So remember how I told you that Almost Husband is coming to France to celebrate our honeymoon-before-wedding honeymoon with me? The excited-ness is not dissipating, so as part of my energetic thumb-twiddling, I will inform you of the everyday monotonies of which I have not been reporting regularly, all in an attempt to keep myself busy and not completely decimate my adrenal glands.
Thursdays are long. Four classes that have an annoying 30 minutes or hour between them, fill the day. Said small pauses, which should be utilized productively have, in reality, been reduced to us frantically scribbling phrases that resemble the French language down on weird, French graph/loose-leaf paper (this is commonly referred to as "homework") before each class. We also had a test in our Ecrite class. Note: one cannot cram, nor really study for French classes. Tests and test days are marked by us deranged Americans hunched in corners of hallways and buildings, rocking back and forth, muttering nonsensically to ourselves and laughing too hard at things that aren't funny. Basically, we have mental-breakdowns every test day. For this particular test, we were given two articles and had to write about one of the two, as pertaining to parallel situations in our respective countries. Following that, we were asked to write a formal letter (formal letter writing has a much different format in France and is ended by a ridiculously long, formal phrases that I had to try to scribble down as soon as I received my test paper, because I new I'd forget it when I got to the end).
I wrote about the disappearance of fresh fruits and vegetables in the diets of families. Carefully, I plotted my plan of attack to make this test my bitch. Following the format that has been drilled into us this semester, I ended up with an uncomfortably long introduction (regardless of discomfort, it's what has been asked of us). I proceeded on, feeling ever more confident, and finished filling the second page we were given for said essay. Flipping to the back, I punched out a wonderfully formal letter, flipped the test to the front, feeling quite proud and full of myself, when, while writing my name, I saw that the essay was supposed to be around 200 words. Oh crap. I'd written a little over 500. My throat began closing at foreseeing my impending doom, as I'm sure that my American GPA will be decimated by this semester abroad (I really should have requested to be placed in the level lower than my current one, but I was over-confident. Ugh, damn you pride and your voluminous ways). Not that this test would have saved me, but it would have at least made me feel better before our brake.
With impending doom in mind, I tried to restrain my panic and began erasing. Everything. I erased half of my intro of which I was so proud. Almost tearful at the sight of my wonderful words turning into annoyingly abundant eraser dust, our teacher said that we had 5 minutes left. Ha. I kept erasing and didn't even have time to see how many words I'd left myself. I turned it in with a head hung low, turned on my heel, and went home. Upon thinking of my reunion with Almost Husband, I felt a little better and turned in early, around 11:30, as my last, rudely-early Friday morning was still looming. I figured I would wake up and get ready properly, as I had shopping plans with some friends after class and then dinner that night, as we are all going out of town during break.. After some tossing and turning, my brain finally relented to unconsciousness for a few hours before being alarmingly awoken by crying. No, not crying. WAILING.
My bedroom shares a wall with the bathroom, the wall that is next to my bed. Host brother wailed for thirty minutes, like a two-year old who wants chocolate at the store and belts out incomprehensible squeals, garbled words, and crocodile tears, almost always interrupted by gasping for air. I pushed my earplugs further in my ears, but it took an hour after he stopped for me to go back to sleep. I was startled awake at 5h24. My alarm clock was set for 7h00. I had been asleep for maybe thirty minutes and the sound of Big Ben rang in my ears, commanding that I get up and attend my last regular class before finals. I turned on my light and turned off my alarm. Bad life choice.
The human brain goes through sleep stages. They are very intricately performed and during certain stages, being awoken is a really, REALLY bad thing (at least according to my psychological research). One of these said stages, I'm assuming, is what my brain was experiencing. If you know me, you know that I can't fall asleep with a light on. I had swine flu with a 103.4 degree temperature lying on my death bed, and I was unable to fall asleep with my side-table lamp illuminating. This should illustrate my mental state. I fell back to sleep until 9h30, when I started awake and refused to believe it was 9h30, but when my senses returned, I decided it was futile to rise and try to get there. I got up about 30 minutes later and got ready to go shopping regardless. I actually put make-up on my face. It had been quite a while.
The whole point of "Shopping" was to find some sunglasses and maybe a dress for dinner that night, as the other two ladies with whom I was going, were planning on wearing dresses.
Side note on sunglasses: I had this pair of cheap, wanna-be designer sunglasses that I bought on a whim at a cheap accessories store because I'd forgotten my pretty pair while out with a friend one time. This was like 5 years ago. I didn't like to wear them because they were annoyingly too big for my face, had a tendency to slide down my nose, and in general were just ugly. However, through all of my travels, trials, and tribulations, these loyal sunglasses have never given up and have always served me well. Aside from the peeling, fake shine on them, the ridiculous scratches, being a temporary chew toy for Missy, and being sat on by Almost Husband and myself, they'd never actually been unwearable-until my trip to Nantes. These sunglasses were a detested object, but watched at least 5 of my other pairs perish in traumatic-sunglass ways (i.e. me diving into the Blanco River with a pair on my head, leaving a pair in a dressing room, running over a pair with a four-wheeler, being a not-so-temporary chew toy for Missy-you get the picture). Needless to say, they grew on me, even though I had tried to "lose" them or "brake" them (never on purpose, simply trying to open the door and let Fate do as she wished with them), but no matter my generosity to door-holding for Fate, she let them alone. This brings me to Nantes.
They'd been lodged in the bottom of my backpack on the trip back to Caen and I think that is wear the skeletal brake happened. I had still continued to wear them for the past two weeks, despite the big trip-frame rupture and all, but I finally gathered that I should accept them as being dead and retire them to sunglass-heaven.
In short, I found a new pair, still cheap, still awesome, a dress and a number of other summery items, because quite frankly, it is getting uncomfortably warm in jeans and cardis every day (Almost Husband is bringing me t-shirts! I love t-shirts. They've been taken for granted by me).
Dear t-shirts who reside in my closet,
I am dreadfully sorry for mistreating you and neglecting you in the past. I will appreciate you and wear you all the time when I come home.
Affectionately,
Resident of the room in which your closet resides.
When I finally returned to Host House, my worst nightmares of that morning were realized. My host dad said that host brother had had a stomach ache all night and was vomiting this morning, so he and Host Mom wouldn't be taking their planned trip to Spain this week.
My back went ridged and my jaw locked up, as the hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention. I will say this once, I. Hate. Vomit. Not just in an ew-that's-gross way, it's more like an oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-get-your-illness-and-die-while-drowning-in-my-own-retch-get-me-the-f*ck-out-of-here way. If someone is doing this activity from drinking themselves into a stupor, that's totally cool, I'll even take care of them. If it's a baby who is under the age of one and still eating baby food and/or drinking a bottle, also totally fine, spit-up is not the same and normal for a developing digestive tract, but other than these occurrences, look-out, I'm making a b-line for the nearest exit. It is a genuine phobia, as it is an extreme, inconsolable fear that strangles my senses and triggers panic attacks. SO you see my dilemma.
Host brother was outside jumping off the fence, playing pirates, and running around like he'd never been sick in his life, but guess what, I have still spent the last two days washing my hands like a surgeon and acting as though he has the Plague. I feel badly, because I know it's not his fault and he's done nothing intentionally to warrant such behavior from his temporarily-adopted big sis, but after my explanation, can you blame me?
I pretty much locked myself in my room until it was time for me to meet my friends at the tram stop to go out for our last outing, before we darted off in our respective directions (not so much for me until next week, but I can pretend). I contemplated what to wear, but having not shaved my legs sine early January, and not really feeling like doing so last night (I would post pictures, as I really don't care what they look like, and with the shape of our shower, it's a rather impossible feat, but I might scare other people. I'd have to brand it with the disclaimer "inappropriate and graphic content"), I decided to wear jeans and a very innocent-looking white, flow-y, cotton shirt, pearls, and mock-cowboy boots. To make my Texan-country appearance even MORE authentic, I ordered a Corona and drank it out of the bottle at the bar at which we took our aperitif. Care factor? Zero.
We made our way to the restaurant, and ordered. One of my friends ordered carbonara, which, in Europe, comes with a raw egg served over the top. She stared and cocked her head at the oozyness and unbroken yoke sitting in the middle of her pasta. Our other friend was like "just mix it, don't even think, just mix." She did, ate it, said it was amazing, but of course I might be a little more adventurous with raw things if I hadn't almost died from Salmonella in 2008.
We said our goodbyes and I talked to Almost Husband and dinner friends host family had over before crashing. I felt like a loser coming back at 21h30 and not even being tipsy. "You're back already?" was the first thing they said to me, so I just smiled and explained that one of them was leaving on a train at 6h00 the next morning, so we weren't planning on staying out late. How boring of a host child I am?
No puking or wailing this morning. PRAISE JESUS! Emerging at 11h30, host dad had departed for his trip until Wednesday already. I made some breakfast and tea, sat, and felt like a zombie. Honestly, I've felt like a zombie all day. My head has been floating in a cloud of destressfulness. This tends to happen to me after every semester is over and when I go to the ranch. I sleep, lay around, and then have renewed energy that could be harnessed to save the world a few times over, but is usually poured into creative projects, consumption of novels, long walks, and time with Almost Husband. Today I chose creativity and reading.
I read a newly discovered blog, which was introduced to me by my lovely roommate last week, hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com majority of the morning. It's amazing and always makes me laugh. Then host mom called me for lunch, so I went to hacking away at the bread on the table. I like baguette. I don't have to cut it. For some reason, I alway tend to cut myself when cutting bread. I can fillet huge, wild game, rip out their bones and tendons, and pull their gonads from their carcasses without inflicting pain on myself, but bread is apparently my knife-nemesis. I think because it bends so easily, especially French bread, because the crust is really hard and the outside is really soft.
Needless to say, I sliced my thumb open with a knife that's longer than my forearm. Another problem with me? My skin has an unnaturally high pain tolerance. Maybe because I was a rough kid, maybe because gymnastics coaches would rip spoon-sized blisters and rips off my hands and tell me to re-chalk, they didn't want blood on the bars, or maybe just because my nerves are freaky, any way you look at it, when I cut myself, I rarely notice until blood is streaming out of it. Such was the case today. I felt the blade run across my skin, but didn't realize it had broken it. When I pulled my piece of bread off the loaf, I saw that there was a slit. And then there was blood. It wouldn't stop. I had to wash my hands and hold alcohol pads that I'd brought from the States on it to have enough time between the streaming to get the band-aid on there.
All this drama and all I could think about was having exposed flesh for the stomach bug that Host Brother had to invade my unknowing body. Seriously, phobia. After said drama, I returned to my room and Host Mom and Bother left to go to Host Grandparents' house. I continued reading and on the blog, she mentioned "Midnight Train" by Journey, so while I hung up my clothes to dry on my wire-rack thing, I had to belt it out with incorrect lyrics, until I found it on Youtube. Now it's still stuck in my head, but it's better then the "Elephant Love Medley" from Moulin Rouge! that's been on repeat in my brain for the past three days.
I sat back at my computer and realized that I needed to open my door. The room smelled funny and was getting humid with all of the wet clothes, so I tried to unlock it. It didn't work. Ever since this door has become a part of my room, it has given me trouble, well, the lock has given me trouble. I think the door itself likes me though. Inserting the key, it will only turn halfway and then stops, refusing to be unlocked. The poor key is just Switzerland in the whole mess, trying not to break for me, but keeping the lock happily locked. Finally after some grunting and pushing at the door, it relented and I've had it open most of the day.
It was closed once, because while writing this post, I had an intense need for chocolate and pears all of a sudden, so I tried locking it again. Another battle ensued, but I emerged victoriously, and was able to buy my chocolate, apples, chips, and pears.
These kinds of things are what has happened to me between the plane stories, beautiful places pictures, and stressfulness that is French Universities. I haven't written about them, due to said stress and exhaustion, but now that I only have a few more projects due at UNT and the fact that I will be seeing Almost Husband on our early-bird honeymoon, I hope to be able to write more often.
My thumb is throbbing, because I keep using it, so I'll leave you with that. 7 days until my Better Half arrives!
Thursdays are long. Four classes that have an annoying 30 minutes or hour between them, fill the day. Said small pauses, which should be utilized productively have, in reality, been reduced to us frantically scribbling phrases that resemble the French language down on weird, French graph/loose-leaf paper (this is commonly referred to as "homework") before each class. We also had a test in our Ecrite class. Note: one cannot cram, nor really study for French classes. Tests and test days are marked by us deranged Americans hunched in corners of hallways and buildings, rocking back and forth, muttering nonsensically to ourselves and laughing too hard at things that aren't funny. Basically, we have mental-breakdowns every test day. For this particular test, we were given two articles and had to write about one of the two, as pertaining to parallel situations in our respective countries. Following that, we were asked to write a formal letter (formal letter writing has a much different format in France and is ended by a ridiculously long, formal phrases that I had to try to scribble down as soon as I received my test paper, because I new I'd forget it when I got to the end).
I wrote about the disappearance of fresh fruits and vegetables in the diets of families. Carefully, I plotted my plan of attack to make this test my bitch. Following the format that has been drilled into us this semester, I ended up with an uncomfortably long introduction (regardless of discomfort, it's what has been asked of us). I proceeded on, feeling ever more confident, and finished filling the second page we were given for said essay. Flipping to the back, I punched out a wonderfully formal letter, flipped the test to the front, feeling quite proud and full of myself, when, while writing my name, I saw that the essay was supposed to be around 200 words. Oh crap. I'd written a little over 500. My throat began closing at foreseeing my impending doom, as I'm sure that my American GPA will be decimated by this semester abroad (I really should have requested to be placed in the level lower than my current one, but I was over-confident. Ugh, damn you pride and your voluminous ways). Not that this test would have saved me, but it would have at least made me feel better before our brake.
With impending doom in mind, I tried to restrain my panic and began erasing. Everything. I erased half of my intro of which I was so proud. Almost tearful at the sight of my wonderful words turning into annoyingly abundant eraser dust, our teacher said that we had 5 minutes left. Ha. I kept erasing and didn't even have time to see how many words I'd left myself. I turned it in with a head hung low, turned on my heel, and went home. Upon thinking of my reunion with Almost Husband, I felt a little better and turned in early, around 11:30, as my last, rudely-early Friday morning was still looming. I figured I would wake up and get ready properly, as I had shopping plans with some friends after class and then dinner that night, as we are all going out of town during break.. After some tossing and turning, my brain finally relented to unconsciousness for a few hours before being alarmingly awoken by crying. No, not crying. WAILING.
My bedroom shares a wall with the bathroom, the wall that is next to my bed. Host brother wailed for thirty minutes, like a two-year old who wants chocolate at the store and belts out incomprehensible squeals, garbled words, and crocodile tears, almost always interrupted by gasping for air. I pushed my earplugs further in my ears, but it took an hour after he stopped for me to go back to sleep. I was startled awake at 5h24. My alarm clock was set for 7h00. I had been asleep for maybe thirty minutes and the sound of Big Ben rang in my ears, commanding that I get up and attend my last regular class before finals. I turned on my light and turned off my alarm. Bad life choice.
The human brain goes through sleep stages. They are very intricately performed and during certain stages, being awoken is a really, REALLY bad thing (at least according to my psychological research). One of these said stages, I'm assuming, is what my brain was experiencing. If you know me, you know that I can't fall asleep with a light on. I had swine flu with a 103.4 degree temperature lying on my death bed, and I was unable to fall asleep with my side-table lamp illuminating. This should illustrate my mental state. I fell back to sleep until 9h30, when I started awake and refused to believe it was 9h30, but when my senses returned, I decided it was futile to rise and try to get there. I got up about 30 minutes later and got ready to go shopping regardless. I actually put make-up on my face. It had been quite a while.
The whole point of "Shopping" was to find some sunglasses and maybe a dress for dinner that night, as the other two ladies with whom I was going, were planning on wearing dresses.
Side note on sunglasses: I had this pair of cheap, wanna-be designer sunglasses that I bought on a whim at a cheap accessories store because I'd forgotten my pretty pair while out with a friend one time. This was like 5 years ago. I didn't like to wear them because they were annoyingly too big for my face, had a tendency to slide down my nose, and in general were just ugly. However, through all of my travels, trials, and tribulations, these loyal sunglasses have never given up and have always served me well. Aside from the peeling, fake shine on them, the ridiculous scratches, being a temporary chew toy for Missy, and being sat on by Almost Husband and myself, they'd never actually been unwearable-until my trip to Nantes. These sunglasses were a detested object, but watched at least 5 of my other pairs perish in traumatic-sunglass ways (i.e. me diving into the Blanco River with a pair on my head, leaving a pair in a dressing room, running over a pair with a four-wheeler, being a not-so-temporary chew toy for Missy-you get the picture). Needless to say, they grew on me, even though I had tried to "lose" them or "brake" them (never on purpose, simply trying to open the door and let Fate do as she wished with them), but no matter my generosity to door-holding for Fate, she let them alone. This brings me to Nantes.
They'd been lodged in the bottom of my backpack on the trip back to Caen and I think that is wear the skeletal brake happened. I had still continued to wear them for the past two weeks, despite the big trip-frame rupture and all, but I finally gathered that I should accept them as being dead and retire them to sunglass-heaven.
In short, I found a new pair, still cheap, still awesome, a dress and a number of other summery items, because quite frankly, it is getting uncomfortably warm in jeans and cardis every day (Almost Husband is bringing me t-shirts! I love t-shirts. They've been taken for granted by me).
Dear t-shirts who reside in my closet,
I am dreadfully sorry for mistreating you and neglecting you in the past. I will appreciate you and wear you all the time when I come home.
Affectionately,
Resident of the room in which your closet resides.
When I finally returned to Host House, my worst nightmares of that morning were realized. My host dad said that host brother had had a stomach ache all night and was vomiting this morning, so he and Host Mom wouldn't be taking their planned trip to Spain this week.
My back went ridged and my jaw locked up, as the hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention. I will say this once, I. Hate. Vomit. Not just in an ew-that's-gross way, it's more like an oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-get-your-illness-and-die-while-drowning-in-my-own-retch-get-me-the-f*ck-out-of-here way. If someone is doing this activity from drinking themselves into a stupor, that's totally cool, I'll even take care of them. If it's a baby who is under the age of one and still eating baby food and/or drinking a bottle, also totally fine, spit-up is not the same and normal for a developing digestive tract, but other than these occurrences, look-out, I'm making a b-line for the nearest exit. It is a genuine phobia, as it is an extreme, inconsolable fear that strangles my senses and triggers panic attacks. SO you see my dilemma.
Host brother was outside jumping off the fence, playing pirates, and running around like he'd never been sick in his life, but guess what, I have still spent the last two days washing my hands like a surgeon and acting as though he has the Plague. I feel badly, because I know it's not his fault and he's done nothing intentionally to warrant such behavior from his temporarily-adopted big sis, but after my explanation, can you blame me?
I pretty much locked myself in my room until it was time for me to meet my friends at the tram stop to go out for our last outing, before we darted off in our respective directions (not so much for me until next week, but I can pretend). I contemplated what to wear, but having not shaved my legs sine early January, and not really feeling like doing so last night (I would post pictures, as I really don't care what they look like, and with the shape of our shower, it's a rather impossible feat, but I might scare other people. I'd have to brand it with the disclaimer "inappropriate and graphic content"), I decided to wear jeans and a very innocent-looking white, flow-y, cotton shirt, pearls, and mock-cowboy boots. To make my Texan-country appearance even MORE authentic, I ordered a Corona and drank it out of the bottle at the bar at which we took our aperitif. Care factor? Zero.
We made our way to the restaurant, and ordered. One of my friends ordered carbonara, which, in Europe, comes with a raw egg served over the top. She stared and cocked her head at the oozyness and unbroken yoke sitting in the middle of her pasta. Our other friend was like "just mix it, don't even think, just mix." She did, ate it, said it was amazing, but of course I might be a little more adventurous with raw things if I hadn't almost died from Salmonella in 2008.
We said our goodbyes and I talked to Almost Husband and dinner friends host family had over before crashing. I felt like a loser coming back at 21h30 and not even being tipsy. "You're back already?" was the first thing they said to me, so I just smiled and explained that one of them was leaving on a train at 6h00 the next morning, so we weren't planning on staying out late. How boring of a host child I am?
No puking or wailing this morning. PRAISE JESUS! Emerging at 11h30, host dad had departed for his trip until Wednesday already. I made some breakfast and tea, sat, and felt like a zombie. Honestly, I've felt like a zombie all day. My head has been floating in a cloud of destressfulness. This tends to happen to me after every semester is over and when I go to the ranch. I sleep, lay around, and then have renewed energy that could be harnessed to save the world a few times over, but is usually poured into creative projects, consumption of novels, long walks, and time with Almost Husband. Today I chose creativity and reading.
I read a newly discovered blog, which was introduced to me by my lovely roommate last week, hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com majority of the morning. It's amazing and always makes me laugh. Then host mom called me for lunch, so I went to hacking away at the bread on the table. I like baguette. I don't have to cut it. For some reason, I alway tend to cut myself when cutting bread. I can fillet huge, wild game, rip out their bones and tendons, and pull their gonads from their carcasses without inflicting pain on myself, but bread is apparently my knife-nemesis. I think because it bends so easily, especially French bread, because the crust is really hard and the outside is really soft.
Needless to say, I sliced my thumb open with a knife that's longer than my forearm. Another problem with me? My skin has an unnaturally high pain tolerance. Maybe because I was a rough kid, maybe because gymnastics coaches would rip spoon-sized blisters and rips off my hands and tell me to re-chalk, they didn't want blood on the bars, or maybe just because my nerves are freaky, any way you look at it, when I cut myself, I rarely notice until blood is streaming out of it. Such was the case today. I felt the blade run across my skin, but didn't realize it had broken it. When I pulled my piece of bread off the loaf, I saw that there was a slit. And then there was blood. It wouldn't stop. I had to wash my hands and hold alcohol pads that I'd brought from the States on it to have enough time between the streaming to get the band-aid on there.
All this drama and all I could think about was having exposed flesh for the stomach bug that Host Brother had to invade my unknowing body. Seriously, phobia. After said drama, I returned to my room and Host Mom and Bother left to go to Host Grandparents' house. I continued reading and on the blog, she mentioned "Midnight Train" by Journey, so while I hung up my clothes to dry on my wire-rack thing, I had to belt it out with incorrect lyrics, until I found it on Youtube. Now it's still stuck in my head, but it's better then the "Elephant Love Medley" from Moulin Rouge! that's been on repeat in my brain for the past three days.
I sat back at my computer and realized that I needed to open my door. The room smelled funny and was getting humid with all of the wet clothes, so I tried to unlock it. It didn't work. Ever since this door has become a part of my room, it has given me trouble, well, the lock has given me trouble. I think the door itself likes me though. Inserting the key, it will only turn halfway and then stops, refusing to be unlocked. The poor key is just Switzerland in the whole mess, trying not to break for me, but keeping the lock happily locked. Finally after some grunting and pushing at the door, it relented and I've had it open most of the day.
It was closed once, because while writing this post, I had an intense need for chocolate and pears all of a sudden, so I tried locking it again. Another battle ensued, but I emerged victoriously, and was able to buy my chocolate, apples, chips, and pears.
These kinds of things are what has happened to me between the plane stories, beautiful places pictures, and stressfulness that is French Universities. I haven't written about them, due to said stress and exhaustion, but now that I only have a few more projects due at UNT and the fact that I will be seeing Almost Husband on our early-bird honeymoon, I hope to be able to write more often.
My thumb is throbbing, because I keep using it, so I'll leave you with that. 7 days until my Better Half arrives!
LMAO!!!...locked in room isn't so fun is it dear? I'm still afraid to close my door.
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