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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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)

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.

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.

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."

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.

In Which a Nightmare Rights Some Wrongs

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

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

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

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

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

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

One and a Half Naps, and Then a Revelation

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

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

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

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

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

You're perfect.

I'm perfect.

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

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

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

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

A Character Sketch (With Comments)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Months in the 17th Century

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

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

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

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


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

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

Holly Movies

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Things Get Better For Me

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

I've laughed.

I've cried.

I've done both synonymously.

I wish I were joking about the synonymously.

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

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

I gave blood on Thursday evening

And then had a slight mental breakdown

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Which Holly Gets Off The Couch

I haven't done much today.

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

I dropped my laptop in Macy's.

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

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

Anyway, I haven't done much today.

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

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

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

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

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

Lenten Resolution Revealed (among other things)

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

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

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

Friday Doings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:35 a.m. Headed to class.

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

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

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