Thursday, December 29, 2011

Sentimentality

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

Sunday, December 25, 2011

A New Era

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.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Christmas Eve

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.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Welcome to Finals Week

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.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

December 8th, 2011

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.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Holly Gruntner's Aha Moment

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.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Ultimate

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, November 29, 2011

Tuesday Observations

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.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

It's Been Six Months

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



Ahem.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

The Year Without a Thanksgiving

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.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Reasons Why I'm a Goon

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.

Monday, November 21, 2011

We Meet Again

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.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Things That Make Me Happy, A Continuing Saga

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

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Sweet, Sweet Justification



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

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.

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).

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.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Things That Scare Me

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

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.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

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

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).

Saturday, October 8, 2011

In Which My Prodigal Claim is Proved False

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.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

A Package

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.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

In Which Kevin and Perry Force My Hand

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.

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.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Bear With Me

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

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

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.

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.)

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Poster Child

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.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

The Best Thing I Read This Summer

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.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

A Surprise

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.

Monday, August 29, 2011

In Which I Bring Back A Souvenir

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)



Monday, August 22, 2011

Holly Does Math

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.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

In Which I'm Still Working At Target

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.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

Each in His Own Tongue

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.

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.


Tuesday, August 9, 2011

I'm Very Sorry That It's True

***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.

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.

Monday, August 1, 2011

Free Movies

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.)

Saturday, July 30, 2011

The HemingWay




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

Thursday, July 28, 2011

I Went Running Today

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.

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."

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.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Today

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.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

What Humidity Does to People

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.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Important Parts of Last Night

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.

Monday, July 11, 2011

A Moral Dilemma and Something More Fun

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.)

Saturday, July 9, 2011

One Down On The Old Bucket List

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.

Friday, July 8, 2011

A Pretty Great Jacket

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.

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.

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.

A Literary Feud

“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.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The World is Coming to an End

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.

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?

Thursday, June 23, 2011

In Which A Trip to Half Price Books Straightens Me Out

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.

Monday, June 20, 2011

In Which I Don't Even Write

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