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.

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.

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.

In Which I Do the Unprecedented

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

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

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

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

Jens and Jutta

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

Anatomy of a Novel

I think there's a novel in me somewhere. I'm not sure how it got there exactly. I mean, both of my parents are science-y, math-y people. Even my sister mostly dislikes English, although she is a far more dedicated journaler than I.

Maybe the novel nestled up against my rib cage, crushing my left lung a tad, is just buildup. You know, a bunch of leftovers mashed together into a convenient manuscript shape. A bit of This Side of Paradise here, some Harry Potter over there...and I think I can also feel pieces from some of the books I was forced to read: Nathaniel Hawthorne and Ralph Ellison are represented in that part.

Unfortunately, however, this inner Nobel winner of mine is not easily accessible. Sometimes when I'm in the shower or driving or sleeping or staring dumbly out of a window I get flashes of it, but they're never much. A conversation, maybe, or a glimpse of some character's face. They never seem to fit together, these flashes of mine. Most of the time I don't even write them down. I just continue to carry them with me, hoping for more.

Someday, I hope, my slowly emerging novel will be solid and promising on the table in front of me. I will be able to open the cover and smile at the dedication (because arrogant and sappy as I am, I already know who's name will be there). One day I will be at a Barnes and Noble, trying my best not to dash over to the fiction section and browse, and I will be signing copies of my book, handing them shyly back to people I have never met in my life. I will live in New York City (although I'll secretly miss Minnesota terribly), and I will dance (badly, because that's the only way I know how to dance) on Youtube with Libba Bray and John Green and Scott Westerfeld. And someday, when I'm old, and have written many many books, all of them precious to me, I will look a young, ambitious reporter full in the face, and answer a question. "My first novel was my most precious. Because I carried it around next to my heart*** for twenty years."

For now, though, I'll continue to blog. I'll continue to labor into the wee hours over papers whose topics I don't especially care about. I'll devour other people's stories in hopes that they will stick and become part of my own.

Someday, though (and it'll probably take a nasty case of hiccups), I will pour this entire novel onto paper (because it's so very uneloquent to say 'word document'). And I'll dance on Youtube with Libba Bray to celebrate.

Believe it.


***Don't worry, I Googled it: the heart is actually between the lungs. And the left lung, actually, is on the left side of your body if you look down at yourself. There! I did get a partial science gene after all!

How Not to Be an Adult

It's been a while, I know. In my defense, my 17 credits, 3 jobs, multiple extracurricular activities, and tendency to volunteer for additional fun-sounding things have suddenly caught up with me. I don't have a single day for about three weeks straight where I have nothing going on. It's ridiculous, but it's fun too; I'm meeting lots of new people, and really learning a lot about campus. It's quite nice to know the nuts and bolts of things going on around here.

You should know that I had a great plan for this post. While I was doing the reading for my honors class, I actually wrote some notes to be eventually pieced together into a cohesive entry. Now, though, of course, I have an entirely different frame of mind and don't feel like I can write about Plato's musings tonight.

Instead, I'll tell you about a disturbing incident that occurred at a faculty Division Meeting today. I was taking minutes, a job that I don't think I'm particularly good at, as I tend to get so interested in the conversation that I forget to type, and generally basking (as always) in the presence of so many scholars. I know, I know; professors are just people. But they are kind of fascinating, aren't they? They look so normal, and yet they have devoted their lives to research, and the pursuit of knowledge. It's sort of intimidating, actually.

Anyway, we had gone through all the things on the agenda, and were wrapping things up (following Robert's rules, of course), when a certain professor launched an attack on the division head (i.e. my boss, who is absolutely wonderful). He was going on about how she had formed a committee and not consulted certain people about who would be on the committee. This prof. was completely implying that my boss had deliberately chosen certain people to be on the committee so that her views would be represented, rather than choosing people who would do the best job. More professors chimed in, agreeing with the first prof.

My boss (I'm avoiding names here, as you have probably noticed) explained patiently that she had consulted the department heads, and they had given her a list of people, and that she was merely asking those listed people to join. She said that the committee was by no means finalized, and that she was trying to get representation from all the departments in order to have multiple perspectives.

A lot more was said that I truthfully did not understand (not knowing the back story as the rest of the profs. no doubt did), but I just felt so bad for my boss. I could tell she was genuinely shocked and appalled that people would be angry about her actions, and had ranted over them behind her back (as they had clearly done).

I may not know the full history, and I may not have spent a whole lot of time with my boss, but I have a good feel for people, and right now I feel like she did not intend nor attempt half the things she was being accused of.

I walked out of that meeting feeling rather sad; it's a shame that learned people such as that group of profs. would act like that, and treat a fellow colleague like that. It even makes me angry that they chose to launch their accusations in a public forum, instead of first raising their concerns to my boss privately.

It's funny how when you're a kid you think that adults are perfect, and that they never behave immaturely or irrationally. It's funny how as you get older you realize that they have as many faults as you do, and that it is true that some 15-year-olds are more mature than some 50-year-olds.

Goodbye to Teenage Holly

Hello everyone.
I am writing from my last few hours of being a teenager.
Now I know that you're as old as you feel, and that I'm not going to wake up tomorrow feeling any different than I feel right now.
But still.
20 years old.
Holy cow.
That's old.

I'm ending something tomorrow that I began when I was 13 years old. When I was just a little 7th grader.
It seems funny that my teenage years have spanned that distance. In fact, at this point, I don't even know what constitutes being a teenager. Is it the awkwardness? The bad hair and clothes? The 'changes?' The moodiness?

I'm inclined to think that being a teenager means that you're sort of discovering yourself. You're seeking out your niche in the world, and then you're filling it as best you can. You're changing your mind a lot, and you're figuring out what you like and don't like. You're making friends and losing friends and deciding that you can live without certain friends. You're dating. Or not. You're deciding who you want to date. You're deciding who you want to be for the rest of your life.

Well, I've decided. I've found the person that I want to be, and I've found the niche she fits into. My next task, I suppose, is to actually step into her shoes. She's not so very different from myself, actually. She's just a bit nicer, a bit more thoughful, confident, outgoing, responsible, productive, and hard-working. She's the best version of myself. Now I just have to learn how to be her 24 hours a day. It's certainly going to be a challenge.

So happy birthday to me (if you'll allow that).
Here's to the adult I'll eventually grow into.
May she have as many awkward, funny, wonderfully blog-worthy moments as teenage Holly has been blessed with.

Catch you on the flip side.

Reasons Why I'm Happy (A List)

I'm happy today. Happier than I've been in a long time. Not that I'm not a happy person in general, but this kind of bouncy, fizzy, spontaneous, wonderful happiness only comes around every so often, only lasts for a limited time, and only occurs for the following reasons:

1. It's Friday, the beginning of Labor Day weekend. Hence, I have no classes until Tuesday AND therefore have a short week next week.

2. Along with some dorm mates, tonight I have chosen to rebel against the hit-but-most-often-miss Food Service and make the trek to China Buffet instead.

3. The weather outside is my very favorite kind of weather; windy, mid-60's, sunny, and Fallish.

4. I'm wearing a comfy purple plaid shirt. Sometimes your clothes just make your day, I think.

5. Tonight is free movie night on campus, and District 9 is showing. Not that that particular movie exactly fits my happy mood, but how can you go wrong with a free movie? (Actually, I lied. The free movie last year was G-Force. That was very, very wrong).

6. Tomorrow I'm driving down to St. Paul with some friends to shop at bookstores, to eat Cossetta's pizza, and to generally revel in the glory that is a big city.

7. I got my first birthday card today! I'm turning 20 in 5 days, you guys! It's really happening, and I'm actually okay with it. Not that there's anything I can do to prevent my aging anyway.

8. I had a good time in class today. Didn't embarrass myself in German I, spoke up a few times in American Lit., and learned a great deal despite it being Friday and beautiful.

Things I Want To Do

I will learn how to crochet.
Then, when I'm seventy years old or so, I will crochet afghans. I'll use whichever pattern and color I feel like using. But I won't make them for specific people. Only after each one is complete will I find a person to give it to. Anyone. The mail man, the teenager who bags my groceries, an old friend, my hairdresser. Anyone who I think needs an afghan at that time. Once I've given one away, I'll begin a new one.
Soon I'll know dozens of people, and a part of me will be a part of them, because they'll sleep and read and talk under the afghan I made.
Their lives will become mine.
Because when I'm seventy, I may still want to be a mail man, and a teenager who bags groceries, and an old friend, and a hairdresser.
But it will probably be enough to be an old lady who crochets.