my haunches and watched you go.

Things That Scare Me

2011-10-29T13:34:00.000-07:00

Part 1: Emails like this

Hi, Holly,

Thanks for your message. For students who haven't already taken the Intro to Creative Writing course at UMM, I'm asking them to send a short sample of their work in fiction. It doesn't have to be anything perfect -- just something to give me an idea of the level you're working at.

Thanks!

Part 2: Schedules like this

MWF:
11:45-12:50 Themes in World History
1-2:05 Advanced Fiction Writing (conditional: see above email)
2:15-3:20 U.S. Multicultural Literature
3:30-5:10 (W) Honors: Power of Place

Tu Th:
10-11:40 Intro to Stats

Just Like Elizabeth

2011-10-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

It's raining here in Salzburg.
It has been raining all evening.
And you know what I just realized?
That my laundry is hanging outside, and has been since this afternoon.

I was upset about this, about having to throw on a coat over my jammies (yes, I call pajamas jammies. Don't judge), having to hunt down my ipod (because you can't do anything epic without a soundtrack), and having to run out in the cold to fetch cold, wet clothes.

I was upset, that is, until a friend pointed out that this situation sounds a lot like a scene in Pride and Prejudice (new version), where Elizabeth is snatching clothes off the line in the rain.

Needless to say, I'm now feeling pretty good about going outside.

Also, in case you're wondering why I've been so lazy as of late with my posting, check my other blog. Vienna last weekend. It's all there.

How to Feed Yourself While Still Leaving Enough Money So You Can Graduate in Four Years (A Food Network Pilot)

2011-10-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

Here's what I'm considering:

Taking raw walnuts
A cup of Dole peaches
And cinnamon

And making "poor man's peach pie." (Aka putting the walnuts in a bowl and topping with peaches mixed with cinnamon)

Oh, the desperate lives we college-age dessert lovers live.

I should have my own Food Network show: How To Feed Yourself While Still Leaving Enough Money So You Can Graduate in Four Years. Or, How To Navigate Austrian Grocery Stores With Only a Pocket Dictionary to Aid You. Or, The Art of Grilled Cheese And Tomato Soup.

In case you're wondering if I'm serious about the "peach pie," I totally am. Photographic evidence will follow (later).

In Which My Prodigal Claim is Proved False

2011-10-08T03:54:00.001-07:00

When I was in 1st or 2nd grade, I wrote the following composition on a piece of 1st or 2nd grade practice paper (you know, that tissue-thin stuff with the blue and red lines designed so that every laboriously-created letter could have a guiding mark?):

What is once loved.
You will find.
Is always yours.
Take it home.
In your mind.
And nothing ever can take it away.

I still have that piece of paper with the above words printed upon it, and while at times I've felt proud of those strangely poetic words, mostly, I've had the sneaking suspicious that I stole them.

Not on purpose, of course, but at that age, everything is about recitation and imitation. That's the only way to learn, really.

So today of all days I decided to do a Google hunt and see if I could find "my" poem under someone else's name.

Here's what I found, at the bottom of a chapter of Harry Potter fanfic, of all places:

"What is once loved, you will find, is always yours from that day.
Take it home, in your mind, and nothing ever can take it away."
- Elizabeth Coatsworth

And then I did a search for Elizabeth Coatsworth, and found this:
http://www.oldchildrensbooks.com/collectors-corner/authors/elizabeth-coatsworth

She was a children's book author, which of course makes sense; If I had stolen that verse from somewhere, it would have been from a book. Even back then, I was a ridiculous reader.

It also occurs to me, however, that maybe I didn't steal this verse on my own; one of my teachers could have printed it on the board for everyone to copy.

But then again, what if that wasn't it? What if it wasn't even an assigned, or an unconscious theft? What if we were asked to write something, and I, well aware that my composition was unoriginal, scrawled it out anyway? Holly Gruntner: violating copyrights since 1998.

The world may never know.

I guess I'm glad this mystery is finally (mostly) solved, but I'm a little sad at the same time.

I would have liked to have been a child prodigy.

A Package

2011-09-29T02:57:00.001-07:00

I got a package from home today. It contained:

1. One winter coat
2. Two winter scarves
3. Three pairs of mittens (seems excessive, I know, but one pair is really warm (for winter hiking, of course), one pair is nostalgic (my UMM mittens), and one pair is slightly dressy)
4. One pair of Ugg boots (this is where I submit to mockery in order to be warm and cozy)
5. One rain jacket (apparently it rains here even in winter. Something to look forward to)
6. One book (Mockingjay, the final Hunger Games book. At last at last I get to finish the series.)

There's nothing quite so wonderful as getting something from home when you're away. I smelled every single item as I lifted it out of the box, because the last person to touch it was my Mom.

Sentimental? Yes. Uncalled for? No way.

In Which Kevin and Perry Force My Hand

2011-09-25T11:12:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I can do it, you guys. Maybe Morris has spoiled me too much, or maybe my childhood was too sheltered, or maybe I'm just not the right kind of person. But I don't know if I can be friends with these people.

They're so judgmental, and so unfriendly towards anyone who's even the least bit different.

For example, one guy in our group, Kevin (name has been changed), is a talker, and can be a little obnoxious about it. He doesn't try to be; in fact, I think it's obvious that he means well, and that that he's trying to be impressive and outgoing in order to make friends, but evidently the other people in the group don't see it that way. They mock him constantly. They spent the whole two and a half hour bus ride today baiting him with ridiculous questions, and then video recording his equally ridiculous answers so they could laugh at him later. As we got on the bus for the ride back, there was actually a small argument between two boys over who had to ride next to Kevin. And Kevin was sitting right there.

Later on, I was walking home from the bus stop with a group of kids from my dorm, and they were making fun of yet another guy in our group, Perry, who's from Texas, and is a perfectly nice, friendly person. But evidently he doesn't drink. Evidently he had a glass of wine with dinner tonight, but evidently that wasn't good enough. Evidently a mere glass of wine is grounds for eternal damnation. They were talking about making fun of Sam Houston, or bringing up the loss of the Alamo in front of Perry just to make him angry. (Yes, I will admit that the Sam Houston thing was kind of clever, but definitely not humorous in this context). Furthermore, I happen to know (and they knew as well) that it's Perry's birthday today, and that he's far from home and his friends and family. What kind of people trash talk someone on his birthday? In fact, what kind of people in a study abroad program trash talk other people in the same study abroad program? Aren't we supposed to be in the same boat here? Didn't we come to Salzburg to immerse ourselves in something new, instead of settling back into our middle school bad habits? Aren't we adults now? Aren't we strong and independent and beyond such pettiness?

Anyway, I don't think I exaggerated with the above stories, and I don't think I'll be exaggerating when I say that I'm literally on a precipice: I can either compromise all that I believe about people, and how they do and don't deserve to be treated, or I can spend the next few months being largely shunned by my entire study abroad group. I can either drink myself into a stupor every night at Shamrock's, or I can sit alone in my room with my laptop and Jane Austen.

I'm not a perfect person, and I'm sure I'm not handling this perfectly, but I'm choosing the latters.

I may be lonely sometimes, and I may be homesick sometimes, and I may at times wish that I had chosen a different program with different people, but this is where I am, and this is how I need to be.

Somewhere deep down in the stubbornest part of my being, I know that I can't be anyone else, and that I can't do things any differently.

And I'm not suffering, really I'm not; I have two really great friends here that I can do things with, and there are a few other members of my group whom I would like to get to know better. Salzburg is beautiful, Austria is divine, my German is improving, and classes start tomorrow.

Life is mostly good, as always, and I'm sorry that you have to see the bad parts, dear readers.

Stay gold. I'll be trying.

Salzburged

2011-09-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

Some funny things about living in Austria:

1. Every time I have to make an interaction with a native German speaker, whether it be to buy a bus ticket, order lunch, or simply to apologize for a random act of clumsiness, I think of said interaction like a game: let's see how long I can keep them believing that I am also a native speaker. Usually not long. But I'm getting better.

2. I am now utterly and completely unimpressed with the Alps. What? I can see a mountain from my dorm room window? Ho hum.

3. This is not a good place for people with a sweet tooth to live. It's downright dangerous. Must take brisk walks/slow jogs daily in retaliation.

4. Since I'm (sort of) a native now, I'm quickly becoming annoyed by tourists. Dear large group of 60 plus-ers: please take your umpteenth picture of Mozart's birthplace and quit blocking the sidewalk. Danke schön. (Sorry if this sounds mean, but those darn tour groups almost made me late for class this morning; their bulky cameras and fanny packs forced me to practically crawl along the street in order to keep moving.)

5. Almost every single person in my group (that is, other members of my study abroad program) goes out drinking every night. Every single night. Drunk. Stumbling home at 7 a.m. as I'm walking the opposite way, heading to class. Ergo, I have not made many friends as of yet. Because although I'm now legal, and although I'm certainly not opposed to having a drink now and then (not that I really have yet), I also firmly believe that the majority of one's fun, whether alone or with a group, should be had sober. I mean, if you're drunk, you're not really having fun. The chemicals poisoning your liver are. And I don't know if they should be having that much fun, especially when in close proximity to a vital organ.

Come on guys, can't we just play Sardines instead?

I miss Morris.

6. It's so incredibly beautiful here, but I think about home and the people back home ALL THE TIME. I'll be looking at something, and all of the sudden I'll think, "Jeez, my Dad would enjoy this retired WWII tanker. He would probably make me spend hours touring it with him, because he always has to read EVERY SINGLE THING in EVERY SINGLE DISPLAY." And then I'll shake my head and remember that I'm supposed to be independent and grownup and I'm supposed to be making new friends and sharing things with them. And then I'll remember that my dorm room currently smells like a brewery and I'll feel a little bit of despair because I don't know if I want that kind of friend.

And then I'll get really snobby and decide that I already have enough friends back home. Why do I need more?

And then I'll sit in my room by myself, stare at the wall, and think, "Oh. That's why."

Don't get me wrong; I love it in Salzburg. I just wish I had some good people to love it with.

Stay gold, guys. And maybe send some my way. I'm the one reading Northanger Abbey in Room 330.

Bear With Me

2011-09-18T07:35:00.000-07:00

Bear with me, because:

1) The secrets of Wordpress still evade me
2) I have a tendency to take crooked pictures
3) I still haven't thought of a decent name for my other blog

http://staygoldponyboy8.wordpress.com

Can I Stay Wit You Please?

2011-09-09T07:24:00.000-07:00

Good Lord I hate Wordpress. I don't know if they actually claim to be user friendly over there, but if they do, it's an atrocious lie.

Can I just stay wit youse guys?

Stats:

Current suitcase weight: 55 pounds
Fee charged for an overweight checked bag: $70 American Dollars
Hours until I leave: 6 1/2 hours
Hours I will be in the air today: 9
Books I'm bringing along to pass the time: The Hunger Games, Catching Fire (sequel to Hunger Games), and my crappy paperback version of Gone With the Wind

You Say It's Your Birthday

2011-09-08T15:59:00.001-07:00

It's my birthday too. (That's a Beatles song for all of you sad, lonely, McCartneyless folks).

As always, it doesn't feel like my birthday. I'm twenty-one today. Huh. Interesting. Now please excuse me while I go back to alternating between whining in despair and attempting to cram one more item into my already bulging suitcase.

The one thing I will say about being twenty-one is that it's my last big birthday for a long while. At least until thirty, I'd say. And it's certainly the last birthday truly associated with being a teenager/young adult. After this it will just be another year, ho hum. No more big-deal kid birthdays for me. No more exclamations about how old I'm getting (because after a certain point, of course, such exclamations change from being complimentary to being downright insulting). Pretty soon my birthday cake will no longer be decorated with a candle for every year of my life. There'll be a candle for every five years, every decade. Fire safety comes before Grandma's pride, you know.

I'm afraid I can't say a whole lot about Austria right now because (see above) I still have packing to do, and it's late, and I'm exhausted from my last 4 a.m. shift at Target. I will say that I'm currently fairly frightened, and that I feel like a freshman all over again, and that if I didn't know deep down that I'm going to have a wonderful time, I would probably be cowering under my covers right now (although that still might come later on tonight).

The Wordpress blog is still a no-go. I haven't had the time (nor the patience) today to fiddle with it again, so it'll just have to wait until I'm actually sitting on the streets of Salzburg. Maybe it will work then?

Until then, I'll be journaling, I'll be thinking of you guys, and I'll be twenty-one.

Stay gold.

This is What I have to Work With

2011-09-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

This is what I have to work with.

And it's not going well, folks. I'm overwhelmed. I have everything (as you can see), but I just have no idea how to go about cramming it all into my suitcase. I don't want to be the girl wearing the same shirt day after day, but I also don't want to be the girl who can't hoist her suitcase off the baggage carousel without the help of four large German men in lederhosen.

Furthermore, I think Wordpress may have some sort of vendetta against me. I think it knows I also have a Blogger, because I strongly suspect that it is purposefully making itself difficult to navigate. It doesn't really matter anyway, though, because I still haven't thought of a name for my travel blog! I want something clever, yet specific to the purpose of that blog (i.e. describing my European adventures). And if you suggest I name it My European Adventures, I may have to make an Oompa Loompa my Person of the Week for the next year just to spite you.

Here are the current options:
Salzburged (too violent sounding? And it makes me think of burgers which is kind of off-topic)
Holly Goes to Europe (too immature sounding? It's not very subtle...)
Rick Steve Ain't Got Nothin On Me, Dog
Holly's Von Trip (I'm officially fooling around now. Sorry.)

Poster Child

2011-09-03T13:18:00.000-07:00

I turn twenty-one years old on Thursday*. I leave the country, not to return until December, on Friday. The following Saturday, I will be in London. The following Monday, I will be in Munich, and then in Salzburg approximately two hours later (or so my itinerary says).

Before these days come to pass, I have to do the following:
-Begin one travel blog (and think of a name for said blog. See me with any ideas)
-Shop for various small items, including, of all things, a winter hat (where am I going to find one of those at the beginning of September? Again, see me with ideas)
-Clean the bottomless pit of despair that used to be my bedroom
-Work four more shifts at Target (3 of which begin at 4 a.m.)
-Pack one large suitcase and two small carryons with enough clothes and books and random necessities to keep me happy until December
-Win/Steal/Pawn family jewels to buy a Kindle so I don't have to tote aforementioned books across Europe (ignore this post. Books are heavy.)
-Say goodbye to 2 wonderful parents and 2 gloriously smelly German Shepherd dogs
-Relearn all of the German I've forgotten over the past three months (I know, I know: good luck with that, Holly)

On a happier note, I think I've officially hit all the emotions commonly associated with study abroad preparations. You've seen excited, you've seen scared, you've seen wistful, and now you're seeing stressed.

I feel like one of those posters you see in a guidance counselor's office. You know: the one with the awkward photo of a '90s teenager holding a book and a backpack and somehow managing to look pleasant and disparaging at the same time? That's me.

*Remember when you and your friends Googled the day of your 21st birthdays to see if they fell on weekends (for optimal partying, of course)? Well, I never actually did that, but now that I'm approaching the monumental day, I greatly appreciate that it's a Thursday. You know I love Thursdays. Whenever something exceedingly strange or exceedingly wonderful happens to me, it's always on a Thursday. Here's hoping Thursday won't let me down this week.

The Best Thing I Read This Summer

2011-09-01T18:33:00.000-07:00

Was without a doubt The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. Ironically, Edgar is also the last book I read this summer. Just finished it last night. I cried at the end, and then I reread a few passages and cried some more. Then I tried (and failed) to go to sleep. It's one of those books you can't sleep on; its magnificence presses on your mind until you find yourself rifling through your bookshelf at midnight, looking for something comparable. You fail, and ultimately have to rely on the Benadryl you're taking for your disgusting case of hives to knock you out.

Edgar Sawtelle is a mute fourteen-year-old boy who's family makes their living breeding dogs in the thick Northwoods of Wisconsin.* But when a Hamlet-esque turn of events results in his father's death, Edgar flees into the wilderness, taking along three dogs for company.

The esteemed authors on the back of my copy call Edgar a Coming Of Age Story, which I suppose is true, although one might argue that every single book ever written is a Coming Of Age of sorts (after all, when do we ever truly grow into ourselves? And what kind of author would depict a character as being entirely static, unless he/she was not aiming for realism?).

What I liked most about the book was the insight about the breeding and training of the Sawtelles' dogs. Also the insight into the minds of the dogs themselves. The dogs are truly characters in this novel, with as much depth and intelligence as anyone you've ever met.

Edgar is a pinnacle of fine storytelling, and as I'm sure you know, there are a lot of books out there that don't read like stories, that don't sweep you along and tangle you up and never really release you, even after you've finished the last page.

Only the very best ones do.

*I should tell you: Another one of the reasons why I loved this book was because I am very familiar with the setting of the book. We drive through the Chequamegon (believe it or not, I spelled that correctly without having to Google first)(also, it's pronounced Sha-Wa-Meg-Gun for you outoftowners) National Forest every time we visit our boat on Lake Superior.

A Surprise

2011-08-30T18:47:00.000-07:00

About a half hour ago, I was sitting cross-legged on my bed. Aloe covered about 75% of my body. On my computer screen flashed, in bright and garish couture, an episode of Gossip Girl. (You're judging. I can see it from here. Please stop. I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't do drugs. Don't I deserve to enjoy the teenage soap opera that is Gossip Girl?).

Suddenly, my baby (and when I say baby, I mean 18 and a half years old and going off to college tomorrow) sister knocked on my door, calling for me to come out to see something. My initial thought was that the Two Fat Ladies were on TV (oh how I love those women), or that Annie had gotten into the bathroom garbage again (oh how that dog loves to shred Kleenex). When I turned the corner into the kitchen, however, I was greeted by a happy birthday serenade, sung the way only my family can sing it (shockingly out of tune).

My family had surprised me with an early birthday cake so that we could celebrate while my sister was still home.

I had a twenty-first birthday party tonight, you guys. With ice cream cake and presents and two of those trick candles that had me winded trying to blow them out.

And even though I could see my baby sister's many packed boxes out of the corner of my eye, and even though I was covered in gorgeous, itchy hives, and even though I'm not sure I'm ready to be twenty-one yet, it was still a pretty great party.

Stay gold, my friends.

In Which I Bring Back A Souvenir

2011-08-29T19:24:00.001-07:00

The funny thing about work is that you have to show up every day for it. And the funny thing about having to show up every day for something is that you can't possibly look (or feel, for that matter) your best every single day.

Last year, it was the Amidala Eyebrow Incident. This year, it's hives.

And they're all over. Legs, arms, feet, hands, stomach, back, shoulders, neck, face. Everywhere.

Last weekend was the big family boating weekend up on Lake Superior, and apparently I found something in the pure nature of the Northwoods that didn't agree with me.

I'm sorry for the pouty attitude, but I'm too itchy and too tired from 4-hourly doses of Benadryl to laugh at myself much right now.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm in the final episodes of Gossip Girl, Season 4, and I just have to know if Chuck and Blair get together at the end. (How I wish I were joking)

Holly Does Math

2011-08-22T20:05:00.001-07:00

I can be a morbid person sometimes. For instance, I just did some math (Please pick up your jaws, folks; the carpet is getting wet).

Average life expectancy of an American Female: 78 years.
My current age: 20
Years I (based on the average) have left to live: 58
Books I read per year (on average, based on my Read-a-Thon records): 84.5

Number of books I have yet to read before I die: 4,901

Surprisingly, this is somewhat comforting.

In Which I'm Still Working At Target

2011-08-21T14:07:00.000-07:00

Hello, blog.
Today I'm feeling a little down. All of my friends are in Morris. Together. Walking the mall and exploring the HFA and shopping the (ridiculously overpriced) bookstore.
And I'm at home, still working at Target.

I don't leave until September 9th, which I may or may not have mentioned. I'm glad that I have the extra time at home to earn more money, to celebrate my birthday, to spend time with my family, but it's a bad feeling to be left behind.

I'm ready for my school year to start, too. Is this how it's going to feel every August once I've graduated from college? Sad and lonely and like I'm missing out on everything? If so, I may have to reconsider going to graduate school. Or live in Morris for the rest of my life. Both valid options.

To all of you lounging in your half-unpacked college dorm rooms right now, I wish you the very best. But is there room on that futon for me? It will only be for a few weeks, I promise.

P.S. I've just returned from renting Jane Eyre (new version) from the local Video Vault. If there's anything that can cheer me up, it's a historical romantic drama adapted from a mid-19th century gothic novel.

Each in His Own Tongue

2011-08-18T18:56:00.000-07:00

Here's a poem for you, because I love it, and because I have so much to say tonight that I'm having trouble writing it down:

Each in His Own Tongue, by William Herbert Carruth

A fire-mist and a planet,--
A crystal and a cell,--
A jelly-fish and a saurian,
And caves where the cave-men dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty,
And a face turned from the clod,--
Some call it Evolution,
And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,
The infinite, tender sky,
The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,
And the wild geese sailing high,--
And all over the upland and lowland
The charm of the goldenrod,--
Some of us call it Autumn,
And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea-beach,
When the moon is new and thin,
Into our hearts high yearnings
Come welling and surging in,--
Come from the mystic ocean
Whose rim no foot has trod,--
Some of us call it longing,
And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty,--
A mother starved for her brood,--
Socrates drinking the hemlock,
And Jesus on the rood;
And millions who, humble and nameless,
The straight, hard pathways plod,--
Some call it Consecration,
And others call it God.

Variations on Treasure Island

2011-08-11T16:03:00.000-07:00

I love this song. And the movie that goes with it. Treasure Planet is so very, very underrated. It didn't get great reviews when it first came out, and most people would forget to include it if asked to list Disney movies.

But I happen to love it.

Mostly, I think, because I love the story of Treasure Island in general. My English class was forced to read the book in middle school, by a teacher we felt comfortable enough with to complain about it to. He made us keep at it, though, and would gather us every morning to make sure we understood what we had read the previous day: "You guys get what's happening now, right? Silver is going after the treasure himself. You got that, right?" He would say it not in an anxious way, but in a way that suggested that he didn't want us to miss a minute of the story. It was just too good. And it was.

You know what my all time favorite Treasure Island adaptation is, though? One I like even more than Treasure Planet? Muppet Treasure Island. I laugh at that movie. I laugh like a five-year-old at that movie: "I think I smell something burning...AAAAHHHH!"

Veering away from Treasure Island and all of its delights, I should let you know that you won't be hearing from me in a while. I'm going on vacation to the exotic land of Wisconsin. In all seriousness, though, I am so very excited for this trip. It's the first vacation I've had this summer; I haven't had more than a few days off in a row since the middle of May, and I certainly haven't taken any extended treks during those brief periods (excepting my travels in Little House on the Prairie Land). Now I have a nice large chunk of time, and I'm filling it with a five hour road trip (which I, of course, have prepared for with help from my local library), and with family I haven't seen in a long time.

See you Thursday. Stay gold.

I'm Very Sorry That It's True

2011-08-09T15:58:00.000-07:00

***Note: This story is based on true events. I'm not sure if it's even a story, exactly; I just wanted to tell you something and this is the way it ended up. I'm sorry that it's disturbing. I'm sorry that it's not incredibly well written. I'm very sorry that it's true.

The kids down the street are possessed. This I know.

Deena, who lives across from us, caught them beating her dog Ritz with sticks, shrieking all the while. They continued to scream in deafening bursts that rose and fell like hail as Deena brought Ritzy home by the collar. She could almost feel the pellets of noise hit her back.

Deena called the children's mother as soon as she got Ritz settled on her pillow with a hunk of comforting hambone. She explained, in the nicest way possible, that the children had been hitting her dog and screaming like banshees. Deena tried not to convey the full force of her shocked disgust. She tried not to imply that the children could use a few whacks themselves.

In short, Deena asked the mother to forGod'ssakedoherjoband give her children a talking to.

The mother agreed.

The very next day, however, the kids were at it again. Ritz ran from child to child, looking for a way out of the flashing, stinging, shrieking circle. She decided, between a rap at her hip and a thwack aimed at her snout, that she was off sticks for life.

But there, breathless and mint green in her work scrubs, was Deena. Ritz dashed behind her as the children let their weapons fall to their sides. Miraculously, their screaming also stopped, and was replaced with slack-jawed looks of surprise. The younger girl's lip wobbled a little. For a split second Deena felt bad for ruining their fun. Ritz's nudge at her knee brought her back.

But the children were walking away, forming a slumped line across the lawn. Their steps were almost in sync.

Later, with Ritz's head resting in her lap, Deena tried to remember how many children there were. She never thought to count until afterwards. And anyway, they were like a little mob, a crazed band. They were everywhere at once. One couldn't stop to count the rioters; there was too much running for one's life to be done, too many hambones to be fetched in the dusty quiet aftermath.

I see the children every day on my way home from work. Yesterday, it was just one. A girl. She stood at the edge of her driveway, feet nudging against the street where I drove. I braked, thinking she was going to cross, but she didn't. She stared at me, and through my sunglasses and the windshield and all the particles in all the air that hung between us, I could see how very blue her eyes were. I sped up again, breaking her gaze with my 0 to 30 mph.

I Need to Get Out of the Country

2011-08-07T14:30:00.001-07:00

I need to get out of the country.
My life has turned into a monotonous string of work days and non work days.

On work days I wake up at 5:15 a.m. after about six hours of sleep. I listen to music on the way to work, which cheers me up briefly, but as soon as I'm facing the double doors of Target, knowing I won't emerge again until 3:00, I lose my courage. I still like my job, but I think it's gotten to the point where not much can sway me anymore. Not much tries to sway me anymore. Every day is the same, with only a few variations: I cover two electronics breaks instead of three, I see a former high school teacher wearing summer clothing and I am strangely embarrassed for them and for myself, I have cherries instead of a peach in my lunch. It's getting more and more difficult to pretend that these variations are something special.

On non work days I sleep in until 9:15. I then have decisions to make: should I watch TV, read, or fiddle around on Mac? Should I do Tae Bo, Gilad, or Gunnar Peterson? How much longer can I procrastinate on replying to that email or depositing that check or putting away my clean laundry?

There are sparks of hope and there are sparks of fun, but I think mostly I'm getting that feeling I get every summer around this time.

I need to get out of the country.

I suppose Austria will do.

Free Movies

2011-08-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

I absolutely bless the day when I discovered that my local library allows card holders to check out any quantity of movies for an entire week. For free.

And that library has good movies, too. Here's what I picked out today after work:

1. Shakespeare in Love
2. Howl
3. La Vie En Rose
4. Emma (BBC series starring Romola Garai)
5. Little Women (1933 version with Katherine Hepburn as Jo. I've never seen this version. Seems criminal, I know.)
6. Garden State (This is the wild card movie. But someone told me it's good, and I always love a good Natalie Portman film, so I'm giving it a try.)

The HemingWay

2011-07-30T10:19:00.000-07:00

Moose antler on my bedroom wall: check
Brush with journalism: check
Posse of famous authors, bullfighting scars, ambulance-driving experience, residence in various foreign countries: in progress

I Went Running Today

2011-07-28T20:22:00.000-07:00

I went running today.

I know, I know. Who is this hacker writing on Holly's blog, and why is she so crazy?

But it's true. I went running today. It's all part of my master plan. You see, I've been really trying hard to work out every single day lately. I've actually been doing so for about a month now.

(Mainly because I want to have the cardio part covered in case of a zombie invasion)

My current workouts consist of following along with DVDs: Balance ball schtuff, Tae-Bo, Denise Austin's whywon'tthiswomanstopsmiling kickboxing, Gilad's epic beach aerobics, etc. I've done it all.

The thing, is, though, I can't exactly bring my workout tapes to Austria with me. I can't exactly bounce around throwing punches in my dorm room. I can't exactly squeeze a balance ball through customs.

So, I'm running. Because it requires nothing but pavement and shoes. (And a top and shorts, please.) I found a good running plan online, designed especially for beginners. It basically has you do intervals of running and walking, alternating, and then gradually decreases the amount of walking as the weeks go by.

I kicked off said plan at a local track today. My Mother the triathlete came with. She did a triathlon last Sunday, placed 82nd out of a thousand-something people, placed second in her age group for the swimming, and she came with. She biked 15 miles this morning, and she came with.

She then proceeded to lap me around the track multiple times, barely walking at all.

Maybe I should do the rest of my training without My Mother the Triathlete. I don't know if my ego can take it otherwise.

Just kidding.

What I'm not kidding about is how hard running is. I remembered hating it in 9th and 10th gym (the last time I ran a mile), but I thought it would be different now for some reason. I thought it would be romantic; I thought the pounding of my feet and the beating of my heart and the bass in my ipod would inspire me and propel me forward. Instead, I sweated and I panted and I walked more than I ran.

But I did run a half mile. Walked about a mile. And that's okay for me, a non-triathlete.

I'll keep trying.

A Novel in Eleven Parts

2011-07-27T21:58:00.000-07:00

If I were to write a novel, in parts, detailing last Friday’s*** adventure , it would probably look something like this:

Part One:
In which Mother and I embark on an iconic road trip across Southeastern Minnesota. Prior to departure, I debate for 4 minutes over which book to choose for my third. First was Persuasion, second was a lighter read on loan from Mother, and third was eventually determined to be This Way for The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's important to have genre and tone balance amongst one's road trip book choices. And it's important to bring three books. You finish one, you spill a hot beverage on one, and you're still set.

Part Two:
In which I do not read one page, but instead feel the same excited thumping in my chest I felt ten years ago, when I last visited Pepin, Wisconsin***.

***A note on Pepin, Wisconsin: Laura Ingalls Wilder was born there. Hence the heart palpitations.

Part Three:
In which I discover that I am too tall for log cabin doorways, in which my excitement turns quickly into a lump in my throat that must surely be deep emotion at seeing (once again) the birthplace of one's childhood (and present) idol.

Part Four:
In which I force Mother to traipse through a local cemetery looking for Ingalls relations. Here will be a dramatic moment in which I think I spot something. I race towards a marker in the distance...(anticlimax begin) only to realize mid-Julie-Andrews-leap that the tombstone is much too glittering and grand and new to be what I'm looking for.

Part Five:
In which we break for pie. Literally. I had peanut butter, Mother had blueberry. Just guess who chose the tastier slice.

Part Six:
In which we visit the disappointing local Laura Ingalls Wilder museum. After several minutes of pawing through unconnected junk, I finally venture to ask the romance novel reader behind the counter if there's anything that actually belonged to a member of the Ingalls family. Pointing a scraggly finger, she says in a scraggly voice,*** "Two quilts at the bottom of that display case." We look, and there they are. One is rather plain (faded navy and white), but one is beautiful and green and yellow and patchy and looks as though it had been made out of little prairie dresses, all cut into pieces (which, of course, it probably had been). It belonged to either Laura or Rose, and it's strongly suspected that Caroline made it.

***Note: I did marvelous impressions of this lady and her voice all the way home, to much acclaim. Since I can't be with you now to repeat my performance, you will simply have to imagine it. Hint: The Nanny minus the funny plus about a thousand cigarettes plus some grey hairs minus enthusiasm plus bitterness at having to man a dusty old museum day after day. Plus annoyance (her romance novel looked riveting).

Part Seven:
In which Mother and I continue our journey, winding along the St. Croix through hippie towns and unincorporated towns and cult towns and unincorporated hippie cult towns.

Part Eight:
In which we arrive in Red Wing, Minnesota, and attend a production of The Sound of Music in the beautiful (yet stifling hot) Sheldon theater. The thing about seeing The Sound of Music live is that you can’t very well fast forward through the dreaded “Climb Every Mountain" Scene. Gosh, I hate that song. It’s very inspiring, the actress performed it beautifully, and yet, I was practically rolling around in the aisles covering my ears and humming. How I hate that song.

An entertaining part about the play was that at a few different points, Reverend Mother’s skirt (robe?) got caught on the edge of her chair as she stood. Both times I waited breathlessly (okay, okay, eagerly) for the chair to be dragged down with a deafening crash, but her skirt always pulled off just in time.

Overall, it was a good play. Maria was fantastic. The children were cute (although Friedrich wasn’t a creeper! Amelia, I know we’ve discussed this in the past, but the next time you watch The Sound of Music movie version, keep your eye on Friedrich. He’s always standing awkwardly close to Maria, and he’s always trying to edge even closer.).

Part Nine:
In which we exit the theater, sucking in deep, cool, buggy breaths of night air. As we walk along the sidewalk, an open-air Jeep rumbles past. Over the rumblings, just barely, we could hear the driver and the passenger singing “Do Re Mi” with gusto.

Part Ten:
In which we hurtle home through the dark in The Black Beast (as our van is affectionately known). In which I am reminded of how lit up and beautiful St. Paul is at night, and why when I was little I used to force myself to stay awake whenever we drove through on our way home from Christmas Programs or Grandpa's house. How wonderful everything is at night.

Part Eleven:
In which we arrive home, and Mother promptly uploads the day’s photographs to Facebook. In which I groan inwardly as I see her do this. In which I decide to suck it up and be a darling daughter and say nothing. We make fun of Reverend Mother instead.

***Note: I did indeed begin writing this post last Friday. Obviously it’s taken me a few days to conjure up the masterpiece you are now reading. Sorry.

***Note: (Before you search, I should tell you that there aren’t any stars above that refer you to this note. I needed to write one more, though.) I apologize for the tense changes in the above ‘masterpiece.’ Someday I’ll go through and correct them. But not tonight.

***Note: A final note: I don't call my Mother "Mother" in real life. "Ma" when we tour log cabins. "Mommy Dearest" in bookstores. "Mom" in public. But never "Mother."

She Saves the Big News For Last

2011-07-20T20:58:00.000-07:00

Finished the Sherman Alexie this morning. My goodness, I love that man. If you haven't read The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, you absolutely should. And then read some of Alexie's poetry. He's good at that, too.

I think I have a soft spot for Sherman Alexie because my American Lit. II professor knows him, and told the class a few funny stories about him. I'm constantly in awe of how connected academics are. Probably because they go to conventions and meet other academics. And discuss things academically. And read each other's academic essays. And then cite each other's essays in their own essays. And then go to more conferences to present their academically written, cited essays.

And then they probably go out for drinks.

Anyway, sticking to my summer tradition of alternating impressive books with 'fun' books, I began Jane Austen's Persuasion today. I'm not sure why I chose that particular Austen (actually, I know why: because Sandra Bullock's character talks about the book in The Lake House, a movie I'm not crazy about but have seen a few times recently. I like Sandra Bullock. Her Oscar win was a high point in my life.), but I'm enjoying it so far.

Austens definitely require thought. No daydreaming or multitasking with an Austen novel. If you skim through a paragraph, you should probably go back and read it properly, because that woman sure knew how to pack it in. Also, I always feel compelled to look up all the 'noted' words and phrases in the back of the book. Illuminating, but time-consuming.

And now for the "Big News:"

I feel compelled to tell you now (and have been feeling compelled for quite a while now) that I'm starting a separate travel blog beginning before I leave for Austria. And I may not come back (to Blogger, not to America. I have to come back to America. My books are here.). You see, I like Wordpress. A lot. Blasphemy, I know, but I think it looks crisper and more professional (and prettier) than Blogger. So my travel blog will be there, and if I decide I like it, I may stay with it even after I'm back in the States.

That being said, I'm not completely sure how this whole travel blog thing will go. The women I work with at one of my UMM jobs will be reading it (they first suggested I start it), my parents will be reading it, my sister, my friends, etc. I don't know if a larger audience will cause me to change the things I blog about. I mean, this blog is pretty much a journal. I really don't hold back here. Sure, I doll things up. I try to make my life sound interesting for you guys. I make everyday situations into weird off-poems. But basically, it's a journal. The other blog may be pared down a bit. It will still be me, but as my new audience will likely be more interested in the things I'm doing and seeing and learning than strange poems about street lamps and rants entitled "goodlordwhatamIgoingtodowithmylifeyouguys," I feel a paring down is necessary.

In a nutshell, I'm going over there. But I will likely come back and visit. Because I'll miss you guys and I'll miss my bad poetry and my Person of the Week and reading over the posts of a younger, less savvy me.

I'll be sure to post the link to the new blog as soon as I create it. I hope you'll stay in touch.

Today

2011-07-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

Today

I worked.
What else can I say about that?
Well, a lot. But I won't.

I basked in the finished Hemingway book
and I find that the crazygeniusbastard got me after all.
(You knew he would, didn't you?)

I paid my dues at the library.
$8.00 is the price of submerging in one book
and ignoring all others.
I've never felt quite so judged by a librarian before.
20 is clearly past the age when one can be grinned at by spectacled old matrons:
"Oh how sweet! She's a reader!"
Now I'm just a schmuck who can't bother to return things on time.

I had a dance party by myself.
And pulled a muscle in my shoulder.
By myself.

I watched The Illusionist.
Mostly because of Edward Norton. Sorry.
And I was a little bit disappointed.
It's so very promising: period piece, dramatic, good actors, magic.
But at the end of it I smiled because things turned out.
And then I frowned, because wouldn't it have been more interesting if they hadn't?
A little more suspense, a trickier plot, and 20 more minutes might have helped.
I want to watch The Prestige so I can compare.

Now I'm turning to my long-awaited Sherman Alexie (The Absolutely True Diary).
Isn't it funny that I've read 100 pages of it already? In less than 24 hours of sporadic spurts?
Darn that Hemingway.

Stay gold, everyone.

What Humidity Does to People

2011-07-17T20:08:00.001-07:00

It's so humid outside that I almost left my car in the Target parking lot and swam home.
Luckily, my room is nice and cool (and CLEAN I might add (this is new)).

I've decided that I'm either going to finish For Whom The Bell Tolls tonight or die trying.

It's embarrassing that one book has taken me almost a month to complete.

I blame the heat.

Important Parts of Last Night

2011-07-15T10:41:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about last night.
Last night was Harry Potter (oh boy, don't tell me you didn't see this one coming).
And it was magnificent.
I mean, there were parts that made me shudder and wonder to myself what the heck were the directors thinking I don't understand why they couldn't stay true to the book here why are they jumping off a cliff good Lord why is Snape clutching a corpse this is bordering on disturbing why didn't they show Percy's big entrance that was one of my favorite parts oh my gosh Ginny please go away you make me sick sometimes.

Or something along those lines.

But I think over all, the movie, just like the book, had the ending that it needed and deserved.
That's really the most important thing, right?

There were other important parts of last night, though.

Like the feeling of complete panic that swept through the theater when the 3D glasses weren't working and everything was blurry. I was literally almost in cardiac arrest when The Man Behind the Curtain finally adjusted the projector correctly and the trailers came into focus.

Like when the Weasley family was mourning Fred and everything was quiet until I began to hear sniffing sounds coming from all around me. The entire theater was crying. The man next to me was crying. The ladywiththemostobnoxiousvoicei'veeverheard behind me was crying (loudly). And I suddenly felt like laughing. Until Harry began his walk towards the Forbidden Forest. Then I stopped laughing and started sniffing myself. I actually fogged up my own 3D glasses and had to wipe them. Not being a glasses-wearer, that was a new experience for me.

Like taking pictures in the lobby of people dressed up as Patronuses and Veela and Freds with bandaged ears and two twin boys with hair sprayed red.

Like when my friend and I had to visit the facilities before the movie. We waited in line for about 10 minutes before we finally got stalls. I was just trying to calculate what my odds of catching an STD from the toilet seat were when I heard my friend yell to me (from across the lavatory): "Holly! We flush ourselves in!" The entire bathroom erupted in echoing, nerdtastic giggles.

Like after the movie, when I decided not to wait for Bea (the GPS) to 'acquire satellite.' I thought I could manage to get home by myself. A sort of deluded Harriet Tubman, I convinced myself that I could find my way North. Apparently, I couldn't. I ended up goodnessknowswhere at 3 in the morning making illegal uturns in quiet neighborhoods and pleading with Bea to help me. She eventually did. Then the problem became keeping myself awake.

Like when I sang every Beatles song I know (which is, forgive me, an awful lot of Beatles songs) at the top of my lungs in order to keep myself awake. I was so tired that my voice was scratchy and pathetic but I made it home okay nonetheless. The dogs were happy to see me.

Yes, it's over. Yes, I'll never see another Harry Potter movie in a theater (unless I go to see this one again, which, let's face it, is highly likely). Yes, before the movie started, I was dreading it starting a little bit. Everyone was. Harry Potter began when we were all young. People have waited for Hogwarts letters, people have waited for the next book, the next movie.

But the waiting is over. It's all here.

I have a Harry Potter book on my lap right now. The Prisoner of Azkaban, because it's my favorite. And I'm thinking about how different it is every time I read these books. How there's always something new. Not because the books have changed, but because I have. And I will.

And as long as there's still that, I don't think anything has ended at all.

A Moral Dilemma and Something More Fun

2011-07-11T18:35:00.000-07:00

Today has given me a lot to think about. I'm facing sort of a moral dilemma at work. I don't want to say much about it because this is private stuff, but I will say that it's nothing illegal.

It is bad enough, however, that I feel physically sick when I think about it.

And I wonder why in the world people feel entitled to treat other people like dirt.

And I think of that Dumbledore quote about it being harder to stand up to your friends than your enemies.

And I shake my head because I just hate the man sometimes for being so wise.

In other work-related news, the power went out today. And by "the power went out," I mean that as I was coming back from break, the lights flickered and went out. Then on again. Then off. Then on again. Then off. Then they stayed off. Luckily, we have a generator in our store that keeps enough lights on so one can see fairly well in most areas, keeps registers open so guests can still check out, and keeps the food cold and edible (although during outages guests aren't allowed to buy cold/frozen food).

Immediately after the power went out, I grinned. I grinned for an embarrassingly long time, actually. I love it when things like this happen at work. It makes my job so much more exciting.

I stopped grinning when I realized that I was about to start a cashier shift. That I wouldn't get to be in the middle of the action, dashing around the store with the sense of importance I treasure so much. I don't mind cashiering, but I hate that you don't get a walkie when you cashier, that you can't see or hear what's going on, that you're completely isolated and restricted to brushing bras and sunscreen and cat food across a laser with a repetitiveness that gradually becomes almost unbearable.

I like the people, though. I got a full six hours last night, so I was in top form today. Some people were kind of frustrated about the lack of light and the fact that they couldn't buy anything cold or frozen, but most people were willing to joke with me about the situation.

My favorite part about the outage? Walmart's power went out too, but instead of fighting through it and keeping things running like us, they shut down their store, locked the doors, and sat around in the parking lot for 2 hours.

(To their defense, I guess, they don't have a generator.)

(But why don't they have a generator???)

(Silly Walmart. Come to Target instead.)

One Down On The Old Bucket List

2011-07-09T20:22:00.001-07:00

Just went through the Culver's drive-thru with my darling sister.
On foot.
I've always wanted to do that.

Also, I was barefoot.
Also, it was 10 p.m.
Also, when we walked up to the window, the Culver's girl invited us inside to order. She said it was okay that I was barefoot.
Also, upon leaving Culver's, Am and I sprinted to the van with our custard and squealed out like we were making a getaway.

Also, a large minivan with a bike rack on top is not an ideal getaway car. For future reference.

A Pretty Great Jacket

2011-07-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the double dose of C.S. Lewis as my Person of the Week. But he's my 50th person, and if there's anyone who deserves to be my 50th person, and who deserves to have two quotes instead of one and two weeks instead of one, it's C.S. Lewis.

Today was a shopping day.
I got, among other things, a Nike jacket. I was not looking for a Nike jacket, but boy, did I find one. It's purple with orange trim and white stripes down the sides. It makes me look a lot sportier than I actually am. It's a pretty great jacket.

I also read quite a bit of Hemingway, attempted the Friday crossword, attempted to absorb some sun, watched a large quantity of Brotherhood 2.0, and drank a large quantity of orange juice.

Tonight we go to see a production of The Music Man, which is my favorite musical of all time. It also happens to be many people's least favorite musical of all time. And while I understand why people dislike it, I love it nonetheless, and will quite probably be singing along tonight. (To the despair of all those sitting near me.)

Stay gold.

This Year's Fourth of July

2011-07-04T21:45:00.000-07:00

The best thing about having a blog for almost-three years is that you can look back at posts. You can say, "I wonder what the younger, dorkier version of myself was doing on this day two years ago?" And then you can check. Of course, this checking back usually does come with quite a bit of humiliation. I just hang my head at some of the things I wrote about almost-three years ago.

Luckily, though, for this post, I only had to look back one year. Not so very embarrassing. One year ago, I spent the Fourth weekend on Lake Superior. I got terribly sunburned and had to walk around Target for the next few weeks with my nose peeling gorgeously. I tried (and failed) to read Crime and Punishment.

This year has been a little different.

I woke up at 11:15 this morning (only because my alarm made me). I stayed in bed until 11:40.
I had Crispex and milk for breakfast. I cleaned my bathroom immediately afterward because Mom was coming home and I had put off doing it all weekend. I took a shower in Mom and Dad's bathroom because my shower was filled with hazardous cleaning chemicals. I watched some Cake Boss on TV.
At 2:30 I took the dogs out to run around. I brought Dear Old Hemingway with me, but didn't end up reading much; it was much more fun to chase Ruby around with the hose. And then to attempt to chase Annie as well until she got smart and cowered by the steps, where Dear Old Hemingway lay. Darn dog knew I would never risk getting a book wet. Especially a library book. Darn dog.
The family got home at 3:06 and 3:10, respectively. I was happy to see them.
Then we all sat down at the kitchen table to plot things out. We decided on mini golf, and then some sort of dinner/ice cream combo afterwards.
I won at mini golf. I also got the only hole-in-one of the evening.
But I don't talk about that.
We decided to drive to S*** for dinner, which started out being a bad idea (it was packed), and ended up being a good idea (we ate on the river and it was delicious). We then sought out a place that has ridiculously huge ice creams (I got chocolate peanut butter-best thing in the world), and nearly died of thirst on the way home (ice cream always makes you thirsty, have you ever noticed?).
Also on the way home, we drove through S*** (different S***). Mom mentioned the time when Grandma, Grandpa, Amy and I set off to go to a nearby driving range and ended up lost in S*** due to my poor sense of direction. In my defense, I was only about 11. Also in my defense, I have a poor sense of direction.
At home, we all settled down on the couch to watch Love Actually, which is actually a really great movie. I'm currently trying to decide who I love more: Hugh Grant or Colin Firth. It's a toughie, right? Witty and down-to-earth and awkward or stoic and romantic and awkward? Notting Hill or Pride and Prejudice? Will ponder this, and consider moving to Britain, where a Hugh-Colin combo platter perfect man has to be waiting for me.

Happy Fourth everyone.

P.S. It just occured to me that in my effort to *** town names for the sake of privacy, I actually succeeded in making it look like I was ***-ing out profanities. And when you read this post, mentally subbing in said profanities, it's kind of funny. Sorry. I'm immature.

I Need Some Sleep, Part 3

2011-07-01T05:25:00.000-07:00

Possible reasons for my current insomnia:

1. My blanket is too short. It's the perfect weight for 80 degree, albeit air-conditioned, fanned circumstances, but it's too short. My grandma had it made for me when I was a baby, and while I'm sure it was quite adequate back then, it's not entirely suitable for a 5'10" 20-year-old who can only sleep sprawled out like a drunken sailor.

2. Aforementioned fan is bothering me. Whenever I close my eyes I find myself waiting for the fan to oscillate until it's blowing in my face. The fan haunts my thoughts. It's blowing on my desk chair...now my dresser...now my feet...now my face...now my nightstand...now back to my face. And yet, I can't sleep without the darn fan. It's a cruel, cruel situation.

3. I keep thinking of my plans for today. And boy, do I have plans. Strawberry picking with Mom, strawberry jam making with Mom, cleaning my bathroom, cleaning my room, doing laundry, mowing around the trees (that's right; my mother is officially taking advantage of my newly-discovered mowing finesse), working out, reading more Hemingway, attempting to add some color to my translucent skin, feeling guilty about raising my chances of getting skin cancer in 25 years, watching Whale Wars (and wondering, for the zillionth time, how much of the show is legal, and how it even gets broadcasted considering all of the clearly illegal content. Possibly because it's only broadcasted AFTER the fact? Does that make a difference? I think so. I think so. Will look into this.).

It's a full life I lead.

4. I have a mosquito bite. On my cheek.

5. It's July 1st. Is the entire state shut down?

6. Austria. I'm worried about money, my friends. Especially considering the exchange rate. Especially considering that payroll is down at Target, due to nearby road construction. Especially considering that payroll will likely continue to be down for quite a while, as the state shutdown will postpone said road construction indefinitely.

7. I should brush up on my German. I will be so very disappointed in myself if I get to Austria and end up doing poorly on the German placement test and thus end up back in Beginning German. But it's difficult to study by myself, out of a textbook. To quiz myself by myself, out of a textbook. I don't know how Laura Ingalls Wilder did it.

That's it, I'm giving up. I'm getting up.

A Literary Feud

2011-07-01T04:46:00.000-07:00

“He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)

“Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”
Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)

Touché**, Mr. Hemingway.

**Solution found to my inability to put dashes/umlauts/etc/etc over words: I searched "touche" in Mac's dictionary, and then copied and pasted the proper, dashed (there has to be an official word for that thing) result.

The World is Coming to an End

2011-06-28T20:00:00.000-07:00

I like For Whom the Bell Tolls.
I really like it.
I'm on page 146 and going strong.

Expect the tsunamis and fireballs to arrive any day now.

Dear Old Hemingway

2011-06-24T20:36:00.001-07:00

I'm giving dear old Hemingway another chance.

I had an unfortunate incident with The Sun Also Rises in 11th grade (I've mentioned this before). The unfortunate incident was that I hated the book. To this day, when I think Sun Also Rises, I think man lying on his bed in a dark, European apartment whining about his 'war injury' (I didn't catch what the 'injury' was until my English teacher explained it to the class. Thanks, Mrs. Nelson).

And then, last winter, Hemingway's Snows of Kilimanjaro managed to edge out Fitzgerald's Winter Dreams in my American Lit. class.

Despite my professor calling Ernest a "crazy genius bastard," I was not amused.

However, being the noble, selfless, forgiving person that I am (translation: he's on my list of authors I need to read), I'm giving dear old Hemingway another chance.

I'm reading For Whom the Bell Tolls.

It's a war novel.

Oh my.

P.S. On a lighter note, I'm thinking of reviving the Expatriate's Club in Paris. Anyone interested?

P.S.Again. I just realized that Hemingway would probably absolutely hate the fact that I refer to him three times as "dear old Hemingway." Not very masculine, is it?

In Which A Trip to Half Price Books Straightens Me Out

2011-06-23T16:30:00.001-07:00

Did anyone ever tell you that studying abroad involves a lot of paperwork? No one ever told me.
But paperwork has been my game these past few days. Visa application, financial aid schtuff, hideous passport pictures, etc.
I was coming out of the bank this afternoon after getting a signature notarized (not as exciting as I thought it would be), when all of the sudden my visa application blew out of my hands and across the parking lot. As it twirled towards the highway, and as I ran after it, all I was thinking was "if this darn thing blows into speeding traffic, you had better believe I'm going after it." Luckily, it didn't, so I didn't have to. But I would have.

I'm almost done with everything, though, and then all I'll have to worry about will be brushing up on my German and shopping for Europe-worthy clothes (you know: scarves, sweaters, more scarves, lederhosen. That type of thing).

In other news, I've been in a bit of a book funk ever since school ended; I've been starting books and not finishing them. I hate this funk. I hate not being able to write up finished books in my Read-a-Thon notebook. I hate puttering around listlessly in front of my bookshelf. I hate watching TV in desperation (although Billy Elliot was on the other night. Good movie).

Thankfully, a recent trip to the library, and a more recent trip to Half Price Books seem to have straightened me out.

Here are my HPB finds:
1. As I Lay Dying (with a sweet inscription to Kristi on the inside cover)-$3.00
2. My Antonia-$1.00
3. This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen (because how could I pass up a collection of concentration camp stories collected under a title like that?)-$6.98
4. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (I've wanted it ever since I read The Bell Jar last winter)-$9.98
5. Lolita (Am I going to actually read a Russian novel at last? Does this count as a Russian novel seeing as Nabokov didn't actually live in Russia for most of his life?)-$6.98

Feeling that my literary-fueled life has purpose again-priceless.

In Which I Don't Even Write

2011-06-20T22:09:00.000-07:00

Here is my day (in Google-searched, photographic form):

In Which I Do the Unprecedented

2011-06-18T15:38:00.000-07:00

I made the Dean's List. I finally, finally made that darn Dean's List. It took 4 semesters.
But I don't talk about that.
The point is that I have a big, pompous, maroon and gold certificate, and that I'm going to hang it up somewhere like I used to do with spelling awards when I was little.

In other news, last night I got to attend a production of "Little Shop of Horrors." As a member of the Press. I went by myself, even though they had reserved two tickets for me; I wanted it to just be me the first time. To drink it all in and all (and all). Well, I ended up wishing I had brought someone, because I was probably the only person under 65 at the show. This was okay most of the time, except when the old man behind me would stage whisper things. Like "watch out!" and "would you look at how low her top is?" (at least he didn't yell Macbeth, although I bet he was thinking about it. He really didn't like that Seymour was murdering people: "Unethical young folks! Who do they think they are?"
I brought a notebook along to jot things down in, and most of my notes ended up being about the audience. Here are some direct quotes: (please note: I don't understand/remember what some of these mean. I wrote them last night. Should I be worried?)

-"Back in the meat locker!"
-Evidently the Errol Flynn mustache is coming back
-They brought blankets (Okay. This one's about the 65+ers.)

I'm going to be hard pressed to keep this review focused on the play.

An Interesting Scene

2011-06-16T16:53:00.001-07:00

I couldn't find the hand weights. So I did my workout using a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of Canada Dry.
And then I had fries and a gin and tonic.

A Few Things

2011-06-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

A few things:

1. Boy, am I clunky when I'm tired. I must have bashed my hip against a dozen different things today at work. Aforementioned tiredness stemmed from all of our smoke alarms going off at 3:38 a.m. this morning. For no apparent reason. And then, despite there being no apparent reason (Mom and I scoured the house), I couldn't get back to sleep. I kept thinking I smelled smoke, and then I had to mentally run through my fire escape route (I'm going traditional: out the window). And THEN I had to figure out which items I would save from my room in case of a fire****. Poetry book from my grandpa, my journal, and my laptop. If I really have lots of time, I would probably go for my 'writing' drawer as well.

2. My Mom just got a Facebook. My Mom just got a Facebook and friend requested me. I must be some sort of demon child, because I'm actually thinking about whether or not I should accept. It's not like I ever put anything really private or really crazy on FB that I wouldn't want my mother to see, it's just that FB is my thing. It's a young adult thing. It's uncharted parent-kid territory. And I don't know if I want to go there.

3. I mowed the lawn for the very first time today. I've wanted to try it for years and years, but since we have a ride mower, and since our yard is hilly and perilous, the job was always better left up to Dad. However, since the lake is down so many feet, and since the grass down there (where water used to be) is fluorishing, I decided to drag the push mower down and have at it. Mowing was actually kind of fun. In fact, the only downside was that my arms started to ache after awhile because the handle (?) was way too low. Another downside would be the dead fish. Another downside would be accidently running over a dead fish and having its half-rotted skin shoot out from under the mower and hit your bare leg. Another downside would be that when you screamed, you forgot that screams echo across lakes. Another downside would be that a fisherman in a boat far away heard you and looked up at you with annoyance and then shook his head. Another downside would be that you haven't read The Old Man and the Sea, so you can't even make a brilliant allusion here. Other than those things, though, mowing was good.

4. We are finally finally finally going to see Water for Elephants. I'm even behaving and refraining from reading reviews ahead of time. When I read reviews ahead of time, I tend to get really cynical about movies. This annoys my darling sister, who likes to give even the worst films some credit. So I'm staying away from IMDB. For now.

****Note: This is assuming that all family members/pets/pets who are family members are already safely out of the house.

Lay Mizz

2011-06-13T22:00:00.000-07:00

Some midnight thoughts from page 48 of Les Miserables:

1. How does one put the slash above the e?
2. This book is messing with my summer reading. I am officially 11 books behind last year's count.
3. Do I really have to look up these French Revolution references? I don't wanna.
4. Is it legal for me to read another book on the side? Will said side read cause me to put away Les Mis, possible forever?
(yes)
5. How in the world is this the abridged edition? It's 800+ pages long! Pleasehigherpowersdon'tsmitemeforreadingabridgedIswearIdidn'tknowwhenIboughtit.
6. So far, when people have asked me what I'm reading, I've said, "Les Mis" (pronounced Lay Mizz). This abbreviation stems from my lack of confidence in my French pronunciation. I hope no one's on to me.

Goodnight from page 49.

Non-Morose Activities

2011-06-13T09:00:00.001-07:00

I guess my last few posts have been kind of morose. But I'm not morose anymore, I swear!

To prove it, here are some non-morose activities I've engaged in this weekend:

1. Shopping at MOA with my mother and sister. Now, don't get the wrong impression. I hate shopping for clothes. I do. But I like clothes, and I really needed them. So off we went. And it turned out pretty well. My sister is a master bargain shopper, so we had fun digging through racks of 50% off in Gap and Banana Republic and other stores that I would probably never pay full price in because Good Lord I don't want to end up destitute in the middle of Europe this Fall.

2. Graduation parties. I attended 3 total this weekend, and they were all really great. It's always a little awkward to do the mingling-small-talk thing, but I think that's unavoidable at any party.

3. Lock-in with 50+ sugared-up, sleep-deprived 1st-8th graders. My darling mother (a teacher at the school where the lock-in was held) volunteered to take charge of the gym activities. Amy and I went along to help and ended up playing Medic*** for 3+ hours. It was a lot of fun, but it was also a bit of a shock for me because
a) holy cow I've been sore for the past three days
and
b) when did kids get so mean? I love kids, but I don't love them so much when they're screaming at each other (and me) about who should be the medic, and who is too terrible at life and at all things athletic to be medic. Amy, who is the most even-tempered person I know, spent half the night whipping balls at this one 5th grader who was being an absolute jerk. He was throwing balls back at her, but man, Amy has an arm, and what's more, she was MAD. Forgive me, but it was fun to watch.

4. Work. Always, always work. I still love working at Target, but sometimes I feel like I come off as kind of a bonehead because I always have to ask questions and I always have these embarrassing space cadet moments (mostly stemming, I would like to point out, from lack of sleep). Sometimes I want to scream for the whole store to hear that I'm an Honors student, that I go to Morris, that I can do a mean crossword puzzle. But I guess I'd rather come off as stupid than crazy.

***Here's Medic for those of you who had slightly joyless childhoods: the gym is divided in half, 1 team on either side. A million of those soft, foam-filled balls are released. Each team throws balls at the other team, trying to hit them. Once you're hit, you have to sit down, and you cannot get up until your team's designated medic touches your shoulder and 'heals' you. If one of the medics is hit by a ball, they also have to sit down, and can't get up again until they manage to hit someone on the other team (from their sitting position). A team wins when all of the opposing team's players are down, including their medic.

In Which a Nightmare Rights Some Wrongs

2011-06-09T08:10:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how many wrongs you can right before 10 a.m.

I slept horribly last night; I was so worried about the whole voicemail situation. I had the "racing thoughts" they always talk about in Lunesta ads.

Early this morning, after about 6 hours of sleep, I woke up out of a nightmare. The nightmare was gruesome and terrifying. Most of all, though, it was ironic; in it, I was running from something, and then I was captured, and then I was tortured. Lovely, right? The climax of the entire dream was when I was being dragged down to the dungeon by this evil hag, and I thought to myself, "Why couldn't I have just pretended to be someone else? If I hadn't struggled so much, if I hadn't made such a display of stubborness, I wouldn't be here right now."

And then my alarm went off, and I smiled at the irony of it all, and I set out to right my wrongs.

I did the phone interview I was supposed to have done a month ago for the story I was supposed to have begun weeks ago. I called the leaver of the voicemail to make amends. It was me that had to make amends, you know. She was just being honest. I was being unreliable and immature and lazy. I'm 20 years old, but I still seem to be rather good at those three things.

Perhaps I shouldn't complain about not being treated like an adult unless I'm acting like one.

Jens and Jutta

2011-06-08T20:13:00.000-07:00

I just received quite a gem of a voicemail.
Since this is a public blog, and since my name is on said public blog (great idea, Hol), I can't go into much detail.
In short, the voicemail questions the quality of my education, accuses me of stealing, and has a tone of overall doubt that I am a person worth leaving a voicemail for.
I'm keeping this one forever.
I have it saved.
Because you know what?
I've never had a problem with being young. I've never hated my age because "adults don't take me seriously." Adults do take me seriously. At least, all the adults I've been lucky enough to know so far do. I rarely feel like I'm being talked down to, I rarely feel like what I have to say holds no weight. Maybe this is just a side effect of being a college student; college is like the real world, except you're treated better, I guess.
In the real world, however, as this voicemail so kindly informs me, if you're under 25, you don't really count. You're ill-equipped.
Sure I'm ill-equipped. But what if you equip me before you jump down my throat for my lack of competence? What if you tell me how before blaming me for not knowing how? What if you answer my questions without sneering at me for having them in the first place?
It's like in my German class when we would look at a series of pictures with captions and put them into order. It doesn't make sense for Jens to get a D on his test before he even takes the test. It doesn't make sense for Jutta to be grounded before she even breaks the vase.
Evidently, Jens and Jutta only exist in Beginning German.

Blue in Green

2011-05-31T19:28:00.000-07:00

Another blue day today.

What else was there to do but drive to Lino to buy a green album?

This ain't no music blog, but so far so good with Ukulele Songs. So far, so really really good.

I Need Some Sleep, Take 2

2011-05-30T23:36:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone.
It is exactly 1:37 a.m.
I have to wake up for work at exactly 5:15 a.m.
Thus far, I have been unable to sleep.

Look for me tomorrow. I'll be the zombie dozing against an endcap in pets.

One and a Half Naps, and Then a Revelation

2011-05-29T14:21:00.000-07:00

A warning before I begin: This will probably be a very personal post. And not that people who don't know me really read this blog anyway, but if you don't know me, maybe you should stop now. That's not an order, as this is the internet, (and therefore anything I post here is pretty much fair game) but it is a suggestion.

I was about to take a nap just now. I finished reading Paper Towns (magnificent) on the couch in the sun room, and then I started to doze off. The thing is, my left earring was pressing into my skull, and I was still wearing my Target red and khaki, and I was worried about the dog sneaking over while I slept and eating the pear core I had laying on the rug beside me and getting sick and dying or something while I slept on like a masochistic infant. So I abandoned the couch, locked the dog in the kitchen, threw away the core, changed into sweats, and got into bed.

I was so tired that I didn't even bother to set my cell phone alarm (I usually do when I take naps or else I will pretty much sleep for the next 2 days). I was so tired that when my knee nudged against paper under the covers, and when I remembered that the paper was the Sunday crossword that I had hidden from my sister this morning (Sunday crosswords are sacred to me, and she has bad handwriting. Don't tell her I said that.), I didn't even bother to set the paper on my nightstand. I decided to sleep with it nudged against my knee.

The thing was, as I was drifting off to sleep for the second time, I started to think about the guy I like (Don't be scared; I'm not going to go middle school on you. Promise). I was thinking about how cute he is, and how smart, and how funny, and I was imagining us hanging out together. And then I started to worry, the way I often do when I think about a guy that I like (and I don't think I'm alone in this). I started to wonder why he would ever like me. I'm not a supermodel, I'm not outgoing, I'm not bubbly, I'm not chill or calm or neutral, I have a big nose, sometimes I can be a major space cadet, I can't dance, I'm not graceful in any way, and I make mistakes constantly. Why would he ever, ever like me back, I thought.

And then, suddenly, like someone was shouting it in my ear, I heard this:

You're perfect.

I'm perfect.

The more I thought about this, the more of a revelation it became. I actually started crying, and as I stared at my turquoise bedroom wall, black mascara tears on my cheeks, I realized that I am perfect. That someone (namely, God) took the time to make me the way I am. He didn't make one mistake with me. He didn't make one mistake with anyone. Every bit of me, inside and out, is deliberate. Everything I am has a purpose, and everything I strive to be will only add clarity to that purpose.

And while I generally view myself as a pretty confidant person, I don't know if I really am. I think in the past, when I've embraced myself, I've done it one-handedly; I've left the flaws out. I haven't liked to think about them much because they're flaws. They're bad. But now I don't know if I believe in the flaws at all. They're really only bits of sin and lint and doubt that I've created for myself, that I've let hang around me because, well, this is Earth and I am human. And I wanted that crossword for myself, darn it!

Do you see yet? As a being I am perfect because, lucky me, I was made in God's image (that's right, I'm one of those). As a human, things get a little shady. But these things shouldn't stop me. If I create the shade, then surely I can be the one to wave it away. I know that I can't save myself completely without help, but I also know that I can save myself a little bit just by realizing how lovely the essence of me really is. (P.S. Your essence is quite beautiful as well).

I think I went around in a circle, you guys. I don't know if I ended up where I intended to, or if you were able to follow my tracks, or if I even left clear enough tracks to follow. I hope I did. I also hope that I didn't come off as some sort of motivational speaker. (There's that self-doubt again. Hello.) I didn't mean to. I just tried to take a nap about a half hour ago, and ended up not wanting to sleep after all. I hope you understand why.

Throwback Thursday

2011-05-26T19:59:00.000-07:00

I suddenly thought that I’d like to run the rest of the way. It was a breezy night, not dark enough to be creepy, but dark enough to be powerful.

And then we were off running, me clutching my hood up around my face with both hands, Maddie holding her jacket closed against the wind.

As we ran I turned to her, because I couldn’t remember: “Hey Mad, did I start running, or did you?”

“You did, I think.”

“Did I? It’s funny, because the split second after I had the idea that I’d like to run, we were running, and I didn’t know who set us going.”

She laughed at me, and we continued on towards the Tweet Spot, laughing at ourselves for running towards 11 pm junk food, and at the prospect of being spotted from a dorm window, and at the largeness of the night, and how hilariously small we were within it.

A Downer Day

2011-05-24T21:29:00.000-07:00

It's been a downer day for me.
In order to write last night's brilliant post (you can chuckle at this. I am.), I had to sacrifice quite a bit of sleep.
Lack of sleep meant that I was pretty much a space cadet the entire time I was at work.
I bumbled around stupidly.
I punched in when I wasn't supposed to.
I banged my arm against a shelf (bruise is appearing slowly but surely).
And last but not least, I somehow thought that I worked 8-4. It was 3:00 when I finally figured out that I was actually only supposed to work until noon.

On the way home I stopped at the library. Libraries usually cheer me up, but somehow, it didn't work today. I got 8 books, but only 1 that I really want to read. Outside of the library, there was a big construction zone where they were tearing up part of the sidewalk. I'm tired of construction. It seems like all of Forest Lake is one big "CONSTRUCTION GOING ON, PLEASE TAKE DETOUR." I'm tired of detours. I don't care what anyone says, roundabouts are not all they're cracked up to be. I have yielding issues.

Now I'm sitting in bed dragging myself down slowly but surely (mentally bruising??? (see above)). It's a sad sad thing to be doing on a Tuesday night, but when I'm in a funk like this there's not much of an escape. I worked on my Press article for a while, but it started to give me a headache; council meeting coverage not only requires an annoying amount of precision, but it's also kind of boring. Don't tell anyone I said that.
I guess I can read, but I'm currently stuck in the middle of "The Handmaid's Tale." This book disappoints me. I'll probably explain why once I've finished.

Sorry for lack of eloquence, optimism, excitement, etc. I'll try to be up to snuff tomorrow.

A Character Sketch (With Comments)

2011-05-23T22:48:00.000-07:00

Our conversation took place in the "Female Products" aisle of Target.
Where the very best conversations take place.
Kidding.
Anyway, it all struck me as strange at the time. Now it's just ironic.
A few guys had just been caught trying to steal a TV from our store. Apparently they had hit up Walmart recently, so we were anticipating a visit as well. (Note: Target has not asked me to write this, but don't try to steal from us. You'll get caught. And I have a mean roundhouse, thanks to my friend Denise Austin.)
Anyway, he and I were discussing the attempted theft while pulling boxes of tampons forward on the shelves.
And he went on and on about how whenever someone stole from our store, it really rattled him. How it made him jumpy and nervous, and how, most of all, it made him not trust people. He talked a lot about that. Not trusting people.
As I pride myself on my deep faith in humanity, I didn't empathize. I simply pitied him a little bit for living what I saw as a cold existence. This too is ironic.

But still, despite his revelation to me in the Feminine Products aisle, he was someone to be depended on in our store. If the lanes needed backup, he was the first to respond. If someone needed a team lift, if someone couldn't find an item for a guest, if someone didn't know how to do something on their PDA, he was the go-to guy. He was just a high schooler, but he was relied on by people much older.

The third bit about him is that he is the one I wrote about last summer, the one who gave my car a jump that afternoon in the Target parking lot. It was after my very first day of work, I had never talked to him in my life, and yet there he was, asking me if I could use some help.
For the year that's passed since that parking lot act of kindness, I have held it up as the nicest thing a stranger has done for me. I have asked myself if I would do the same for someone I didn't know. I have hung the act over the person's head as a red badge of sorts, admiring him for it and defining him by it.

And then I came back to work for the summer, and found out that he had been fired from Target for stealing. Rumor has it that when a guest would purchase an ipod, he would take two out of the case, and drop the extra into his pocket. Rumor has it that he had been doing it for a while. The person who told me all of this also told me that he (car jumper, ipod thief) is some kind of genius. I gave the teller my wryest raised eyebrows: Yes, because truly smart people steal ipods from their places of employment.

When I first heard this news, I was shocked.
Now I'm purely disgusted.
It makes me sick to think that he got a job at Target. That he got to know the wonderful people who work here, that he gained their trust. That he dared to build himself a reputation as a good kid, as someone who was helpful and dependable. That he jumped people's cars and told people sob stories about his cold view of humanity. That he did all of this and then stole from us. When I told this to the guy who told me the theft story, he rolled his eyes a little: Holly, we didn't lose any money by it. They got it all back. Besides, it wouldn't have come out of our paychecks anyway.
Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. Because there is absolutely no deeply immoral aspect to the situation that is more troubling than the financial aspects.

I lay on my stomach here in my bed, laptop propped on pillow, and I think back to that day in the Tampon Aisle (who're we kidding, here; that's what it should be called) and I feel (oh so ironically,) like maybe he was right all along. Maybe people can't be trusted. Maybe people don't have bits of bad and bits of good swimming around inside their chests. Maybe it has to be all one or the other.

And then I look into myself and I see both. But the good, the good is always trying to stand over the bad, to put it into the shade forever. And I think that maybe other people's chests are similar. That they hold both, that they hold everything. And that even when the bad gets a trump it doesn't mean that the good isn't following behind with the ace of something.

I think that perhaps jumping a car in an afternoon parking lot shouldn't be overshadowed by a petty theft. That I shouldn't let it be.

In Which I Finish Sophomore Year and Do Some Kickboxing

2011-05-17T16:45:00.000-07:00

I'm a bit displaced from the last time I blogged.
I am now sitting about 3 final exams, 1 final paper, 220 miles, and 10 days away from my last post.

Hi.

So, as said displacement has left me a tad scrambled, and as 10 blog-free days tends to make one even more discombobulated (to borrow a word from my 5th grade teacher), you may have to put up with some sporadicity. Bear with me here.

Finals were good. As I mentioned 10 days ago, I had two finals on Monday, a final paper due Tuesday, and another final Thursday. Honestly, I felt that I performed pretty solidly on all of the above. It was absolutely wonderful to have all day Tuesday and Wednesday to study for Art History on Thursday.

As for the paper, well, let's just say that if you ever need to talk to someone about A Streetcar Named Desire as a Gothic Novel, I'm your girl. 6 pages of epic analysis, with an outside source included just because I could. Not to brag or anything.

And now, as I said, I am at home. On the couch. With my trusty laptop on my lap, A Secret Life of Bees at my elbow, and the Sunday crossword within reach. I feel deserving of this luxurious lifestyle because: a) I had to write a paper and take 3 final exams last week, b) I had to work at Target at 8 this morning, which means I had to wake up at 6:15, and c) after work I did a half hour of kickboxing with Denise Austin. I found the VHS tape in the basement and thought I'd try it out. Denise seemed nice at first, but after about 15 minutes she started looking fairly masochistic. That was around the time when I figured out that whenever she said, "Don't worry if you can't do this yet; you'll get there soon," she really meant: "This is going to hurt, you out of shape loser, because I'm not going to stop until you're on the floor, panting like a winded rhino, and drenched in sweat."

Mom just brought home a pizza for dinner. Kiss it, Denise.

I'll talk to you guys soon.

P.S. I feel like I need to add this sentimental tidbit right here at the end: it was really strange to leave Morris last Thursday knowing that I wouldn't be back until January. When I hugged all my friends goodbye I had to keep saying, "I'll see you next Spring." Weird. I still haven't wrapped my head around Austria, despite the fact that I'm officially going now. That's right, I put down my ridiculously large initial deposit (I don't want to talk about it), and on Saturday Mom insisted on buying me a German/English dictionary and a Rick Steve guidebook. Nothing seals the deal quite like Rick Steve.

Another Finals Week

2011-05-07T12:23:00.000-07:00

Finals week has rolled around once again, and, as you've come to expect, I will spend most of my time from now until Thursday evening:
a) Studying/writing papers/taking exams
b) Complaining to you about studying/writing papers/taking exams

Prepare accordingly.

Here's the agenda:
Monday:
German final from 8:30-10:30
American Lit. final 11:00-1:00

Tuesday
American Lit. response paper due 4:00

Thursday
Art History final 4:00-6:00

And of course I also have to work a lot during finals week, and I have to finish up my study abroad planning, and I have to begin packing up my maelstrom of a room in preparation for my Thursday night departure.

And of course of course the weather right now is absolutely perfect; 66 degrees, sunny, breezy, and bugless. That's what I'm told, at least; the basement of the Science Building doesn't have any windows.

Fun Fact: Last night I had a dream that I was running around inside a Revolutionary War-era house that had belonged to someone named Brady. This morning I did a Wikipedia search and found out that Samuel Brady was a Revolutionary War hero (and an all-around cool guy). It's funny, because I don't think I've ever heard that name before. Apparently my subconscious has.

No DisreSPECT, John Green

2011-05-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading...

This:

I bought it from HPB a few summers ago, and only just got to it because it's the week before finals week, and because during the week before finals week, I need to read something uncomplicated.

Unluckily, An Abundance of Katherines is not uncomplicated. It contains math. Theorems.

Luckily, I loved it anyway.

Although not as much as Looking For Alaska (which, to be fair, is a top notch book. Hard to beat). An Abundance of Katherines was original, yes, but what confused me was the way John Green (author) squeezed in a moral right at the end. The moral (I'm paraphrasing here) was that it's easy to become so caught up in a goal (being world-famous, being popular, etc.) that you don't remember why you wanted that thing (to be world-famous, to be popular, etc.) in the first place.

Here's the actual quote: "Maybe life is not about accomplishing some (kidscoveryoureyesquicklynow) bullshit markers."

And that's a great moral, truly it is. My problem was that I didn't get a sense throughout the book that the characters were trying too hard to accomplish -stupid- markers. In retrospect, yeah, but not in spect. Unfortunately, my friends, the spect is where I should be noticing things.

I almost think that the theorem, and the Katherine thing, and Hassan being awesome, and the Lindsey love story, and the (kidsagainpleaselookaway) tampon string factory crisis, and the road trip, and etc. distracted me from the point of the novel. Which is bad. An Abundance of Katherines tried to be about 10 different novels at once.

Whereas my spect's maximum is one.

In Which I Sleep Through a Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

Yes, I watched.

Actually, if I'm going to be completely honest (and you know I'm going to be, or I wouldn't have said anything), I meant to watch William and Kate's wedding. I had my alarm set for 5; I was going to roll out of bed, grab my pillow and comforter, and head down a few floors to the TV Lounge (which contains an adequate-for-royal-wedding-viewing sized TV), where I would wait breathlessly for the ceremony to begin.

Here's what actually happened: I was up until 2:30 a.m. this morning studying for a German test I had this afternoon. Ergo, when my alarm went off at 5 (after only 2 and a half hours of sleep), I told myself "five more minutes, and then I'll go downstairs," rolled over, and fell back asleep. The next time I regained consciousness, it was 6:50. Luckily, I was able to make it out of bed that time and managed to catch the entire balcony scene. Kiss one AND kiss two. (This strikes me as a good sign; Diana and Charles only kissed once, and look where they ended up).

This brings me to my current position: I'm waiting for the taped wedding ceremony video to load on Mac. I'm a little disappointed that I missed seeing it live, but I'm sure my German grade will be better for it.

In other royal-related news, I had a long discussion at work today with a professor who seemed to think that Queen Elizabeth arranged for Diana's murder. The way she put it, Diana was dating someone who was not British, not Christian, and not aristocratic. She was an embarrassment to the royal family, and clearly, she had to go. My reaction? Polite, contained disbelief. Maybe it's true that the Queen did not like Diana. But I absolutely refuse to consider her a possible murderer! Maybe I'm too stubbornly stuck in my romantic ideals concerning monarchy, and maybe I put too much faith in the accuracy of the movie "The Queen," but I can't help it. Queen Elizabeth is above such nonsense. She is a sweet, compassionate woman who would never orchestrate something that could harm her grandsons in such a large way. The driver of Diana's car was drunk, and they were being pursued by the paparazzi. It was a tragic accident that will be remembered forever, but I am quickly becoming sick of all the conspiracy theories surrounding it. Why can't people ever just let the deceased be deceased? Why do they have to keep dragging them back for round 2 and 3 and 4 and etc.?

Well, anyway, I don't want to spoil this beautiful day with my morbid rantings. Here's hoping that Kate and William will have all the blessings wished upon them by both the living and the dead.

P.S. (Dress rave) It was absolutely gorgeous, wasn't it? I loved the lacy long-sleeved look. Very cathedral-appropriate, but not matronly or anything. (Funny story) I was just watching a video clip of Kate arriving at the Abbey, and as soon as she got out of the car, the video host started squealing nonstop about her dress. She literally shrieked quite a few times. I had to switch videos because my ear drums were starting to ache.

Three Months in the 17th Century

2011-04-27T19:00:00.001-07:00

For the past few months, I've been walking around campus worrying about things like Holy Office votes, Pope Urban VIII's views on the Thirty Years' War, and Galileo's potential heresy.

I would walk into a meeting with several cardinals at 9:00, and walk out at 9:30 just in time to change for my intramural badminton match.

For the past month specifically, I've been consumed with an attempt to depose the Pope. I met with different factions to try to convince them, I sent emails, I strategized with professors, and I wrote and delivered speeches. I was even imprisoned in the Castel Sant'Angelo (which, ironically, I got to see when I visited Italy a few years ago) for a week when the Pope began to suspect my efforts.

It's funny to think that it is all over now, and that my side has lost. I'm a little disappointed, yes, but honestly, when you worked as hard as you possibly could, when you did absolutely everything you could think of to forward your cause, then it's not so bad to lose; at least you can look back without regret. I suppose I sound like the disgruntled loser who is trying to mask his loss with nobleness. And maybe I am. But I don't think I could have done things differently. I trusted the people I needed to trust, I said the things I needed to say, and I had a lot of fun doing it.

Here's the speech I gave today, right before the failed deposition:

I do not have any illusions about our purpose here today, nor do I wish to overly prolong certain unavoidable business. In a few minutes, the ballots will be passed out, and the voting will begin.
Some of you will undoubtedly remember that the entire premise of a Pope is that he is elected by God. You will vote yea. Some of you will undoubtedly look upon me as a champion for the secular, as one who seeks to diminish the Holy Office and all that it stands for in favor of bloodthirsty Philip and his Spanish minions. You will vote yea. Some of you will cling to your gilded ceilings, choosing to ignore the threat that looms outside the gates. You will also vote yea.
Some of you, however, will recognize that God’s will is almost impossible for mere humans to decipher. You know that while God is incapable of making mistakes, sometimes his intentions are skewed through the leaded pane of humanity. God did not vote for Urban VII those many weeks ago, gentlemen. You did. Nor can you be sure that your actions reflected the will of our Heavenly Father. No one has that certainty. All we can do here on Earth is to act, with much prayer and reflection, in a way we feel is Godly and true. Some of you now feel that our Lord is pointing us down a new path; towards a new Pope, and a revived Church. You will vote nay.
Some of you believe me when I say that I have no desire to disband the Holy Office. You see that I am honest when I assert that a Pope made so by force is a Pope in name only. It is the duty of the Holy Office, and no other body, to appoint a Pope, and I consider it the very highest insult when some of you claim that I believe otherwise.
I regret that the Holy Office and the Spanish armies have been brought together in such a tumultuous manner, but I see it only as a natural result of Urban VII’s unreasonable actions; he not only imprisoned a peaceful diplomat and an innocent cardinal, but he refused to post the charges in detail for all to observe. Despite my belief in the rationality of their concern, however, the presence of the Spanish army does not change my reverence for the Holy Office and all of its functions. Those of you who see this will vote nay.
Last week, I had the privilege of reading a speech delivered by an esteemed Cardinal. In it, he outlined the qualities of leadership, somehow managing to apply the majority of them to Urban VIII. Despite the Cardinal’s thoroughness, however, he missed one leadership quality, one that quite eclipses all others.
That quality is selflessness; a leader should put the needs of his people above his own egocentric inclinations. In this respect, I find that Urban VII has failed most grievously.
Good Catholics are being butchered, my friends. You know this all too well both from Cardinal O’Neill’s stirring speech of last week and from reports that agitate the streets of Rome and become more and more urgent as the days pass. Is it not the Pope’s primary duty to protect his flock that they may flourish and receive God’s grace? And what has the Pope done to ensure their protection? What has he done to answer the pleas for help that fly at him from all parts of Europe? You all know that he has done nothing but sit on his throne and stare at his precious ceiling.
And yet, when a rumor floated across the Vatican that the Pope’s title may be in danger, that his dear power may be diminished, he leaped into action. He rashly imprisoned two men with only vague charges for justification, and he brought the wrath of the Spanish army down on the Holy Office. Clearly, Urban VII’s sense of absolute control is the issue he has his eyes constantly upon. His people must wait in the periphery. Some of you who are disgusted by this obvious selfishness will vote nay.
In a few minutes, when the ballots are distributed, I wish you to remember this: now is no time for passivity, for moderation, for pause. There is more hanging in the balance than the Pope’s dignity; we are voting upon the life of a Catholic boy stranded in Protestant Europe. We are voting upon the salvation of a soldier fighting for our cause, and committing unavoidable crimes in its name. We are voting in the hope that we may gain a leader who is willing to make decisions for the good of God’s Church, rather than for the elevation of his own selfish ambitions. We are voting to ensure that the Catholic Church remains a beacon of light for all the world.
May God move in your hearts and guide your pens towards His will.

Holly Movies

2011-04-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

"The Painted Veil" is what my mom refers to as a "Holly Movie."

Holly Movies are historical dramas, usually artfully made, and usually romantic. They don't have to be sad, but many of them are because history is like that sometimes. Sometimes people die in Holly Movies. Holly Movies are sweeping, they're beautiful, and they're poignant. Holly Movies always take themselves seriously, which is good, I think. Stupid comedies are not Holly Movies.

Holly Movies are also, as you have probably guessed, my very favorite kind of movies.

Anyway, I saw "The Painted Veil" a few weeks ago when I checked it out from the library. I then proceeded to watch it three times in one weekend.

I then proceeded to go on itunes and buy this song.

I've been listening to it all day. It's raining out, and if you listen to this song, I'm sure you'll understand why it's the perfect song for a gloomy beautiful day.

P.S. Watch the movie as well. It's perfectly wonderful.

Me and John Adams

2011-04-25T21:29:00.000-07:00

What have I ever done for my country?
John Adams spent years and years in France and the Netherlands trying to secure treaties and loans for the newly created United States. Before that, he helped establish said United States. Before that, he stepped forward, despite the outrage of his Patriot peers, to defend the British soldiers who had begun the Boston Massacre. After that, he was President. After that, he prevented the United States from entering another war with England and France. His refusal to maintain a standing army lost him a second term in office. After that, his son was President.
I said the Pledge of Allegiance every day of K-8, and every week of high school. Now I don't say it at all.
On the Fourth of July, my family usually goes up to Lake Superior. We usually have a bonfire, and there is usually strawberry shortcake, and there are usually fireworks.
Then I write a blog post.
Every so often I think to myself that I'm happy to be American.
Every so often I look up at a flag and feel romantic and special and I smile and walk home, self-satisfied.
John Adams said: "Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives."
John Adams also said: "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy in order to give their children a right to study painting and poetry."
What have I ever fought for?
What have I ever given my country?
I sit in a classroom and pretend to be a Spanish priest. I talk to factions, I make deals, I deliver speeches.
I enjoy it, but what does it all matter in the long run?
The things I focus on, the things I read, the things I study, they're not real.
They're not real anymore.
They may make me smarter, but they're nothing but pieces of paper now.
John Adams built a country out of similar pieces of paper, but he built it out of actions too. He didn't sit back and let other men do the difficult work. He did it himself. He created something unprecedented.
And he was vain, and he did have a bad temper, and he was stubborn.
But he loved his wife, he loved the law, and he served his country in the best way he knew how, which was the best possible way he could have done it.
Maybe it's silly to compare myself to John Adams. It's probably silly for anyone to.
He was just a short man with a wig and a wonderful wife.
But he lived for his country.
I merely live in my country.

A Speech

2011-04-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

Here's a speech I gave in my Trial of Galileo class last week. I suppose if you're not in the class, you probably won't know what I'm talking about, but I'm proud of this speech.

Is there a career out there that would allow me to write and deliver passionate speeches all day? That doesn't involve going to law school, spending millions of dollars on campaigns, and wearing ugly pant suits? Didn't think so.

Appeal to His Holiness, Pope Urban VIII
No one thinks more highly than I do of the faithfulness, as well as the abilities, of the worthy gentlemen sitting in this very room. Considering my great respect for them, I shall speak forth my sentiments freely and without reserve. This is no time for ceremony. Should I keep back my opinions, through fear of giving offense, I should consider it an act of disloyalty toward the Majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.
I have listened for these past few weeks to you gentlemen go back and forth about issues of science, of church law, and of biblical interpretation. And while it is all very interesting, I couldn’t help gazing up at your gilded ceiling. If you look very carefully, you can see that there is real gold inlaid in the dome.
Tell me, how many soldiers could just a small bit of that gold feed? How many war horses could be shoed, how many blankets could be purchased, how many mugs of ale could give courage to how many hearts with the wealth of your ceiling? I have heard that the taxes of the people here in Rome are spent on building projects. Is your ceiling one such building project? It’s beautiful.
Your Holiness, forgive me, but above all else, allow me to be blunt. In Spain, they do not bow to your likeness, and murmur, “Your Holiness,” as the Italians do. In Spain, rather, you are known as the pope who has refused to lead his own Church in the great cause of our lifetime. You are the pope who has claimed poverty, but who still somehow manages to afford gold encrusted ceilings. You are the pope who has neglected to declare this war a Holy War, therefore condemning many of those who fight faithfully on the Catholic side to Hell. In Spain, they see your refusals, and your claims, and your neglect as evidence of possible Protestant sympathy.
In Spain, Your Holiness, they call you the Protestant Pope.
They have reason to be bitter, just as you, gentlemen, have reason to be afraid, for as we sit in these hallowed halls debating petty issues, thousands of faithful Catholics are being butchered. Catholic cities are being pillaged and burned. Formerly Catholic lands in Poland, Germany, Bohemia, and Livonia are now controlled by the Protestants. Even now armies gather north of the Alps. If the Protestant side should defeat the Catholic forces, they will have almost undisputed access to Italy. No one in this room need wonder which city they will set their eye on first. There is a chance that soon this ceiling will be blackened by fires set to Rome. The gold, of course, will be removed and used to fund the enemy’s cause. I am quite certain that it will feed a great many Protestant soldiers.
Squabbles over who will cast ballots for which faction will surely become obsolete when there is no Vatican left, no Rome, and no Church. Whether or not the Earth is spinning cannot possibly matter when compared to the Protestant threat marching upon it.
Your Holiness, I implore you; give us a leader all true Catholics can unite under, and prove to the world that the strength of the pope’s leadership is enough to quench even the fiercest enemies. Join Spain on the field of battle and rightfully declare this war a holy one. Tear down your gilded ceiling, for truly, gilded ceilings are for times of piece.
I wish to conclude, as is only proper, with a Bible quote, in hopes that we never forget who’s cause we are fighting for, and what we are fighting against: “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand” (Ephesians 6:10-13).

Things Get Better For Me

2011-04-16T13:38:00.001-07:00

Sorry sorry sorry. I know I'm a slacker. But pray believe me when I tell you (with one trustworthy hand on your shoulder) that this week has been a tough week for me.

I've laughed.

I've cried.

I've done both synonymously.

I wish I were joking about the synonymously.

I had three tests this week: American Literature, Art History, and German.

The first two went well, the third I didn't take because

I gave blood on Thursday evening

And then had a slight mental breakdown

And wasn't able to study for said German exam.

I don't know if mental breakdown is what I should call what I had, and I certainly don't like writing 'mental breakdown' because it makes me sound like some sort of basket case. But what else do you call it when you're in the middle of a doubles badminton game, and suddenly you start getting really stressed out and you begin to swing back and forth between laughing and crying?

(I'm usually not a very competitive person. Sure, I like to win, but I think it's incredibly rude and tacky to act rude and tacky when it comes to competitions. So I try to behave in a more dignified manner.)

But let me tell you, I was slightly freaking out during this game of badminton. Within the space of about 3 minutes I moodswung back and forth between laughing and almost sobbing about 5 times. I also seriously considered running over and yelling at people that I hardly knew for doing things that were hardly offensive to me. Then my trusty partner and I walked back to our room and I sat on my bed and cried for a good half hour.

And I don't think it had anything to do with the badminton. I'm going to blame this one on the blood loss and lack of sleep and test stress.

Things have gotten better, though. Last night our friend Ben came up from the cities, and we all went to the on-campus Rooney concert together. I decided after the concert that the kind of music Rooney makes just isn't to my taste, but that it was fun nonetheless. Live concerts usually are.

After the concert, Ben, Maddie, and I settled down in our room with some snacks and Ben's old (and terrible) horror movies and watched and ate until we fell asleep.

This morning was the Prairie Cup, which is a Ground Quidditch tournament. UMM played the U of MN Twin Cities team. It was so cold on the bleachers, but so worth it to watch a cross country runner in gold spandex act as the snitch and run all over campus evading the two seekers. It was so worth it to watch the chasers and beaters and keepers get mud-splattered as they knocked each other around in Indy Lake (which isn't really a lake-more like a large hollow that they flood in the winter for broomball). It was so worth it to hear the announcers announce "prospies!" and then to turn around and cheer at the tour groups as they walked by. I'm certain that if I had been touring a college campus and had seen a game of Quidditch going on, I would have chosen that college on the spot.

P.S. We got 2 inches of snow last night (Friday, April 15th). On Monday, April 11th, it was 70 degrees out. Huh.

Laundry Blues

2011-04-09T18:52:00.000-07:00

I hate doing laundry.
I hate walking down 8 flights of stairs to do it, I hate bumping into people on the way, and I hate walking back up again only to walk back down again 38 minutes later to throw my clothes into the dryer.
I hate that people will dump your clothes if you are even 5 minutes late to get them.
I hate that I always spill a bit of detergent, and that when I try to clean it up (because there's a sign saying you have to and because it's Lent and my religion teacher at St. John's taught us that Lent is the season for random acts of kindness. Or was it Advent?) it's slimy and gets on my hands and then I smell like mountain spring for the rest of the week.
I hate that when I want to hang up some clothes in our room, the only place for the drying rack is in the middle of everything, and that I can hardly move without tripping over said drying rack.
I hate that the only thing I have to say on a Saturday night is how much I hate doing laundry.

When I'm out in the real world, and looking for an apartment, please (I'm begging you) don't let me get one without an in-suite washer/dryer. I don't care if they're in a closet, I don't care if they're in my bedroom. Just no stairs.

P.S. Night 3 (final) of Jazz Fest is tonight. I decided not to volunteer after all, but while I was sitting on my bed just now making art history flashcards, I thought it would be nice to listen to UMM's campus radio station's live broadcast of Jazz Fest. I turned to the channel, and was horrified to discover that apparently "live broadcast" means that the DJ talks incessantly in the foreground while muted jazz plays in the background. I began yelling at said DJ. Loudly. I was cruel. I insulted him (and maybe his mother once or twice). So I'm sorry, DJ. This is my public (enough) apology. But next time, just play the jazz, please.

That Jazz

2011-04-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

It's a rather nice day out. Windy as always, but otherwise warm. There are only a few patches of snow left around campus, namely the shrunken remains of an igloo on the Mall.

Jazz Fest has been going on since yesterday evening, so as I sit on my bed and type, I hear snatches of saxophone or trumpet or trombone shriek from the direction of the Student Center. I'll be volunteering at tonight's portion of Jazz Fest, and a bunch of us will be wearing "Thank you Bob and Susan" buttons in honor of U of MN president Bob Bruininks, who is also attending tonight. He's retiring this year after having served the University well for a long time.

I also found out today that I got reelected as a Campus Assembly Representative for UMM's student government.
What's really amazing, though, is that the team who won the presidential/vice presidential race only beat the other team by 4 VOTES. Can you believe it? 804 people voted (out of the 1700 students at UMM, which is actually a really high percentage), and it was that close. It's also funny to think that there's a random person walking around campus right now who didn't vote, but if he would have voted, would have voted for the team that ended up losing. That person is 1/4 of the reason why that team lost. Well, sort of. This is me trying to do statistic stuff. Please don't laugh.

I guess my point is that the next time I hear someone say "What's the point of voting? My vote doesn't make a difference!" I'll get right up in their face and laugh. And then I'll tell them the story I just told you.

In other news, I won the Read-a-Thon this year. I think I've explained it in the past, but basically one of my friends and I record all the books we read in one year, and then get together and see who read the most. We also have sub-categories: number of classics read (we debate this), pages read, average length of books read, books read that haven't been read previously, etc.
Here are my stats for April 1st 2010-April 1st 2011:
88 Books (which was exactly my goal)
27,183 pages
308.8 pages per book average
36 new books (I know-this could be higher. I love rereading my old favorites, though)
16 classics (Dracula, A Passage to India, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Fahrenheit 451, Jane Eyre, This Side of Paradise, Memoirs of a Sleep Walker, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Utopia, Rip Van Winkle, Atonement, King Lear, The Hidden Hand, The House of Seven Gables, Franny and Zooey, The Bell Jar)

What's more is that I do so much reading every day for classes that doesn't get recorded anywhere; I'm constantly reading articles, short stories, poems, passages, essays, etc.

Well I think that's all I have. Sorry if this post has been a little sporadic, but it's been such a busy week that I didn't have the energy to do anything fancy or cohesive.

Tschüss!

Broken Glass

2011-04-02T22:57:00.000-07:00

What does broken glass mean?
Is it the beginning of something, or is it the ending?
I’m sure I don’t know.
I only know that it was a cappuccino bottle that broke, one of those little ones that come in six packs like they’re beers.
I didn’t even notice the bottle until it fell from a desk in the middle of lecture,
Sending crystal shards tumbling to all corners of the room.
The prof stopped speaking, which surprised me;
I’ve seen them push through cell phone rings
Through whispering
Through endless coughing fits
The broken glass did it, though.
Again, what does that mean?

Jon was up in a minute, slouch left at his desk,
Keeping his place in his open anthology.
He began to pluck dripping pieces of glass from the tile with his fingertips,
Crouching in front of the prof,
Who I think was trying to make a joke.

The girl who spilled was out the door by then.
I didn’t realize until later that she had cut her hand on a piece of her own former bottle.
Which might be ironic.

Something about the way Jon knelt and gingerly picked shining shards from their caffeinated graves
Made me jump up and offer to fetch a broom.
Will mumbled something about checking the Humanities Lounge
But I didn’t waste any time.
The lady in the Division Office showed me the janitor’s closet, and handed me broom and dustpan.
She was very kind.

Prof still wasn’t lecturing, which was still strange, but I supposed
That it would have been more awkward to sweep through American Indian Writers,
To scrape glass to the beat of Sherman Alexie.
I read a book once with a heroine who didn’t know how to sweep.
She had to be taught, and of course it was pretty romantic, because the boy who taught her was in love with her.
But how funny to not know how to sweep.
I’ve always hated it because you can never get all the dust
Or all the glass.
No matter how hard you try, there will be a line of dirt left when you are done
Particles too fine to be flipped into the dustpan.

Today I see no glass glittering in the corners.
Jon’s back in his seat,
And I’m back in mine,
And the prof is speaking again.
And all I can think is how strange of a morning that morning was,
And how it certainly must mean something.
But for all the drafts I’ve made of this narrative,
For all the deep romance and tragedy I’ve tried to pull from it,
I can’t decide if it’s only beginning to mean something because I want it to
Or if it was nothing from the beginning.

I'll Miss Things

2011-03-30T18:04:00.001-07:00

Gosh, I love it here.

Have you gotten that impression yet?

Why would I ever want to leave?

Grammar and Language is being offered this fall. I want to take Grammar and Language.

A ballet version of Cinderella is coming this fall. I want to see Cinderella.

MCSA secretaries are being appointed this fall. I want to be a secretary.

Rocky Horror Picture Show is being shown (as per tradition) in Edson this fall. I want to see Rocky; this year will be my first year actually understanding what's going on.

I have friends that I'll miss.

I have family I'll miss.

I have professors I'll miss.

I have three jobs that I'll miss.

Sometimes (as you may have guessed), I don't know if I want to go away to Salzburg this fall. I know it's a great opportunity, and that I've wanted to travel my entire life, and that part of the reason I came to UMM in the first place was because they have such a good study abroad program, but still. I guess I'm a little scared. Not of Austria, but of leaving Minnesota. Is that crazy?

Julie seems to think so.

Mine Does

2011-03-28T21:57:00.001-07:00

What kind of university lets a group of students sit in a room for five and a half hours
and decide which pieces of technology are worthy of being invested in?

What kind of university gives said students more than $200,000 to invest?

Mine does.

Drag Show

2011-03-25T21:43:00.001-07:00

I ask you:
How many of you spend four and a half hours in tech fee hearings
(and while it is great that students get so much power,
allocating 150,000 dollars and all)
and by the end feel tired enough to drop?
Then comes a shoulder tap
From behind left,
where Elizabeth sits.
Keep your chin up, Holly, she says,
and I smile and say I'll try
and I do,
perhaps mostly because someone noticed my chin was drooping
and that makes all the difference.
I ask you:
Have you ever exited such a stuffy, four and a half hour room
and gone to E-Quality's Annual Drag Show?
Probably not.
I didn't know what to think
when I first entered Edson Auditorium, past a boy in my German class
who was suddenly transformed into
a convincing woman
with red bra, red lipstick, and taffy blonde hair.
The whole campus (practically) was there in that auditorium,
and the majority was in drag
and crazy because when you're dressed up you can do anything
walk walk fashion baby work it move that thing crazy
act after act after act
boys and girls dressed up like girls and boys
lip syncing to songs that made the audience gasp and shriek and laugh
and run up with dollar bills to shove down the performers' shirts
or in their pockets
(because that's what you were supposed to do)
(it was part of the fun)
the judging was two staff members two professors
(one of whom is my dignified advisor)
and our very own Chancellor.
And throughout the crowd was pulsing with excitement
young and alive and wonderful
because sometimes people die,
but not tonight.
There was a joke an MC told:
today was admitted student day, and he said that it was fun
to watch the faces of the admitted students
(and their parents)
as they walked past the table advertising the Drag Show.
We all roared with laughter at that
Because they'll find out soon enough
That UMM is a pulsing campus
That attends Drag Shows
and pulls your chin back up from your chest
when it falls.
Where else can you get that, I ask you.

North Face

2011-03-21T11:11:00.001-07:00

We finished the movie "North Face" today in German class.

It was about a group of climbers attempting to be the first people to scale the north face of the Eiger (a mountain in the Bernese Alps).

I guess I thought, after all the struggle, after all the frostbite and avalanches, that there would be at least a small happy ending.

But, without giving too much away, I have to tell you that there isn't.

That's what happens when you make movies based off of real life; things don't always end well.

Sometimes people die.

I walked back from class feeling sad, and I am still feeling sad. And I don't think it's because people died, exactly. It's because they tried so hard not to die, but they did anyway. The ogre that the mountain is named after managed to eat them up while they were still attached to their ropes, while they still clutched rocks.

I sat in my German class today, staring at a movie projected on a shiny whiteboard and wondered why in the world anyone would ever try to climb a mountain. People die on mountains. And not just throughout history. Not just back in the day. People die on mountains now, despite technology and despite global warming. Why would anyone risk that? Why would anyone risk their life to stand on the top of a gigantic mound of rock for a few seconds (because of course any longer and you suffocate for lack of oxygen)? I think I need someone to explain this to me sometime. I also think that maybe deep down I know the reason, but I just don't understand it. I sit on my bed and read books about mountains and I feel no desire to climb one. And I don't think that limits me. I don't feel any desire to fight against the elements. My battles are mainly mental, which is all right too.

Sometimes people die on mountains, and sometimes people die peacefully in their beds. But I wouldn't say that mountaineers have necessarily had any greater of a journey than those who die in bed. Maybe higher journeys, though.

"When you're at the bottom - Toni once told me - at the foot of the wall, and you look up, you ask yourself: How can anyone climb that? Why would anyone even want to? But hours later when you're at the top looking down, you've forgotten everything. Except the one person you promised you would come back to." -North Face (2008)

In Which Holly Gets Off The Couch

2011-03-15T14:40:00.000-07:00

I haven't done much today.

Actually, I haven't really done anything all week. Well, that's not true. Yesterday Mom and I went to the Apple Store so I could get my computer's battery replaced. Once that was done, we walked through Macy's on our way out to the parking lot. Darn Macy's! I knew there was a reason why I hate department stores!

I dropped my laptop in Macy's.

And even though it was in its case, the bottom right corner of the screen got bent, so that whenever I try to close my laptop, the bent corner scratches the corresponding corner of the base.

So tomorrow I get to bring Mac back in to the Apple Store for another repair.

Anyway, I haven't done much today.

Amy's working on sewing her prom dress (long story), Mom's grading middle school science fair projects (she has the same spring break as me), and Dad's at work...working.

As for me, I've been lying on the couch all day reading the Duggar's book (how I love that family) and petting the dog, who has finally gotten over her traditional 2-day aversion to me (happens every time I come home on a break from school).

To make up for my lack of productivity, then, I volunteered to make dinner. Now, this isn't really such a big deal. I'm not one of those kids who has never had to make dinner in her life. On the contrary, one year both my parents had to work extra late, so guess who had to cook every night? Plus, I watch the Food Network religiously. Plus, I actually LIKE to cook.

But still, you just never know how things are going to turn out.

So here goes-Pizza Margherita, courtesy of Emeril Lagasse. It's nice to be off that couch.

Lenten Resolution Revealed (among other things)

2011-03-08T08:31:00.000-08:00

This morning I sat in Turtle Mountain Cafe, reading Langston Hughes, eating my breakfast yogurt, and sipping a hot chocolate that would have tasted better had I not witnessed the worker making it. She dumped a few scoops of powder into hot water and stirred it around. No whipped cream or anything. So much for Fat Tuesday.

I'm giving up chocolate for Lent (and any admiration for my sacrifice is much appreciated-I think chocolate is probably the hardest thing I can possibly give up, save reading, which would not even be realistic), so I thought I'd better get as much in as I can while I can. Will eat a Kit Kat later as well.

I've also been dreaming of Spring Break. 1 exam, 1 four page paper, and 3 days are all that stand between me and home.

Me in Six Months

2011-03-06T23:28:00.000-08:00

It's late here-about 1:30 a.m. I've been trying to fall asleep for the past hour and a half, and since it's proving impossible (I blame a weekend of sleeping in until 11), I thought I'd share what I've been thinking about all night.

Austria.

No, I haven't finished the application yet. It requires a surprising amount of running from campus office to campus office searching for information. It requires a 1000 word essay on the topic of "My Life Story." Now, I'm not one to shirk when it comes to writing about myself, but this topic has me stumped. I haven't decided what the tone of the thing should be, nor how much detail I should include. Also, I wonder if I can skip over writing about middle school? Those were dark days.

Anyway, what I've really been thinking about is how I'm finally ready to go. I absolutely love being on campus (and being in America, for that matter), and I know it'll be hard to leave when the time comes, but I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready for a change.

It seems like every time I close my eyes nowadays, I picture myself strolling the streets of Salzburg with a friend I haven't met yet. I picture myself ordering spinach (not noodles!) IN GERMAN at some restaurant I don't know the name of yet. And yes, I picture myself spinning, arms outstretched, on top of a beautiful mountain. Julie Andrews style.

Just think: in about 6 months, I could very well be here:

Friday Doings

2011-03-04T11:27:00.000-08:00

Not that my day has been particularly earth-shattering (so far), but if you've been wondering what exactly occurs in my daily life that leads me to post the way I do, here you go:

7:11 a.m. (for some reason whenever I wake up during the night or early in the morning before going back to sleep, I always remember the exact time I woke up, down to the minute. Weird.) Woke up coughing (that's right, The Cold still lives.), bobbed head up to gulp water and check clock. Bobbed head back down and feel back to sleep.

8:00 a.m. My alarm went off. Time to get up for real. Did I? Nope.

8:49 a.m. Woke up again. Bobbed head up to see that The Roommate was dressed and reaching for her backpack. She has class at 9:15 as well. Gave shriek of horror, then jumped out of bed and rushed around getting dressed. For the first time in about a year I didn't have time to put mascara on (sad, I know).

9:05 a.m. Left dorm with The Roommate, heading to class. It was snowing outside, which for some reason disoriented me. Isn't March supposed to mean spring? Or is this just the lion end?

9:15 a.m. American Literature II began. We discussed George Chesnutt's "The Goophered Grapevine." I liked the story all right, but I don't think it's something I could write a 4 page paper on. Unfortunately, I have no choice, as I've procrastinated on the required paper all semester.

10:20 a.m. Class ended. I walked back to my dorm via The Student Center because it's warm and because I like to see what's going on.

10:25 a.m. Back in room. Folded/hung up laundry from last night. The wrinkles, I suppose, are my own fault.

11:14 a.m. Walked with The Roommate to lunch. Ate with Katie, Evan, Mariah, Aaron, Tim and King. I had fish, a salad, and a cookie, in case you were wondering.

11:35 a.m. Headed to class.

11:45 a.m. Beginning German II began. We had a test on Wednesday, so we started a new unit today. Said new unit is all about food and drink, apparently, which should be interesting. I embarrassed myself considerably by shouting out "Spinach!!" when the professor asked what the green blob in the picture was. It wasn't spinach. It was noodles. Hmph. Looked like spinach.

12:50 p.m. Deutsch over, walked back to dorm with Aaron (a different Aaron from the one I ate lunch with).

1:00 p.m. Chatted with The Roommate a little bit before plopping down on my bed with Mac. Went through my bookmarks bar, as I do a few times every day. Here's the order: Facebook, UMM email, Apple movie trailers, IMDB, The Pioneer Woman, 4 or so other random blogs I follow, and a quote-of-the-day website. I usually try to check BBC and Huffington Post as well, but didn't feel like it today. Then, of course, I came to my own blog. Hi.

Some Advice From Mr. Lincoln

2011-03-03T14:23:00.001-08:00

My favorite quote of all time (and this is difficult, because I adore quotes) is from Abraham Lincoln: "When you look for the worst in mankind, expecting to find it, you surely will."

It's also from Pollyanna, but I don't tell people that.

I was thinking about this quote today as I was puttering around my room attempting to clear away used Kleenex and blobs of NyQuil. I was thinking that it's very easy to notice something about another person, a negative quality, or a habit you don't like, and then to become completely consumed by it. Suddenly, whenever you're around that person, all you can think about is that one thing (selfishness, bragging, mouth breathing, etc.). Everything they do somehow lines up into your established perception of them. It's almost astounding how wrapped up in prejudice you can become. Soon you can hardly bear to be in their presence. They have absolutely nothing more to offer you besides that bad thing.

I've lost a few friends to this horrific spiral, and it wasn't until afterward that I realized what had happened. Sure, that one quality about them annoyed me. Sure, it made me not want to be friends with them so much. But was it really them, or was it just me? If I had simply forced myself to step back and look at the big picture, would I have seen something different?

Mr. Lincoln would probably say yes. Actually, I think he would first fix me with one of those x-ray, I-saved-the-United-States-now-what-the-heck-are-you-doing-with-YOUR-life stares that make you feel wretchedly petty, and then he would quirk one bushy eyebrow. And that would mean yes.

Sometimes People Die

2011-03-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

Because The Cold has suddenly morphed into something much more sinister, and because said sinister sickness has a severe sucking effect on my ability to craft cleverly creative posts (although it apparently has no impact on my annoying alliteration), I'm just going to give you a conversation that I heard a few weeks ago in American Literature:

C: (slow, 9:15 a.m. voice) "So last night, I had just gotten done reading Grass (Carl Sandburg), and I found out my Grandma died."
T: (stupidly, because how do you react to such news?) "Really? Oh I'm sorry!"
C: "It's okay...sometimes people die."

Sometimes people die.

Sometimes people die of trifling colds that have them prostrate with fever one day and shaking with coughs the next. Sometimes people die of endlessly blogging instead of studying for American Lit tests they have tomorrow. Or German tests they have tomorrow as well. Sometimes people die of excitement for Spring Break, or of delight found in a certain Plathy book, or even of hyperbole. Sometimes people die from holding grudges too long (I think they explode), or from indecision regarding what to give up for Lent. Sometimes people die of curiosity about death (or do they really die from the irony of it all?). Sometimes people die when vengeful blog readers get fed up with absurdly awesome alliteration.

It happens.

Stage 2

2011-02-25T11:22:00.000-08:00

Currently in Stage 2 of The Cold. I get The Cold a few times every year. I'm convinced it's the exact same virus, because I've actually tracked the stages, and they have nearly identical symptoms every time. Stage 2 is a throat that aches whenever I swallow, but that still feels moist (no dry cough or anything).

I hate Stage 2.

I also hate trying to finish a paper during Stage 2.

I also hate that it's my friend's birthday celebration tonight, and I'm left with only two options:
a) Go, but go as a shadow of my normal self. Sit in corner silently whining about sore throat and be miserable.
b) Stay in bed, read/sleep/watch a movie and be way more comfortable, but still miserable.

The Cold strikes again.

Capital, Capital

2011-02-22T16:20:00.001-08:00

Today was the Rally to Restore Affordability at the Minnesota State Capitol Building in St. Paul.

It was a long bus ride

But worth it to see this

And this (inside of the Capitol Building)

We went exploring in the bowels of the Capitol and found...

Jesse Ventura!!

Look at all that green! (Those were our UMM shirts-we had 99 people come, which is way more people than any of the other (bigger) U of MN campuses had)

Later on came the speakers. Here's Governor Mark Dayton (who I was within a few feet of)

And our very own Josh Preston (who blew all the other speakers out of the water)

I tried out the benches around the Rotunda (not so comfortable)

Me and the capital Capitol

Weekend Hints

2011-02-21T09:03:00.001-08:00

Here are a couple of hints as to what I did with the rest of my weekend. Also, please forgive any poor photography. I apparently need to delve a little deeper into a certain new camera manual:

Any guesses?

Okay.

1. Mad and I rearranged our room, which not only helped in the I-have-a-six-page-paper-to-write-but-i-don't-wanna department, but also turned up a few surprises:

Like my Vaseline, which I've been searching for ever since the hand-drying, knuckle-splitting wind arrived in Morris this winter. Grossed out by the dust/hair/crumb combo surrounding the jar? So was I. We swept the floor when we were finished moving, I promise.

2. It snowed. And snowed. And kept snowing (actually it's still going). If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say that we've gotten a good 14 inches since yesterday morning. With so much snow in such a short period of time, you would expect school to be closed. All the other U of MN campuses were. But not Morris. Apparently we're made of stronger stuff out here (or at least the higher-ups are, because I certainly wasn't keen on getting up for my 9:15).

3. I scraped a good hunk of skin off my second finger this morning. Still half asleep, I flung my arm out and it hit our popcorn-studded wall. Too tired to even look at the injury, I simply let my hand dangle out of the covers where it wouldn't bloody any sheets, and continued to doze. Unfortunately, this isn't the first time the wall and my hand have come to blows.

A Prairie Home Companion

2011-02-20T10:38:00.000-08:00

I bought my ticket to A Prairie Home Companion (recording live from University of Minnesota, Morris) months ago, practically the instant tickets were available. Despite this, when an email was sent out to all UMM students calling for volunteers to usher at the show, I jumped on that as well. Ushers got a free ticket, which made my previous purchase unnecessary, but I couldn't help but hope that as an usher who would be in the gym hours early, I would get a chance to meet Garrison Keillor himself.

So on Saturday I sold my ticket to my friend Aaron at half price, pulled on my dorky UMM polo, grabbed my camera, and marched over to the PE center.

Upon arriving, I was first of all surprised at how many ushers there were. There were roughly 30 people (faculty, staff, and students alike) congregated in the main lobby of the RFC. Right off the bat we were given flashlights to shake up (go green), lanyards with ID badges, and emergency briefings to read.

Then a man who was part of the PHC crew, came over to talk to us about expectations. Overall, I was impressed by how laid back the show was going to be. Obviously it's live, so babies couldn't be screaming and bleachers couldn't be squeaking during the quieter parts of the show, but other than that, it seemed like almost anything was okay. People could come and go as they pleased (except during aforementioned quiet parts), food and drink were perfectly fine, as were photography and recording (minus flash). As the man put it (although I admit I found this part to be kind of presumptuous): "The people who come to see the show think that Garrison is their friend, and that they've been invited tonight by him specifically. As such, his audience members need to be treated with respect and sensitivity."

After someone else gave us the lowdown on what to do in case of an emergency, Wendy (one of the organizers) began listing off different usher positions and asking for a certain number of people to cover each position. I held off for a long time before volunteering, wanting to be down on the floor (as close to the stage as possible). When Wendy came to the reserved handicapped section, and asked for two volunteers to accommodate people there, my hand shot up. That section just had to be up front, right?

Turns out it wasn't. It was on the floor instead of up on the bleachers, sure, but it was in the very back left corner of the floor seating. Fortunately, I forgot to be disappointed, because as soon as I walked out into the gym, I realized that Garrison and the rest of the actors and musicians were already there warming up.

Imagine walking into a gym and hearing Garrison Keillor's voice and realizing that you're not listening to a radio someone had left on, that instead, the man himself is on the stage in jeans and bright red tennis shoes, and that the rest of the voices you've grown up hearing on long car rides back from the cabin are standing there beside him.

Once I got over being starstruck (it took me a few minutes, admittedly), I began marveling at the stage itself. It was set up in front of the other set of bleachers, and evidently the PHC people travelled with a semi truck, because they had brought with them 4 huge bars laden with stage lights, the stage itself, frames hung with black velvet curtains that served as "the wings," a huge piece of scenery made to look like a house (with awning and porch light and windows and everything), plus of course all the equipment, instruments, etc.

Since the volunteers had been asked to show up a good 2 hours before the general public was let in, we got to stand around and listen to the actors and musicians (and our UMM Concert Choir, which was featured on the show) warm up. I tried not to listen too hard, because I wanted to be interested enough to watch the real show later.

When 3:30 rolled around and the doors opened, people began to flood in. My job was to: a) point them to general admission seating b) point them to VIP seating c) point them to handicapped seating d) gently tell them that having a child in the choir does not guarantee front row seating e) point them to the restrooms f) point them to concessions g) reassure them that they would be able to get back in after using the restrooms or buying concessions h) give them extra programs.

Then at 5 the live show actually began and I got to sit down and enjoy it. I won't describe the entire synopsis, I'll only say that it was fantastic, and that I was pleasantly surprised by how much the PHC people emphasized Morris in the show. They had the choir perform (as I've said), they set many of the skits in Morris, they interviewed Matt (a Morris student on MCSA with me) about the campus, and they even sang a few songs about the town.

Here are some pictures from the show. I know they're slightly horrible, but as I've said, I've been struggling to figure out my new camera. Besides, it was dark and flashes weren't allowed.

Did I get to meet Garrison and the Gang after all that? Nope. They had to hurry out of town after the show in order to beat the snow (rhyme not intended).

Classes That Ruin Classics

2011-02-15T20:23:00.000-08:00

Another thing: Did you know that I've read the book Little Women once a year every year since I was in 3rd grade? That's right. I've read it roughly 11 times.

This time around, however, American Literature is slowly ruining it for me. Gosh darn it Civil War Era literary theories! Darn you all! I'll never read my darling Little Women in peace again.

Speech Revisited

2011-02-15T17:32:00.000-08:00

I was tabling for the Rally to Restore Affordability today, when Josh, who heads the committee responsible for organizing the event, asked me to give a speech at the Rally Before the Rally tonight.

Before I continue, here's some vocabulary for you:
Rally to Restore Affordability-An annual event that takes place at the MN Capital. Students from all U of MNs are bused in, and get a chance to not only listen to speeches given by their state congressmen and senators, but to actually speak to their legislators one on one. The goal is to let the Minnesota government know that U of MN students will not stand for budget cuts (which lead to higher tuition, cut programs, etc.).

Rally Before the Rally-Took place in Turtle Mountain Cafe at 6 p.m. tonight. The idea was to convince students (by informing them and prompting discussion about why we love UMM) to attend the Rally to Restore Affordability.

Anyway...

You remember that I was in Speech, right? And that I went to State my senior year? (I'm not bragging, I promise. These are informational points.)

Well let me just say that part of the reason I loved Speech (and did fairly well in it) was because I could PREPARE. I had time to research, to write, to memorize.

I am not a good impromptu speaker at all. Never have been, never will be.

So when Josh asked me if I would give a speech in 4 hours, when I realized that that entire 4 hours was already filled with class and work, I became very, very nervous. Luckily the Writing Room was slow enough that I had time to write some notes down, and even to practice a little bit.

Still, though, when I walked up to that podium I was shaking in my shoes. I started off, characteristically, by squeaking the microphone so loudly that everyone in the room screamed. Then I actually started to speak. I talked, firstly, about the basics of The Rally to Restore Affordability. The date, time, what it is, etc. Next, I decided to share my own experiences with the event. I talked about last year, when the event was cancelled because of a snowstorm, and I was secretly relieved because I was scared to death to meet my legislators. I talked about how I didn't feel that I, an ill-informed, hardly political English Major would have anything to say to them. Then I talked about this year, and how I've realized that The Rally is not about politics. The Rally is about students fighting for their U of MN experience. It's about us sharing with our legislators the things we value about our education, and asking them not to take those things away from us through budget cuts. It's not only our right to hold this Rally, it's our responsibility.

When I finished, I walked back to my seat and sat down to listen to the Chancellor.

After she finished speaking, I got with a group of strangers and we discussed the reasons why we had chosen to come to UMM.

After that, I helped to tear down posters, and move tables back into place.

After that, the Chancellor of UMM (whom I've never met, but have always admired), came up to me and said that I had done a wonderful job with my speech, and that I was a great speaker. After that, Josh told me that I had wiped the floor with them (which I translated to mean good job). After that, Mike (president of MCSA) complimented me as well.

After that, I walked back to my dorm smiling.

I Carry Your Heart With Me

2011-02-14T19:39:00.000-08:00

A few things I've done today:

1. Took a German test (horrific. I was so tired last night, and the Nyquil was kicking in, and I just stopped caring about dative verbs. It happens, although I certainly hope I get my act together for the next test)

2. Walked to Subway with my roommate for dinner. The girl behind the counter was quite chatty: "You know Andrea broke up with her boyfriend of 2 months and she called in to say she couldn't work. When I broke up with my boyfriend of 2 and a half years I worked every single day!"

Can I just have my Italian BMT please?

3. Played intramural volleyball. We had an off night, which was really okay. The not so okay part was two members of our team being poor sports and huffing off the court afterwards like they wanted nothing to do with the rest of us. If there's anything I've learned playing sports, it's that any loss (or win) is a culmination of events. Bad serves, missed blocks, out-of-bounds spikes, etc. It's incredibly unfortunate when people choose to point fingers and dwell on individual plays.

4. Went to community council, which was interesting and fairly heated as usual. I spoke up against spending money on things like paint-your-own-piggy-banks and tie-dye-shirts, and was instead in favor of using our money for something more permanent, like lamps or chairs or a Blu-Ray player. I don't think I made a whole lot of friends at that meeting.

I guess this hasn't been a very Valentine-y post, but here's a Valentine-y poem I found to love things up a bit:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-E.E. Cummings (I Carry Your Heart With Me)

A Nerdy Reference

2011-02-13T10:15:00.000-08:00

Whenever we have an unseasonable thaw like this, I always think of The Chronicles of Narnia.
It's in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and because Aslan is back in Narnia, the White Witch's unending winter is slowly ending. The snow is melting, buds are pushing themselves out of tree branches, and the White Witch's slave-dwarf starts to peel off his coat: "It's soooo warm out!" he exclaims stupidly. Piercing glare from White Witch (if looks could kill...). The dwarf, chastened, skulks off away from the Witch: "I'll go and...check the sleigh," he says.

Yes, I think Aslan's definitely back in town.