there are places I remember all my life

I remember having all the cousins sleep on the floor in the living room, lining up our sleeping bags from wall to wall and giggling into the night. I remember making jewelry with cousins one summer and hiding under the picnic table with Anthony when it started to rain, as we still attempted to hawk our wares at the unsuspecting barber shop customers who bought from us just because we were cute. I remember receiving packages in the mail and imagining Grandmom and Grandpop lovingly crafting each one; Grandmom with her hot glue gun, asking Grandpop to sign stacks of cards she placed in front of him. I remember when Grandmom and Grandpop came out for graduations, summer trips, birthday surprises, arriving by plane or car, bringing lots of hugs, Tastykakes, and that certain perfume scent Grandmom carries with her. I remember Uncle Tom encouraging us to build bigger chocolate ice cream sundaes, with chocolate syrup and jimmies, laughing because there was no way we would ever finish them. I remember making Yum Yum and sitting out on the porches behind Gparents and U.Tom/A.Mary's houses, eating until our fingers got sticky and then running to the iron swingset in the yard. I remember wondering what was in the shed by the swingset, and examining the neat little rows of tomatoes in the garden, always helping to decide if they were ripe enough to pick. I remember sleeping in the attic, with the dark corners full of boxes and contact-paper-covered shelves lined with books and cooking magazines from years and years before I knew how to read. I remember the sliding glass door on the shower and Gmom and Gpop's, and how there was always a little book of word searches above the toilet, and how sometimes I would go in the bathroom just because I liked to look out the window into the parking lot and watch the world go by. I remember visiting the barbershop just to say hi to Grandpop and Uncle Tom, stealing pretzels out of the wooden pretzel box and sucking on the salt until my lips stung. I remember the Jersey shore, only vaguely, hot sand between tiny toes and matching puffy-paint t-shirts to be worn for years to come on the floor on Grandmom and Grandpop's house at those cousin-filled sleepovers. I remember "down the house," and how there was always a little bowl of black olives for me, and the basement was scary and the armchairs were uncomfortable, but there were huge bowls of pasta and lots of laughter to make up for it. I remember tasting wine at holiday dinners and actually liking it. I remember playing dress-up with cousins in the basement of U. Tom and A. Mary's house, swathing ourselves in crinoline, playing Ace of Base over and over whilst choreographing elaborate routines we would then perform for our poor mothers and fathers. I remember sitting on the steps at Grandmom and Grandpop's house, watching everyone sit around comfortably in those high-back wooden dining room chairs, talking easily after the bowls of pasta and homemade sauce were gone and put away, breathing in the comforting, familiar smell that always emanated from the carpet there. I remember making cookies and pasta and salad dressing and everything under the sun with Grandmom, her wrinkled hands still as sure as they ever were in the kitchen, guiding her grandchildren to learn the art of cooking as she once did. I remember playing Solitaire with Grandpop in the sunroom in Indiana and on the coffee table at their house in Lansdale and in hotel rooms and anywhere else we could find a flat surface and a deck of cards; we wouldn't even have to talk very much, we just played Solitaire over and over again in a soothing repetition. I remember sitting on the porch swing, and discovering the doors I always used at their houses were in fact the back doors, and the front ones faced the street and apparently never opened. I remember Pollyanna gift exchanges and endless photographs where Anthony wasn't smiling or Genevieve blinked or Noelle wouldn't stop wiggling because she was so small, so the parents lined up the old-fashioned film cameras and flashed away until someone decided there had to be a good one in there somewhere. I remember always saying good-bye, climbing into the back of the car or van, walking onto the plane, looking back every two seconds until I could no longer see them standing there waving tearfully. When my grandmother asked me to write down what I remembered from times with the family, I didn't think I could come up with anything but a few scattered stories, but apparently I can remember, and hold dearly, quite a bit more than I realized.

images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes

Extremely random thoughts for you on a blustery Sunday evening in Indiana...

Presently watching The Holiday for the hundredth time and desperately wishing I could move to England.

Also loving England because of three hours spent with my dad this afternoon browsing England vacation websites.

The smell of campfire makes me want to stand outside and breathe deeply for hours, until my toes go completely numb and I can't feel my ears.

Waiting to hear back from a local, slightly upscale restaurant for a serving job... perhaps a step up from the 'bee's and a more profitable second job in the near future?

Thinking a lot lately about the future; Dan asked me where I see myself in May, and I didn't have an answer.

Getting tired of my intense paranoia concerning germs and illness.

So very over all the ridiculous, immature, childish drama at my lovely restaurant of employment.

Totally at a loss as to what to wear over my impending weekend spent out of town.

I hate living in what I consider to be an untidy sty of occasional filth, but haven't any time to properly tidy it.

Really tired of always paying bills and not saving any money for my future.

Wishing I had time to learn to cook properly, and perhaps sew, and definitely read more books.

Rather chagrined that I'm always complaining in these posts.

I definitely enjoyed my long weekend without a roomie, but I have to admit I'm rather pleased she's back (just helped her carry bags in).

Slightly concerned for my health, what with my roomie and bf suspecting an iron deficiency and a general feeling of being "off" for the past few weeks.

Dreaming dreams and wishing wishes, without fully realizing any of them.


At risk of sounding cliche or girly or whatev, yet not caring if you think that because it's true, I am completely crazy about this guy:

I know, I know. Go ahead and make fun of me. Here's to hoping.

and these mem'ries lose their meaning

I left work to-day and got in my car and listened quietly to music on the ride home. I didn't accelerate aggressively or get upset with other drivers on the road like I usually do. I didn't call anyone to chat or complain to about my day. When I got home, I walked slowly up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, unlocked the door, and dropped my stuff on the floor. Realized I had no full water bottles, refilled them, placed the Brita pitcher back in the fridge. I looked at the full sink of dishes, remembered I should wash them, and walked away. Changed into lounging clothes, dropped my uniform on the floor, and recalled I had planned on doing laundry this whole weekend and still had yet to do so. Walked away. Quietly. Oh so quietly.

Have you ever felt unsatisfied?

I don't mean displeased with the price of gas, frustrated over a lost piece of mail, or peeved by a minor spat with a roommate or friend.

I suppose I should ask, have you ever felt empty?

Don't misunderstand me. I am not depressed. I have a good life, with a loving family, a few close friends and people who care about me a great deal. I work hard at my job, I am recognized for it, and I am proud of that. I don't hate my crooked teeth or my small stature or how I'm forced to wear spectacles to see properly; on the contrary, I appreciate my physical quirks as reflections of my personality. I love my sense of humour and that I have those in my life that also enjoy it.

All that said, to-day I left work and realized how empty I felt. I barely made any money during a shift that usually makes me more than the rest of my week's shifts combined. People in general were impolite and stingy this afternoon. It's another absolutely gorgeous autumn day, unseasonally warm and sunny, and I had to spend the whole day inside, apologizing to tables because a fly landed on their glass and the steak wasn't cooked to their exact specifications and she needs more raspberry tea even though her glass is three-quarters full.

I just want more.

Not more money, although it would help to not have to worry about it obsessively. Not more friends, although I do appreciate that I have made a few new friends at work recently. Not more recognition or prestige or high-fives.

I want MORE. I KNOW I can do more with my life. I'm settling for living in the same town my family's lived in for thirteen years, working as a waitress for $2.13 an hour. I have a bachelor's degree in English, a deep passion for books and the written word, a burning desire to travel and see the world and indulge my gypsy spirit and I am doing NOTHING about it.

I spoke to an old college friend yesterday for the first time in quite awhile. She asked how I was doing, I updated her on my job situation - or lack thereof - and informed her that I had recently decided on my five-year plan. When I told her - in complete and utter seriousness, mind you - that I planned on moving abroad in five years or less, she laughed. I know it's not her fault to think I'm joking around, because I've been joking about moving to England for years, but still. I told my mum the other day that my goal is to move to England, and she just keeps talking about when I move to Chicago. I seriously want to do this, and no one is taking me seriously. The fact that people might honestly think I can't do it is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is my dream. If I had the money to move tomorrow I would pack my suitcase, buy a plane ticket, and leave. I would seriously miss my close friends, my wonderful guy, and my family. But I would go because I know I need to. I really, really don't want to sound proud or conceited or anything when I say this, but I'm meant for so much more than what I'm doing.

I should get started on the evening's tasks. Just so this post isn't quite so dark and somber, I conclude with a visual depiction of yesterday evening's activities:

Hot, essence-of-fall wassail and his dorky grin.


The main event: pumpkin carving! Note how focused I am on my art.


He's pleased because his pumpkin is PERFECT. [No really, it is.]
I'm peeved because mine is choppy and mangled. I'm such an amateur.


O the carnage!


His perfect punkin on the ground, next to the tiny punkin friend I got for 59 well-spent cents.
My YAR! pirate punkin is elevated to illustrate the awesomeness.

Splendid fall evening to you, friends.

I've tried to telephone, they said you were not home, that's a lie

Still no reply from the job hunt.

I plan on sending angry emails this week. Okay, irate emails. Fine, not even irate; polite inquiries, really. They can't get upset at me for politely inquiring how the process is going, right? RIGHT?

If I don't hear back from any of this most recent round of jobs, then I believe that clinches it. I'm moving away. I don't even know where yet. I do know that I will wait until after the holidays, since business is finally starting to pick up at the 'bee's, slowly yet surely, so once I make it through the madness that is the holiday rush, then I will have sufficient funding - or at the very least, just enough so I can move away and not die for a month or two. Wise advice has helped me see that that's all I need.

With that sort of ambition, maybe I'll make all my dreams come true at once and move to England.... yes...

Ahem. Moving on, I picked up another shift tonight. Carside again. I really don't mind it, as long as people tip me. Which, most of the time, they don't. But every now and then it's a nice change to work carside. Don't have to deal with the constant interaction of bartending, always playing the listener or the entertainer. Don't have to worry about harassing one's tables repeatedly with drink refills or pushy dessert inquiries. Nope, just answer the phone, take the order, and take it to the car when they arrive. If I'm lucky, they see me for a minute, minute and a half, tops, and maybe reward me with a dollar or two for my efforts.

On a completely unrelated note (my, aren't we scattered to-day, mentally speaking), I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. Truly. I've moved and changed schools so many times in my life, I'm used to just leaving it all behind and picking up in a new place, meeting new people, creating a new routine. After college, it was so strange to move back to a city I knew, with familiar locations and faces and phone numbers that weren't long distance for once. For once, I don't want to forget the people I left behind, those who made my four years of college so much more than tolerable, yet I'm falling back into the same pattern of forgetfulness. My best and dearest friend to me in the world and I have lost touch. We used to be able to talk for hours, exchanging random stories and oh yeah that reminds me of this that happened but wait I was telling a story and if I don't finish I'll forget and then we'll get on another tangent that leads to four more stories and meanwhile we can't stop quoting movies/TV shows we love to watch together and have to take a break to laugh until we can't breathe. Now, we're lucky if we talk once a week. I understand that's how life works and people grow up and reach the point where they have luncheons every now and then to catch up with "old college buddies" or whatnot, but I've never been the sort of carry that kind of friendship off very well. And I miss my best friend.




Why is it that you break twenty-one years of age, and suddenly realize that adult life is very different than you always imagined it, back when you were writing short stories as if all that was troublesome in the world resolved itself at age twenty-four? If that were the case, apparently I'm due to have all my worries resolved in the next year. If only it worked like my twelve-year-old self always dreamed...

These ramblings don't seem to make a great deal of sense, even as I glance back through them. I probably shouldn't even post this, but sometimes it's helpful to purge the mind of all those disconnected thoughts, just for housecleaning's sake, I suppose. Who know, you might even understand a little bit of where I'm coming from.

take these broken wings and learn to fly

I'm discouraged.

I've been trying really hard to not let this become a place for personal rants or whining or whatnot, and more an outlet for expressive depictions of both random thoughts and day-to-day anecdotes, but I have to be cathartic to-day, and for that I apologize. I also apologize for the length of that sentence; it definitely borders on run-on status.

I was just rejected for a job.

It's just a lovely way to wake up in the morning to your phone ringing, seeing an unknown number - which I kind of love, by the way; unknown numbers spell intrigue! adventure! etc! - making sure you answer in a semi-coherent way, and have a nice lady tell you that your availability just isn't going to work. Let's back up a minute so I can fully explain why one tiny rejection is making me so upset.

As previously stated on this blog, I work at an Applebee's, and I love it there. I do. I enjoy the people, the fast-paced nature, the job itself. I enjoy it thoroughly. That said, it's been a long, slow, summer, and unless things start picking up soon, I will have to give up eating food just so I can pay my bills and still save a little bit every month. I must. save. money. So I can move to a big city and pursue my dream of working in publishing.

Okay. So you know I work at the 'bee's. Unfortunately, that's a sporadic income. I never know how much I'm going to make from day to day, aside from the $2.13 an hour I make serving or the $3.25 an hour I make bartending. My second job has been at the local branch of a large midwestern university, as an administrative assistant, and then as the editor of the newsletter for one of the colleges. However, that has also turned out to be sporadic income, because the Dean of the college seems to find joy in putting off his tasks as long as humanly possible, thus delaying the project and preventing me from EVER LEAVING. Let's review: like Applebee's, sporadic income. Dislike college, but pays more, but has also become sporadic income. Can we say SUCKS.

I began a search for a new second job awhile ago. I applied everywhere, citing that I need decent wages. That's probably why I haven't gotten any calls. Limited availability and staunch refusal to work minimum wage. I have a freaking college degree and I just got rejected for a job at KOHL'S. The CLOTHING STORE. Because I'm not willing to work Friday nights, since I'm keeping Applebee's on those nights so I actually have a chance to make more than $20 a shift. The sad part? Out of all the places I applied, Kohl's was my BACKUP. The pretty-much-guaranteed-shoo-in job.

I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I've been sending out resumes to publishing groups and working so hard for the past year at these stupid menial jobs to save money so I can make my dream happen and I'm just looking in the mirror and seeing a life as a waitress in Fort Wayne. Having been a waitress, I can say that it's really hard work, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a waitress full-time to make ends meet, but I have such bigger aspirations. I just thought I was going to do something after graduation, and the real world has slapped me over and over as I attempt to climb out of this hole of the Midwest.

Final thoughts. Last night I went to my sister's back-to-school night, since my mum is out of town at a funeral and my dad wasn't feeling well. I played surrogate parent; which, admittedly, was kind of fun. I saw one of my old teachers, MA,whom I adored in high school, and we had a conversation that really prompted me to think about my job search. Her daughter is working in Chicago right now, and struggled just as I am with finding a position, especially from a distance as I am attempting to do (Chicago and New York aren't exactly a jaunt away. Well, Chicago isn't bad at all; New York is another story). My teacher told me that her daughter tried searching from afar and eventually just moved to the city jobless. Within six weeks, she had a position. Granted, she's not in publishing, she's in finance, but STILL. That REALLY makes me want to just pick up and move. REALLY. BADLY. I'm so tired of being rejected and not getting answers and being told that I'm not good enough to sell clothing to haggard soccer moms and run a register like I did for four years in high school and fold t-shirts like I've been doing since I was eight.

I need to take action. Do something to combat this negativity and this discouragement. Stop whining to the internet and GET OUT THERE.

is there anybody going to listen to my story

A few weeks ago, I was taking a walk with the significant other around my apartment neighborhood, and it was rather muggy outside, and I was sporting an old college t-shirt and shorts with my $2 Old Navy flip-flops that I usually only wear when putzing around the apt. or after a long shift at the 'bee's. It was nearing dusk, and the street lamps were buzzing with an orange fluorescent glow. We were walking slowly, alternating between avid conversation and comfortable silence, fingers loosely linked, when I noticed him looking at me intently and I gave him a questioning glance. He answered by simply saying: "You're beautiful."

You may take this to be cliche, or trite, or even fake, but if you heard the way in which it was uttered, you would reconsider your cynical take. Normally such a simple compliment would not lead me to a contemplative discourse on intimacy, yet the utter sincerity with which he said it made it something entirely different from an offhand comment. Don't get me wrong, he has complimented me before, but this was so unexpected, especially when it was given in a moment when I felt at best rather tired and sweaty. I was, of course, not wearing any makeup, my hair was back in my typical sloppy ponytail, and yet he was looking at me so carefully, so delicately, as if to admire me was to break me in some way. He simply looked with an openness and honesty and told me very matter-of-factly that I was beautiful. He even admitted that he didn't know why, but just said that I "glowed."

He's good to me, that one.

On a related note, this is something I've been pondering for awhile. For the duration of my young life thus far, I have had an unnatural dislike for the term "boyfriend." Let me explain. "Girlfriend" is an entirely acceptable term. I have no problem with tossing it around. I rather enjoy it when Daniel refers to me as his girlfriend. However, once people see me with my gentleman and inquire, "Ohh, Holly, is that your BOYFRIEND?!" I get a strange feeling of discomfort. Don't get all Freudian on me and declare it simply must be related to my inability to commit and whatnot. I have had serious relationships in my life. I am a powerfully loyal individual. That said, what is up with my aversion to this term? Has anyone else had this issue? I think it might be related to my love for words and specific letters, and the way words look and sound when seen and uttered, respectively, and that I appreciate "girl" as a word better than "boy," thus leading to a strange preference for one term over the other. However, I can't help but wonder... fellow wordsmiths, do you copy? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Also, a question to you married folk out there. I know it's been asked by every prepubescent child that's ever had a crush, and by those my age who struggle to find their vocation in life, but I'll ask it again, just to see if anyone out there in the blogosphere cares to aid my internal quandary. How did you KNOW that the person you married was the one for you? If you don't have any advice beyond, "It was just a feeling, I just KNEW" - that's okay. I want as many opinions on this as possible. Being a twenty-something, I have so many friends getting married/already married/starting families that I can't help but wonder how people younger than me seemed to figure it out before I did, with "it" of course being the answer to that ultimate question posed above. What's a free-spirited, mostly-independent, happily-committed-to-a-sweet-gentleman twenty-something to do?

Don't fret, dear reader [s, if you do indeed exist in plural form]. I will not be tying the knot anytime soon. My current significant other has made it very clear he isn't even thinking about marriage (to anyone, not just in reference to me) until after he has his degree, which won't be until this May, so that's awhile yet. Also, I have so many career-and-general-adventure-oriented goals I wish to accomplish before settling down that I know I need many more years of singledom ahead of me before I'm ready for that step. I just... need to know. It's been a question on my heart a lot lately, and I would love for even the smallest bit of direction. If you or someone you know may have a few words of wisdom to impart, I would love to hear it. All contributions are welcome.

Finally, my apologies for my absence this past month. It's not exactly a triumphant return to blogging if I post for a few months and then take a month-long sabbatical, but there it is. I'm sure a post is coming that will address further what has been percolating in the mind and heart of your resident wordsmith.

nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time

I woke up this morning dissatisfied with my lot in life, and by the time I got Starbucks, had decided to leave town for twenty-four hours. That's right, this self-declared spontaneous gypsy is finally living up to her name. I felt a strong pull to get out, to just up and leave, pack a small bag and hit the road. I've felt restless before, but never in such a tangible way. It suddenly occurred to me that I can really do this. It's Wednesday morning and I don't have to be at work at the 'bee's until Friday morning, and the work I have to do for the office can be done in a hotel room or on a plane or wherever the hell I want, and the possibility of just up and leaving like I so desperately desire to do is a VERY REAL ONE.

So I did it.

I'm writing this in the Fort Wayne International Airport, which is kind of hilarious for those from around this area, simply because "international" refers to a flight to Canada that's available approximately once every few weeks. There are only eight gates; four downstairs, next to the single convenience store/deli/bar, and four upstairs, near the "museum" consisting of about twelve framed photographs stuck on mobile display cases. When you fly in to Fort Wayne and head to the baggage claim, a trio of old ladies greets you with individually wrapped sugar cookies. When you depart, you are probably the only person in line for security, and the employee who helps you find your ring after you drop it [apparently the metal detectors are so sensitive these days, a freaking underwire bra might set them off. That could get awkward.] strikes up a conversation about how women should remove bracelets when going through the metal detectors, but rings are usually okay, because he wears his wedding ring every day when he goes through and is almost always fine.

I can't believe I did it.

After I got Starbucks, I returned to my apartment and immediately started texting the BFF, who, in true KM fashion, encouraged me wholeheartedly to DO IT, JUST GO. I decided on Chicago as a destination rather quickly, due to proximity/travel time/excitement and whatnot, and immediately started Googling like a fiend - hotels near the airport, flights out of Fort Wayne, the balance of my bank account. I have to admit, after the initial rush of ohmygosh this could actually happen, doubts settled in, as they are wont to do. However, justification crept in right afterward... my roommate is out of town... she won't be fretting about me [she lives to fret]... the bf [look for another post in the future regarding why I hate the term "boyfriend," but that's what he is, bless his heart] is seriously sleep-deprived/working really hard on multiple projects/seemed kind of put off that I wanted to hang out with him so much last night that I went over to his place at bloody twelve-thirty in the morning/and therefore could probably use a break from such an insane girlfriend. It's perfect timing.

For the past few years I have felt a call to travel. I spontaneously decided to study abroad in London, and I loved it. It was exactly what I needed at the time; although I was also using it as an excuse to run away from all that was troubling me at that time. As a result, it helped, but it didn't. Paradoxical, I know. In the end, it was an incredible, worthwhile, culturally enriching experience, but only served to increase my thirst for travel and adventure and spontaneity. Ever since then, I have claimed to love spontaneity, to be a gypsy at heart, to live for the thrill of the chase of adventure - but I have done nothing to live up to those titles. Last fall, a friend I was getting close to at the time constantly retorted that I couldn't be random at heart, as I insisted I was - I didn't do anything but work, and go home, and read, and consume the occasional glass of wine. He declared that he was more random than I, due mostly to his impulsive desire to learn a musical instrument, upon which he purchased a ridiculously expensive bass and proceeded to teach himself a song way out of his talent margin.

Who's random now, bitch?

I'll keep you posted on my adventures. I hear my hotel has free internet tonight... gotta love this technologically savvy world we live - and travel - in these days.

writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear

To conclude my previous post, as delayed a conclusion that might be, my guest informed me that I was an extremely talented server, and that it really takes skill to perform my tasks as well as I did. In addition, she asked me what I ultimately wanted to do with my life, and when I informed her I wished to pursue a career in publishing, she declared to her dining companion, "Oh yes, she'll go far. You'll succeed. I can tell. It'll happen." Even though this woman's interaction with me spanned a total of about forty minutes, it gave me a wee little boost of confidence to hear such encouragement. I wish I had asked her name. It would have made the encounter seem more personal.

It's an absolutely gorgeous day, and I am troubled in heart. A recent conversation, completed in snippets over the Interwebs, left me feeling both belittled and guilty. I felt attacked, and when I reciprocated in what I thought was a diplomatic way, I was only brought further down. This from a person who I used to be rather close to, albeit for a short while. Apparently being careful and gentle with my words no longer pays off. I was met with sarcasm and derison. And it hurt.

No one appreciates or deserves to have possible insecurities or real inadequacies thrown in their face. No one. I wouldn't tell F, R, or J, guys I work with at the 'bee's, that they are inappropriate and vulgar and have poor hygiene, respectively. I wouldn't tell them that. This isn't me being passive. I have told people off before. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a temper. But if someone has been nothing but civil and/or cordial to me, and I have no reason whatsoever to point out their flaws, and doing so would only cause hurt, then I wouldn't. It's. Not. Kind.

I feel these sentiments hold especially true for someone you used to know well. You can tell your best friend when he or she is annoying you or really needs to shower or should probably lay off the liquor because wow that was a seriously offensive joke. However, there is a very murky, gray area in which lies "previously quasi-close friends/acquaintances," to whom social niceties should still be shown.

Not everyone shares my feelings in this matter.

Am I completely off here? Or is this whole post too vague to invite comment?