Oh, the places we will go.

Hey hey. Guess what? I'm done with Fall Semester 2011. No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher's high expectations draining the life from me.

I kind of dislike myself as I write this. As a kid, I loved school. Not like an unhealthy obsession with it or anything. I just liked the binders and notebooks filled with knowledgeable tidbits, reading assignments I could single-handily wipe out with pleasure, and all-in-all placing information where it belonged and making sense of things.  Academia always tickled my fancy. I shouldn't be the one sighing with relief over a finished semester. When did I stop enjoying my education?

These are the thoughts I ponder whilst I finally get to pick up a book out of enjoyment (George R.R. Martin's Song of Fire and Ice series. I recommend it to all.), go out to eat with friends, and generally just enjoy the next week of my life. Sure, I've still gotta work, but nothing says relaxation like splitting neurocytes at a leisurely pace.

My plan seems to be, around Christmas with the family and whatnot, to visit and enjoy these places while I still can. Dr. Seuss was such a man of wisdom.

- To the Cupcake station! Where I will stuff my face with as many delectables as I can before I hit a diabetic coma.

-Yost Ice Arena. I haven't been skating in ages, but I am fully and well prepared to make a fool of myself in the context of low friction.

-My bed. Too many a nap has been squandered in the past few months.

-Kilwin's Chocolates: A caramel apple is there with my name on it. Need I say more?

-Ann Arbor Massage School. It's no German sauna, but I'll be damned if a masseuse student rubbing my back in a Thai massage at a discounted price doesn't sound amazing.

I hesitate to add anymore to this list because I want to leave ample amounts of time to be used just for nothing. Vegging out in front of a television, waking up late, or just completely misusing my time against anything productive.

I'm getting happy tingles just thinking about it.

A Sign of Life

There have been expressed concerns of my personal well-being from family and friends. I suppose blogs aren't just for personal stress relief anymore but for my lack of social networking skills, it's also to inform others that I haven't quite slipped into a stress-induced coma. (Close, but not quite.)

Well, good news. I only have another two weeks and this mind-numbing semester is over. High-fives all around! That should mean the end of this whiny tale, so you should all be thankful, too. Maybe something crazy dramatic will happen over Christmas break.
Maybe I'll finally get a new pair of shoes.
Or a FlipFold. The possibilities are endless.

My week in Pictures

See, it started off well with one of the best dinners I've had in ages. Wild mushroom crepes and a caprese salad. Oh, and that donut in the background? Really one of the biggest and most awesome onion rings I've ever experienced. Excuse me while I wipe the drool from my keyboard.

 Here's where I sit now.



And my week was going so well...

Happy December!

When did this happen? Wasn't Thankgiving like, a millisecond ago?

Please someone put me out of my misery of this semester and the work load it has induced. Just take me out back and put me down.

Why did I want to go to college again?

You Can't Handle An Update!

If anyone is still waiting for me to post, I thank you. You're dedication is incredible. Even I wasn't sure if I'd ever come back. It'd seemed as though for a while there I'd died amongst a pile of homework and lab reports but here I am, no worse for wear if we all just disregard a lot of paper cuts. I think Thanksgiving got thrown into this time period, too. But for the most part there isn't much noteworthy there.

Here's a taste of my life as of late: I just got back from work after a full day of classes. Woohoo! Lay down, do some homework, eat some food, maybe, if I get crazy. Checking e-mail. Bad idea. Guess who wants me to run back into work via snow storm?

I took the news like a champ.

I stomped into boots, refused to change back out of my pajamas, stuck in headphones and started to sing anything that came on, regardless if I knew the words or not, and threw snowballs at passing cars.

I am an adult.

---
Seriously, I have nothing else to write about.

Here's a picture of a kitten to make up for it.

Once I had Ideas...

But they're all gone now.

I can't even recount my last week or two. It's been a blur of exams, studying, homework, and job. Mostly job. Can anyone else say that they are sick of coming home smelling like latex and ethanol? I really hope not, because it's kind of horrendous. Especially when you walk in smelling like skunk already.

My schedule has completely sapped all of my post ideas I had built up. Here's a list instead:


::I had my annual meeting with my scholarship sponsor (What? You guys all thought I was rich enough to attend University of Michigan on my OWN? Ha!) He's a cool guy, you may have heard of him. He owns the New York Mets. Name dropping aside, there's always a bit of perspective given when I look around the luncheon and see all the other students just becoming doctors and physists and whatnot. Seemlessly. Oh wait, you're just an Environmental Psychology major? Oh, AND German? ...How...beneficial to society.


::I haven't failed too many exams yet. Woohoo!


:: There's HOW many weeks left until Christmas?!?


:: I am so very very tired.

Apologies for my really cruddy writing. I promise to whip up something better when I have the energy. But right now I have four subjects of homework all screaming my name.

Eau de Skunk

You know the stinky kid? The one you sat next to in school but were too nice to tell them to shower so you gave them subtle gifts like scented shower gel and gum. If you don't know which kid I'm referring to, then you were that kid in school.
Every school has a stinky kid.
Fact.

 I am that stinky kid now.

And it stinks.

Waking up early this morning to a dog digging around in our trash bins outside my window did not rate high on my list of things to do, yet there it is. The owners came running not far behind telling "Kelly" to stop and get away from there. Next second skunkness was all I could taste. Not even smell, but taste, it was so strong. I just assume that mischevious Kelly got into it with one outside my window. Silly Kelly. I put my blankets over my head and tried to get back to sleep.

This morning the entire apartment reaks. My sheets, towels, clothes, and jacket are all permeated with skunk smell. Walking into the hallway it just gets worse but funnily enough outside you don't smell anything. I think the skunk went down under the foundation of the house.
And died.
Below my bedroom.
Showering doesn't make a difference because, well for one thing, when has a shower ever helped skunk smell and for another what does it matter if the towel I dry with smells like butt and the clothes do too? Smellyness just wafts around and doesn't go anywhere. Forget opening the door because it smells worse out there. I am sitting in a nearly tangible cloud of stink. It's permanently embedded at the back of my throat.

So I have to go to class and sit in the midst of normal smelling people and wait for the scent to follow behind me before they start to unconsciously look around and twitch their noses, ferretting out the source of the uck that just came in. I might as well just have the cartoon squiggles above my head.

I've never felt like I could relate to Pigpen so much. Or Pepe la pui. He seems like a someone that would understand.

Metaphorically speaking this fits in with my mood perfectly, the irony of the situation is how much I wish it didn't. Only a couple more days and school will stop being so crappy. Two major exams will be out of the way and hopefully I will have a term paper finished. I just hope the smell decides to make its way with the mood.

On a completely unrelated note, anyone know how to get skunk smell from out of the air, just short of Febreezing it with tomato paste?

An Apple a Day

There's been a lot of hub around health care in the states lately. You know, tea party activists and Obama care  and all that.

If I may throw in my opinion I would really just appreciate it if doctors would start giving you a lolly pop at the end of your visit. Honestly, where did that practice go?

That's all I want. Just a lolly. Is that so hard?

Do you think if I started throwing tantrums and crying over pap smears (because, let's be honest, those are way more intimidating that a booster shot) they'd pacify me with a caramel apple pop? Pat me on the head and tell me what a good girl I'd been and let me decide between a cherry or grape bubble pop?

Just imagine driving home from your next appointment getting a little sugar high and I think that it's unanimous; it'd be better.

die Verwandlung : From American to Something in between

If you've read Kafka raise your hand.
Bueller?
...Bueller?
No one? Okay, so everyone go pick up a copy of the Metamorphosis. Got yours? Okay, put it down. If you hadn't trudged through it in college, you're not going to want to now. The point I'm trying to get at is a famous story of his is about a guy turning into a bug--satire will do that--and in a way my blog has been one really long rambly bit of satire of my very own transformation.

Here are a few examples of how that's shaping up.
::    In a geology lecture, my professor asked me how to tell the difference between a stalactite/mite. I had learned this through the use of a bit of raunchy Germany and tried to explain so. Which led into the two of us having a full-fledged conversation in German, over a microphone, mind you, in a hall of two hundred odd students. (Fun fact: He did a bit of work in Germany and began speaking around age twelve) He now searches me out of the crowd in lecture or in the hall to have a quick chat.

::     At a (hah, let's face it "the only") Halloween party I attended, a guy bumped into a friend of mine wearing a monkey hat and suit and tie. If any of you are a fan of award-winning-German rap music your brain would immediately make the jump to Peter Fox. 

Or to some of your childhood nightmares. Your pick.

 I jokingly asked if he liked the singer and he flipped. Eyes wide he asked if I was German too. Because he was from Berlin (Fox's stomping grounds) and if I wasn't German, how is it possible that I knew of Peter Fox? This turned into a half-meshed converstation of German and English yelling over music-- Brittney Spears, if memory serves--where I had to prove my ability to understand the subtleties of German rap by declaring my favorite bands. Hey, German Engineering student, if you're reading this: Hi.

::      After German class I was waiting to discuss some things with my teacher. I slipped my backpack on and a button of mine popped off. A student of the in-coming Calculus class scooped it up and said, "Hey, you dropped your button."
I reached for it and thanked him. If I'd lost it, I would have been really sad. I'd gotten it years ago. He sort of looked at me weirdly, not something I'm wholly unaccustomed to, and I walked out of class. Not until I had gotten back home did I realize I blurted all of that in German. Just conversing in German with people who don't speak German, you know, no biggie.
Flip side to looking like an idiot is that I really didn't even think about it. Right? A whole new language was just spewing out unchecked. What's it to me if one person thinks I am an alien who babbles in some random tongue?

Being the Change

 I don't know why I've started following this the way I have. 

Maybe it all started with our new television stand at home. For some reason, the television was turned on as we put together this big-honkin' dark mahogany stand--which is really nicely disguised plywood-- to put it on, and on the television was some dramatic Dateline piece about cyber bullying was toning away and blah blah blah, Mom turn it off.

It was a wrench piece, making it impossible for parents to watch but impossible not to watch. The reporting was set up like so:
"After the break, the shocking secrets you DON'T want to know about your child's Facebook account."

Try not to think about purple elephants and all you'll think about are purple elephants.

(**Right now I'm just going to warn you that I will step on my little Soapbox and you are free to kick me off at anytime... **)

Now you can agree or disagree with me all you like, really opinions are opinions and every one has one. And  I will admit, I am not a Mother of a child who has been bullied and as a child I generally stayed out of it. But that doesn't mean I am blind to it. And it doesn't mean that other people should be either. And what is going on in our homestate politics is disgusting. There is no better word for it than that.
Dis-gust-ing.

Please read this.

A bill has passed in which bullying is allowed IF they can provide a reason, religious or moral.
Puh-lease. I thought this was satire, at first glace. Nope, not in the slightest. Is this what we want children to think? It's okay to hurt someone so long as they are different than you--that stereotyping is more important than individual personality? Will the tide turn if the bullying passes from a Muslim to a Christian child, calling him an Infidel to his religion so it's not only legal, but morally acceptable for him to give a black eye?

If anyone wants to join me in writing letters to our wonderful Senators, than I would be more than welcome for the support because I, for one, am going to flex my democratic muscle against this swill.

::Sorry the post is so unlike me. I will reiterate, this is not normally my style, but it has me worked up for some reason. More Becca-like posts coming soon!::

Hooray For Paydays!

But not the candy bars. Those are gross.

Since I went to Germany last winter I haven't held a formal job. It was difficult. Most students I went with were having withdrawls from their cell phones, treating it like having lost an appendage and would grope in their pockets every so often to check. The habitual action of checking for messages that weren't there distressed a lot of people, like phantom limb syndrom. If a cell phone could be considered an extension to some. ...You know who you are.

Well, I'm terrible with cell phones. There's a reason why I don't give out my number, because ninety-nine times out of ten I have no idea where the sucker is and you'd be better off sending smoke signals to get my attention.

What I am not terrible with is having a job. Unlike searching for text messages or Twitter updates, I would prowl around my host family's home scowering out jobs. Does the dishwasher need to be loaded? Unloaded? Has laundry been folded? Where do you keep the vaccum? Do we need to chop wood or something? The double-edged sword was that my host mom was as neurotic about working as I am. The place was spotless! The horror.

Let's be honest, having a job has been part of my daily life for pretty much as far back as child labor laws can be bent. When my sister changed jobs from milking cattle to working assisting the local taxidermist, I picked up the cattle job. I was somewheres around thirteen. After she quit the taxidermist, guess who started there and worked until college and then immediately grabbed two more part-times? And so ended my childhood.

That was a joke, I'm kidding. Calm down.

Working on a farm means you never had a childhood.
*Cue in my mom screaming out both my first AND middle name...*

My brand spankin' new lab job is cool in many a-way. But the best part happened yesterday when I checked my e-mail. Happiness ensues when U of M decids to e-mail me and tell me that my paycheck has been posted.

Three cheers for pay day!

I looked favorably on my .pdf e-check and glamored in a fantasy of what I could buy now with my new-found, hard-earned cash money! In my mind I treated myself to ice cream and cupcakes from the local shops around Ann Arbor I love. Then I kicked that dream out the proverbial back-door of my mind and stashed it in my savings account for next month's rent.

Frugal is as frugal does.

DON'T put that on your blog!

A phenomena about the blogging community is to dedicate one day a week (phff. Overacheivers.) to writing for five minutes without editing. Remember back in high school where there was actually a process to setting up an essay? This could be considered a freewrite. And since I am so lacking in post ideas right now that do not pertain to my overabundance of work, I decided to give it a try. They're calling it a Stream of Consciousness. Start the clock!

Can't I just quit school? I'm sure there are some very happy hermits out there, living in their caves and smiling to themselves knowing they will never have a need to learn which charge a poly-d-lysine multi-wellplate holds. (Thumbs up if you knew it was a positive net charge that creates a hydrophillic surface for the cells to bind to!)

That's odd. It's exactly noon. How very poetic of my first timed blabbering to begin right on the dot of the day. Just got back from dance class, don't judge me, and have decided that I made some major decisions about my life. I haven't quite made the decisions yet, but I decided TO decide them. So much for that making sense. There's a little voice in my head nagging and telling me that no one really wants to listen to this, so SUBJECT CHANGE!

Great. My phone is ringing. Is that a sign from the universe that I should stop because this is going poorly? Hey, Universe. You are mean. I will keep writing. Oh, and here my laptop battery just blinked that it only has 10% power left and my computer security warning popped up. Wooow. Real subtle, Universe. That's right, I see what you'regetting at there. Don't worry only a minute left. And there's my phone again! Okay, I get it. I'll pick it up. TIME OUT.

Oh man, so this was my text message. From my boss. "Sryyyyy can u put the neuraol basal media in the top level fridge and pennstrep and horse serum in freezer."  Please, someone else explain to me what that means, and what in the world is horse serum. I am scared to go to work now.

I'll check reactions to this post before decided to do it again. Somehow I feel it might not be my style quite right. Have no fear, though. At least it was a post this week. Maybe something crazy and unexpected will happen soon that I will want to spill out over the internet, but until then, take care my dear readers. 

If I could pretend to be anything, it would be normal.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.
So, no, YOU'RE the butt head!

I have been called many a thing. From reserved to intimidating, two categories of people who I feel are  in direct conflict with each other, but all together I am noted as someone who is reserved and generally not a people person. My favorite explanation of my personality is that I am velcro. But not the fuzzy side. The hooky side.
The side that you wouldn't want to rub against your face, but get close enough to it and it will grab and hold onto you.


Which is what might make Halloweekend so great, because the whole point is to not be yourself. Pretend to be normal? I can do that. I did that. If we define normal as listening to blaring music in a basement next to the yellow Power Ranger and wondering to yourself where all the other rangers went.

So I guess this was me being outgoing and nice. All the things I am generally too busy drowning in textbooks for. 

200 bonus points if you get my costume. No. I am not just a bumble bee.

I just want a side note of the girl next to me. She had the best costume idea I ever saw. She was "fishin' for compliments". (The one on her hook said, "Your costume is so clever." To which the passive irony of blew my socks off.)

1 million bonus points if you get that costume.

 So I did it. I guess I learned that this so-called "outside world" isn't so bad, albeit cold, and I should probably get used to it. Although I could easily just as relapse into a study-induced coma until next Halloween because that sounds much more likely.

Stop the World, I want to get off.

What is the world coming to where I can't even take fifteen minutes in the morning to go get a bagel before six hours of class and the resulting Mt. Saint Homework without feeling like I've defiled a moral standard? I'm a responsible kid, I promise! No, I wasn't procrastinating, I swear!

Rocking such a crazy schedule right now, I know it's good for me to rest for a while--hell, my major is based off the idea-- but when you feel bad taking time off because you know it just aggregates the work you already have then you can't enjoy a thing.

I'm living to work.

When I realize I haven't had time for a shower and need to schedule one, just pencil it in, because I haven't done so in a while. It's a little pathetic. Not to mention the fact that eating something other than a handful of carrots and a pack of Gushers on the run is a luxury.
Cleaning the apartment? It's on the back burner over in left field.
It's gotten so bad, in fact, the insects and spiders who have invaded it are waging war over the territory.

Whatever these things are. They're winning.

Seriously. Those THINGS, which happen to be as long as an inch and as wide as three to four inches, have occupied the bathroom since about last week and I won't kill them, but I keep trying to politely thow them out the window to their deaths that I wouldn't cause.
I'm a humanitarian.

We're at the point where I am wigged out to be in the bathroom alone, feeling something fuzzy and wriggling over my foot when I'm not looking. I can't even sit on the toilet in peace without first checking around it and under the heater for them. When I'm satisfied none of them are going to come out and bite me (Not Joking. They have fangs) I check again to be super double absolutely sure.
My bathroom breaks have turned into mini-episodes of Fear Factor.
Sorry. I disgress.

My point is, seeing how I need to sum up and get to class, is that college has created a time of nega-fun. Not only do I feel bad when I'm not working, but the times that should be fun are no longer so for the amount of my workload bearing on the back of my brain. But it's all apart of growing up, right? Learning who you are and that you don't get summer breaks or weekends anymore.

Welcome to Adulthoodland. Population: Billions of somber grown ups...and you.

Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

 Despite my best efforts to become a baker and earn money selling people mouthfuls of delicious-happiness cupcakes, I ended up working in a lab testing toxins on rat brain cells.

Oh Life, you mischevious little imp, you.

My schedule allows no time for moping over spilt frosting though, I've got more important things to do. Science things. And here's the coolest part: I get a lab coat! I'm way too excited for this, but it's all white and new and it comes with goggles and these awesome purple latex gloves. Putting them on, to work with potentially explosive chemicals (Honestly, the fridges in the lab are explosion proof. Who has a need for such things??) I look like a super hero.
Nah, much less a hero and more a super villian. But, nonetheless super in some form.

One of the perks of the job is being insanely busy, which is nice for me because I have excuses for being a social reject. My boss, after three hours together in the same room, looked at me said, "Thanks for being so flexible, I'm sure you have better things to be doing." And I almost laughed in her face and after trying to explain to her how very very little I had going on, ("Seriously, working with corrosive materials was the highlight of my weekend")
She looked taken aback. No jokes, straight to my face she said, "But you don't look like a nerd to me."

I could have kissed her feet.

Mr Cellophane

"A human being's made of more than air
With all that bulk, you're bound to see him there
Unless that human bein' next to you
Is unimpressive, undistinguished
You know who..."

-Chicago

I'm not a big Bob Fosse fan, but for those of you who are I understand. Great work. Love Chicago. Everyone know the scene where Amus finally gets called by his name and he looks up at the lawyer and says bewildered with content, "Amus. That's right--my name is Amus." because the whole time people mix up his name and call him Andy?

You can tell it gets him down, like his whole life everyone expected him to be some Andy-guy. And really it's not that big of a deal, but to him you can see it. His whole life has been a big mess of people scrunching up their faces for recognition and saying to one another, "You know him, the one---ahh, what's his name, Andy or something? Yeah. Him."

Let's take for example a couple of days ago where someone ran into me on a bike and not fifty steps later I had to jump off the sidewalk and into a puddle to avoid beeing careened in the face by a skateboarder. Felt like screaming out a "Hey! I'm walkin' here!" Midnight Cowboy-style but I'm not sure if Dustin Hoffman has given up the rights to that scene. And I was running late for class.

This moment right here, where the group from Germany told me they would love to work with me, a lot of frustration I had been having sort of sighed itself out. I don't know if it was the combination of having something to look forward to in the next couple of months, or if it was being able to check something off my big life to-do list, or even if it was just knowing that it is maybe possible, a tiny bit possible, to do something I'm really excited about with my time.
I can look at my name typed on that envelope, think, "That's right--my name is Rebecca" and be content.

Another Life Lesson Tossed at Me as a Curve Ball.

I've been itching to write for a while. I know, I know. Radio silence hurts me more than it does you, Computer. Honestly though nothing was worth posting up for eternity. I did have some whiny little post up for a day or two but thought better of it. I don't want to look back and just see me sobbing to a lonely keyboard. Windshields on a car are bigger than the rearview mirros for a reason. Look forward.

So as a catch-you-up, I guess I'll start by saying I'm getting over this crazy illness that had choked the very breath from me just a week ago. My nose is scabbed over and I haven't had a great nights sleep in a while, but apart from people telling me I look horrible, I'm alright. Other drama has been tossed in my path but for right now let's just excuse ourselves from it so I can post something without any regret.

I may have gotten my dream job.

For my major I need 'practical experience' to graduate. That's really just a fancy way of them telling me that I need to actually apply myself to the work before I can say with any conviction that I want to do this for the rest of my life. Not a bad idea, if I may add.

So I started looking around. I can't be affiliated with the university here, so working again at my old job was out of the picture. Next step? Google. I googled environmental psychology (I suggest you do it too if you're curious as to what I want to go into) and lo and behold they appeared. Check them out.

They are the Wald-Piraten It translates to Forrest Pirates. Their mascot is a parrot. I don't get it either. But they are a camp for children recovering from cancer treatments. Their logo is 'Keine Mitleid, nur eine faire Chance!' (No sympathy, just a fair chance.) and I want to squeeze them all to death. They're perfect. So so perfect. Located in Germany--like it would take another battle to get me over there--and doing something I don't just find admirable, but exactly what every kid needs, and what I am full speed ahead about helping. Especially if that involves canooing, rock climbing, horse back riding, and basically enjoying my summer with a bunch of people who deserve a nice childhood.

I remember the stupid counseling we went into after cancer crisis in my life. Coloring pictures and soothing colors painted on the walls. To this day I avoid telling people about my family because they get this empathetic hallow look behind their eyes, like they want to take my hand and say it'll be alright.
This won't be anything like that, I hope. Letting these kids just simply be kids for ten days, I feel, is the best idea. No pity here. Heck, I might even scold them if they're acting up. (Because that's what grown-ups do, right?)

I threw together my papers really fast after indicating interest in their program and now I have a phone interview set up. But they are already talking about my housing and transportation--so I feel like my chances are good.

There are a few drawbacks in play already, but I'm hoping within the next six months they'll work themselves out.

Finally feels like something might be going my way.

Dear Robitussin,

I am writing concerning the size of your bottles. They are too small. Over the course of two sleepless nights I have managed to finish one to know avail of diminishing my cold symptoms. Your labels promise effective cold relief and you do, for the span of three short hours, which is a bummer to anyone that may want to sleep longer than two hours and forty-five minutes in a stretch of time.

I have exams this week, one tonight, and can count the number of hours of sleep I've had in the last three days on one hand. However, my tissue expenditures are through the roof and still counting.

I realize you cannot do anything for the wear and tear on my nostrils, which currently are cracked and fissured to the point that the even sight of a tissue is painful, but for heaven's sake, PLEASE put more of your remedy into the bottles you sell. It's imperative I not fail these tests.

Yours,
Rebecca


--

Side note: I would like to publicly thank Connie L. for one of the best graduation gifts I received. Remember that giant pink tote you filled with basic medicine cabinet stuff? (ie cough drops, bandages, Robitussim?) Best idea ever.

Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner.

Can I trust you, Computer? I'm going to tell you a secret. One I've kept balled up in the deepest nether regions of my soul until this day.

Once, back in fourth grade, we had a short story contest. To say I wanted to win is an understatement. Chalk it up to birth order or repressed insecurities but I wanted--needed-- to win. This was fourth grade after all, the real deal, the claws come out.  Plus, the prizes were monumental. A book to third and second places with first taking home a book AND a gift certificate for a free Pizza Hut pizza. I would have killed for it.

I remember getting so bent out of shape over it as I mulled over ideas in my head. Political satire told through my pre-school experiences? A harrowing parable of over coming class stratifications? C'mon Rebecca! We need gold here!
  Really, I just couldn't decide of all the amazing things floating through my head so the night before the due date, choked with pressure, I picked up a book from my shelf and summarized the plot into my very own plagiarized short story. About a child-detective that may have worn a hat very similar to that of Sherlock Holmes.

I pity fourth grade me. I really do.

There were days when I was younger that I would make up big sounding words in front of my sister and when she looked at me confused, I would roll my eyes and sigh, exasperated that someone her age didn't know what "experdubality" meant. (It was very obviously when someone did something in a very suspicious and sneaky manner.)

Girls can be so experdubalicious.

The day the story winners were announced I fidgeted about, twirling my hair like I always do when I'm nervous. I felt sick to my stomach and was sure that my teacher would have read the book I copied and would call me out in front of everyone. What did they do to cheaters? I just assumed public flogging. Or at least banishment from fourth grade. Forever.

I was almost happy when I didn't win. I got second to another boy in my class. The book I won was Garth Pig Steals the Show. I remember that. It was a glossy hard-cover with my name written, in neat cursive, on the inside cover. I never did read that book. I was too ashamed.

And that sums up my life of academic crime.

And honestly, until my high school art class, in one beautifully thought up conceptual art project, I hadn't written creatively since.
Until now, of course.
Funny how the world works and here I am back on the creative expressions horse. Blogging will do the soul good and it's even gotten me entering writing contests.

Just imagine, back in high school when my English teachers would assign another essay I would ooze apathy. It was pointless, they didn't care what I wrote so long as it followed their neat little formats.
To me, it was all just jumping through hoops to get to college and I never realized how LIBERATING it can be to just put words to paper. (Or computer, in this case.) I honest to goodness get a writers high.

So I entered this little essay contest my university put on for our German language week. (It's a thing the German embassy does to incourage learning German and the societle benefits of another culture--benefits may include, but are not limited to pizza, free t-shirts, pens, and warm fuzzy feelings of cultural acceptance.)

And guess what, Computer? I won! Scout's honor, I did it right this time around. The e-mail came congratulating me and offering me free dinner at an award ceremony. I'm kind of overwhelmed. I've never thought of myself as a person who was much good at anything. (I am amazingly average at a lot of things.) Does this mean I am a for real writer now?

Violin Monster. Someday, I will find you.

Major orchestras provide a screen during auditions so that the panel of judges may not see the applicant. Within its first implications beginning in the early twentieth century, one trombonist earned first chair before the judges realized one trait differing from the other. She had a second X chromosome.

Even with her extraordinary talent, beating out all other male applicants, she was let go because there was no way that a woman could 'play as well as a man'. Even if she had already proven it.

Maybe this is why I am so enamored by the Violin Monster.

 He strolls around Ann Arbor, amongst other places, and tweedles out tunes for those who pass by. If you're one like me, the first time you see him you immediately grab the arm of the person you're walking with and mumble, "Turn around. Let's turn around. Just don't look at it. Turn around."
People like me are afraid of street performers though. Mostly just the ones that stand like statues. Just heebie-jeebies all over the place.

But ViolinMonster has his charms. In the fact that he is very charming. And he is exceptional at his trade. He is most gracious, allows photos, and welcomes listeners with open arms...er..paws?

I had heard him a few times but not once did I stop to listen because of my inane phobia. Life kind of smiled on me one day as I met him walking to class and saw his mask. I ran up behind him, not even passing by him like a normal person and definitely not thinking how creepy I would come off, and sort of half-yelled at him, "You're the ViolinMonster!" As if this guy walking around with a "Violinmonster.com" sign, violin, and mask didn't fully realize who he was.
"I am."
It took me a second to realize how this monster was very not monstrous at all. He was nicely dressed, warm and friendly and didn't seem to notice how out of breath I was from my two second sprint. Why was I afraid of him again?

We chatted for a half a second before I noticed that I was just saying, "I enjoy your playing so much." over and over again (Such an eloquent lady, I am, under pressure.) and I chose to hurry off, excusing myself to econ class.

Afterward I thought about how I did enjoy his playing (And how I really want a picture with him.) Even before I saw his face. He was the trombonist behind the screen. Only instead of boobs he has a real people face. I like his idea that the music is his focus and what he looks like is only a sideshow.

He sums it up in his own whimsical style on his website. When he's caught without his mask people, especially children--his main fans--, sometimes say, "But I thought you were real." to which he has replied, "I AM real--especially wild in your imagination."

I've Been Taking Too Many Econ Classes

I had a plan. It was foolproof.

Do enough homework to not have any one night of the week. I would even go so far as to be pleased to not be swimming in piles of textbooks--a sea filled with choppy waters and papercuts.
Just have one night of freedom, of my choosing, when I wasn't concerned about term papers, daily readings, or studying for some pop quiz that may or may not even happen tomorrow in discussion section.

I would do so by simply working harder every other night by a small fraction (a half hour, let's say) and see where the results took me.  Increase my total homework efficiency per night and my time supply would increase. Like I said; Foolproof. 


Due to an exam--which means no homework--I got that night. It was beautiful...for ten minutes.
Now what do I do? How do you spend free time, again? I've forgotten.

I'm bored.

Close Encounters of the Aussie Kind.

So there I was. Just doing some homework when I remembered I had stolen a box of chocolates from my home while "shopping" for the basics of stocking one's college apartment. (Mom was never going to eat them, she said they were from last Christmas. That, in my eyes, makes them open game.) Flipped the lid off to find that there were only three chocolates left.
All milk chocolate. Decided that even though I'm not a monsterous fan of plain, I'd take it anyway and ate all three without even sitting back down. When I went to throw the box away, however, I heard a rustling beneath the plastic insert. Lo and behold, there was a second layer of chocolate I had almost mistakenly thrown away!

I looked up at my water-damaged ceiling and thanked the Lord for the extra chocolate that He had chosen to bestow upon me.

Then I realized I had just audibly spoken to my empty apartment over chocolate and realized it was time to figure out why I was feeling the need to eat an entire box of newfound chocolates instead of just eating the entire box of chocolates.

The first option, I've found, is much more difficult and much less tasty.

I told you that story to tell you this story.

I urge you all to read edenland. For around a year now she has inspired me in ways I never expected. Eden is the type of writer that examines the grits of life. And believe me, she has seen the grittiest of the gritty. Stared at it straight in the face and walked away--being the better (wo)man, and all that.

It's theraputic. When I'm reading her stuff, it's like she's reached--Indiana Jones Temple of Doom style--and ripped out something from inside herself that was still beating and pulsating. And that thing is dark, twisted, and wrong and we expect her to recoil and drop it out of disgust.

But she doesn't.

She stands with it in her hand and examines it. Prodding and poking at the mass of something she has just torn from herself until she is no longer appalled by it. That's not to say that she's desensitized, but rather, grew to accept it for what it is. Then, and only then, does she throw it into the garbage without a second thought.

Since following her site, I have had two moments where I thought to myself, "I MUST speak to this woman." One was a crazy coincidence where we both happened to get our hair cut, blogged about it, and felt awesome. Small world where two people can get haircuts in the same week, I know. But really this bad boy is the activation energy that drew me into Eden.

How do I explain this without giving  my life story? Her post "Imma die with my boots on." made me cry. Which is crazy, because there's not a whole lot to be said about it.

It just struck a nerve deep down inside me when she spoke about clomping around cancer wards (her husband had a recent strife with cancer.) as the Angry Cowgirl. I laughed because this was in a time where I, too, was running out of university classes to go clomp around chemotherapy wards.

"I am an angry cowgirl," I told her, "who ironically doesn't own boots." I explained that our family struggles with this stupid thing called cancer, seemingly at every turn. And really her post reminded me of my dad's favorite song by Joe Diffie: Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox. Stupid, I know, leave it alone, we're a bunch of hicks.

But the line, "Lord, I wanna go to heaven, but I don't wanna go tonight. Fill my boots up with sand and put a stiff drink in my hand." Resounded in my head as I read her post. It made me want to buy a pair of boots and clomp around the cancer ward and scream, "CANCER, IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!? I am the ANGRY COWGIRL! And you can't have THESE BOOTS!"

But that would be impolite, albeit a stress relief. (Eden dealt with this by going into a hospital like a renegade and hanging up her own art in place of the cruddy decco they claim. Also a great post for those of you interested.)

I was terrified to write her. She's a blogging celebrity--I felt like I was e-mailing Ghandi to prove how good I was at fasting. But she's better than Ghandi.  She wanted me to e-mail her with a picture of when I get my cowboy boots, because I will someday and I will feel so tough.

So I don't know if that's my problem, repressing angry thoughts like pushing a crazy thrashing beachball underwater, but I'm hoping she's right and when I get my boots I will be so tough, not just for myself but for everyone who is forced to clomp around a hospital.

I will be tough for the members of the Angry Cowgirl Club.

Speak of your Gratitude

 From top to bottom. I saw a statue of a girl, with a bunch of sayings on them while shopping with my mom one day and immediately said, "WANT." Unfortunately, being of sound mind and slim wallet, I chose to not buy it. Can you get not-buyer's remorse? I was so bummed that I made one for myself. It turned out alright. Wasn't made of metal and painted well since I only had markers, magazines, and some old cardboard I'd found outside in our recyclables--but I dug the message.

"Embrace Change. Yours starts here...today. Discover your flexibility. Challange yourself to grow. Rethink precisely what you want. Focus on Life. Play attention. Wear Red Shoes."

I told my old art teacher about it and unbeknownst to me, from my cruddy description, "Yeah, it was really cool with some sayings and a girl. Looked kind of rustic." she found me one. I like her message even more.

"Honor your intuition. Unleash your joy. Speak of your gratitude. Embrace vulnerability. Do the things you didn't think you could. Find beauty in the small. Wear red shoes. (That's an Important. Remember that.) Let it Go. Surrender your fear. Be Silly. Be Wild. Take the journey back to yourself."

I am going to base a room in my future awesome house from this right here. Possibly a bathroom.

I'm Feelin' Good

"It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life. For me. And I'm feeling good."

So check it out, new blog look! Really that's what this post is all about right now and was not originally intended to be so. I did not, however, intend on spending nearly four hours revamping (heh, that's a pun because I was watching Dracula--Francis Coppola's version--while editing) my blog tonight before posting.

Work on that, Blogger. Oh well, always have a back-up plan and here's mine short and sweet:

Welcome to my new "designed on a dime" blog.

Now I need some sleep before classes tomorrow.

The Times, They are a-Changin'.

I like to imagine that I have hundreds of little writers set out in nice square little cubicles in my head scurrying to and fro, sending out memos and reminders, sharpening pencils, making coffee, fixing printer jams, all together keeping my thoughts in a well-to-do manner so they can come forth from my mouth or finger tips for the rest of the world.

If I like to use that metaphor than right now all of those ficticiuos writers, with their sleek pencil skirts and  cornflower blue Winsor-knotted paisely ties are striking and picketing in an uproar. "Increased wages for increased work hours!"

They are demanding it now, rioting and flipping over desks. Stealing my little imaginary office supplies and flipping little imaginary birds at my little imaginary supervisors. And those little supervisors are looking out to me, shaking their heads in surprised disappointment at all the nothing they are able to do in order to control my very much out of control white-collar workers.

Inwardly, this is my thought-process.
Outwardly, the only think I can do is rub my eyes and continue working. Making myself another cup of tea, even after we've run out of the good stuff to drink and all that is left is peach. Blech.

Yet, here I sit. Typing up a blog post. My inner little efficiency committee is looking down at their little clipboards and assessing my work ethic. They are not checking the box for "Uses time wisely."

"But I need this time," I plea to them. "You don't understand.This is how I relax and restore myself."

Can one grow dependent on an idea? This blog is a compilation of all of mine, and I have grown rather fond of it. As of late, I have realized I've grown out of my German experience. There's not much German to experience here in Ann Arbor, but I keep updating. Less and less with any intention of it being about my re-entry shock. But I'll keep updating because I've made a discovery of how powerful my computer can be and I would like to keep that relationship with my computer, with myself, and sometimes with others, going.

I get it now why one of the first steps in a recovery program (any program, go ahead and find out) is to write out all of your life history. One big hefty paper of Who You Are. It works.

My moral today, beacuse I really need to stop procrastinating my economics homework, is that I will continue to blog on this blog--even with the name dasdetuscheerlebnis, mostly because I don't know how to change it, but also because that's how it all began. But I am no longer restricting myself to my travel adventures.

But  I think we all knew that one already though, right?

So I guess I'm open for new blog titles suggestions, comments, complaints, okay?

Moves Like Jagger

Some times I wish I were a guy. Their biggest fashion question seems to be: Does a brown belt match black shoes? And they think, "Eh, no one will care." Where women twilly around how to match coral eye shadow to their light catrice nail polish. We are hypersesitive in that ideal.

So I may have mentioned that I am in a dance class. Well, crazily enough: We dance. Fun fact: Rebecca can't dance, which may bring you to the very obvious question of, "Then why would you take a dance class?" To which I have no clear or plausible answer. After some point in your life, answering, "Becaaause." just doesn't cut it. I passed that point.

Regardless, the routine we're working on for the final is to the pop sensation Moves Like Jagger by Maroon 5. For those of your born without a taste in music or love for caricature-faced celebrities may not have heard of Mick Jagger. Short bio: He owns rock and roll.

In one of the first days of class, our instructor stops the music, and walks over to me.
"Rebecca," she says, at which point I'm terrified because no teacher should know your name by the first week unless you are especially terrible,
"You have the steps down, right?"
I nod. Making little sped-up miniature air mimes of the last few counts.
"But you realize you have no confidence in yourself, right."
 Wow Coach, thanks for the pep talk. Exactly what I needed. No, I had not realized I was crippelingly hiding in the back of the class avoiding attention for THIS VERY REASON.

She proceeds to explain how I need to be more like Mick Jagger and put a little swagger in my step.

Swagger. What does that even mean? Mick Jagger has more confidence than me when he's tracking around in this get-up than I've managed to accumulate my entire life.

So I've gotta look like THIS GUY?

I think we can all agree that what Micki here has and what I lack is not looks. Self-assuredness and an "I-own-this-joint"  attitude are probably what gives him some swagger.

Not the hat.Although it helps.

Mulling this over after classes one day, I just made up my mind to go and find me some swagger. Right then and there. Like deciding to quest for the Loch ness monster or Big Foot.

To the nearest cheapest hair studio (after doing a bit more research than my last haircut.) I ran, because gosh darn it, my self confidence does exist!  Made an appointment for the next day. Right then. Right there. Quick massage, hair styling, and many compliments later I walked out of the studio feeling a little puff-chested. Heavens me, is this what swagger feels like?

Perhaps it is. On the way home Moves Like Jagger came on the radio and I practiced my best Mick Jagger/Steven Tyler stage face. And somehow I feel like I learned a valuable lesson.: "When you look good, you feel good"? No, too vain. Maybe a little more, "You have to love yourself before you can others".

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend.

I wasn't going to do this. Ten years ago, I was ten and just chilling out in grade school. I came home and watched the news with the family--an odd occurrence, albeit--and everything was normal. The only reverberating thought I would have had that night was I was coloring and I wanted to show the picture to my mom and she shoo-ed me away, saying, "Not now." I felt hurt that she didn't want to see my picture, seeing as how diligently I had been working on it.

It was a genie coming out of a lamp. The odd details we remember so distinctly. 

So I wasn't going to do this. I was lucky as to not have been touched by it. But after receiving an e-mail from Niklas, a German, an outsider with a huge and philosophical heart, who has all the reasons in the world to not need be involved, I guess I am doing this.

He wrote me:


"Today is ten years after 9/11 and there were ceremonies around the world.

I didn't think off it much but then in the news, the German embassedor in the USA--who had hist first day on 9/11/2001--talked about how important solidarity was to the people affected. How important it was that the USA knew that they don't have to be world-police all alone anymore because they can't do that anyway, because they can be hit hard, too.

And then I remembered how depressing it was to hear that most people in Michigan didn't know how much support and grief they got from all around the world. Many still don't know... All they see is people celebrating in Iraq and Afganistan that night. They would ask, "Does all the world really hate us that much?"

But did you know that nowhere in the world, not even in the USA, did so many people gather as they did at the Brandenburger gate in Berlin, Germany? The same place where almost 40 years ago the beloved American president said the he, and the US, empathizes with Berlin and understands their fears and is there to support the City in its struggle to reunite.

Just like on 9/11 when the Berliner people got out to stand together and show that they feel with NY and with the USA, with the Union of NATO...

It is sad that the news of celebrating extremist over weighted the news of millions gathering in London, Amsterdam, and Berlin... But we can hope that a few Americans did get the news from their Allies and that they know that they have friends and that they have unconventional support in the defence against the brutal destruction of terror!

...

 But if you could pass on the word that the USA still has many strong allies in the world you would do a good deed..."

Nick wrote this to me on the 11th, saying he was feeling sentimental and that, "If I would have a blog, this is what I would have written today." That is like pressing the Okay to consent button in my list. 

PitE the Fool

Went to my first class of the year and I won't lie; It was jazz dance.

C'mon now, everyone needs a creative expressions class and who says I can't try and dance my way there? Plus, on a seventeen credit course load I am allowed one fun class.

(So true story...What I really wanted to take was pottery but I didn't have the schedule nor the money to make that work, so I rolled with the punches and took dance. I should have just coughed up the two hundred for the pottery.)

After finding the dance studio, which proved to be impressivly complicated, I sat on the floor and scoped everyone out. Should have stuck with the pottery class. I walked in with my "Save the Ta-tas!" Breast cancer awareness shirt and a pair of jogging shorts. Must have missed the memo about bringing your own leotard and leggings.

Primed and bred for dancing, those girls. Judging me up and down. Up and down.

And our first assignment was to create a piece of art that represented you as a person. I was scrambling. Honestly, can't we just bust out the jazz hands and top hats?

I think I'd be much more comfortable if everyone was wearing a top hat even in a judgmental dance class in one of the snootiest universities in Michigan. The dreaded day in my first German university class was better than that, at least there I couldn't completely understand their disdain for me. (And I got ice cream after.)

Major catastrophies, however, were adverted that morning, and pumped by how great I did NOT breaking any major bones I declared my second major in the afternoon. I am now a German/Program in the Environment major. Even got a sticker. It's official.

And walking out of the environmental offices I felt like all the Leotard-Strutting Girls and Bill Gate Jrs could keep judging.  Because I have found a bit of my place now, as an elite major of PitE and I'm starting to feel like I belong here.

As I was showing it off, I was elated.( "Invasive species got nothing on me!") until a friend of mine looked at it and chuckled. "Huh, PitE. You're a 'pity' major. Way to go." 



...Crap.

Labor of Love

Labor day. 
Such a ambiguous name. Because it's called Labor day, was originally started by unions for every man to celebrate their every opportinity to work BUT no one is supposed to work on Labor day because it's... labor day? Just take the day off to appreciate your labor done. Or something. I really don't know. Anyone want to google that? Because it seems like everyone works anyway.
At any rate, it's a big cunundrum, so I like to think of it by a more fitting description. Let's celebrate the ability to bring a child to term. Yaay, double meanings!

Twenty-six,-- check that, man, I'm old,-- twenty-six years ago my brother was born on Labor day. And around our area that means he was born near the Mama Ruth Picnic. A big hundred year long shindig for the people of the town to get together, bust their tukus' to put on a monsterous chicken dinner, and then relax and enjoy a beer tent all night. My mom was/is sort of the event lady at this dinner and so she's been there every year. Including one with a big ol' swollen belly the night she went into labor with Eric.
Boy, did Mom fool them.

No one believed Dad the next day as he went about talking about his first son. Apparently people joke about that more than I imagined. So no one believed her until she paraded that swaddled ball of baby that was tiny Eric. Years go by, Eric works every year at the picnic, brakes his foot/ankle? at the setting up and celebrates his birthday on crutches and I swindled (I say swindled because no matter how much I try the securitiy guards will let in anyone but me) my way into the beer tent to say, "Happy birthday, you gump. How'd you manage that?" and so is life. Labor day has always been Eric's time.

Now more so than ever.

I'll start by just saying they fooled me too. The first time in twelve years I needed to skip the clean-up portion of the picnic to drive back to school. And they let me! Suckers...

I was packing up my stuff when I get a call from my mom telling me to come up to the picnic "Just because."  And off I go thinking, "Great, 'just because' you need more help and I'm going to be working out in the cold of the first real day of fall when I should be driving down to Ann Arbor." Grumble, grumble. If only someone could read my mind.

That was until they showed me the ring.

And I scream and jumped and hugged, and then turned and punched Eric. "Why didn't you TELL ME!?" And I want to look at him and Alex and say, "How did you manage that, you gump?"

 Mom says he's just like dad was. Doesn't know his own strength. Big gump and always the life of the party. "He used to terrorize you girls." She says. But for me, he was my protector. Clark Kent turned Superman. Suppose that's just the luck of the sibling draw being the youngest girl.

In the end I didn't have to clean up after all, and I began my drive down to school with a smile on my face. It was a happy day. Eric's day, like always. I was even half way to Ann Arbor before I realized I had forgotten to put socks on.

The weather didn't seem to feel the same way as I did though. Grey and spitting rain at my windshield, I just felt like yelling at it and telling it to lighten up. Get warm. Let a ray of sunshine come through and bring a little warmth, man. Doesn't it know what happened today??

And then I laughed.

Maybe it was so cold today because Hell froze over.

An Ode To Summer

 How do I love Thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my Soul when Your feeling of sand and grass beneath my toes is out of reach.
I love thee to the level of every day's most leisurely book read by most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as we drive with windows rolled down.
I love thee purely, as the windmills outside of town.
I love thee with the passion put into every beach volleyball game or in my old griefs knowing that band camp is still the same.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with every coming educational reason. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, and all my heart; and, if God choose, I shall love thee better next season.

Oh, my aching heart, how doth you handle this onslaught of fall semester? With agony and sorrow fit to spoil my last days, set to perish in the depths of sadistic Statistics homework. Or do you flutter before the prospect of education like a moth to the flame? Only to be scorched by the inferno.

Or you could possibly just draw up this wimpy blog post instead of actually doing the homework.

...But class doesn't start until Tuuuuesday....

Paging Dr. Brilliant

"Worrying doesn't take away tomorrow's problem, but rather today's peace."

That's Brilliant, just Brilliant, and Bodly Branded in my Brain where I am Borderline Bonkers and Burdened.

Today is brought to you by the letter "B".

My first guest star erradicated smallpox, is the CEO of two companies, major player at Google, now felt he did his time there and moved on to an environmental philanthropy organization.

Because he can.
Oh, did I mention his name is Larry Brilliant?

Because it is.

What a horrendous and beautiful name. Imagine the expectations that arose around that name as he was a student at U of M. Paging Dr. Brilliant. Is there a Brilliant in the house? 
He held a Q and A at the university a couple weeks ago and while I was not able to get there, my lovely mentor at school, after speaking with me about where I am at in my life, directed me to him. Because getting back to the United States, you know, my home, I feel felt like a massive lump of out-of-place and just screamed the question "What are you doing with your life?" over and over at myself.  Because I can?

It's a suckerpunch of a question, but I've been told it's not an unusual one.

Well, this man is someone to take seriously and when asked by a young doctorate student in the crowd of his Q and A
"How can I be as successful as you? I mean, how do I get where you are?"
 He answered.
Just walk about 30 yards.

Brilliant.

But really, he said be a jack of all trades. If you love cooking, do it. If you love travelling, well do that too. It's beneficial to be unique and a lot more fun, too. The best and brightest of the world aren't just focused on one thing, so why should you?

It's refreshing to have someone slap reality back at you once in a while.

Let's play twenty questions.

 Odd how your brain can work, but it seems like the first week of freshman year is so severe that even during the sophmore year it is emblazed in your memory. How could you ever forget that Wednesdays are free bagel days at the Alumni center so, of course, you're going to pack onto the bus with your bookbag overflowing  much to the visible annoyance of every upperclassman that actually has to get to a class. It might bug other people, but at that point how would you know any better? You're a freshman.

And as a sophomore you still kind of understand. Maybe shake your head and think, "Silly freshman.

...Those bagels DO look delicious. Is that vanilla cinnamon??"

Don't quote me on this, but I think in oder to become a junior one has to go through freshman and sophomore year. Correct? Then why is it that at year three all memory of going through the metaphorical bagel initiation gets tucked down lost in your underwear drawer and suddenly those freshman are just so unbearable?

Time flies.
When my high school recieved two German exchange students, I may be guilty of asking a few dumb questions* and since getting back I've compiled a list of questions to myself and others who just make me shake my head.   Silly freshman.

Do they have cars in Germany? And if so, how long did it take you to drive there? Fun fact: Germans--read Karl Benz, like Mercedes-Benz-- invented the car and have you even taken a geography class?


Do they celebrate birthdays? Twice a year.

*Do they celebrate (insert holiday, including Oktoberfest) in Germany? I asked about 4th of July and then commenced to eat the foot I had just shoved in my mouth for how silly that sounded. I really meant "Do you have a holiday similar to the fourth?"


Do they have weekends in Germany? No. Having a weekend would slow down their German efficiency.

Are there any trees in Germany? Is that an honest question?

Did you drink beer for breakfast? Ohhh, dear.

Are there major problems regarding immigration on the German-Chinese border? I blame our education system for this one.

Have you ever met Hitler? And this one.

How are the beaches of Normandy this time of year? That's just a cheap shot. You know who you are Steven.

And just to wrap it up before it's even asked:
No. Beer is not warm when you drink it. I don't even know where that comes from and YES the girls (and even some of the guys) shave their legs and armpits. They're a very hygenic people.

I take cash and all major cookie flavors.

Sleep is beautiful. You really realize that when you don't get enough of it.

In Germany, I was always out like a light switch and I couldn't get enough of that wonderful little thing called a nap. The riddles begin as to why I got home, in my rightful fresh washed bed, and cannot get a winkful of sleep.
Maybe it's because our washmaschine begins running at five thirty in the morning so I have to unload it at six. Maybe it's because I'm wondering about money--When did college get so expensive?!-- Maybe I've secretly become nocturnal. Opossume-becca activate! That seems to be the best of all the options. Sure thing is that I saved all of my tired for my vacation time. Isn't life just tricky like that.

 Then people tell you that you look tired. Which basically translates into, "You look like crap. Go take a nap, ugly." And I can only smile and say, "But look what I've accomplished." It's no wonder little kids hate naps. They're smart enough to realize all the time they waste. Look what I did today.

That's right. Christmas towel. Because at my house, we're always festive.

Easy like apple pie, they say. Well they lie. Because apple pie is hard to make. It downright sucks. Easy like blueberry pie, maybe. I don't really know. But who honestly can make a pie crust? Mission Impossible 4 (For Pete's sake, they're making a fourth one?) will just be two hours of Tom Cruise making an apple pie.

Muffins, on the other hand, are awesome. Love them, they love me. The problem is that I'm never able to snitch one for myself. You see, baking in my household is an odd occurance. We associate it with tragedy.

Cookies could be coma.

Funnel cake could be a funeral.

Cinnamon roles are the plague. Hey, who's keeping track?

It's this weird guilt/pleasure thing. Like, Mom's making homemade bread. Whooot! ...Oh,... who died? 
 And then she gives it all away. This rolls over to my cooking too. No trademarking or copywriting on my work. No sir-ee.
For example, I made muffins two days ago. Suddenly they're gone. (Hence the new batch in the picture.) She gave two to one worker, then thought it unfair and gave two more away, and poof! no more.

Because they're just that good.

For my housekeeping skills, of which are legendary--think barbeque spare ribs for lunch and then turn around to eat pork roast at dinner--, she offered to pay me. But I'm not into that. I love my family and more importantly we were raised with the, "Under my roof, you work for your food, clothing, and shelter or you can just get out!" motto, so I appreciate it when she tosses a box of Mint Oreo cookies my way. Trust me, the irony of earning cookies for baking has not been lost on me.

BeccaTour2011

The annual journey, voyage, or venture, a pilgrimage if you will, a massive movement of peoples has begun. It's the unrelenting ritual marked by fleets of cars filled with vagabonds, old lamps and couches, and maybe even a toaster oven migrating to their Mecca.

College season is among us, dear computer. So slap on your affiliated university bumper sticker and step in the flow of highway traffic or get pulled under, never to return.

It has begun.

I just hate the three hour drive.

While I haven't officially moved down to the campus, I had preporatory measures to be made pre-arrival. Literally measurements. My apartment is not big. Honestly seen cat carriers bigger than my bathroom. The looming question still stands: Will that bed fit? The world may never know.

Jobs were applied for, banking was done, and lots of free food was devoured. Everyone remember Sean the Noodle Kid? Or as my mom calls him, "That red haired boy?" --like we don't have those in the Thumb--well, he turned twenty-one and lives in Ann Arbor. Crazy coincidence that I may have scheduled most of my pre-move-in shananigins in order to make his birthday into awesome. Us ex-exchange students have to stick together, you see.

I wish I could have photo documented the whole trip. Windmills are really starting to dot the landscape around my town--which I am more than giddy with excitement for--and it was a beautiful day of driving. Missed jamming out to my music so I crammed all of that in on the drive down, much to the displeasure of my driving buddy/college sidekick. Got to Ann Arbor and attack hugged Sean and Brettbrett, my very first college friends, and we shimmied around town getting free stuff. Aparently, in Annarborise, a merrily tossed "It's my birthday!" translates to "Please sir, give me everything for free." Cupcakes, coffee, ice cream, crepes, six bagels and a gelato!?! It's no wonder we didn't eat supper. Did I also mention the ice cream cake?

Some squirrel whispering (That's the delicate art of finding one of the hundreds of thousands of chubby squirrels on campus and calling them over to feed them peanuts.) rounded out the afternoon and the evening settled into kicking it old school and listening to records late into the night.

The tradition continues and another year goes by as thousands of students flock to school. I think I'm starting to see what all of the fuss is about.

Friends, Bloggers, Countrymen, Lend me Your Ears!

I was told once that if you do something every day for ninety days, it will become a habit. I've been blogging now for seven months. Habit, much? I still check up on my blog daily and each time I think, "Hey Toto, it looks like we're not in Germany anymore. Why isn't my home life more interesting?"

Is anyone even listening anymore? Hellooooo, cyberspace!

The reception back home has been slightly...less than reception-like. I caught up with most of my friends and many them had not even realized I was in Germany for the majority of this year. Where I just wanted to chat or catch up, it would end up feeling like a competition. Anything you can say, I can say better. Even at home, when I want to tell a story I find interesting, the television is ranked over my voice. You lose, Becca.

I like to think that someone, somewhere is still paying attention here.  Hello, cyberspace.

In Germany, I also had a hard time being a part of conversations, but not because each conversation was a competition to have your voice heard. Y'know the old saying Think before you speak.? Forget about it, because it turns into a cricket fest on your part.

By the time you've thought of your idea, formed the sentence, corrected your grammar, rechecked your grammar, and decided it was witty enough, the topic has passed. People wonder why I was so quiet in Germany. Two of my German friends came back to the states around the same time I did and dropped in Michigan on their way to California. Last night we played beach volleyball together and I didn't know what to say to them. We had gotten beyond the pleasant formalities and they become oddly quiet. What's up, guys?

Idiot me didn't realize that I had come full circle in the communication department until I was driving home. Of course they didn't speak much, who can jump into the incecent ramblings of Americans who have known each other as far back as grade school? They never wanted to one-up someone during their chats, they just wanted to chat, catch up, be heard a little bit. We all just want to be heard a little bit.
 
So when I got home that night, in the shower I heard a basketball hitting the pavement outside. My little brother leaves the house at seven thirty every morning and gets back at nine at night. In between drivers training, band camp, and football practice, I don't know why he would want to go outside in the dark to shoot baskets. After my shower I walked out to the shed and sort of watch him jump and sing. He didn't realize I was there, because I'm sneaky like a cat. (Or he had his mp3 player in.)

"Where do you get all the energy?" I asked. And he jumped and pulled his ear buds out. Apparently practice had gotten out early and he was bored. For the next half hour he told me about his day and even as I walked inside and began folding clothes he sat down and helped me, but did not stop talking.

Now, I'm a big sister. He's a little brother. For years, he was just a pain in my neck getting away with everything and here he sat, helping me put shirts on hangers. Non-stop talking. I felt like a magician or that dog whisperer guy.

Rebecca The Great! Watch as She Work Wonders on a Lazy Little Brother! Oooohh!

I don't think he would have cared what we were doing though, so long as I sat and listened to him as I did it. Every day I feel like I'm learning a little bit about life. Because nice matters and the best is yet to come.

"Mom, does she have to fly back to Germany tonight?"

Culture Shock
The term, culture shock, was introduced for the first time in 1958 to describe the anxiety produced when a person moves to a completely new environment. This term expresses the lack of direction, the feeling of not knowing what to do or how to do things in a new environment, and not knowing what is appropriate or inappropriate.

To put it eloquently, that is how I feel. I'll be fine, though. That's not a choice in the matter, I have school in a couple weeks, jobs to work, meals to cook, there's no time to be lacking a direction. 

It's not that I hate being home. I do well in both situations, I just feel very Jekyll and Hyde. Living two lives and not wanting to favor one over the other.
Don't pick favorites, but people keep asking me when am I going back.
How long are you here for? Just a stay at home before going back? Look guys, I'm not going to pick between here and Germany, but if you want to choose for me... I went to visit a friend and as I left, one of her girls asked her, "Momma, does she have to fly back to Germany tonight?"

Do I have to fly back tonight? Can I go back tonight? I was so worried about leaving last year, offending someone, or placing a burden on my family and now it seems like people are just waiting for me to peace out.

Rebecca has left the building.

Not yet. I still have a lot of life to live here.

IF I could--notice the if--I would mix up my lives. Like a giant wedding cake where I can pick the layers from what I want best. Could I get a slice of the great public transportation with seeing my family as the frosting?

Well now I just want cake.

To Whom May Be Concerned

Bllluugh. Flipping through a thesaurus brings me only to that unsatisfying conclusion. I feel blluugh. Ten hours on a plane, another six in an airport, and then two more plane time, ultimately ending in a two hour drive that left me spinning at my doorstep and wondering if I should eat or sleep or, as I chose, unpacking and then rearranging my room at three in the morning. Or was it? Because my biological rooster was already crowing and even though it had been hours, days?, decades?!, since I'd last slept I was pretty sure it was time to wake up. Bllluugh.

Welcome home! I was graciously invited to come up north to spend the weekend with my family enjoying ourselfs on the lake and I accepted--as if I had another choice after seven months--and it wasn't even too bad. Even if it did leave battered and bruised.

Exhibit A:

Before.

After.

Exhibit B:

Before.

After.

Exhibit C:

Before.

After.

 Exhibit D:

Before.

During.

 Oh yeah, I didn't need an after picture because that's just me doing a 360 on my first try on a knee-board. Huh, where did I get these monsterous bruises on my legs then? Freak bear encounter. Gotta watch yourself up there.

---

It might be painfully obvious that I enjoyed seeing my family again, but if we're going to be honest here, I miss Germany. I can't say I wasn't warned. Culture shock would be inevitable, because if it wouldn't be then you didn't do a very good job enjoying another culture. But man, it's really rather awkward. More on that later though, because this is what's important.

If there was a giant neon arrow sign app for Blogger, it would be pointing at the lady in the shades.

Look at this picture. Check out the hottie for a grandma! This lady is my hero and if/when I go through all the scheisse that she had to, Du meine Gute, let me bounce back like that. I was silently watching her as she coddled the new grandbaby, tubbed, and drove a new boat for god sake and I was proud. Was it just earlier last year that I was feeling guilty about leaving for Germany? I kept thinking, "Shouldn't this be the other way around? Why is my heart swelling?" Well, because this lady is worth all the stupid culture shock. At least until she asks me to resume all of my motherly duties again. She could hold off on that...