A new talent:

The wind sounds like fourth grader's breathy recorders.

Watching Thomas demonstrate the sex positions he can't partake in with a broken arm: hilarious.

Drive to Seattle, getting mildly lost, and expensive parking: way less enjoyable.

The fact that everyone I ever make plans to duet with hurts themself in ways that prevent duet-ing: horrible.

Kaity GETTING MARRIED!!!!!:!!!!!

Captain's log: Stardate Post-Landing 19-21.05.09

19.05.09, post-arrival
Haul my luggage off the conveyor belt. Ignore the noises my suitcase that is basically cheesecloth stretched over a cardboard frame made as I lifted the handle of the 30 kg of dirty laundry, old opera scores, a beer stein, shoes, and dresses I didn't really need but bought anyways, convincing me that I actually do have a problem. Hugged my dad, got home and did the same to my mum and my dog. Despite not sleeping for 28 hours, and only getting 2 hours of sleep the night before that, I don't go to sleep right away, staying up and pondering unpacking. I don't.

20.05.09
I spend most of the day thinking that it's already Thursday. Wake up at 6, go to the YMCA, full of energy. After 45 minutes of fat-burning, exhausted. Drink coffee. Psyched. Take Rudy to vet, get sushi, valentines materials with Kenz. Get tired again. More coffee. Second wind. Open up my suitcases, take out half of my dirty laundry. Lay out clean clothing on bed, but don't put it away. Dinner at Masa with Christine, her BF, and Jessica. Impromptu drive back to Seatac, drink tea while trying not to fall asleep. Third wind. Jessica says that I should go visit people, that they really want to see me.
Really? Skeptical.
Yes. She directs me to the house.
After three unconvincing phone calls, convince myself it was just too late. Go home, move clean laundry to the floor, stay up watching House and knitting.

21.05.09
Wake up an hour before my alarm (alarm: 7:00). Try to go back to sleep, but after a half hour put on my sneakers. Work out. This could become a habit, perhaps. Weigh myself. Am surprised to discover that after 5 months of Viennese pastries and beer, I've lost 15 pounds. Poop, then weigh myself again. Enough of a shocking difference for a normal poo to warrent two frantic text messages to the only people who are used to text messages either in a hypochondriac panic or about poop. Finish socks, washcloth. Cast on another washcloth and sample socks. Was told they were worsted weight socks that would go quickly, but they're fingering weight yarn full of vegetation on size 2 needles. Take a shower so long that my dad comes pounding on the door. Weigh myself again. Poop. Scale. Move same pile of clean laundry onto bed, but don't hang up anything. Remove exactly three balls of yarn, one pair of underwear, and a skirt from suitcase and consider it enough unpacking for today.

I've said all of my goodbyes now.

We’re standing in my kitchen, in my empty apartment. I put my ice cream in the freezer. He laughs. Still standing there. Ignore the dishes in the sink, our sweaty bodies, his head is buried in me, I stroke his neck. The duck fluff hair that I joke about, that he says needs a haircut. We are there for a long time.

He sniffs. I sniff. I’ve already cried once today, in public. Three different people yelled at me in uniforms and in a language I still don’t understand. The opera house has surprisingly few private corridors for one to cry in, especially considering the bathroom attendant is one of the ones who yelled at me. We sat.
Your eyes are pretty. I ask to clarify.
Your eyes are pretty red.
Oh. Great. Well, I’m just weeping as operagoers pass. Red eyes are the least of my concern.

At the graveyard, earlier.
I might cry today.
Yea?
I mean, I will cry.
I couldn’t cry this morning. Z was weeping.
If I cry and you don’t, I’m going to kick you.
Really?
I know where.
We sing at Mozart’s grave, alternating notes, in octaves beyond our reach. Nothing but the earth moving beneath my feet. Perhaps Mozart is rolling in the same direction.

We drank at the Schwarzenberg Café afterwards. Moments of silence, slowly eating our torte and drinking our drinks, wondering if I really meant it.
I mean, I’ll only miss you until I see you again. And that will happen.
Right.

We don’t move, in the yellow kitchen light. But somehow we’re in front of the doorway. Looking at each other with red eyes. There is something so sad in my face. I know if he cries I’ll cry. He knows if I cry he’ll cry. We give each other weak smiles.

I love you.
I love you too. I’m so glad I got to know you this semester. You’ll visit me.
Right.

We go into each other again. Almost.
There’s my Strassenbahn.
Go.
I love you. He says this down the hall.

I lock the door. Open my window. I shout.
Meine lieblings Kind-
A red van comes down the road. He stops, swerves.
-Don’t get hit by a car.
The first door doesn't open.
I wait. Watch him run.
Second door stays shut.
Third door.
He runs to the front. I pray for the conductor to be a sadist for my own wish, for a few more minutes. The conductor lets him in.

The sadness has come so fast.

I have heard three trams pass since.

I can't believe I'm going home.

I've been homesick, but I know I'll be Wiensick when I'm back.

I had my last lessons yesterday. My voice teacher and I talked for an hour and a half about everything: dogs, earthquakes, how the Mayans had it right, but it's not going to be the end of the world, only a time of new thinking, and isn't life beautiful? After that, my piano lesson was unremarkable and frustrating, as usual. Mumbled goodbye and some lies about how it's been great (it hasn't), how if I wanted a reality check from a friend of hers in NY she'd give me the info (I didn't, but I have the paper anyways. I was actually a little insulted by this. I'm not going to be a singer, I just enjoy doing it. I want to be an accompanist specifically because I don't want to be judged on solo performances, singing or playing), and how we've made progress this semester (I haven't).

Last night at Cafe Leopold. Everyone was a drunk nostalgic mess. Lots of hugging, the All Black Club. J was drunk as well, and might have told me I have huge boobs (again, a lie) while unhooking my bra effortlessly with one hand(a talent that is wasted on this man). Somehow got a cab home by 3, and ate cereal in my bed.

I have no idea how I'm going to pack my stuff. I've accumulated quite a lot here. I might have to send stuff home.

I'm worried that I'm going to go home and be boring.

I'm really excited to work again. I want to be able to practice. I feel better about myself, and the stress is a good stress.

Yea, my clothes are definately not going to fit in my suitcase.

kthnx

Ok, can we just continue to talk about this girl I hate?

I really wouldn't hate her that much, I think, if she didn't for some reason think we were friends. She's at my apartment right now, "studying" with my roomate. Since our assignment is to write a term paper and Girl I Hate (GIH) is finished with hers, I wish she would just gtfo.

She is mean to everyone. This is coming from me. I'm not always nice. But I don't say mean things to everyone in public. I don't try and humiliate people in classes. I don't interrupt people while they're speaking in class. I can't say I'm great at not interrupting in normal conversation, but I don't do it to be malicious.

GIH talks to me during classes and says mean things about everyone else in the class. When I speak in class, she argues everything I say, as if I know nothing about anything, even if I'm talking about personal experiences. Case in point: talking about being one of less than 10 Jews in my high school of 1800. She's from Philly. There are tons of Jews there. And she's not Jewish. Leave me alone.

GIH's a rabid vegetarianism. I have no problems with vegetarians, just as much as I have no problems with Mormons, Evangelicals, NRA members, hippies. I don't agree with everything they believe in, but we put aside our differences and have wonderful friendships. But she insists on shoving her beliefs in everyones faces. In a mixed group, talking about cooking for ourselves, I mentioned a chicken recipe I discovered. A marinated chicken, but simple, non-gory, chicken. GIH looks at me and goes "Yea, can we not talk about that? That's gross." A girl mentioned one time that she had never tried falafel because she prefers meat and would rather not spend money on something she's not sure she'll like. GIH told this girl, who is one of the nicest, calmest, most agreeable person in this program, that she "must be really dumb then."

We're in a class together, The Female As Writer and Perspective in Post WWII Austria. I have since shortened the title to Chick Lit, as it's easier to say. The class is in no way "chick lit." Obviously. I am fully aware of that. I just think that it is funnier to call it such outside of class. I am interested in all the pieces I've read in that class. I just like mocking the title. GIH says that I am being derogatory and sexist. Nevermind that I'm a woman, that I write, that I am a feminist with a sense of humor.

Today's reason why I loathe her: GIH is leaving our toilet and going to the bathroom to wash her hands. We cross paths and I let her go first.
GIH: (standing) what are you doing?
Me: Letting you wash your hands
GIH: What?
Me: I mean, you have the door open, you're in the way-
GIH: Just GO.
Me: (walking past) sorry, just trying to be polite.
GIH: I mean, you don't have to make a big deal out of it. Just go.
Me: Yea, I just thought I'd let you go first. It's what people do when they bump into each other. I mean, I can understand how this would be a novel concept....

I hope she doesn't stay very late. I'm making marinated chicken, just in case.

I AM COVERED IN HIVES.

HIVES. THEY'RE EVERYWHERE.


Ok, not everywhere. Just both shoulders, my stomach (the one on my stomach is about the size of a deck of cards), my butt, my legs, my side, my back, and especially my feet. They might be redder because I'm constantly scratching.


I'D MUCH RATHER BE COVERED IN BEES.