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Lost in Translation

Ladies and gentlemen: I've got a serious announcement to make: I am annoyed. Not just a little, no, I am very annoyed. You see, I have a serious problem with some people who call themselves writers these days. These people's writing has been published in papers and magazines. Now don't go saying that my name suits me perfectly, because it's not envy that's causing my annoyance. I am frustrated with the fact that these people call themselves 'columnists', the say they write 'columns', while they clearly have no idea what the a real Dutch column is!

My frustration started back in 10th grade, when I had to write an essay on whatever had my interest. I couldn't care less about writing this essay, but I did want to know more about another type of text: the column, which is slightly different in the Netherlands than in other places in the world. I did a lot of research and wrote an explanatory text with the great title 'What the f*** is a column?!'. I bet that was the first and last time my teacher saw a sophomore frop an F-bomb in the title of an essay. As much as I hated writing this essay, I learned a lot about the Dutch type of column because of all the research I did. So since the age of 15 I've known that a Dutch columnist writes short pieces of text (about 400 words long), mostly about current affairs. They're sometimes written as a kind of satire and most important: their main goal is to make people both think and laugh. Pretty clear, right?
Two weeks later I got an A on my essay, which was a small miracle considering that I had used the big scary F-word in the title. It wasn't the end of my interest in columns though: after writing about it, I wanted to write one myself. I just didn't know what to write about (quite frankly I still don't know), so I started reading lots and lots of columns. That's where it went wrong.

Every morning I read the paper. Every day this paper publishes a column written by a reader. And those people who write those columns are all aspiring writers, just like me. But not a single one seems to know what a column is supposed to be like.
Over the last week this is what I saw in the paper, with the label 'column' slapped onto it:

  • A girl telling how proud she is of her sister who's failed her high school finals twice
  • A girl telling that she'll regret not doing certain things when she's old
  • A guy telling what life was like when he just arrived in the Netherlands
  • A woman giving a lecture on the symptoms of a burnout
None of these articles ticked any of the boxes that would've made it a column (except for the word count, but even a five-year-old can look at a word count). You don't have to be a good writer to tell the world that your proud of your sister. There's nothing funny about any of the articles. And if I want to know what a burnout is, I'll look it up on wikipedia.
I know that these people have achieved a little more than I have. After all, there article has been published, even though it was a boring story on a tree or an explanation on burnouts. So I'll try to forgive these people for not knowing what they were doing. I mean, being published in this paper is more of an award with €100 in prize money than anything else. What really grinds my gears is that some people who know even less about decent column writing get paid on a weekly basis to write a story about... about what?
You see, the Dutch are obsessed with famous people, so papers and magazines employ these people as columnists. The result: stories about cats, kids and how the first barbeque of the year went. Not a column, just a story no one cared about if it were me who'd written it. Half of the time they aren't even well written. It's like a word vomit was put in a blender, then smeared on a piece of paper and the outlines became a new story for their precious 'column'.

Okay, okay, I might be exaggerating a little. But the thing is that I read a lot of blogs and I see a lot of talent. I see bloggers write funny and thought-provoking posts every single day and they don't get appreciation they deserve. Sometimes I like to think I'm one of those bloggers (not today though, because this is just a mediocre rant) and I feel the need to prove that we, aspiring writers of the internet, can do so much better than the woman who explained what a burnout is! That's why I'm picking up a pen and entering the newspaper's column competition. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.

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16 Fellow Ramblers
I knew it was coming. From the moment I turned 18 I knew it was coming. But July passed, and so did August, and it didn't come. September and October came to an end without the arrival of a certain letter. As November came around, I thought I was safe, that it would never come. I was wrong.
The letter did come. Halfway through April it fell on our doormat, asking me one terrifying but important question: "Do you want to become an organ donor?"

My parents never signed me up as an organ donor, but now I'm 18 I can make my own decision. It was the most difficult decision of my life, to be honest, even more difficult than choosing a career path. So I did what I always do when I have to make an important decision: pretend it didn't happen.
So I shoved the letter under a pile of half-finished stories and drafts and went to Vienna. When I came back I told myself I was too  focused on my internship reports to make this decision. But two weeks ago I ran out of excuses. I pulled the letter out of the huge pile of paper and finally read it.

"Yes, I will become donor!"
Part of the letter I received
Many people need an organ transplant. There just aren't enough organs, because there aren't enough donors. I know that's a bad thing, but as I read the letter I couldn't help thinking that someone would open up my dead body to extract an organ and give it to someone else. The idea freaked me out.
I put the letter away and put my head in my hands. It seemed heavy with thoughts. I had such a difficult decision to make... but if I were dying and a donated organ could save my life, I'd like to get that organ. Besides, what good is a kidney when you'll never drink anything ever again? Or lungs when you're not breathing anymore? Or an eye if you'll never look at the world again? My organs could save someone's life and make them happy until long after my death.
I sat at my desk for a while, trying to come up with reasons not to become an organ donor. Main reason was of course the freakiness, but other than that I couldn't come up with a single reason not to do it. In fact I could only think of reasons why I should become an organ donor.
I picked up the letter and looked at the list of organs I could donate in case of sudden death. Most thing felt too personal though. My heart will always be mine. Just my eyes and skin. But if I die, I hope my kidneys will help someone else live on. I hope someone will get my super healthy that's been spared the awful effects of alcohol. And my pancreas and intestines, those are allowed to find a new home too.
With the letter in my hand, I went downstairs to talk about it with my parents. My mom used to be an organ donor, but my dad didn't like the idea of her organs going to other people. I expected him to be a bit angry, but he wasn't. In fact, he didn't say anything. My mom become very emotional though, and at one point I started crying; neither of us liked discussing my mortality. The conversation lasted an hour, even though my mom said she supported my decision right away. My dad didn't say anything all that time, except: 'It's your decision.' I told him I didn't want to become an organ donor if he didn't support my decision. He started to walk away, the turned and said: 'I support your decision, but only if you promise that I get to die before you do!'
For some reason that made me laugh while I was stilly crying.

I filled the form in that same afternoon and posted it. I feared I was going to regret my decision, but two weeks have passed and I still feel good about this. And why not? Who knows, one day I might save someone's life, and so can you if you decide to become an organ donor.

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14 Fellow Ramblers
Pretty much accurate...
It's January 2013. It's dark, cold and I'm hungry. One big problem: my parents aren't home and I can't cook. Lucky for me, one of my friends invites me over at his place for dinner.
'You honestly can't cook?' my friend asks as we cycle to his house. 'Not even pasta?!'
'Nope. Not even pasta.' I sighed. 'I'm so going to need a house elf when I move out...'

I was sixteen when this conversation took place. At that age I loved the idea of having my own Dobby. My parents weren't a big fan of this plan, probably because house elfs usually don't work for muggles.
As I grew older, I began to realize that the muggle alternative for a house elf, a boyfriend, was out of the question too, because guys never look at me twice, and that I'll be living alone when I move out. Which meant one thing: I needed to learn how to cook.

My first cooking adventure that didn't include simply throwing pasta in boiling water took place in November. My mom gave me one of her Jamie Oliver books and I picked the easiest recipe I could find: Mexican Ceasar Salad. Chop up some lettuce and tomatoes, throw it in a bowl and done. Piece of cake, I thought.
It was no piece of cake, as it turned out. First of all there was the problem of the avocade: I don't like avocado. After staring at the book for half an hour and making my problem way bigger than it actually was, I decided to simply eliminate the avocado from the recipe. Problem effectively solved.
The second problem arose when I took over the kitchen. My mom was helping me out, but she got nervous when I started chopping up stuff. I don't know why but I love chopping stuff. This passion for chopping veggies freaked my mom out. She was constantly afraid I was going to chop off my fingers too. That didn't happen. I chopped the lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber so beautifully, a top chef would have been jealous of my skills.
I moved on to the chicken. This salad wasn't as easy as throwing lettuce and tomatoes in a bowl, oh no, there was chicken that somehow had to be seasoned. I had no idea how, so I threw it all in a platic garbage bag, chicken and spices, and shook it until all the spices were stuck to the chicken. It looked great in a messy way. Except for one thing: the chicken breasts had to be flat, and these things were far from flat. I was perfectly well aware of the fact that they had to be flat. In fact, it was one of the reasons why I chose the recipe: this meant I'd have to hit the chicken until it was flat. My mom has exactly the right tool for this task: a huge wooden hammer, which looks a remarkable lot like Thor's. I couldn't wait to use this thing and do my best Thor impression ever, but... it was lost. Really lost, even my mom couldn't find it. We used a rolling pin instead. I put all my power into hitting that chicken. It caused so much noise that the neighbours must have thought the Third World War had begun. It was worth it though, because the results were terrific: the chicken was flat and looked a remarkable lot like South America.
Once the chicken was in our grilling pan, I could concentrate on the bacon. Another one of the reasons why I wanted to make this salad: Bacon! I was supposed to have tiny slices in my salad, but hey, when it comes to bacon there's no such thing as adding too much.

Everything was going well, surprisingly well. I was almost done and even though the kitchen looked like a warzone, nothing had exploded in my face yet, no fingers were injured and no food had fallen on the floor. I had only one more thing to do: make the yoghurt-based dressing. And that's where it all went wrong.
I put yoghurt in a bowl, added a little more cheese than Jamie Oliver would have wanted me to (Dutch girls and cheese, it's just meant to be) and then added a swig of olive oil to the mix. But the swig turned into a major spillage and suddenly all I tasted was olive oil...
Of course I tried to fix it. First with more yoghurt. Then with even more cheese. When that didn't work out I throw in some more yoghurt and called it quits. It kept tasting like olive oil, but there was no going back now: I didn't have enough yoghurt to start over again...
So I finally got to throw everything in a bowl, mixed it a bit up, put my olive oily dressing over it and served the chicken on top of it, which looked great in the book, but not so much when I did it in real life.

My parents ate the salad without complaining, which was nice of them. But I think that was the day I proved for once and all that I really, really can't cook. I'm not planning on moving out anytime soon, but when I do I'm definitely going to need a house elf. Interested in the job? Send me an email: Anyone who can cook an egg without screwing it up has high chances of getting the job!

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12 Fellow Ramblers
Once every five years my country celebrates its freedom. We do that on the 5th of May, the day the Netherlands were freed from the Nazi regime, back in 1945. Some people celebrate this by organizing a parade, going to music festivals or getting drunk (this option is very popular as usual). Other people pay their respect to the soldiers from Canada, the US, Poland and other countries who died in an attempt to liberate the Netherlands from the Nazi regime. These people go to Wageningen on Commemoration Day, May 4th, to receive the 'Liberation Fire' and run all night long in a huge Liberation Relay to bring the Fire to their hometown. One of those people was me.

The symbol of our freedom:
the Liberation Fire
From Envy's Make it Happen List
#26: Bring the Liberation Fire to my Town on Liberation Day
Status: Awesomeness Achieved

It was around 11pm on Monday when a bus full of people from my training group left for Wageningen, a place in the East of the country, where the peace treaty concerning my country was signed. I was excited. It's an honour to bring the Liberation Fire home. Five years ago I had to hear all my dad's amazing stories when he did the Liberation Relay. I was thirteen back then, too young to stay up and run all night. At eighteen, however, I'm strong enough to be part of the team.
It almost went wrong before we even left for Wageningen, because someone had forgotten to pack his running shoes (no, I'm not making this up). After this guy had raced home to get his shoes, we could finally go. We travelled in an awesome part bus for about 1.5 hours. The way back home would take us a little longer...
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10 Fellow Ramblers
Over the past few years I've learned a lot. One of those things is that I'm not exactly average or common. I have yet to meet another eighteen year old girl who only falls for fictional guys, drinks responsibly and has the next five years of her life completely mapped out.
However, every time I tell someone that I'm not exactly your typical teenage girl, they snort and say: 'Yeah right.' So after seeing this tag over at Bryleigh's blog, I decided to prove once and for all that I'm no common teenage girl. How am I going to prove that? By doing the Common Teenage Girl Tag.


1: Favorite Starbucks drink?
Contrary to popular belief at my old high school, I'm not a big fan of Starbucks. I've been to Starbucks five times in just as many years. The last time was when I was in Vienna and I didn't even order a drink (I just used their bathroom and ate a pastry I bought at some other place). When I do order a drink at Starbucks it's usually hot chocolate.

2. How long does it take you to get ready in the morning?
Ten minutes at most. I grab a pair of jeans, a shirt, sweater or tank top, put it on, brush my hair and teeth and ta-da: I'm done.

3. How many selfies do you take on a daily basis?
On a daily basis? Hold on a second, I have to calculate that.
Sometimes I take selfies because I need a profile picture for my Blogger and Twitter account. I change those approximately twice a year, but I have to take a series of at least ten selfies, because I think they all suck and that way I can pick the best out of twelve. So that's 24 selfies, then the 7 I take throughout the year when I'm bored out of my mind, and the 9 I take on vacation... Add it all up... that's 40 a year, divided by 365 brings me to 0.1095890411 selfies on a daily basis.

4. How many IG followers and pics do you have?
It took me three minutes to figure out that IG stands for Instagram (it does, right?). I don't even have an account and I don't see a reason to make one.

5. Do you ever say LOL or OMG out loud?
I have, in the distant past of 2011, said OMG out loud once. Not as Oh-Em-Gee though, more like some sort of alien word. I could totally picture an alien growling "omgggggggg" at me during an invasion. The reason I said this was that a boy called Jasper started pronouncing it this way, so I asked: "Why does Jasper say OMG all the time?'. Withing a few weeks my entire class said "omggggg" with that typical Dutch G at the end.
As for LOL, yes, I still say that out loud. We don't say El-Oh-El though, we say "lol"and it's Dutch for fun. So yes, I say that out loud a lot.

6. Do you ever wear the same clothing item more than once?
Uhm, yeah?! What else do you expect me to do? Wear a shirt and throw it away? And if you mean wearing an item two days in a row, then yes, I do that. I basically live in my Batman sweater when I don't have to go to college.

7. How many tweets do you have?
540, most of them from online wizarding duels or discussions with Neal, Catalina and Bryleigh.

8. Instagram, Twitter or Tumblr?
I don't see the point of Tumblr, I'm sorry, but it's true. I just don't get it.
Instagram would be a waste of time since I only take pictures when I'm on vacation.
As for Twitter... I set the account up to promote my blog, but now I only use it to chat with blog buddies.

9. What do you spend most of your time doing?
Working on the huge amount of assignments, essays and reports I have to write. It's not much fun, but as long as I'm not a world-famous blogger, college will be my number 1 priority. One day I'll have to take care of myself, make a living, pay rent... And I can't do all that without a proper education.
When I'm not working for college, I'm working on blog posts and novels so I can make my dream of becoming a writer come true.

10. Who are your favorite YouTubers?
Why is everyone so obsessed with YouTubers these days?
I don't have any favorite YouTubers. There's one Dutch guy who has a series of videos (actually he has several series but I only like the one) and posts a new video every Thursday. I always watch those videos, but I'm not a huge fan who freaks out every time a video is posted.
Oh, and I also have a thing for the guy from YouTube Explained. Don't ask me why, just don't.

11. How often do you do your nails?
I'm not exactly keeping track of that. What does doing your nails even mean? Does clipping them count, or do you have to polish and file them too? Either way, it's not something that I do very often.

12. Are you a shopaholic?
Only when I'm in a book store.

13. How many times have you watched Mean Girls?
Never. I'm not planning on watching it either. I don't even know what it's about, so next question please!

14. Do you own a lot of clothes?
Actually, I do. I'm still wearing the same size clothes as I did four years ago, so I've accumulated a huge amount of clothes over the years. I never throw anything away, unless it's full of holes.

15. Do you take pictures of food before you eat it?
When I eat something special, like guinea pig or Sacher Torte, I take a picture. A also take a picture when I'm eating something my friends love. For example: a friend of mine is obsessed with schnitzels, so every time I eat one I send him a pic and then we joke about schnitzels for days.

16. Do you wear make up every day?
I never wear any make up. I always end up poking mascara in my own eyes. I think looking a little bit prettier is not worth the extreme pain of having a mascara brush poked into your eye...

17. What are your average grades in school?
Been a straight A student all my life. Learning and memorizing stuff is my one and only useful talent!

18. How do you usually style your hair?
Does brushing it count as styling?

19. Do you always look presentable?
Hahahahahahahahaha. No.
I wear oversized Harry Potter and superhero shirts when I don't have to go to college. I don't put much effort into doing my hear on weekends. I just don't care that much about looking presentable. The thing with me and clothes and looking presentable is that I'm not one of those people who wants to look amazing every second. I just want to be comfortable. And that cute summer dress? That's not me. Harry Potter shirt and five year old shorts, that's me. If people don't like that, it's their problem, the can look away. As long as I'm comfortable with what I'm wearing, I don't care if others think I don't look 'presentable'.

So now you've seen it, I'm not exactly average. I'm not exactly common. I may be common and average amongst bloggers, but they're not exactly common and average; they are awesome! I hope they stay that way. Stay Awesome, guys!
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About me


Envy. Dutch blogger. Est. 1996. No relation to the famous biblical sin. Worst bio writer on this side of the blogospere. Lives on cookies, apple juice and art. Friendly unless confronted with pineapple on pizza. Writes new nonsense every Thursday.

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