A Holly by any other name.

First day of work, December 15ish:

Boss: "Hi everyone. This is Coach Holly. Say hi Coach Holly!"
Evil-eyed girl child: "Have a HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS!"

Suddenly, I'm back at Centerville Elementary, sitting at my too-tall desk. I can hear the snot-nosed boy behind me singing "Have a holly jolly Christmas," over and over, like those are the only lyrics he knows.

They probably are.

I'm brought back to the present by the silence around me.

Boss: "Coach Holly, Jessica asked you a question."
Me: "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
Sweet, doe-eyed child: "Is your name Holly because it's Christmas?"

I thought about it. I might have even looked at the ceiling for inspiration.

Me: "Yes. That's exactly why."
All children, in unison: "Cooooooooooool."


Day 2 of work, December 18ish:

I'm minding my own business at the end of class, cleaning up some paperwork when I'm approached by a child, roughly in the 8 - 10 year old category. (I still haven't mastered the skill of guessing their ages.)

Messy haired girl who talked the entire class: "I know why you're named Holly."
Me: "Why." (My lack of question mark indicates my level of interest.)
Girl: "Because it's your Christmas name."
Me: "You got it."
Girl: You know what I'm going to call you when it's spring? Flower. And when it's summer, I'm going to call you Sunshine, and when it's fall I'm going to call you...
....
Leaf."

Me: "OK, sounds good."
Another girl, who had been standing by and listening: "What's your real name?"
Me: "I can't tell you that. It's a secret."
Group of girls who had gathered around me: "Oooooooooooo."

Eat it up, kids. This is only the beginning.

http://www.hzmre.com/holidays/ADVENTtable_html_m27dc4cd9.png

Ankle deep in material

Guess what? I'm back--for real this time--and (for those of you who know me) you're going to love the reason.

1. I got a new job (in addition to my magazine job)
2. It pays 8 dollars an hour
3. It involves working with . . . children.

Now, I am famously (in the six-person circle that I move in) adverse to children. You can try to argue with me about the merits of miniature people, but I'm generally disdainful of poorly behaved ones, and incredibly awkward around all of them.

I try to speak to them like they're adults, which they don't take kindly to, and I'd say one out of four children look at me like I'm a lint-covered monster crawling out from under their bed. That's right before they hide behind their mother's legs and refuse to go near me.

If I try to baby talk them, they look at me like I'm crazy and, again, run.

So it may seem strange, even masochistic to get a job teaching gymnastics to children aged three to fifteen. Not only are there lots of tiny humans involved--they're in various states of misbehavior thanks to big, gushy mats and high bars and hard-edged balance beams. They see the gym equipment and
THEY
GO
CRAZY.

But, it turns out I'm particularly well qualified for this job. I was a competitive gymnast in another life, the daughter of a collegiate gymnast, and the child of two parents who owned/ran a gymnastics gym for much of my middle childhood.

So here I am, surrounded by munchkins. And here you are, getting ready to read blog post after blog post about all the things I wish I could say to my students.

Let the judgment begin.

Thanks, http://www.asklopan.com/pictures/evil_children.jpg for getting it just right on the photo.

Pat on the back

Look at my friend Owen's website. He used to be a poet--now he takes pictures of naked ladies.

Are the two really so different?

Good job, Owen!

www.runhoperun.com

Welcome back to Savannah

I'm back, and I promise I'll be more consistent.

I promise!

How can I not regularly update my blog when there is so much material in Savannah?

Case in point:

Biking to the library yesterday. Forced to stop on the corner of Oglethorpe and Abercorn because a black SUV breaks in front of me. An 80's-haired lady leans out of the window and asks,

"Where is the Savannah Historic District?"

Me: "All around you."

What I should have said is:

"Actually, turn on Abercorn here and follow it all the way out--past crumbling mansions and rows of oak trees, until you get to DeRenne. Everything after DeRenne is the Historic District."

I love this town.

Organ failure

Well, it happened again.

My stomach let me down when I needed it the most.

As in last night, when Sebas and I went to one of the best restaurants in Bogota for his birthday dinner (of which he was paying for, sadly).

The place has a 5 diamond rating, and is only one of two in the whole of South America to receive this honor. Now, under normal circumstances, we would never be able to afford a dinner like this but....it's Colombia, and that means Colombian pesos which instant royalty status for Holly and Sebas.

So we get there and decide we're going to order the tasting menu with the accompanying wine. I mean if you're going to do it, do it all the way, right?

First course: thick, creamy, buttery French vegetable soup in a little tiny espresso glass.

I chug it.

Second course: quivering, savory, rich foie gras pate with vanilla gelatin and reduced wine sauce.

I inhale it before the waiter can leave the table.

Third course: crispy, creamy, firm scallops perched atop spanish chorizo, which is perched atop a crispy corn cake (total: 3)

I attack them like a rabid dog.

Keep in mind, this whole time there is a half glass of wine to accompany each course. I'm eating, I'm drinking, I'm feeling good and...

BAM.

The stomach gives out. I went from 100 miles per hour to 2 miles per hour in 1.2 seconds. Just the site of the next course, Lobster thermidor with champagne risotto makes me want to vomit. The smell of the Reserve Collection Napa Valley wine makes me want to jump out of the window just to get away from it.

I eat one bite.

Fifth course: seared ribeye with escargot and smoked mashed potatoes.

You notice there are no glowing, succulent adjectives to go with this one. Why?

One bite.

Sixth course: pineapple sorbet

Three bites. Hey, it's sorbet--it like, dissolves in your mouth.

Seventh course: lemon tart with strawberry icecream.

One half of a bite--the ice cream, not the tart.

And the wine through all of this? Sitting sadly on the table, never to touch my lips. To my credit, I did force myself to at least try everything, though it kind of backfired because the exquisite food (which was excellent, according to Sebastian) just tasted like impending doom to me.

So we left the restaurant almost immediately after the last course, me apologizing profusely, Sebas being reassuring but looking disappointed.

But that's not even the best part.

We get home, brush our teeth, settle in for a night of sleep. Except I wake up around 4:00 suddenly, sit straight up in bed and think to myself

I'm hungry.

And suddenly the whole evening came rushing back, and the realization of all the delicious food I didn't eat and I stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry.



Ask yourself this: have you ever cried in the middle of the night over food that you didn't eat that day?

I have.

Liquid crack

I'm addicted.

I know what you're thinking. "Uh, hello, it's Colombia," but I never saw this coming. It's white, it's cold, and it's delicious.














It's called guanábana juice and I can't stop myself.














It follows me everywhere I go.














It took me a while to warm up to it, because the flesh of the fruit is slimy and stringy and mushy.
But now there's no going back.


Yes, that's me drinking the good stuff, then drinking Sebastian's fresh grape juice just to spite him. (His wasn't as good as mine.)

I can't stop.

Doing the dishes

When Sebas told me we were visiting the town of Carmen de Viboral for their ceramics, I was skeptical.

Ceramics?

A couple of things came to mind:
1. Cheesy movie scene--two people at the pottery wheel, feeling up wet clay.
2. Ceramic hair straighteners.
3. Creepy doll faces. (they're porcelain, I know)

I mean, what does one do with ceramics? Put them in glass-fronted cabinents? No, I think that's crystal, or china, or something. Make heavy stews in them? No, that's cast-iron.

Anyway, you get the point. I'm always game for a trip, but I wasn't expecting much on this one.

I mean, how can you expect something like this?
Yeah, that's a mosaic of tiny ceramic fragments. It is on the side of a building, on the street, partially covered up by some cheap purses hanging on a vendor's rack.

How about this scene? These buildings are nothing special--they house dimly lit little restaurants or clothing stores where the shirts come in plastic bags.
The crazy thing is, we seemed to be the only ones that noticed the mosaics. It would be safe to say we were the only tourists in the entire city, and we were getting more looks than the art that was on the walls, around the plants, on the ground.


Sometimes there are just fragments, sometimes there are complete dishes--one building had dozens of little bowls affixed to the front, bottoms-out. And I've been using them for cereal all these years. Psh.

So we stepped into a shop (which are surprisingly scarce) to buy a few pieces. The proprietor was a little cold at first, but as our selections stacked up on his table (this stuff costs cents, you guys) he got a little more enthusiastic. He even let us peek through the side door.
After they hand-cast these pieces, a few ladies sitting in a dim, bluish room paint each piece with different patterns. And sure, they make mistakes. Maybe they drop a piece of pottery every now in then. But instead of throwing away their scraps, they use them, the way a baker might use stale bread to make bread pudding.

That's the floor of the shop.

I don't think I have to say this, but I'm going to anyway:

I'm a believer.

Hanging by a cable

They tell me this thing is a rock, but I think it is something else.

1. An alien outpost
2. A fossilized, giant humpback whale, partially submerged.
3. A hibernating elephant. A big one.

I could go on, but they'd only get weirder from there.

It's called El Peñol, but let's call it Frankenrock (I think the stitches running up its side are an obvious connection.)

Isn't there something a little disturbing about Frankenrock's shape and size? There is nothing else in the area that resembles it--there are no rocky cliffs, no crumbling mountains--just green, green grass, silent trees, and a lot of water.

Frankenrock was so intimidating, in fact, we decided to take the pressure off by zip-lining around the monstrosity. (Don't worry Mom, we didn't zip-line OFF of the rock, only beside it.)

That's Carolina, Sebas, and myself looking like construction workers.

I was really pumped for this experience: I've never zip-lined anywhere, though I've often fantasized about clinging to Batman as he zip-lined around Gotham City.

That's a lie.

Anyway, I'm really excited, partially because it only cost four dollars, but also because it's another thing to check off my life list.

So we get strapped in, Sebas and I, so we can zip-line side-by-side. The lady explains how to stop ourselves when we near the next platform, so we don't body-slam into the wooden structure.

I'm ready, man, and she counts to three and pushes us off the platform.

Yes!!!!!

Wait, I'm barely moving. Sebastian goes flying by me, hurtling along the cable. I'm drifting along, like I'm out for a Sunday drive in a vintage car. I don't even make it all the way to the platform. I have to pull myself along the cable, hand-over-hand.

On the next line, I stop even further away from the cable. The wind blowing against me is enough to bring me to a dead stop.

Apparantly the more body mass you have, the better your ride, and I failed miserably.

On a higher note, I almost passed out on the 30 minute climb to the top of the rock. Want to know the only thing worse than climbing hundreds of stairs at an incredibly high elevation? Climbing hundreds of stairs at an incredibly high eleveation that are, occasionally, coated in someone's vomit.

Luckily, the top looked like this.

It was worth it.










Oh, and one more thing.












It was a spiritual moment.

Rain gear

Maybe it's just me, but I can't help but gawk at horse-drawn carts.

We're not talking draft horses pulling tourists around in carriages--oh no. We're talking little bony horses pulling little rickety carts with cargo--usually a weathered man wearing a sombrero and bouncing along like a pimp in a pimp-mobile with hydraulics.

They trot along the roads like sputtering cars, the unflinching horses taking stilted little steps on the pavement. Once they get where they're going, they are tied up to a post, a tree, a road sign--whatever is closest.

Once, I saw one tied up outside of a bar.

And, in case of bad weather, there's always this option:














Yes, that's a horse with a raincoat you're looking at. This particular vehicle was tied up outside of a grocery store.

Wow.

I ate intenstines

Large intestine, to be exact. The business end, to be more exact.
It looks like this:



But when they cook it, it looks like this:










Why, you ask? Because of this:



More on this later.

They say it's the rainy season

We are living in a house on the side of a mountain, where there is
a) no internet
b) no heat
c) only one way to get to the top: through a river

That's all fine and exciting until this happens:

We spent about 30 minutes parked on the edge of this flooding. "It'll go down in about 20 minutes," the locals said. Well, we got tired of waiting (or maybe Sebastian's long-hidden adventurer gene kicked in) and we did it. We drove across this muddy, swirling, roaring road-turned-river.

We cheered when we got to the other side, only to realize we had not the slightest inkling of how to get to the house. So we tried every possible route up the mountain--one that was nothing but loose stones, another that was solid mud, a third that dead ended with two roaring ditches one each side (resulting in a true test of the boyfriend's backing-up skills).

He didn't disappoint, actually, for all of you who have heard me chew Sebas out for his driving. Turns out he's quite the talented, uh, nature driver. Or something like that.

We made it back to the house, finally, to find:

What? All of the wood for the fire is wet? You don't say.

What? Our room flooded and our duffle-bagged clothes worked as sandbags? Well, that's just swell!

What? The water isn't working in the entire house? Why, that only makes sense--all of the water is flooding the roads!

Good news: Sebas made delicious popcorn and hot chocolate to make up for it all, my two favorite food groups.

P.S. This was 3 days ago. It's still raining.

Holly's first mojito

I've always wanted to try a mojito, but the timing has never seemed right.

In one of Savannah's military-packed, grimy bars? Nah.
At an fragile bistro table in Paris? Nope.
Under an over-sized umbrella in Barcelona? Sangria seemed a better choice.

So when my tour guide, I mean boyfriend, announced we were going to Andres Carne de Res yesterday, I saw a window of opportunity.

Now, there's something you must know about this Andres place. It is indescribable. I could call it a restaurant, I could call it a junk shop, I could call it a club, I could call it bar, I could call it the most amazing place I have ever stepped into--and only the last descriptor would be true.

So as Sebas and I were squeezed into a side bar beside one of the smaller dance floors, I did it: I ordered a mojito. Or rather, I told Sebastian to order a mojito for me, and I avoided eye contact with the waiter, pretending like the only reason I didn't comminucate with him was the loud music (rather than my lack of lingual skills).

They came in bowls. Well, technically they were hollowed-out gourds, called totuma, and they were the size of my face. We started out with half-bowls, and they were sweet, minty, and delicioso. Our second round was much, much, did I say much? stronger but still delicious.

I wonder what I've been doing all my life, negelcting these mojitos? People were dancing, sizzling argentinian steaks were passing inches away from my head, and I consumed hundreds of tiny little yellow potatoes called papa criolla, dousing them with various relishes and chimichurris.

And then I started feeling sick.

Before you start judging me, my stomach has been boycotting life for the last 3-4 weeks. In typical Holly fashion, I ignored it, but it's really begun to backfire in Colombia. At home, managable. Here, with new food, crippling.

So I left the buzzing, dancing, delicious restaurant at 1 in the morning doubled over, apologizing to the boyfriend.

He says we will go again, and this time I will:
a) bring my camera
b) drink 5 mojitos
c) know how to salsa.

Mark my words.

Thank you, http://www.espaciogastronomico.com.ar/files/andres1.jpg for the picture.

Turbulence

Last night, I had the privledge of experiencing the flight from hell.

1. The air conditioning didn't work. Everyone was fanning themselves, babies were crying, leather seats were sticking to skin.

2. The flight attendant interrupted our movies ever 10 seconds to make an announcement. Problem was, once he picked up the microphone he couldn't remember what he was going to say.

3. Worst turbulence I have ever experienced. Turbulence like you see in movies, except those people aren't on real planes above the Gulf of Mexico. Turbulence so bad, I ended up in my neighbor's lap with the urge to throw up.

But, hey, it was only 5 hours long and now I wake up to this view out of my window.

It was worth it.

No habla español

For all of you nice (or maybe sympathetic) people who read my blog this past quarter, good news: I'm going to Colombia, South America and I'm going to use this blog to report on all the ridiculous things that may or may not happen to me.

There will be pictures, awkward cultural moments, and more self-deprecating commentary.

Hot dog!

This is my life

First, a series of (seemingly) unrelated facts:

1. My cat is a troublemaker. I found him in a parking lot, and ever since he has either been terrorizing me or eating/pooping his brains out. Crass, but true.

2. I have a cockroach phobia. Water bugs, palmetto bugs, cockroaches--they're all the same to me. My phobia stems, I believe, from the time I stepped on one in my bare feet while running to the car. I was 7.

3. I couldn't come up with any material for this, my last mandatory blog post. It has to be good, I thought. I have nothing.

So last night, I go to bed at a decent hour, having completed my homework in a shockingly timely fashion. I wake to the sound of my dog barking. I'm angry. I sit up in bed and he's standing halfway in the bathroom.

Great. The cat is standing on the shelves or something. (Sulley is very good about tattling on Squeaky.) I have to use the bathroom anyway, so I get out of bed and walk into the bathroom.

Squeaky is sitting on the toilet, just chilling. Weird, but not weird enough to wake me from my stupor. He jumps down, I use the bathroom, so on and so forth.

I exit the bathroom to find Squeaky sitting directly on my pillow, facing the wall. Again, I'm angry and confused, because Squeaky doesn't usually hang out on the bed, especially with people in it (the boyfriend was asleep on the other side).

I stood for a minute in the dark, squinting at squeaky, who was staring at the wall above the bed.

I followed his gaze to the wall.

Giant. Cockroach.

The size of my face, crawling up the wall, falling back down on the pillows.

I start screaming, my boyfriend leaps out of bed and proceeds to sleepily try to kill it while I cry in the background.

I passed the rest of the night staring out of the window and flinching at the phantom bugs crawling on my body.

I'm still in shock, I think.

And, somehow, I think I'm the one to blame. Damn you, blog jinx.

More awkward moments

I was working on my abs at Club SCAD yesterday, minding my own business in the side room.

There was one other person in the room, a guy wearing a bright yellow sleeveless shirt and tall black socks that he scrunched down as low as possible.

He was doing his routine, I was doing mine--no big deal.

As he came to the end of his workout, he walked across the room, and grabbed one of the wet sanitizing wipes out of the industrial sized container. He then wiped his blue foam mat down.

So far so normal.

Until he walks towards the trash can and blows his nose with the same wipe he just rubbed all over the mat.

Never mind the warning signs about MRSA posted all over the gym. Forget the threat of staff infection, germs, or chemicals that are now traveling into your nasal passages.

How about it's just weird?

Just. plain. weird.

Awkward bathroom moment

Public bathrooms are always awkward, even if you're not using urinals.

For example: I'm standing in the bathroom at Arnold Hall, washing my hands. A fellow bathroom patron walks up and begins washing her hands intently, bending over the sink in concentration.

What the? I think to myself.

I look closer and realize she has on fingerless gloves. You know, the woolly ones you wear in the winter? Yeah, those, but with the tips of the fingers cut off. The glove girl proceeds to delicately place each finger under the faucet, painstakingly avoiding splashing water on her gloves.

She places one finger, her pointer finger, under the soap dispenser, then proceeds to rub the soap on each finger. She then rinses each finger individually, pulling her hand back suddenly when she thinks she's getting too close to the water.

At this point I realize I have been washing my hands for far too long, and I leave.

I know, I know. There's only one way to express how I feel about this: ????????????????

The end.

A post about posting

I'm officially up to date on my posting with this post!

Today is my little sister's 16th birthday, so I'll use this post to take a break from my usual angry ranting to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEGHANN!

(Did anyone notice I used nothing but exclamation points in this post?)

If you're in graduate school...

1. Don't ask if Wikipedia is a legitimate source
2. Don't offer up positive comments when the workshop had moved on to what needs work
3. Do not turn in papers with the assignment name for your title
4. Do not surf the internet on your laptop for the entire class
5. Do not make offensive, broad generalizations about people or groups of people
6. Do not eat a packet of cream cheese in class with your fingers
7. Do not start every criticism with "Maybe it's just me..." If it's just you, don't say anything.
8. Do not expect your teachers to proofread your paper for grammatical errors before they grade it

That being said, doing any of the aforementioned things does not make you a bad person, simply a surprisingly unprepared student.

Oh mighty Rosetta Stone

I'm learning spanish from the computer program, Rosetta Stone. It's a pretty fascinating program, but I have to admit something:

I'm afraid of it.

I'm afraid of it the way elderly people are afraid of computers. It's a mix of distrust, paranoia--the feeling that it's always watching you.

Why?

The pronunciation portion of the program (check out that alliteration) can tell if you're saying vowels correctly, sounds, entire words. Mispronounce something and the computer makes a sad little noise and prompts you to try again. It's incredibly sensitive, and seems to know when I'm not paying attention, or not trying hard enough.

So I find myself acting like a little kid with a strict teacher as I sit in front of the computer. I sit up straighter, sneak glances at my cell phone only between lessons, and whisper to people over the top of my screen as if I'm talking in class.

As I type this, the Rosetta Stone logo on the bottom of the screen is watching me.

It's for class, I swear, Rosetta Stone. This not a leisure activity. What? O.K., I'll go study.

Cats don't like water.

There are times when I try to express my thoughts truthfully. Really, I try. I don't sit inside my own head and think catty little things without expressing them all the time. Really, I don't.

So when my boyfriend decided to give my cat a bath a few days ago, I started off being nice.

Boyfriend: I think Squeaky needs a bath. It's been a while.
Me: Yeah, since we found him in a parking lot and he was too young to have teeth.
B: I think he'll like it.
Me: He was so funny when he was little. He would just sit in the sink and look so sad, wouldn't he?
B: Yeah. Come on Squeaky. Let's go in the bathroom.

This is the moment where I had two choices: tell him that, no matter what their kitten experiences were, cats are inherently afraid of water. Or, let him figure it out the hard way.

I took the middle road.

Me: You know he is going to freak out, right?
B: (dismissively) Oh we'll be fine.

He brushed me off. He gave me that I-got-this look, and so I sat back and let him figure it out.

Me: Just get ready, I'm telling you.

The two of them went in the bathroom, the water turned on, and shit started to go down. I heard things falling off shelves, water splashing everywhere and the garbled cry of a human in pain.

I jumped off the bed and opened the door.

B: CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!!
Me: Are you O.K.?

His forearm was already swollen with a gash that looked like someone had hammered a nail in his skin and dragged it about 4 inches towards his wrist.

B: (sadly now) Please just close the door.

So I did, and we said nothing else about it.

Love of hamburgers: ruined.

I overheard a guy talking about this commercial the other day, in which Padma Lakshmi orgasmically eats a Hardee's burger.

"It's so hot dude," he said to his friend. "So fucking hot."



I didn't say anything at the time, but this commercial makes me want to vomit. You know the part where she licks the ketchup from her finger? You know, the ketchup that used to be on her ankle? I gagged the first time I saw it.

"It's supposed to be funny, Holly," my brother says. "You're supposed to laugh a it."

There is nothing funny about making me lose my appetite for hamburgers.

Have I made my point yet?

I forgot to mention one thing: she ran from the 13 post position. That's her, all the way on the outside of the track. No one has ever won the Preakness from the 13 post position.

The only thing that could make me cry harder? The Kentucky Derby winner, Mine That Bird, ran from the back all the way to second. So close.

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

All the ladies in the house say yeah-uh

In literary journalism today, we had a brief discussion, during break, about crying during movies--specifically cheesy movies (ahem MK). I listened, sympathized, but openly admitted that I don't cry during movies. It's not because I don't want to--it's just that I guess I rarely get invested enough in a movie to be moved emotionally.

I do, however, sob--wait, that needs more emphasis--SOB during a much more obscure televised event.

Horse races.

I cry during the pre-show of every horse race I ever watch. I start crying because they montages they do are incredibly epic and well edited. I continue crying because our family business used to involve adopting racehorses after they couldn't run anymore. My mom, sister, and I adopted trailer loads of broken, slow, and unwanted horses from racetracks on the east coast. We taught them how to jump, how to relax, how to eat grass--and most of them were no more than 3 years old.

I know how devoted thoroughbreds are to their job. They know what they're doing, they know they want to win, and the amount of sheer talent it takes for them to make it around that racetrack is incomprehensible.

All of that being said, I cried through the whole Preakness this past Saturday. Why? The super filly, as they call her, Rachel Alexandria. Most people don't believe in racing girls against boys, but she did just that and she won.

She won without any balls, any testosterone, any male aggression. She just ran (and not even as well as she could) and became the first filly to win the Preakness in 85 years.

Yes, girl. Yes.

photo credit: Jason Szenes/European Pressphoto Agency, from http://therail.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/05/16/live-from-the-134th-preakness-stakes/?em

Soggy fish

Four words: Long John Silver's commercials.

Imagine: you're sitting in your local Long John Silver's, about to chow down on some deep fried crispy fish when SPLOOOOSH--a huge wave crashes over you, leaving you, your hushpuppies, and your fish dripping with water.

I know fish come from the sea. And I know it's tempting to put water with seafood. But if the point of your restaurant is to have crispy fish--and you dump water on customers--don't you then have soggy fish?

Take a minute to image what soggy fried fish tastes like.

I'm just sayin'.

7 courses, 1 hour. Go.

I, lucky girl that I am, got asked to be a judge at Greenfest's Top Chef competition this weekend.

Noble Fare versus Cha Bella.

7 courses delivered at the speed of light into my inadequately sized stomach.

At the end of the event, we had to turn in score cards.

There were four categories for each course:

1. Taste
2. Presentation
3. Creativity
4. "Green"ness

Do the math: four categories times three courses times two chefs--that's 24 boxes that need numbers in them. I waited until the end of all course to fill out my card in terms of being fair to both parties. Apparently I was the only one to do so, and this is the flak I got for it:

Score card collector guy: It's not rocket science, you know.
Me, laughing lightly: I know, I know.
S: I mean, hurry up. We're all waiting on you.
Me (glancing down the 10-person-long table): O.K., I'm just trying to do a good job.
S (slaps the already collected scorecards against his leg impatiently, whistling).

Guess what I wanted to say? This:

Listen, asshole. You're not as cute or as funny as you think you are. Your only job today, possibly your only job in life, is to gather cardboard scorecards and give them to someone who can actually do the math. That's right, I saw you looking at them, discreetly counting on your fingers, trying to find out who had the advantage. I caught you. Your lack of math skill automatically prohibits you from accusing me of being too dumb to score my seven dishes. I was doing the math on my own card so your English pea-sized brain wouldn't have to do it.

So excUSE me for taking my job seriously. And excUSE me for actually caring about who won the award. I hope the scorecards get recounted, the award gets recalled, and you get publicly shunned for being horrible at your job AND rude to guest judges.

Damn--that was harsh even for me, wasn't it?

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Wait! There's more...

I was relaying my parking experiences to some friends the other day, half laughing, half raging about my expired tag fiasco (that you all now know about). We swapped stories back and forth, commiserating on how terrible parking people are in Savannah.

"You guys don't even know how bad the officer is around my house. I caught her, just the other day, ticketing someone because their bumper was barely over a yellow line. Barely! It's ridiculous," I said foolishly, unknowingly daring the parking gods to strike me down.

And they did.

I come out of my house this other morning. Parking ticket. Improper parking on yellow.

It was less than a bumper on the yellow. Less than a sliver. There's only 4 inches of yellow curb before it disappears, and I had to get a ticket.

$15 dollars, down the tubes.

*$^*((*&(^%^&%&$^

It's ON

I woke up this morning with one thought in my mind: my tags are supposed to arrive today. I had a tight schedule, so I was planning on receiving my tags, going to parking services, trying to get the ticket voided, returning home and going to my other obligations.

First of all, the post office person didn't even KNOCK on the door. I'm sitting upstairs, folding laundry when I hear the mail slot open and close. I go flying down my (dangerous) metal stairs to see a pepto-pink Sorry We Missed You slip. "You can pick up the package after 1:00" the slip said.

So I angrily wait until 1:00, head to the Post Office. Whew. Great--license plate and registration are in my posession.

I head straight to Parking Services, park my car, go inside, show my ticket and my registration. The clerk voids the ticket and I skip happily out of the office, feeling like a responsible and productive adult for the first time all day.

I drive merrily home and just when I'm about to park, I see it: another ticket crammed under my windshield wiper. I jump out in insta-rage. Ticket says: Expired tag. 50 dollars. I squeal tires in my angry U-turn back to Parking Services.

They void it, again, and I storm out of the office, my day throughly dampened.

Officer Pinkney--I blame you for everything.

Parking Officer Pinkney

My Dad keeps forgetting to give me my new license plate and registration. He forgot 2 weeks in a row, after which he passed on the duty to my mother, who proceeded to forget this past weekend.

So my Dad sent the license plate in the mail today, express, to get here tomorrow at 11 a.m.

Today is also the day that Officer Pinkney, the plague of my life, gave me a 50 dollar ticket for an expired tag.

She let the expired tag slide for a whole week, drove by it multiple times a day, but nooooo, she couldn't wait 6 freaking hours today, of all days, for my tags to get here.

I'm watching you, Officer Pinkney.

Question of the Day

What is proper?

"I'd like an iced grande caramel macchiato, please."

or

"I'd like a grande iced caramel macchiato, please."

or

"I'd like a grande caramel macchiato, iced, please."

I need to know who's right: me or the barista.

Someone help.

Oink.

I'm afraid of the swine flu.

I don't want to be--I've never been afraid of sickness before. It's just that, well, it's from swine. There's something about the word swine that really gets under my skin. Pig flu? Not so terrifying. Swine flu? Nightmare material.

Plus, you have no way of knowing who has been to Mexico recently. If you had just returned from vacation in Cancun, would you walk around telling people, "Don't grab that door handle--I just came back from Mexico. I could be infected." No, you would think, "Well I'm not sick. I just have a sore throat, but that's from allergies. No need to freak people out."

Please, people, FREAK ME OUT.

Wait, too late.

Braindead

I am writing my first ever feature-length article for the magazine I intern for, and the process is robbing my brain of all functionality.

Yes, functionality. See what I mean?

Ergo, this week's posts will be short, sweet, and boring.

Thanks for understanding.

Five words right now. Five.

I spoke my mind today. I didn't sugarcoat what I was thinking. I didn't pretend like everything was A-O.K. Halfway back from home, my boyfriend and I stopped at Bojangles for an early supper. We sat in the parking lot and ate our chicken and biscuits, my dog and cat half sleeping, half begging for food in the back seat.

We finished our meal, and just as I started to crumple my wrapper, I saw it. The electronic display of my CD player was on. Shit. I reached over and tried starting the car from the passenger seat. Dead.

Me: Are the lights on?
Boyfriend: (click. they were.)
**silence**

Me: Are you serious right now?

And that was it.

No one does it better...

I was blissfully unaware of Twitter before I started taking Promotional Writing. But now, thanks to a class assignment, I am signed up, tuned in, and always in awe of the lady who speaks her mind the best:


TinaFey I think I can safely speak for America when I say, we're not shallow, but please, Britain, do something with Susan Boyle's eyebrows.

Oh, Tina.

To be or not to be (a bitch).

You know, I haven't always disguised my thoughts from others. There was a time when I was brutally honest to my friends. We're talking brutal here. So I wonder--was it youth that gave me such, well, balls? Or am I mellowing out in my old age as I inch my way toward dentures and (hopefully) a cherry red jazzy scooter?

When I was about 10 years old, one of my Mom's employees asked me a question that was begging for a politically correct answer. I elected to ignore that fact.

Danzon: Can you see my underwear through these? (points to the ass of his thin white umbro shorts)
Me: (staring at his tighty whites and the black hair on his thighs--through the shorts) Yes. It doesn't look good.
D: I look fat, don't I?
Me: Yes.

All was silent for a perfectly awkward minute or two, and then he said:
"You are so honest, Holly. You're going to make someone a great friend someday."

I was a little taken aback because, as far as I knew, I had said something offensive, something my mom would have HOLLY!-ed me for. And yet, his words have stuck with me for 11 years, reminding me to step up and tell a friend what I really think.

I look back on all the times I was brutal to my friends. I've told them they are selfish, unrealistic. I've told them their boyfriends are pieces of shit and that their senior thesis is lacking in imagination.

And yet, they are all still my friends, a lifetime later.

So I guess the question is: are they still friends with me because they appreciate my honesty or because I surround myself with people who are too dumb shun me?

Let's go with the former.

Give Me My Salad Now.

I stopped in at one of my favorite cheapo eateries, Zaxby's, on Sunday. The chain is known for its fried chicken and seasoned-salt-soaked french fries, but I've been trying to eat less like a 10-year-old boy lately, so I was pretty much planning on ordering a salad. I squinted up at the menu (something I don't customarily have to do) and saw that the Zensation Zalad was back, for a limited time. A longtime fan of the Black and Blue Zalad (blackened chicken and blue cheese), I had heard from several people that the Zensation was, by far, the best Zalad Zaxby's had ever cooked up. Or assembled up. Whatever.

So I gave the ingredients listed below the delicious-looking photo a cursory glance and then ordered it, the salad I had heard so much about: The Zensation.

The boy behind the cash register looked at me disbelievingly.
Boy: Do you know what's in that?
Me: Uh, I looked at the ingredient list on the menu...
Boy: Are you sure?
Me, laughing lightly: I'm pretty sure. Why, is it not good?
Boy: Do you know what Asian Slaw is?
Me: Um, it probably has cabbage and stuff in it, right?
Boy: You like Asian Slaw?
Me: As far as I know. Why not?
Boy, looking at me now as if I were an alien: O.K., but don't say I didn't warn you.
Me: I think I can handle it.

You know what, debbie downer behind the register? I can practically see your fraternity shirt pulsing through your Zaxby's uniform. I can imagine your croakie hanging from the review mirror of your large SUV with tinted windows and a sound system. Before you even spoke, I knew that you were entirely unfamiliar with food other than "American" food. Maybe the conversation should have gone like this.

Boy: Do you know what's in that?
Me: I can read, asshole.
Boy: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, I'm sure. Would I have ordered with such authority if I was unsure about myself?
Boy: Do you know what Asian Slaw is?
Me: Why yes, I do. I spend every second of my free time watching cooking shows, reading culinary magazines, and concocting the same such things as "Asian Slaw" in my inadequate kitchen!
Boy: You like Asian Slaw?
Me: I eat Asian Slaw for breakfast!!
Boy, looking at me now as if I were an alien: O.K., but don't say I didn't warn you.
Me: Warn this! (and I dump a bucket of Asian Slaw on his head)

Turns out the Zalad was DELICIOUS, and I reserve all-caps words for very special occasions.

D-E-L-I-C-I-O-U-S.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I went home this weekend to help my parents move into their new house. I say new house, but what I really mean is a postage stamp-sized cottage that is squeezed between other postage stamp-sized dwellings on a street traveled by children on bikes and middle aged women power walking in color coordinated spandex. We are farm dwellers by nature, and up until two weeks ago we were exactly that, living in a white farmhouse on rolling property with two tree lined driveways and a clear stream you could hear from your bed at night.

So, for the first time, we found ourselves surrounded, literally, by eyes. The girl next door sitting on the porch, the kids across the street playing with their dog--they were all curious and we, by default, were self conscious. Everyone smiled, but no one had the gumption to approach us until Mary hobbled over, cane in hand, startling my sister (Meg) as she put our tennis rackets in the trunk.

Mary: Hey there! I'm Mary, I live two houses down. What's your name?
Meg: I'm Meghann. It's nice to meet you.
Dad: Hey, I'm Mark, it's nice to meet you.
Mary: Is that your wife? (point towards me)
Dad: No, that's my older daughter, Holly.
Me: Nice to meet you.
Mary: I've lived here for 60 years, so I know just about everyone around here.
Dad: I bet you do. We're really enjoying the neighborhood. It's real nice.
Mary: Who cut the grass?
Me: My Dad did. It looks better, doesn't it?
Mary: He did? (point at my 19 year old boyfriend)
Meg: No ma'am, my Dad did. (pointing at my father, who is sporting a salt and pepper beard)
Mary: So where did you and your wife move from? (again, looking at me)

It goes on like this for a while, her confusing my father for my husband and my boyfriend for my father. Throughout the entire 30 minute conversation, my Dad is polite, courteous--no, friendly to Mary, charming her with his appropriate, simplified questions and comments. She eventually lost interest in us and went back to her flower-laden cottage. We got in the car waiting in silence, until all the doors were shut.

Dad: I do believe Mary is crazy, don't you?
Me, Meg: Yes!
Dad: She was going on and on. She must know everyone in this neighborhood.
Me: She is so excited that she has someone new to watch.
Dad: Whew. I saw her coming towards us and I thought about running.
Me: I started to turn around and hide inside.
Meg: Thanks a lot guys! She came out of nowhere. Scared the crap out of me.
Dad, sighing: I guess I can't walk around naked anymore.

I think they're going to fit in just fine.

Reading is Underrated. Really.

I am an intern at a local magazine where my duties include (but are not restricted to)

• transcribing hours of interviews (I get a kick out of typing out noises like "erm" and "ehhehhehh")
• fact checking (Receptionist: "Spine and Sport, how may I help you?" Me: "Oh, I'm just calling to make sure this is Spine and Sport." Receptionist: "Oh, O.K." Me: "Bye")
• trying to explain that I am interviewing people for a 20 word piece in the "chit-chat" section, not a feature-length article (I neglect to tell them that I am doing the interview between classes. 20 minutes is all you get.)

When I do receive significant assignments, I work doggedly, fastidiously to find the right combination of words, the zingers that are funny but not too pointed, the perfectly weird but interesting opening sentence. I put some serious effort into this stuff. After all, writing for magazines is what I want to do.

Maybe I get a little angry when I see people flipping through magazines, always flipping, always looking at the pictures and never reading. Maybe I was overly sensitive about the following conversation with my boyfriend, a photographer for the same magazine.

Me: I think I'm getting some major assignments this issue
Boyfriend: I wonder what I'm going to be shooting
Me: Oh, whatever it is, everyone will love it.
B: Oh yeah? I don't know, I get kind of nervous about it.
Me: I do too, but it doesn't matter because no one reads the magazine anyway.
B: That's not true.
Me: Have you read my articles this issue?
B: Well, no.
Me: Exactly.
B: I'm going to, though.
Me: Did you read any of my articles in the last issue?
B: Yeah, I read that one about the music video guys.
Me: I read that one out loud to you.
B: You did?
Me: Yeah.
*silence*

What if we entered bizarro magazine world and the conversation went like this:

Boyfriend: I think I got some great photo assignments this issue.
Me: I'm pretty sure mine are more important.
B: Oh yeah, of course. Words are the ultimate in all things beautiful.
Me: Really? I feel like people don't get my prose sometimes. Like, it's too epic or something.
B: See, I think my photos aren't epic enough, but it doesn't matter because people only want to read these days.
Me: That's true.
B: Did you look at my photos this issue?
Me: No, I flipped past them really fast so as not to see them.
B: I understand.
Me: I mean, I will though.
B: Oh, don't worry about. I haven't even looked at my own photos, I've been reading so much of the copy. It's great!!!

Ahhhhh. That feels good.

Back Off, Lady

I experienced my first brush with guerrilla charity recruitment yesterday. By the time the bloodthirsty representative of a local organization sniffed me out, I had already been significantly burnt by the sun, had my arm smashed between two splintery wooden poles, and collided (violently) with the edge of a metal trailer.

I was already at a charity event, the Hilton Head Equestrian Exposition, representing SCAD's equestrian team. I was innocently kneeling on the edge of a polo field, waiting for one of the exhibition riders to knock down a pole so I could sprint across the field and re-set it, when a gaudily clad figure stepped in front of me.

Gaudy Lady: Are you guys from SCAD?
Me: (looking down a the logo on my polo shirt) Yes ma'am
GL: And why exactly aren't you a volunteer with my charity?
Me: (scanning the horizon for an escape path) I'm sorry?
GL: Shouldn't you be volunteering for my organization? It has to do with horses.
Me: Oh, um, well, we would love to volunteer for everyone, it's just that we are student athletes, so we have to divide our time between...
GL (interrupting): Well what do you do on Saturdays?
Me: I mean, we have competitions and many of us have jobs.
GL: Come over to our table. I'll give you information so you can come to orientation tomorrow.
Me: Oh. O.K...

And I follow, meekly, to her table, accepting stacks of brochures and newsletters, apologizing for not volunteering before.

I know, I know--it's for charity. But you know what? I still resent the fact that she guilted me, accused me, implied that I was lazy, or uncharitable.

So, Gaudily Dressed Lady with your bauble earrings and long-sleeved, printed, button-up shirt lumpishly stuffed under your poorly designed t-shirt, here's a little letter for you:

Yes, I'm from SCAD and no, maybe I'm not doing anything next Saturday. But to be honest, ma'am, your bristling attitude does not make me want to help you out. I'm a good person, you know. Goodish, at least. I saved a newborn kitten out of a parking lot last Halloween. I sometimes write haikus for friends for no particular reason other than to make them smile. There are times, even, when I stop to let pedestrians cross at every square between my house and Arnold Hall. I do all of these charitable things on top of my team practices, workouts, and competitions and in addition to my school work, my (unpaid) internship, and my (paid) job. So maybe I want to spend a Saturday watching America's Next Top Model re-runs. Maybe I want to drool on my pillow past 7 o'clock. And maybe, just maybe, I might want to spend the day shuffling between the microwave and my overstuffed chair with extra buttery bags of popcorn. So no, I will not volunteer for your hostile organization and no, I will not feel guilty about it.

Boo-yow.

My Dog is Not Overweight

I am the proud, devoted, smitten owner of a Welsh Corgi named Sulley. Corgis, despite their hilariously short legs, are meant to be solid, hefty dogs capable of herding flocks of geese and trotting around the Welsh countryside. My dog is of the solid type, and also happens to be quite fluffy as evidenced by his name (taken from the furry blue guy in Monsters, Inc.). All of these qualities make for one adorably disproportionate dog who is NOT, by the way, overweight.

So you can image how I feel when, while pleasantly strolling around Savannah avec Sulley, I am forced to engage on a conversation like this:

Lady on bench in a square: Oooooo look at that dog!
Me: (polite laughter)
L: Ain't he fat? Oooo ain't he fat!!
Me: (strained laughter) He's not fat, he's just fluffy.
L: He so funny lookin'! Look at them little legs and him bein' so fat!
Me: (threatening smile) Yes, he's a good boy.
L: I wanna come home with you, if you feedin' him like that!
Me: (death laughter) Oh, yes.

That's right, I didn't defend the love of my life. I didn't pat him on the head, look at her accusingly and say, "You're hurting his feelings, ma'am." I didn't get teary-eyed and storm away. I didn't do any of the things a mother would do if similar comments had been made about her baby and, let's face it, he is my baby. In retrospect, this is how I wish it had gone.
L: Ooooo look at that dog!!
Me: What, bitch? You got somethin' to say? What? What?
L: Ain't he fat? Oooo ain't he fat?
Me: (looking L up and down) Oh, right, like you can pass judgment.
L: He so funny lookin'! Look at them little legs and him bein' so fat!
Me: I got little legs for you. (KAPOW and I kick her in the face)
L: I wanna come home with you, if you feedin' him like that!
Me, to Sulley: Go ahead. Eat her ankle.

Lady on the bench in a square: if you're reading this right now, prepare yourself. You won't get my southern sweetness again.

That's a lie. Yes you will.

Damn.