Pictures!

Here are the promised pictures of my travels. 

 This is my bedroom. Une chambre tres pleasante. The bed has wooden slats holding up the mattress and I totally broke it twice by sitting down to vigorously. It took me a minute to get the slats back into place. 

 This is the living room. 

 The kitchen. 

 The other wall of the living room. I love all the pictures around the house. My host mom has a great artistic eye. 

 Here is the terrace, aka the oven of death. It looks pleasant, but use caution when in direct light. You may not live to see another day. 

 I bought this box of cookies because they looked like bacon. 

Outside my hotel the first night. 

For class we took a tour around the historic town center. There are some cool buildings and hidden churches. Lots more to see for sure. I'm really excited to get to know this town. Plus I made a friend today! 

Interesting discoveries: 

• Lots of stores are closed on Mondays, because Sunday just wasn't enough. 
• Nail polish is ridiculously expensive, like 12,50 euros, which is like $17 for a bottle of OPI. 
• My room was so hot my chocolate bar was literally liquid when I went to eat it. 

Travel Diary: First 36 Hours in France

Here are some notes on my journey interspersed with RULES that I now think everyone ought to adopt when traveling abroad.

Part the First: Getting over there. 

I flew direct to Paris then took a connecting flight to Montpellier. I swear this is the LAST time I'm traveling with a backpack. I said that last time, but I ended up with one because I took a TON of stuff, and it just ended up that way. But really, no more. I hate backpacks, because I just stuff them so full that when I try to find something I have to empty the whole thing out and still not find it. Miserable. Things you don't have to actually carry, things with wheel, are much much better. Light bag for your arms and a wheeled carry on. Rule 1: No over-stuffed backpacks. 

Compression socks were a major plus. Your feet get seriously swollen and puffy. Neck pillow is a must (I couldn't find mine :(  Lost due to that stupid over-stuffed backpack). Also good, sleepy pills, like tylenol PM, Benadryl, or Dramamine. Lots of intermittent sleep on a long flight is good. When I landed I was able to stay up until 10pm and sleep through the night. Then today I had a 2 hour nap (because I was almost delirious with fatigue) and then went on a walk and am feeling good. The time difference between home and here is 8 hours so I wanted to minimize the jet lag as much as possible, and I've done pretty well. Rule 2: Be smart about your sleep schedule.

Part the Second: Finding your way. 

I took a cab from the airport (after a lot of wandering and confused misunderstood questions) because I had a lot of baggage (both physical and emotional, lol). The drive wasn't long, but then became longer because he wouldn't take credit cards (even though it was 31 Euros) and the bank offered no cash exchange. So he drove me around until we found an ATM. Rule 3: Arrive with at least $100 worth of currency, or arrive on a day when the banks are open and you can exchange. My cards work here because Rule 4: Inform bank and credit card companies of your travel plans. 

I got to my hotel and freshened up. The room was tiny tiny. Quite compressed. They did not offer free little shampoos, luckily I had brought some. After that, there was nothing to do but watch Pokemon in French. But I was hungry. Starving, in fact. So I ventured out...

It was scary, not gonna lie. First of all, I had no map and no idea what was out there. I had phone service, but no data. I followed the road to a train station (best possible choice) and found the city center. Rule 5: When lost, follow the public transport. It leads to all the big things and people, and always has maps posted.

What scared me the most was that EVERYONE was speaking French! I know this is rather obvious but it made it expected that I should speak French too. And no my way around. EEE! I was too scared to sit down someplace to eat, so I just got a pastry and a drink at some starbucks kind of place. Seriously, this city offers croissants every few feet. Delicious. They are, all of them, delicious.

I wandered around for quite a bit because I was looking for something very specific. Rule 6: Arrive in country with an adaptor. It was so hard to find, because what need do the French have for an American to French adaptor? None. It doesn't help that here the stores are typically small and quite specific. I finally found one at the train station. It cost a pretty penny, but it is totally universal. Anything to anything. It's pretty spiffy. Now I can use my computer freely.

Along my walks I have come to the conclusion that Rule 7: Do not trust men that are a) shirtless b) in a park and talking to you c) smiling too much d) offering to help when they don't know what you need. This rule is because, once upon a time I forgot a brush and toothpaste on a really long trip and so needed to find a store that sold such things. I had the roads names in my head and a decent idea of direction. I decided to walk through the park because, hey it's a park, where I was instantly accosted by a young man without a shirt. Naturally I was suspicious, but really, there's only so much you can do when they come up right to your side and start talking very quickly and very directly. I didn't understand him, avoided eye contact and when he touched my shoulder I told him (in French) to not touch me. He backed off slightly but was persistent in his questions.

So, I had to talk, I didn't know how to ignore him when he kept walking in front of me. So I said a little bit, I am in town studying, looking for the convenient store, little things. And he kept talking to me and I kept trying to get a way. Finally he hailed his friend-at-arms, another shirtless, sweat-pants wearing no-good, one who could speak a little English. They chatted quickly then his friend turned to me and said.
     "He want to fuck you, no, with you. You want?"
     I had a horrified pause and gave a laugh. "No."
    "You sure? It this big. You want?"
     Another little laugh and a definite "No."
    And they both left immediately, not even a backward glance. I was all, Hey, I still need to find the store! You're not going to try to work it, at all? Jeeze. 

But worry not. I found the store, got my brush and toothpaste, and avoided the park on the way back. Really, it was a little frightening. I saw that both of those no-goods particularly noticed my hand over the zipper on my purse and the way I kept backing away from them. Also all the other people at the park (AKA old fellas and moms & kids) said nothing and avoided us, even though we were very obvious. No one came to my rescue, but I didn't need to be rescued. The backup plan was the knife in my purse. Here's what I would say about it. Rule 8: Be definite, defensive, and don't let anyone get too close. 

Other than that all I have to say is that it is HOT. Tres chaud. I walked to the train station today and holy cow, so much sweat all over my body. So much sun. If I stayed still for just a minute, I would have stuck to the baking brick and would have had to have my leathery carcass scraped off. No AC either. We're all sitting here, just waiting for the dark.

Pictures up next.

Really quick Rule 9: Bring a bag you can carry up a flight of stairs.
And Rule 10: Bring some small activity that doesn't need electricity or internet to work, like a book or ukulele. It helps pass the time.
Rule 11: Snacks and water are always a good thing to have on hand. 

Nexplanon and Things You Shouldn't Tell Your Coworkers

My mom was worried that I was being too vocal about my uterus and the pains it gives me. I was trying (inadequately) to describe the hilarity of my uterus post and she obviously failed to see the genius of my observations. She lowered her brows and gave me that "concerned parent" look and asked quite intently, "Why are you talking about your uterus? On the internet?" I told her she missed the point (the point being I'm hilarious) but she would not follow. 

I must carry on without her. 

A couple days ago I got this Nexplanon thing put in my arm. After *le horreur* of the Nuvaring I'm strictly off lab-manufactured estrogen. That left me with a swelling 2 options, and the Nex looked like the best because I don't have to take it as a pill. The doc made a little incision and slid a plastic little toothpick thing up my arm that should *hopefully* make me pain and baby free for the next three years. Hey! What a bargain! 

The Nex did give me a bruise (tis true, my beauteous flesh is temporarily tainted with the foul splotching of broken blood vessels). It was also hard to use my left arm the day after. But fret not. I am on the mend. At work I was supposed to be doing a great deal of typing and such but my left arm was being a baby and didn't want to work anymore. Actually all of me didn't want to work anymore, but I had agreed I would do all this typing in exchange for money that would allow me to buy some really great camera bag. So I had to stay, typing. 

I thought it would be better to make my coworker aware of the condition of my fragile left arm. So I proceeded to tell him that I got the Nex put in, and he was all "Oh, yeah. Ok." But it wasn't enough of a reaction. I wanted him to at least widen his eyes at the sight of my gorgeous limb all battered and bruised. 

So I proceeded to explain WHY I opted to have a plastic toothpick thing inserted under my skin. I used phrases like "killer uterus" and "felt like labor" and "pregnancy is gonna suck". It took me a moment to discern his shifty stance and his sweaty brow. As soon as I paused for breath he jumped right in almost in panic, "Yeah! Well, we still got... Here, why don't you go order the CD's in person??? Yeah, It's kind of a drive, but it's alright. You can grab lunch on your way back." 

It was only coming back from lunch that I realized there may have been a boundary I crossed. I could just picture my mom's "concerned parent" look and suddenly felt that maybe the uterus isn't something you should talk about with your unmarried, male coworkers. 

But I shrugged it off and finished my sandwich. 

PS Thus far the Nex is great! Not even a headache. I'll let my coworker know first thing in the morning.

Uterine Adventures

It all began when my uterus got the mistaken idea that I was pregnant with the spawn of Satan. My uterus became fixated on the belief that it was only up to itself to rid the world of this demonic fetus that actually didn't exist. Thus every menstruation my uterus attempted to remove all vestiges of my insides in the belief that this would stop the imaginary devil-baby from entering the world. 

At first I just dealt with it. I mean, that's kind of womanhood. We are bonded together in this monthly ritual of un-fertilization that is at the least uncomfortable, and at the worst a little piece of hell on earth. So I just let my uterus do its' thing. But then early one morning I was gently asleep. 

 Then quite suddenly I wasn't. 

 It was here. The moment had come. My period was upon me. The pain builds up fast, so if you don't take a bucket full of pain-killers the moment you become conscious, you're out of luck. There is no hope. You will suffer. I quickly tried to find a water source. Water. Water and pills. I headed to the bathroom where the cool tiles beckoned to my sweat-covered body. Alas I did not make it, which can be considered pathetic, considering that the bathroom door is INCHES away from my door. But I didn't make it. I collapsed in the hallway, staring at the bathroom door in desperation, writhing in the fetal position and praying I would one day be found. 

My 11-year-old brother came around the corner, just looking for his backpack. He saw me. 

 His adult sister on the floor in pain-dazed delirium. I reached for him. "Medicine," I whispered. "I need medicine..." I gave him his instructions with all the severity of Gandalf giving Frodo the Ring. I told him what kind of medicine, what kind of bottle, what cupboard, and even what shelf. I watched him depart and fervently hoped he could accomplish the task.  

"Uh...Brianna?" He called softly when he returned, the demeanor on his face appropriate for a beloved and sadly delicate pet. "I couldn't find it. But I brought some of these." 

 I clawed at his arms, desperate to find the bottle I needed. Like Gollum going through Frodo's pockets. Where iss it?! Precioussss...

 But no. It was not meant to be. His armload was full of vitamins, children's allergy medicine, iron, calcium, anxiety medication. None of it was any use to me. I sent him away and dragged myself into the bathroom to lay my cheek against the cool floor, like Frodo after he loses a finger. My brother stared. 

 My sister is dying. 

Then, after several doctor's visits and analysis of my delusional uterus, everyone decided that birth control would help bring my uterus back to reality. 

I approached this next step with a budding excitement. Birth control. This is also a part of womanhood. There was a faint hope that maybe, just maybe, one day I would have sex. And if that was so, birth control would become a part of my life, as it is for nearly every other woman I know. So I did it. I tried it. 

Worst decision of my life. 

The factors against me were that I had never tried birth control before, I was babysitting 4 days straight, for four children ages 2-12. The other factor was that I am highly sensitive to medication. I once got a colonoscopy at 6 years-old and almost had to stay the night because no one could wake me up. 

But ignoring all this, I tried it, and 15 hours later (aka 4:00 am) I found myself thus:

 I was nauseous, dizzy, my head splitting with pain. So I simply circled the toilet with my arms and waited for it to go away. This would have been an ideal moment to have a Samwise in my life. I kept thinking of my friend who had told me, "That's the birth control I use, and I love it!" Oh the cruelty. 

Long after any food remained in my body I slunk back to bed, sweaty with a migraine and the feeling that someone had shoved their arm down my throat and pulled out my ilium. 

Then at 6:45 am the four-year-old found me. 

I stared at him. 

Please. Leave me alone to die. 

The poor bloke couldn't understand. "Come on, I'm hungry!" I was all, "I'm sick. I don't feel good." He just looked at me in confusion. "But I'm hungry." 

It took me 7 minutes to send my frantic text because I could only look at the screen for 3 seconds at a time. The walk downstairs to get him a piece of bread resulted in 10 minutes in the bathroom. And it wasn't even 7:00am. 

I soon found a replacement babysitter and was rescued by my mother ("The Eagles are coming!"). She tucked me into bed and lathered me with peppermint oil, which is supposed to help with nausea. I slowly was able to drift into a peppermint-induced sleep and woke up feeling like I would maybe recover. One day. It's either that or sail to the Undying Lands. 

Needless to say I will NOT be trying that again. 

Harry Potter and Three Key Things for Every Great Book

You could say I'm a little obsessed with Harry Potter. I've read them all multiple times and just started reading the 5th aloud to my brothers and the 7th for myself. While I was reading (by myself) yesterday one of my younger brother's asked, "So...what is it like (reading it again)? Do you learn more or something?"

I am the reader of the family and, while books are not uncommon, they aren't the blood of existence for my siblings, but they are for me. My brother's question made me wonder what it is about books that makes them so enjoyable, not only the first time but for the second or fifth time as well.

Here, I think, I are three key things in every great book:

1. There are some books where the language is beautiful and arranged so cleverly that you have to giggle every time you see the subtle play on words or the careful arrangement of adjectives. These are books that somehow use language to generate an entire aura, a mood that you live in while reading the book. These are the masters of their genre.

Samples from Harry Potter: The names, of authors, characters, books, and etc. as well as the spells and enchantments, the play of the name Voldemort. Look particularly at the beginning of books 1, 4, and 6 where the first chapter is removed from the rest of the book, with different characters and places, but how that one chapter functions almost like a solo-story where the language is particularly spot-on and the connections between people, objects, and adjectives function beautifully. Also, you will find, that descriptions grow with the series. The first book actually does not use that much description, but just enough to give the idea then let the reader take the wheel and picture it for him/herself. Then with each progressing year the details are slowly added so by the end of the series the images in your head are distinct and clear.

2. There are other books that resonate because of the story. The action, the conflict, the climax, the resolution. These are the books of adventure, of plot twists, of the pacing heart. They nab you and yank you down an exciting road that leaves you exhilarated and out of breath.

In Harry Potter, I think the excellence of the story is obvious. One thing I love are the things that span the connection of the years, like how Nearly Headless Nick smashes the vanishing cabinet in book 2 that Malfoy tries to fix in book 6. Then Mafalda Hopkirk, who is the woman who sends Harry his underage wizardry warning in book 2, is the same woman Hermione impersonates in book 7 when they sneak into the M.o.M. So much enjoyment.

3. There are books you love because of the characters. Though written by one human, somehow these characters expand out of the binding and become real and dimensional. They question, they hurt, they struggle and you love them fully because, somehow, miraculously through words alone, you know them.

The characters in Harry Potter are absolutely fabulous. The main trio all go through the growth of young kids becoming solid adults, but there's also the side characters that develop as well. Malfoy is my personal favorite, how he grows up trying to be the good his parents believed in, but then how hard it is and how he can't go back and they're all stuck but he doesn't want to do it anymore. He does what he can and is still kind of a jerk, but that just makes him more believable. Ginny is always great, how she's a small character, and shy, then becomes this total babe that all the guys are after. Molly Weasley, oh you just feel for her sometimes. And Snape. We can never forget him.

The best of books combine these three traits and use them to their fullest extent. Harry Potter is a work of magic, with clever word play and juxtaposition in a story that is intricate, layered, and involved, with characters that grow, change, and are honed into amazing people you can't leave behind. So yes, I am obsessed, but only because I have fabulous taste.

My Writing Thoughts and Quirks

I have become more and more attached to the idea of being a writer. And as such I have been trying to write. Alas there are difficulties with that process and I just thought I would share some of my findings. 

One of the hardest parts of writing, for myself, is all the work that happens before any writing actually takes place. Deciding on one chain of events and all the little necessary developments that happens in the plot is really tricky work. Most of my problem is that my plots are very fluid and tend to change daily. I have a hard time moving to paper before I have the plot down solid. I have done so much rewriting and I have thrown away hundreds of pages because I change my mind on how the story should be. Granted, the changes are always better and any writing is good practice. Still, it is heartbreaking to decide that 200 pages and 8 months of work wasn't good enough. Honing in on character developments and action placement takes a lot of mental orchestration. I can go weeks without writing a word, but once my mind is set I can sit down and write five pages of good stuff. I guess that's the payoff. More mental strain but (hopefully) less rewrites/reworks, plus fast work (when you finally get to it). 

I like to have a tactile keyboard--something textural that makes a sound. I can write long-hand, but I prefer the computer. It makes corrections easier and I can type faster than I can write. I also like the sound. Tappa-tappa-tappa. Makes me feel productive. 

I hardly ever write anything out before I start writing The Story. Occasionally I'll make a time line or a map, but mostly it's in my head. I think it's because I don't like any evidence left behind. I have written several really embarrassing stories, but no one would ever know. It was all digital and now deleted. Mwahaha. 

I can't write in a room with an open door. Closets or to the hallway. I need an enclosed space. Perhaps it's because I don't want distractions or I keep mistaking my clothes for people in my closet. Either way, doors have to be closed. 

My best work comes late at night. I've done stuff for the day, people are going to bed, settling in. It's allowed "me" time that no one wants or will interrupt. Unfortunately I also get tired so I don't write for very long. Like I'm almost asleep right now. 

There is a quote I think very accurate to the writing process. Samuel Johnson said, "A man will turn over half a library to make one book." For me, nothing could be more true. I read a lot  and when I'm writing I read more. Writing is like making a quilt with all that's in your head. You collect everything; books, stories, movies, photos, images, sensations, memories, textures, nuances, glances, smells, light, comfort, hurt. Everything, everything. You can never have enough. And once you have collected enough to fill your box of random scraps you go through and find the pieces you really like and others that touched you. You place them together, matching patterns and colors and blends and shapes, fitting it all together into this cohesive beauty. There are these long periods when I am not writing at all or even thinking about a story, but these are collecting periods, like a chicken carcass being boiled down into broth. I am stewing. Stewing, gathering, hoarding, searching. It's a strange sensation in itself because I can literally feel my brain stewing over all that it has and priming itself for some new work. There's a specific mood about it that will not be rushed. These periods feel the least productive. They are full of ambiguity and discontent and seeming laziness. But I have come to accept that these are important restocking periods, where your writer is digesting and stewing, gaining stores to supply the great energy required in creating a story. It's simply visiting the gas station on your way to Storyville. Whenever I try to rush it I end up writing crap. Don't rush, just read. 

I always ponder over my stories as I'm falling asleep. They tend to be my last and first thoughts of everyday. 

My moods are genre-specific. A certain mood for science fiction, another for fantasy. A unique one for adult fiction, a lighter one for young adult fiction. And since my mood changes I tend to have a developing story in every genre and I rotate which one I work on based on my mood. The further a story is developed the longer I stay in that mood, which is how I'm every able to get something down on paper. I doubt this is a very efficient way to write, but it's so natural to rotate like that that I don't quite know how to stop. 

I need lots of time to develop thoughts, characters, plots, and all that jazz. The thinking side of this work goes slowly. The actual writing goes much faster.  

The more edits and rewrites you do the less heartbreaking it is. Editing also needs distance. Everything needs serious reworking. Everything, but you can't do it adequately if you're too close to it. It needs time to just marinate in your mind before you take a scalpel to it. 

K, I'm really falling asleep. Hope you enjoyed. More later. After all. I'm going to be a writer now. I just need. More periods. .. ..... Goodnight. .. 

. 

Holiday Hero Photo Shoot!

Thimble Thor is back! Not only that but he hath broughteneth FRIENDS! 

Can you tell which fabulous duo of more-than-humanly-awesome more-than-humans are friends of Thimble Thor? 

On the left we have the small but dependable Capsule Captain of America! He has the trademark spangled shield to protect him from ferocious foes as well as the smashing hammer of his god-like friend. 
In the middle we have non other than our beloved Iron Minnie Man . He is posed for battle and looking ripped in his suit of make-believe metal. 
Our favorite Thimble Thor, God of smallish thunders-- such as stomach grumbles and burbly farts, is on the right hand side. 

 *Sigh* Don't they look fabulous posing for Christmas and other happy holidays that use lights as a mode of celebration? 

 H stands for Heroes (and holidays. And hammer). 

 Thimble Thor gets an illuminating close up that proves that his radiance is so great, us mere mortals are not even physically able to see it. 

 Iron Minnie Man gives us his best side, showing us his pretend-metal ripped-ness. He knows he looks that good. 

Our Capsule Captain, while great in a bind or an alien invasion, shies away from the lime and Christmas light, making us all the more desirous to get a better grip on his renowned gluteus.