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.
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
What a Letter Means
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.
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.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Two Stories
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).
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).
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Dreaded Writing Sample
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Just Like Elizabeth
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Salzburged
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.
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.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Can I Stay Wit You Please?
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
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
Thursday, September 8, 2011
You Say It's Your Birthday
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
This is What I have to Work With
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.)
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Variations on Treasure Island
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.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
I Need to Get Out of the Country
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
A Novel in Eleven Parts
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."
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."
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
She Saves the Big News For Last
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.
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.
Monday, July 4, 2011
This Year's Fourth of July
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.
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.
Friday, July 1, 2011
I Need Some Sleep, Part 3
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.
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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Dear Old Hemingway
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?
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?
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Me in Six Months
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:
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:
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Weekend Update
Here's what's going on with me right now:
1. I want to study abroad in Salzburg. I want to so very, very badly, but of course there are things to think about like money and credits. And money.
2. I went to talk to my advisor yesterday about me prospectively studying abroad, and how I was worried about the fact that I've never taken a journalism class (and probably won't ever at UMM, as it's not a major offered here). I wanted to know if I would have to go to graduate school to study journalism in order to proceed with my career. My advisor assured me that plenty of UMM English majors have gone on to be journalists, and that journalism school isn't really necessary unless I want extra credentials (which would be nice, but if I don't need them, why waste time and money?). Furthermore (and this is where things really got good) my advisor informed me that he had recently received an email from a UMM alum who is the editor of an Arizona newspaper. This editor was wondering if there were any English majors who would be interested in a job at his newspaper. And my advisor gave me his email address, saying that I should contact him, and ask him some of the questions I have about a career in journalism. Can you believe it? I mean, only at UMM can you walk into a prof's office, intending to ask a few questions, and come out with an email address that may lead to an actual job after graduation. A job, my friends! For an English major! My Dad will be so proud.
3. So far the New Year's work out resolution is going swimmingly. My quad has healed (with the help of intense icing (with ice, not with frosting), and my roommate and I have been at the gym almost every single day since Spring Semester began. On Thursday, we went to the first meeting of the newly-formed Pickleball Club. I haven't played Pickleball since middle school gym class, so I struggled a bit at first, but it got easier after a while. The funniest thing was that the club president was standing behind Maddie and I as we played against two other people, and he kept pulling me aside to say things like: "Are you a tennis player or something? Because, no offense, but you just missed the ball by a good two feet." Well, thanks. Thanks very much. And no, I'm not a tennis player. I was simply having some hand-eye-coordination problems. Happens to the best of us.
4. This week I've been watching (whenever I get a chance) the A&E (BBC) version of Pride and Prejudice. You know, the one with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth? I used to think that I infinitely preferred the newer, Keira Knightley P and P, but now I'm not so sure. I think I love them both for different reasons. The A&E is longer, so I think it develops the story a lot better, and gives us time to really get to know the characters. It's also way funnier. I just about die laughing whenever Mary opens her mouth. The Keira version, however, is a lot richer. I think the locations are more authentic, and the filmmaking highlights the story beautifully. (Ex: that scene at the Netherfield Ball when Lizzie and Darcy dance for the first time, and everyone else suddenly disappears. I love that). As for the big Jennifer Ehle/Keira Knightley Elizabeth Bennet showdown? I don't know if I can choose one. Not being overly familiar with the book version of P and P (forgive me, but I have trouble reading Jane Austen unless I'm in a very specific state of mind. Otherwise I get bored), I can't say who is the most Elizabeth Bennet Elizabeth Bennet. They both play her so differently, but both performances in my opinion are equally effective. They both deserve Darcy when they finally get him, and vice versa. And that, I think, is the main point.
1. I want to study abroad in Salzburg. I want to so very, very badly, but of course there are things to think about like money and credits. And money.
2. I went to talk to my advisor yesterday about me prospectively studying abroad, and how I was worried about the fact that I've never taken a journalism class (and probably won't ever at UMM, as it's not a major offered here). I wanted to know if I would have to go to graduate school to study journalism in order to proceed with my career. My advisor assured me that plenty of UMM English majors have gone on to be journalists, and that journalism school isn't really necessary unless I want extra credentials (which would be nice, but if I don't need them, why waste time and money?). Furthermore (and this is where things really got good) my advisor informed me that he had recently received an email from a UMM alum who is the editor of an Arizona newspaper. This editor was wondering if there were any English majors who would be interested in a job at his newspaper. And my advisor gave me his email address, saying that I should contact him, and ask him some of the questions I have about a career in journalism. Can you believe it? I mean, only at UMM can you walk into a prof's office, intending to ask a few questions, and come out with an email address that may lead to an actual job after graduation. A job, my friends! For an English major! My Dad will be so proud.
3. So far the New Year's work out resolution is going swimmingly. My quad has healed (with the help of intense icing (with ice, not with frosting), and my roommate and I have been at the gym almost every single day since Spring Semester began. On Thursday, we went to the first meeting of the newly-formed Pickleball Club. I haven't played Pickleball since middle school gym class, so I struggled a bit at first, but it got easier after a while. The funniest thing was that the club president was standing behind Maddie and I as we played against two other people, and he kept pulling me aside to say things like: "Are you a tennis player or something? Because, no offense, but you just missed the ball by a good two feet." Well, thanks. Thanks very much. And no, I'm not a tennis player. I was simply having some hand-eye-coordination problems. Happens to the best of us.
4. This week I've been watching (whenever I get a chance) the A&E (BBC) version of Pride and Prejudice. You know, the one with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth? I used to think that I infinitely preferred the newer, Keira Knightley P and P, but now I'm not so sure. I think I love them both for different reasons. The A&E is longer, so I think it develops the story a lot better, and gives us time to really get to know the characters. It's also way funnier. I just about die laughing whenever Mary opens her mouth. The Keira version, however, is a lot richer. I think the locations are more authentic, and the filmmaking highlights the story beautifully. (Ex: that scene at the Netherfield Ball when Lizzie and Darcy dance for the first time, and everyone else suddenly disappears. I love that). As for the big Jennifer Ehle/Keira Knightley Elizabeth Bennet showdown? I don't know if I can choose one. Not being overly familiar with the book version of P and P (forgive me, but I have trouble reading Jane Austen unless I'm in a very specific state of mind. Otherwise I get bored), I can't say who is the most Elizabeth Bennet Elizabeth Bennet. They both play her so differently, but both performances in my opinion are equally effective. They both deserve Darcy when they finally get him, and vice versa. And that, I think, is the main point.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Pains, Classes, Plans
Honestly, I don't think I've ever ached so much in my entire life. My muscles seem to have aged about 50 years overnight. I can't roll over in bed without effort. Walking is done gingerly and very, very slowly. Stairs are nearly impossible. When limping around campus nowadays, it's not uncommon to hear cries of "gimpy!" aimed in my direction. Snowballs, too. I'm the Tiny Tim of Morris. I'm Terry in An Affair to Remember, only without the nice painting.
All my pain, humiliatingly enough, is not the result of a romantic accident or even a knife fight. Nope, it's the result of two hours in the RFC on Sunday playing volleyball, and an hour yesterday of playing badminton. Both activities might have turned out all right, but when I play sports, I tend to perform uncoordinated lunges and dives that stretch my body in ways it's probably not meant to be stretched. Three hours of acrobatics, I suppose, were bound to bring pain.
In other news, I'll give you a list of my spring classes:
American Literature 20th century and forward
Beginning German II
The Trial of Galileo (Honors)
Art History Renaissance to Modern
In other other news, I've recently begun planning for my Great Study Abroad Semester. I know I want to go somewhere where I can practice my German, and I obviously need to go somewhere where I can take courses that pertain to my major. The search is currently narrowed down to Austria and Germany, with Austria inching ahead. Salzburg especially is looking really good right now, probably because of my passionate devotion to The Sound of Music. Will keep you updated.
All my pain, humiliatingly enough, is not the result of a romantic accident or even a knife fight. Nope, it's the result of two hours in the RFC on Sunday playing volleyball, and an hour yesterday of playing badminton. Both activities might have turned out all right, but when I play sports, I tend to perform uncoordinated lunges and dives that stretch my body in ways it's probably not meant to be stretched. Three hours of acrobatics, I suppose, were bound to bring pain.
In other news, I'll give you a list of my spring classes:
American Literature 20th century and forward
Beginning German II
The Trial of Galileo (Honors)
Art History Renaissance to Modern
In other other news, I've recently begun planning for my Great Study Abroad Semester. I know I want to go somewhere where I can practice my German, and I obviously need to go somewhere where I can take courses that pertain to my major. The search is currently narrowed down to Austria and Germany, with Austria inching ahead. Salzburg especially is looking really good right now, probably because of my passionate devotion to The Sound of Music. Will keep you updated.
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