I heard recently that Martin Luther advised those who struggle with legalism to practice committing little "sins." Here was a man who was abundantly familiar with the tortures of guilt. (The more I learn about that guy, the more I want to know. I don't have his strong personality, but I feel like I relate to him in just about every other way.) After years of trying to overcome my obsession with being good by being even better, I've come to the same conclusion he did. I turned 32 on Monday. The first 30 of those years were spent with a stick firmly up my ass. The last two have all about dislodging it, and I'm not done yet. (See that bad word I used? That's me practicing.)
The Bible says that the Kingdom of God (heaven on earth, a small sample of heaven to come) is righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. JOY. Not likely when you're in a fruitless quest for perfection, powered by your own steam. The Christian deal is that you stop trying to bear our own weight; Jesus takes it all. Depending on where you are in your life, that may sound like either an impossible sacrifice or the biggest relief ever. In my case, it's just hard to get my head around, because I have such an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything. But I've been coming to a greater realization of the wrongness of trying to do God's job for Him, and as that realization grows, I see what extreme (to my mind) measures are necessary to combat that tendency in myself.
Legalism itself is a sin. I don't know if God rates sins, or if so, how, but I do believe that some sins have worse consequences than others. Legalism distorts my view of God, which messes up my relationship with Him. That's wrong. It then leaves me empty and with nothing to give people. That's also wrong. And I think it's worse than whatever harm may be done to my body by eating extra cookies (something I would normally feel guilty about). If, by choosing to eat those cookies simply because I can, I can also combat my tendency to agonize over whether I should eat them, then the "sin" of eating the cookies seems like a good idea.
There's also a reason why I've been putting the word "sins" in quotation marks. I believe that sin is real, and that it is truly sinful. But I'm good at feeling guilty no matter what I have or haven't done. It's not so bad now, but there was time in my life when regardless of what I was doing, I felt like I should be doing something else. If I was playing in the pool with my 11-year-old neighbor, I should really have been practicingmy trombone. If I was practicing my trombone, it was selfish because my neighbor didn't have any younger friends within walking distance. I always felt wrong because I had no sense of discernment about what was truly right or wrong in a situation. But playing in the pool wasn't necessarily a sin. Neither was playing my trombone. It just felt that way. If I'm to do anything in my life, ever, I need to push past that and do things that feel like sins to me, because most things feel like sin to me.
Committing little "sins" in order to overcome the big one, legalism. That may sound like the worst idea ever. But it works a lot better than my previous plan -- read the Bible more and pray longer and go to church whenever the doors were open. All those things are good if they come from the right place. But for me it was all about working harder and continuing to fail miserably.
To hell with that.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Is There a Lutheran Version of Catholic Guilt?
In church circles, we often use the term legalism. I may have mentioned it before. There are two extremes in Christian attitude and behavior -- Legalism and Licentiousness. You can probably guess what they're all about. In a Christian context, the latter means presuming upon God's grace, doing whatever you feel like because you know you can be forgiven. Legalism is the opposite -- always trying to be good, as if your salvation depended upon it (which is ironic, because it's your own sin that you're being saved from).
I fall way the hell on the legalistic side. In my case, it seems to be primarily a matter of temperament, of nature over nurture (though there have certainly been those who added to the problem). I'm naturally a religious person -- not one who easily believes (far from it), but one who is inclined to follow rules. At least on the surface, I'm good at being good, and I don't deal well with the consequences of my missteps.
When I lost my childhood faith in God at the age of 13, my response was to up the religion -- read the Bible before I go to sleep, make my parents drive me to church (a half-hour away at the time), and in every way try to be as close to perfect as possible. I knew I had been baptized Lutheran as a baby, so I started going to Lutheran churches. I took my first Communion. I went through Confirmation. And the whole time, I felt guilty for not believing. Right up into college, I was convinced that I could do better at everything if I just tried hard enough. I could have the perfect figure if I stopped eating potato chips. I could be the best trombone player in the world if I stopped watching TV and practiced instead. I could believe if I prayed harder. Of course, I was never able to work my way up to any of those things. (Faith did come, but not because I achieved it.)
Have you ever listened to Garrison Keillor's A Prarie Home Companion? He tells stories of the fictional Lake Woebegon, a town in Minnesota full of Lutheran Norwegian farmers. Whenever he talks about how uptight they are, I recognize myself. Example: The church members go on a little cruise down the river. The boat lists and some people fall overboard. The pastor feels obligated to be with them, so he jumps into the water. That whole weird, useless sense of obligation is me all over. I don't know if it's genetics or what, but somehow, when atoms smashed together to form the gloriously unstable chemistry experiment that is my brain, they created a legalism machine.
Don't go anywhere. There's more to this story, but things were getting long so I'm splitting it up.
I fall way the hell on the legalistic side. In my case, it seems to be primarily a matter of temperament, of nature over nurture (though there have certainly been those who added to the problem). I'm naturally a religious person -- not one who easily believes (far from it), but one who is inclined to follow rules. At least on the surface, I'm good at being good, and I don't deal well with the consequences of my missteps.
When I lost my childhood faith in God at the age of 13, my response was to up the religion -- read the Bible before I go to sleep, make my parents drive me to church (a half-hour away at the time), and in every way try to be as close to perfect as possible. I knew I had been baptized Lutheran as a baby, so I started going to Lutheran churches. I took my first Communion. I went through Confirmation. And the whole time, I felt guilty for not believing. Right up into college, I was convinced that I could do better at everything if I just tried hard enough. I could have the perfect figure if I stopped eating potato chips. I could be the best trombone player in the world if I stopped watching TV and practiced instead. I could believe if I prayed harder. Of course, I was never able to work my way up to any of those things. (Faith did come, but not because I achieved it.)
Have you ever listened to Garrison Keillor's A Prarie Home Companion? He tells stories of the fictional Lake Woebegon, a town in Minnesota full of Lutheran Norwegian farmers. Whenever he talks about how uptight they are, I recognize myself. Example: The church members go on a little cruise down the river. The boat lists and some people fall overboard. The pastor feels obligated to be with them, so he jumps into the water. That whole weird, useless sense of obligation is me all over. I don't know if it's genetics or what, but somehow, when atoms smashed together to form the gloriously unstable chemistry experiment that is my brain, they created a legalism machine.
Don't go anywhere. There's more to this story, but things were getting long so I'm splitting it up.
And I'm doing this from my cubicle
Hey, check it out. I wrote a home improvement version to the chorus of a Salt 'N Pepa song:
Let's talk about decks, baby
Let's talk about masonry
Let's talk about all the windows and the siding
That may be
Let's talk about decks
Let's talk about checks, baby
And your liability
If one of my workers falls
I'll make a call
And S-U-E
Let's talk about checks
As if you needed it: Further evidence that I need to get out more.
Let's talk about decks, baby
Let's talk about masonry
Let's talk about all the windows and the siding
That may be
Let's talk about decks
Let's talk about checks, baby
And your liability
If one of my workers falls
I'll make a call
And S-U-E
Let's talk about checks
As if you needed it: Further evidence that I need to get out more.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Thin Blood and True Believers
I'm anemic
This I know
For the doctor
Told me so.
I know some of you will be relieved to find out I have a physical flaw, albeit a temporary one, because frankly I was flirting dangerously with perfection there for a while. It is only temporary, though -- a couple months of iron pills and I'm back in the game, baby. I was told this could be part of the reason why I'm always cold, too. Is this why they say that people who can't handle cold climates have "thin blood?" Is it literal?
I'm a little disappointed that my coldness issue may be so easily fixed. I was looking forward to burying myself under sweaters and blankets this year. Such items made up 75% of my Christmas list. I'll just have to keep the thermostat at 55 degrees from now on. Brace yourselves, roommies.
Screeeeech! Change of direction, turning off of Anemia Ave. and onto Blind Boys Blvd.
Now that we're into the Christmas season, I can listen to festive CDs I got as gifts last year. I finally got a good earful of Go Tell It on the Mountain, the Christmas album by The Blind Boys of Alabama, and apart from the impressiveness of their arrangements and the skill of their guest artists, one thought came back to me over and over: These guys know Jesus. They know. I haven't heard anything about their beliefs, and as of this writing I haven't done any research. But they have the sound of men who know.
This I know
For the doctor
Told me so.
I know some of you will be relieved to find out I have a physical flaw, albeit a temporary one, because frankly I was flirting dangerously with perfection there for a while. It is only temporary, though -- a couple months of iron pills and I'm back in the game, baby. I was told this could be part of the reason why I'm always cold, too. Is this why they say that people who can't handle cold climates have "thin blood?" Is it literal?
I'm a little disappointed that my coldness issue may be so easily fixed. I was looking forward to burying myself under sweaters and blankets this year. Such items made up 75% of my Christmas list. I'll just have to keep the thermostat at 55 degrees from now on. Brace yourselves, roommies.
Screeeeech! Change of direction, turning off of Anemia Ave. and onto Blind Boys Blvd.
Now that we're into the Christmas season, I can listen to festive CDs I got as gifts last year. I finally got a good earful of Go Tell It on the Mountain, the Christmas album by The Blind Boys of Alabama, and apart from the impressiveness of their arrangements and the skill of their guest artists, one thought came back to me over and over: These guys know Jesus. They know. I haven't heard anything about their beliefs, and as of this writing I haven't done any research. But they have the sound of men who know.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I did a bad thing.
You're familiar with the scenario: A kid is playing ball in the house. His mom tells him to stop or he'll break something. He keeps doing it anyway and breaks her favorite vase.
Now let's say the ball is a piece of taffy, the kid is me, and the vase is, uh, taffy again, and you have the situation in our kitchen two nights ago.
In case you're thinking to yourself, But a vase is art; taffy isn't art, allow me to gently correct you: YES IT IS. My roommate is an artist, so when she sets out an object because it's cool-looking, it's art. But I'm not an artist. I'm a musician, and an immature one. I make noise. And so does taffy, in the right hands (mine).
Much like my dad's prize birch, it was right out there, where I could reach it, so it's not my fault that I took it and played with it. I knew I could get a good slap out of it if I placed my hand flat against it and smacked it against the table. So I did. *BAM!* Ha ha, yes! *BAM!* That was fun. But that's enough; don't want to be greedy, seeing as how it's not my taffy and all. I'll just put it back now and -- uh-oh. Are those broken bits? Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I'll put it back and maybe my roommate won't know. It'll still look pretty or maybe she'll think it fell or maybe she'll think it was that way when she put it in the kitchen and she doesn't have to know what I did. But that's not cool. My conscience will bother me and George Washington and the cherry tree and surely there's a verse in the Bible about how thou shalt not pull a hit-and-run on thy neighbor's art/taffy. So I left a note:
Dear S--,
I thwacked it and I cracked it and now I'm embarassed and sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow?
Holly
She forgave me, because she's cool. I was relieved; I was prepared to go on the Internet and find replacement taffy and everything. But even after all the guilt and fear of confrontation, I'm not sure I've really learned my lesson. I suspect the only thing stopping me from hitting other food items is the assumption that, frankly, they just wouldn't sound that good.
Now let's say the ball is a piece of taffy, the kid is me, and the vase is, uh, taffy again, and you have the situation in our kitchen two nights ago.
In case you're thinking to yourself, But a vase is art; taffy isn't art, allow me to gently correct you: YES IT IS. My roommate is an artist, so when she sets out an object because it's cool-looking, it's art. But I'm not an artist. I'm a musician, and an immature one. I make noise. And so does taffy, in the right hands (mine).
Much like my dad's prize birch, it was right out there, where I could reach it, so it's not my fault that I took it and played with it. I knew I could get a good slap out of it if I placed my hand flat against it and smacked it against the table. So I did. *BAM!* Ha ha, yes! *BAM!* That was fun. But that's enough; don't want to be greedy, seeing as how it's not my taffy and all. I'll just put it back now and -- uh-oh. Are those broken bits? Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I'll put it back and maybe my roommate won't know. It'll still look pretty or maybe she'll think it fell or maybe she'll think it was that way when she put it in the kitchen and she doesn't have to know what I did. But that's not cool. My conscience will bother me and George Washington and the cherry tree and surely there's a verse in the Bible about how thou shalt not pull a hit-and-run on thy neighbor's art/taffy. So I left a note:
Dear S--,
I thwacked it and I cracked it and now I'm embarassed and sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow?
Holly
She forgave me, because she's cool. I was relieved; I was prepared to go on the Internet and find replacement taffy and everything. But even after all the guilt and fear of confrontation, I'm not sure I've really learned my lesson. I suspect the only thing stopping me from hitting other food items is the assumption that, frankly, they just wouldn't sound that good.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
This is my 100th post!
In celebration, a retrospective episode, a la TV sitcom.
Me: Wow, I can't believe we've been blogger and bloggee for almost five months now. Such good times we've had!
You, the Coveted Reader: Ha ha, yes, such good times. Why, I remember when you wrote about your brother's wedding...
Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.
Me: You have a good memory. Tell me more about what I've written.
You: Oh, sure. Here's a bit from one of your fictional works...
That Hun next door is the neighborhood bully. Nobody knows his real name; we all just call him “that Hun,” and he likes it that way. I guess he feels it gives him an aura of mystery. (Yeah, right, just like the stupid hat he wears makes him intimidating. Whatever. But if I’ve learned anything from Ollie, it’s to not make fun of stupid hats on aggressive people. It seems these conquering types are very sensitive about their headgear. But I digress.)
You: That one was particularly clever, I think.
Me: [Blushing.] Why, thank you. You didn't have to say that, you know.
You: But I mean it. You're the most bestest blogger ever.
Me: Shucks. [Pause.] You can tell me more about how clever I am.
You: Oh! Right. Yes. [Long silence.]
Me: Any day now.
You: Um, OK... OK, got it. This one didn't suck...
Here's what I know about wood: 1. It's brown. 2. They make trees out of it.
Me: Whew! I had no idea how clever I was. Sometimes you really need to hear it from someone else, you know? I can be quite critical of myself.
You: Obviously.
Me: [Taking bows and catching roses thrown by You. As far as I know, anyway, since I can neither see nor hear you.]
You: [Crickets chirping.]
Me: Wow, I can't believe we've been blogger and bloggee for almost five months now. Such good times we've had!
You, the Coveted Reader: Ha ha, yes, such good times. Why, I remember when you wrote about your brother's wedding...
Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.
Me: You have a good memory. Tell me more about what I've written.
You: Oh, sure. Here's a bit from one of your fictional works...
That Hun next door is the neighborhood bully. Nobody knows his real name; we all just call him “that Hun,” and he likes it that way. I guess he feels it gives him an aura of mystery. (Yeah, right, just like the stupid hat he wears makes him intimidating. Whatever. But if I’ve learned anything from Ollie, it’s to not make fun of stupid hats on aggressive people. It seems these conquering types are very sensitive about their headgear. But I digress.)
You: That one was particularly clever, I think.
Me: [Blushing.] Why, thank you. You didn't have to say that, you know.
You: But I mean it. You're the most bestest blogger ever.
Me: Shucks. [Pause.] You can tell me more about how clever I am.
You: Oh! Right. Yes. [Long silence.]
Me: Any day now.
You: Um, OK... OK, got it. This one didn't suck...
Here's what I know about wood: 1. It's brown. 2. They make trees out of it.
Me: Whew! I had no idea how clever I was. Sometimes you really need to hear it from someone else, you know? I can be quite critical of myself.
You: Obviously.
Me: [Taking bows and catching roses thrown by You. As far as I know, anyway, since I can neither see nor hear you.]
You: [Crickets chirping.]
Monday, December 11, 2006
There are Proverbs that warn of women like this
The pretty taffy is now on display in the kitchen. Am I still not supposed to touch it? What is she trying to do to me???
New Jammies!
I got a new set of PJs that makes me look like a Teletubby. This started me thinking about what my name would be if I were a Teletubby. [I had time to think about this because I had a long bus ride home to Boston, and I wasn't using the time to talk on my cell phone because we were supposed to be considerate of our fellow passengers and not make calls except for an emergency, except for the guy in front of me, who didn't hear that announcement because he was busy talking on his cell phone, which encouraged the guy behind me to make a call, followed by the girl across the aisle, so that I was surrounded.] Here are the names of the original four: Dipsy, LaLa, Tinky Winky, and Po. I started with my own name (Holly, for those of you who haven't been paying the slightest bit of attention), and made a couple of adjustments. I got it down to two options. I think you'll see why I eventually settled on one over the other.
Chosen: HaHa
Rejected: Ho
I don't know what my Favorite Thing should be. Each Teletubby had a Favorite Thing -- a ball, a handbag... I think there was a scooter... what was the fourth thing? My brother would probably know. During his undergrad years, he had quite an appreciation for that show. This fact alone may have removed any doubts my parents had as to whether he did any underage drinking.
Anyway, this winter HaHa the Green Teletubby will be warm and snug in her new jammies and her --oh! here's a Favorite Thing! -- flannel sheets.
Chosen: HaHa
Rejected: Ho
I don't know what my Favorite Thing should be. Each Teletubby had a Favorite Thing -- a ball, a handbag... I think there was a scooter... what was the fourth thing? My brother would probably know. During his undergrad years, he had quite an appreciation for that show. This fact alone may have removed any doubts my parents had as to whether he did any underage drinking.
Anyway, this winter HaHa the Green Teletubby will be warm and snug in her new jammies and her --oh! here's a Favorite Thing! -- flannel sheets.
Kissing Cousins, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Being Italian
I'm a mongrel -- German, Norwegian, Swedish, Dutch and Italian. Or, to break it down into American regions, half North Dakota and half New Jersey. This weekend was spent with the Italian side of the family in NJ. My very Anglo sister-in-law learned what my North Dakotan mother learned when she married into the clan almost 35 years ago: People gonna hug and kiss you like you's family, cuz you is family now. As with so many things in this life, acceptance is the key here. Before any event -- dinner, party, wedding, funeral -- embrace this idea as warmly as you'll soon be embracing these strangers/relatives: The corner of your mouth will always be a bit wet with saliva, and that saliva will not be yours.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
"Slap Your Own Taffy!": Our Adventures in NYC. Day Two.
The next day, we went to breakfast at Bubby's where I was thankful once again for my natural reserve. The difference between me and people who sound stupid isn't that I'm not stupid; it's that I don't make as many sounds. Pertinent example: In Bubby's, there was a sign listing their two locations, one in Tribeca and one in Brooklyn. At first, I didn't see the Tribeca one. I just saw "Bubby's in Brooklyn" and thought, are we in Brooklyn? Is it really just a few blocks from the apartment? Tourist thoughts. Astoundingly ignorant tourist thoughts. Thoughts which I kept to myself at the time. Of course, now I'm putting them out there for the world to read, but I'm doing it from the safety of my home, where I can't see your eyes roll. Bubby's has very, very yummy banana nut pancakes, by the way.
Outside again, we wandered around looking at the amazing window displays, and saw the tree and skating rink at Rockefeller Center. It was all smaller than I'd imagined, but that made it seem quaint, an adjective that I wouldn't normally use when describing New York City. It was interesting for me to see the angels with the trumpets. In fifth grade I got a book of Christmas songs I could play on my trombone, and on the cover was a picture of those angels in twilight. After 21 years of looking at that cover and thinking it was beautiful, I finally saw them up close.
Next stop, the library. By this time I had a headache and just sat dumbly on a bench while the others looked at the Japanese exhibit. Then to a cute old-fashioned soda shop in Tribeca for dinner. I popped a couple Tylenol and put my head on the table until the food came, because I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. By the end of the meal, I was feeling better and was able to take in my surroundings. This place had lots of candy we remembered from our youth, including the incredibly politically incorrect -- and still tempting -- candy cigarettes. The girls got their favorite retro candy. S had this long, flat piece of taffy. It was pink and pretty and I wanted to see what kind of noise it would make. So I borrowed it and began slapping it against the table, in hopes of getting a nice *THWACK!* out of it. The normally calm and gentle S was not amused. "Slap your own taffy!" This may be the harshest rebuke I've received from her in two years of roommateness.
The taffy is now in her room, and I'm not supposed to mess with it. I have a different technique I want to try, though. I had been holding it on one end and swinging it at the table, but it was too flat and wind-resistant, and the result was insufficient thwackage. I should have placed my hand flat against one side and pushed it down as fast as I could. I bet that would work.
But I'm not supposed to.
But I bet it would work.
Banana walnut pancakes are a fruit.
And a protein.
Outside again, we wandered around looking at the amazing window displays, and saw the tree and skating rink at Rockefeller Center. It was all smaller than I'd imagined, but that made it seem quaint, an adjective that I wouldn't normally use when describing New York City. It was interesting for me to see the angels with the trumpets. In fifth grade I got a book of Christmas songs I could play on my trombone, and on the cover was a picture of those angels in twilight. After 21 years of looking at that cover and thinking it was beautiful, I finally saw them up close.
Next stop, the library. By this time I had a headache and just sat dumbly on a bench while the others looked at the Japanese exhibit. Then to a cute old-fashioned soda shop in Tribeca for dinner. I popped a couple Tylenol and put my head on the table until the food came, because I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. By the end of the meal, I was feeling better and was able to take in my surroundings. This place had lots of candy we remembered from our youth, including the incredibly politically incorrect -- and still tempting -- candy cigarettes. The girls got their favorite retro candy. S had this long, flat piece of taffy. It was pink and pretty and I wanted to see what kind of noise it would make. So I borrowed it and began slapping it against the table, in hopes of getting a nice *THWACK!* out of it. The normally calm and gentle S was not amused. "Slap your own taffy!" This may be the harshest rebuke I've received from her in two years of roommateness.
The taffy is now in her room, and I'm not supposed to mess with it. I have a different technique I want to try, though. I had been holding it on one end and swinging it at the table, but it was too flat and wind-resistant, and the result was insufficient thwackage. I should have placed my hand flat against one side and pushed it down as fast as I could. I bet that would work.
But I'm not supposed to.
But I bet it would work.
"Slap Your Own Taffy!": Our Adventures in NYC. Day One.
My roommates and I were hanging out in the Big Apple this weekend (which is my latest excuse for not posting). (Also, a preemptive apology: I'll be travelling Thurs. through Mon., so this blog is in for another dry spell. Thank you all for hanging in there when I so often string you along on so very little.)
We took the Lucky Star bus from Boston to Chinatown and immediately began looking for Dim Sum. My bags were heavy, so I wanted to walk fast and get where we were going, but not everyone on the sidewalk was in such a hurry. There were vendor stands everywhere, and little old ladies, and no passing lane. Ten minutes off the bus and already I was the most impatient person in New York. I also thought it might be good to learn some useful phrases in case I had an altercation with one of the many taxicabs; I wanted to ask my roommate, who speaks Chinese, how one would say, "Hey, I'm walkin' here!" It's probably good to learn that in a few different languages, since New York is such an international city.
We stayed in the apartment of the aunt of my Texan roommate, which was right on the water in Tribeca. I don't know what becas are, or why there are three of them, but they sure have a great view. Teeny tiny apartment, great big skyline. Didn't spend too much time hanging around inside, though, because my crazy companions thought it would be nice to see the city instead of watching cable. So out we went. It was cold and sunny -- finally, after African rainy season we'd been having.
I had promised myself that I'd spend some money on fun things after selling my car. This, for some reason, is incredibly hard for me. I'm naturally stingy, and years of low-paying work has taken this trait and multiplied it several times over. So everyone was really proud of me when I bought a sweater and a hat. Oh, did I say I bought a hat? Yes, yes I did! Tex found a cream-colored one that went with my coat, so my head was snug for the whole weekend. And the best part is it covers my ears. No point in getting a hat otherwise, as far as I'm concerned. Mom, I promise it doesn't look like the Elmer Fudd hat.
Our dinner destination was Little Italy, by far the most decorated part of town. The Italians do like their Christmas lights. I say this proudly, as a 1/4 Italian, and I freely admit that I liked it. It was also educational. Across the street, under the big "Seasons Greetings" (note the lack of an apostrophe in "Seasons!" For shame!), were the words, "Sorrento Cheese." They sponsor Christmas in Little Italy. Who knew Christmas had a sponsor? Or that it wasn't Macy's? [Now that I'm thinking of an Italian-American Christmas, I've got the song, Dominic, the Christmas Donkey in my head. Anyone know it? Chinkety-chink, ee-aw, ee-aw, Italian Christmas Donkey... You should listen to it. I wonder if they have it on itunes. The Dean Martin Christmas album ain't bad, either. Goes well with spiked egg nog and martini-covered olives.] My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks, so my roommates, inspired by the many celebrating people before us, got the waiters to sing happy birthday to me. I got a piece of cheesecake with a sparkler in it. The waiters were enthusiastically tone-deaf (or tone-deafically enthusiastic). Either way, it was fun. And it drove a stake into the heart of the stereotype of the opera-singing Italian.
We took the Lucky Star bus from Boston to Chinatown and immediately began looking for Dim Sum. My bags were heavy, so I wanted to walk fast and get where we were going, but not everyone on the sidewalk was in such a hurry. There were vendor stands everywhere, and little old ladies, and no passing lane. Ten minutes off the bus and already I was the most impatient person in New York. I also thought it might be good to learn some useful phrases in case I had an altercation with one of the many taxicabs; I wanted to ask my roommate, who speaks Chinese, how one would say, "Hey, I'm walkin' here!" It's probably good to learn that in a few different languages, since New York is such an international city.
We stayed in the apartment of the aunt of my Texan roommate, which was right on the water in Tribeca. I don't know what becas are, or why there are three of them, but they sure have a great view. Teeny tiny apartment, great big skyline. Didn't spend too much time hanging around inside, though, because my crazy companions thought it would be nice to see the city instead of watching cable. So out we went. It was cold and sunny -- finally, after African rainy season we'd been having.
I had promised myself that I'd spend some money on fun things after selling my car. This, for some reason, is incredibly hard for me. I'm naturally stingy, and years of low-paying work has taken this trait and multiplied it several times over. So everyone was really proud of me when I bought a sweater and a hat. Oh, did I say I bought a hat? Yes, yes I did! Tex found a cream-colored one that went with my coat, so my head was snug for the whole weekend. And the best part is it covers my ears. No point in getting a hat otherwise, as far as I'm concerned. Mom, I promise it doesn't look like the Elmer Fudd hat.
Our dinner destination was Little Italy, by far the most decorated part of town. The Italians do like their Christmas lights. I say this proudly, as a 1/4 Italian, and I freely admit that I liked it. It was also educational. Across the street, under the big "Seasons Greetings" (note the lack of an apostrophe in "Seasons!" For shame!), were the words, "Sorrento Cheese." They sponsor Christmas in Little Italy. Who knew Christmas had a sponsor? Or that it wasn't Macy's? [Now that I'm thinking of an Italian-American Christmas, I've got the song, Dominic, the Christmas Donkey in my head. Anyone know it? Chinkety-chink, ee-aw, ee-aw, Italian Christmas Donkey... You should listen to it. I wonder if they have it on itunes. The Dean Martin Christmas album ain't bad, either. Goes well with spiked egg nog and martini-covered olives.] My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks, so my roommates, inspired by the many celebrating people before us, got the waiters to sing happy birthday to me. I got a piece of cheesecake with a sparkler in it. The waiters were enthusiastically tone-deaf (or tone-deafically enthusiastic). Either way, it was fun. And it drove a stake into the heart of the stereotype of the opera-singing Italian.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Better Living Through Mind-Control
First, I'd like to say that I'm doing better after my initial post-verdict distress. Thanks to all who encouraged me. This isn't the first time I've been terribly unhappy after making a decision which has real consequesnces. When I took the job I have now, I had another job offer from another company that had come my way at the same time. It was quite difficult trying to choose, and once I made my choice, I was worried that I'd made the wrong one. My roommate took me out to dinner to kick my butt into celebrating the fact that I now had a good job and my seven-month temping streak had come to an end.
Once I started doing this job, I was happy to be here. I still have a lot to be thankful for -- pleasant coworkers, low stress, good benefits. It's a good place to be... for now. It's not the kind of position a person is meant to stay in forever; people in this job are expected to move onward and upward. My issue right now is that I don't know what I want to do next. I have general ideas, but I'm having trouble with specifics. Here are a few things I'm pretty sure of:
*I want to work with words and ideas. I like writing, and I can do it -- both coming up with the things to say, and saying them well. I like language and what it reveals about how individuals and whole cultures see the world. I like how well it captures intangible things.
*I like the creative process. Creative decisions are decisions I can make without being depressed for days afterward. And I understand creative decisions. Not so much with logistical or administrative stuff; I get confused quite easily in those areas. But if you're putting together a story or a performance, I'm your girl. I'm not an aritistic diva, but I can form solid opinions about artistic things when called upon.
*I want to laugh. A lot. And I want to make other people laugh. I'm sure most people do, and I'd assumed a goofy work environment would be anyone's ideal, but from my interactions and conversations with other people I'm coming to the conclusion that I actually need humor more than most folks. It's my primary form of communication. (It was a great hardship for me when I was in England and no one got my jokes, or could even tell when I was trying to be funny in conversation. It got really bad when I would say something sarcastic ("ironic" if you're British), and they would think I meant the statement at face value. They just thought I was a jerk. Not fun.)
*I'm quite enamored with (of?) the idea of collaboration. It was frustrating in school when I felt like it meant nothing but compromise, but it's quite different once you're a grown-up and can work with people who are really good at what they do. I'm confident that I could be a part of creating some excellent works if I get the chance to bounce ideas off of others, and I can be a good sounding board myself. I want to be inspired. I want to be inspiring.
It all sounds swell, doesn't it? But what would I do, and how would I get there? People have suggested advertising, copywriting, screen & television writing, being a humor columnist, even stand-up comedy. And here's where all kinds of yucky real-world things come into play: I have a music degree, not one in writing or advertising, and my resume reflects that. I don't have relevant writing samples, and have little-to-no idea about how to go about creating them. And the truth is, I'm scared. I don't want to be laughed out of someone's office. Taking initiative has always been hard for me, especially in the realm of human interaction -- that's one of the main reasons I didn't make it as a musician -- I couldn't cold-call people and market myself. The thought of sending univited letters to companies offering my uncredentialed services is so intimidating that after over a year of letting the idea bounce around my head, I still haven't done it.
My age is another factor. I'm not just talking about the number (32 in 2 1/2 weeks), but how I feel. I'm not interested in being a student again, or in having more jobs that pay under $30K a year. I've been on so many bottom rungs that I've practically forgotten that I'm capable. I don't want any more lateral moves. I want to go up. But it's been a very long time since I knew what that was like, and my brain has trouble accepting the idea that other people might want to put my creative skills to use and not just assign me menial tasks.
I don't remember being this scared about possibilities when I was younger, in high school and college. Perhaps it's because in those years I was on a track, and all I had to do was perform well. I got good grades, had good auditions, and that made me successful in my little realm. Once I started doing things on my own, like trying to carve out a career as a freelance musician, I was like a train off the track; I barrelled on for a while, but eventually plowed into the ground. In some ways, I feel like I'm still there. I'm a train without a track, and I feel awkward, uncomfortable, out of my element. And stuck. Even if my only problems are in my head -- the inertia that comes from fear, laziness, or just unclear ideas -- I'm stuck in them, and don't have enough power in myself to get out.
Thinking about it and sending up the occasional prayer got me started on this blog, which has been fun and useful. But the process of getting un-stuck has still been awfully slow, so I've started fasting about it, too. I don't know how you pull a train engine out of the dirt, but that's what has to happen.
Today, my coworker Ben (eyebrow guy) said that he hopes I use my powers for good rather than evil. He said I'd be so good at advertising or PR that he could see me justifying genocide with a sweet smile on my face. This wasn't a slam on my character (I think), but a statement about my potential. It was encouraging, particularly because I respect his opinion on these things. I'll agree that my strengths in the area of diplomacy could definitely be used to doctor some spin, or to otherwise manipulate the populace. I would like the opportunity to use my creative powers for good -- you know, the good kind of manipulation, propaganda, and mind-control. In a goofy work environment. That would be swell.
Once I started doing this job, I was happy to be here. I still have a lot to be thankful for -- pleasant coworkers, low stress, good benefits. It's a good place to be... for now. It's not the kind of position a person is meant to stay in forever; people in this job are expected to move onward and upward. My issue right now is that I don't know what I want to do next. I have general ideas, but I'm having trouble with specifics. Here are a few things I'm pretty sure of:
*I want to work with words and ideas. I like writing, and I can do it -- both coming up with the things to say, and saying them well. I like language and what it reveals about how individuals and whole cultures see the world. I like how well it captures intangible things.
*I like the creative process. Creative decisions are decisions I can make without being depressed for days afterward. And I understand creative decisions. Not so much with logistical or administrative stuff; I get confused quite easily in those areas. But if you're putting together a story or a performance, I'm your girl. I'm not an aritistic diva, but I can form solid opinions about artistic things when called upon.
*I want to laugh. A lot. And I want to make other people laugh. I'm sure most people do, and I'd assumed a goofy work environment would be anyone's ideal, but from my interactions and conversations with other people I'm coming to the conclusion that I actually need humor more than most folks. It's my primary form of communication. (It was a great hardship for me when I was in England and no one got my jokes, or could even tell when I was trying to be funny in conversation. It got really bad when I would say something sarcastic ("ironic" if you're British), and they would think I meant the statement at face value. They just thought I was a jerk. Not fun.)
*I'm quite enamored with (of?) the idea of collaboration. It was frustrating in school when I felt like it meant nothing but compromise, but it's quite different once you're a grown-up and can work with people who are really good at what they do. I'm confident that I could be a part of creating some excellent works if I get the chance to bounce ideas off of others, and I can be a good sounding board myself. I want to be inspired. I want to be inspiring.
It all sounds swell, doesn't it? But what would I do, and how would I get there? People have suggested advertising, copywriting, screen & television writing, being a humor columnist, even stand-up comedy. And here's where all kinds of yucky real-world things come into play: I have a music degree, not one in writing or advertising, and my resume reflects that. I don't have relevant writing samples, and have little-to-no idea about how to go about creating them. And the truth is, I'm scared. I don't want to be laughed out of someone's office. Taking initiative has always been hard for me, especially in the realm of human interaction -- that's one of the main reasons I didn't make it as a musician -- I couldn't cold-call people and market myself. The thought of sending univited letters to companies offering my uncredentialed services is so intimidating that after over a year of letting the idea bounce around my head, I still haven't done it.
My age is another factor. I'm not just talking about the number (32 in 2 1/2 weeks), but how I feel. I'm not interested in being a student again, or in having more jobs that pay under $30K a year. I've been on so many bottom rungs that I've practically forgotten that I'm capable. I don't want any more lateral moves. I want to go up. But it's been a very long time since I knew what that was like, and my brain has trouble accepting the idea that other people might want to put my creative skills to use and not just assign me menial tasks.
I don't remember being this scared about possibilities when I was younger, in high school and college. Perhaps it's because in those years I was on a track, and all I had to do was perform well. I got good grades, had good auditions, and that made me successful in my little realm. Once I started doing things on my own, like trying to carve out a career as a freelance musician, I was like a train off the track; I barrelled on for a while, but eventually plowed into the ground. In some ways, I feel like I'm still there. I'm a train without a track, and I feel awkward, uncomfortable, out of my element. And stuck. Even if my only problems are in my head -- the inertia that comes from fear, laziness, or just unclear ideas -- I'm stuck in them, and don't have enough power in myself to get out.
Thinking about it and sending up the occasional prayer got me started on this blog, which has been fun and useful. But the process of getting un-stuck has still been awfully slow, so I've started fasting about it, too. I don't know how you pull a train engine out of the dirt, but that's what has to happen.
Today, my coworker Ben (eyebrow guy) said that he hopes I use my powers for good rather than evil. He said I'd be so good at advertising or PR that he could see me justifying genocide with a sweet smile on my face. This wasn't a slam on my character (I think), but a statement about my potential. It was encouraging, particularly because I respect his opinion on these things. I'll agree that my strengths in the area of diplomacy could definitely be used to doctor some spin, or to otherwise manipulate the populace. I would like the opportunity to use my creative powers for good -- you know, the good kind of manipulation, propaganda, and mind-control. In a goofy work environment. That would be swell.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Kiss It and Make It Better
I've gotten a fair bit of sympathy and prayer regarding my post-jury duty angst. Everyone seems to agree that it was a tough call, which it was. My roommate made me promise I'd go to sleep last night, and not stay awake till all hours worrying about it. My sister-in-law, who is a lawyer, listened eagerly to the details and told me not to beat myself up about it.
This afternoon, though, I got an email from my parents telling me flat-out that they thought I did the right thing. They didn't have any information apart from what I provided in the blog, but they redered a verdict on my verdict anyway. I don't know whether I've been struggling with felt guilt or actual guilt (how can you tell the difference? I never can), but their note made me feel better. Maybe sometimes we just need to hear mom and dad tell us it's OK.
If anyone is so inclined, I invite you to pray for the plaintiff and her lawyer. The plaintiff's life is pretty hard. She may have been wrong, but it was still hard for most of the jury not to throw her a bone. She has a lot of problems apart from losing this job. And it can't have been fun for her lawyer to lose, especially since this case has gone on for years.
This afternoon, though, I got an email from my parents telling me flat-out that they thought I did the right thing. They didn't have any information apart from what I provided in the blog, but they redered a verdict on my verdict anyway. I don't know whether I've been struggling with felt guilt or actual guilt (how can you tell the difference? I never can), but their note made me feel better. Maybe sometimes we just need to hear mom and dad tell us it's OK.
If anyone is so inclined, I invite you to pray for the plaintiff and her lawyer. The plaintiff's life is pretty hard. She may have been wrong, but it was still hard for most of the jury not to throw her a bone. She has a lot of problems apart from losing this job. And it can't have been fun for her lawyer to lose, especially since this case has gone on for years.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
How do you know if you did the right thing?
I need to talk this out. Be prepared for me to ramble.
Our jury began deliberations yesterday and reached a verdict today. We had several questions on which we had to reach decisions. Because two jurors had been dismissed, and because it was a civil case, we had to reach a 9-out-of-10 majority on each question. We did. But just barely. Like in a movie, we came down to one final question, and there were 8 jurors on one side, 1 juror on the other, and me in the middle, having trouble deciding. I went with the majority, but I'm not even sure what my motives were. Earlier, I had sided with them because I was convined that it was the right answer. But I had second thoughts, and ended up going with the majority despite those second thoughts.
I don't know if I ever would have been convinced fully of either side. I don't know what would have happened if we'd been deadlocked at 8-2. Part of me went with the others because I didn't know if I ever would have been sure, and at some point you just have to choose a side, so I did. I also know that I tend to be indecisive, to second-guess myself, and that I dislike the burden of responsibility to fall on my shoulders. I went with the majority because I didn't want to run from responsibility.
Here are some of the details, since I'm allowed to talk about them now: A woman was suing for wrongful termination. She worked in a home with violently disturbed children, and was injured on the job twice. They were both head injuries. It just so happens that she has hydrocephalitis, and has a shunt in her brain because of it. Doctors agreed that neither injury affected her condition or her shunt. After the second injury, which was minor, she had several symptoms -- headaches, dizziness, balance problems -- and she missed work because of these symptoms. Doctors also agreed that these symptoms were not related to her condition or her injuries, but anxiety about her condition and injuries. She had told her employer, "I can't get hit in the head again." After a series of doctors' appointments, missed meetings, phone calls and faxes, and miscommunications, she was fired.
She says they fired her because they incorrectly perceived her as handicapped; there was no medical reason she couldn't do her job. She also claimed the firing was in response to her claims for workers' compensation. Her former employer claims they fired her because her anxiety was rendering her incapable of working with such disturbed kids and causing her to miss work; her performance was suffering.
There were three people involved in the firing. We the jury determined that, according to the law, she was perceived as handicapped, but that she was qualified to do the job. We found that her termination was not in retaliation to her claims for workers' comp. The sticking point: Was she terminated because her employers saw her as handicapped? 8 people voted no, because it was her anxiety and the consequences of her anxiety that led to her termination. 1 person voted yes, because it was clear that one of the people involved in the discussions leading to her termination was fixated not on her anxiety but on her neurological condition, and he influenced his boss, the ultimate decision-maker. I went with the majority because the ultimate decision-maker was primarily focused on her anxiety, even if one of his counsellors was focused on her condition (and thus her perceived handicap).
This is all a summation. There were many fine points I haven't outlined here. We were essentially asked to determine if she would have been fired for her anxiety and subsequent behavior alone, if there had been no neurological condition behind them. The majority of us decided yes, she would have been, because her anxiety and resultant behavior had become problematic. But of course, I'm not sure. I don't know how to be sure. I don't know what to do with myself now that it's done.
We all agreed that her employer was right to let her go, but the way they went about it was bad. But was it illegal?
I don't know if my icky feelings are conviction that I did the wrong thing, or just my usual guilt and anxiety and uncertainty. I don't know how responsible to feel for this woman now that she's walking away with no vindication and no compensation. The other jurors felt bad, too, but they also felt like they reached the right decision, legally. We weren't asked to be certain; we were asked whether we believed it was more likely than not that she was terminated because a perceived handicap; according to the law, we could still have doubts.
This is the kind of situation where I'm not good at hearing from God, because my mind is screaming. Lord, I ask two things: First, could you let me know how to think about this? If I did the right thing, would you tell me? Second, if I did the wrong thing, would you let me know what to do with that? Either way, please take care of the woman who lost her job.
I knew from the get-go that my problem would be reaching a final decision. I made a decision because I knew I'd have to. I just don't know whether it was right, or even how to tell. The more I think about it, the more I think I was wrong. But that could just be a consequence of dwelling on it.
Jesus, please help me. I'm a mess. Again.
Our jury began deliberations yesterday and reached a verdict today. We had several questions on which we had to reach decisions. Because two jurors had been dismissed, and because it was a civil case, we had to reach a 9-out-of-10 majority on each question. We did. But just barely. Like in a movie, we came down to one final question, and there were 8 jurors on one side, 1 juror on the other, and me in the middle, having trouble deciding. I went with the majority, but I'm not even sure what my motives were. Earlier, I had sided with them because I was convined that it was the right answer. But I had second thoughts, and ended up going with the majority despite those second thoughts.
I don't know if I ever would have been convinced fully of either side. I don't know what would have happened if we'd been deadlocked at 8-2. Part of me went with the others because I didn't know if I ever would have been sure, and at some point you just have to choose a side, so I did. I also know that I tend to be indecisive, to second-guess myself, and that I dislike the burden of responsibility to fall on my shoulders. I went with the majority because I didn't want to run from responsibility.
Here are some of the details, since I'm allowed to talk about them now: A woman was suing for wrongful termination. She worked in a home with violently disturbed children, and was injured on the job twice. They were both head injuries. It just so happens that she has hydrocephalitis, and has a shunt in her brain because of it. Doctors agreed that neither injury affected her condition or her shunt. After the second injury, which was minor, she had several symptoms -- headaches, dizziness, balance problems -- and she missed work because of these symptoms. Doctors also agreed that these symptoms were not related to her condition or her injuries, but anxiety about her condition and injuries. She had told her employer, "I can't get hit in the head again." After a series of doctors' appointments, missed meetings, phone calls and faxes, and miscommunications, she was fired.
She says they fired her because they incorrectly perceived her as handicapped; there was no medical reason she couldn't do her job. She also claimed the firing was in response to her claims for workers' compensation. Her former employer claims they fired her because her anxiety was rendering her incapable of working with such disturbed kids and causing her to miss work; her performance was suffering.
There were three people involved in the firing. We the jury determined that, according to the law, she was perceived as handicapped, but that she was qualified to do the job. We found that her termination was not in retaliation to her claims for workers' comp. The sticking point: Was she terminated because her employers saw her as handicapped? 8 people voted no, because it was her anxiety and the consequences of her anxiety that led to her termination. 1 person voted yes, because it was clear that one of the people involved in the discussions leading to her termination was fixated not on her anxiety but on her neurological condition, and he influenced his boss, the ultimate decision-maker. I went with the majority because the ultimate decision-maker was primarily focused on her anxiety, even if one of his counsellors was focused on her condition (and thus her perceived handicap).
This is all a summation. There were many fine points I haven't outlined here. We were essentially asked to determine if she would have been fired for her anxiety and subsequent behavior alone, if there had been no neurological condition behind them. The majority of us decided yes, she would have been, because her anxiety and resultant behavior had become problematic. But of course, I'm not sure. I don't know how to be sure. I don't know what to do with myself now that it's done.
We all agreed that her employer was right to let her go, but the way they went about it was bad. But was it illegal?
I don't know if my icky feelings are conviction that I did the wrong thing, or just my usual guilt and anxiety and uncertainty. I don't know how responsible to feel for this woman now that she's walking away with no vindication and no compensation. The other jurors felt bad, too, but they also felt like they reached the right decision, legally. We weren't asked to be certain; we were asked whether we believed it was more likely than not that she was terminated because a perceived handicap; according to the law, we could still have doubts.
This is the kind of situation where I'm not good at hearing from God, because my mind is screaming. Lord, I ask two things: First, could you let me know how to think about this? If I did the right thing, would you tell me? Second, if I did the wrong thing, would you let me know what to do with that? Either way, please take care of the woman who lost her job.
I knew from the get-go that my problem would be reaching a final decision. I made a decision because I knew I'd have to. I just don't know whether it was right, or even how to tell. The more I think about it, the more I think I was wrong. But that could just be a consequence of dwelling on it.
Jesus, please help me. I'm a mess. Again.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Turkzilla, Frankenlog, and a foretaste of Chrismakkuh
This is a crazy-quilt entry, full of scraps.
We had the biggest turkey ever. 32 1/2 pounds. That would be obscene if it weren't yummy.
The replacement log went over well. Duct tape and pieces of birch bark all over it. Dad laughed harder than I expected, especially considering that he'd figured out earlier that something was up. My prediction that he'd say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" turned out to be wrong; at no point during this series of events did my Dad accuse me of being smart.
For the big holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), my parents have their neighbors, Dave and Shelley, over. They add a whole new dimension to the entertainment. Shelley usually brings a dessert. Last year, Dad thanked her for the homemade pie, to which she responded, "Who you callin' a ho?"
It's also worth noting that Dave, although ethnically Jewish, is a big fan of both Christmas and ham, so he gets very excited about Christmas dinner. He did, however, return the cultural favor a few years ago when he and Shelley had us over for Christmas Eve and he introduced us to Hanukkah rap, as performed by someone calling himself the Hannukah Homeboy. My two favorite rhymes:
Drinkin' lots of Maneschewicz
...And nothin' rhymes with Maneschewicz
(did I spell that right?)
Light a candle on the menorah
Now everybody bust a hora
The slang is a little dated, but I still think if more people knew about this, it would be right up there with Adam Sandler's The Hanukkah Song.
Hope you guys all had a happy Thanksgiving :-).
We had the biggest turkey ever. 32 1/2 pounds. That would be obscene if it weren't yummy.
The replacement log went over well. Duct tape and pieces of birch bark all over it. Dad laughed harder than I expected, especially considering that he'd figured out earlier that something was up. My prediction that he'd say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" turned out to be wrong; at no point during this series of events did my Dad accuse me of being smart.
For the big holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), my parents have their neighbors, Dave and Shelley, over. They add a whole new dimension to the entertainment. Shelley usually brings a dessert. Last year, Dad thanked her for the homemade pie, to which she responded, "Who you callin' a ho?"
It's also worth noting that Dave, although ethnically Jewish, is a big fan of both Christmas and ham, so he gets very excited about Christmas dinner. He did, however, return the cultural favor a few years ago when he and Shelley had us over for Christmas Eve and he introduced us to Hanukkah rap, as performed by someone calling himself the Hannukah Homeboy. My two favorite rhymes:
Drinkin' lots of Maneschewicz
...And nothin' rhymes with Maneschewicz
(did I spell that right?)
Light a candle on the menorah
Now everybody bust a hora
The slang is a little dated, but I still think if more people knew about this, it would be right up there with Adam Sandler's The Hanukkah Song.
Hope you guys all had a happy Thanksgiving :-).
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Log Blog
I owe my Dad a log.
Going home to my parents' house is usually a vacation for me. The folks are quite low-key, and my biggest stress is wondering whether it's OK for me to be doing as much Nothing as I'm doing. There aren't any entertaining fights; we're not a "puttin' the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional' " crowd. We're one of Tolstoy's boring happy families.
However...
On Thanksgiving day, my Dad had fires going in two fireplaces. After dinner I was a little chilly and went to stand in front of one of them. It was down to orange embers, so I grabbed the biggest log from the pile and put it on. It caught fire quickly and was very nice. A few minutes later, Dad walks by the room, asking, "Why does it smell like the house is burning down?"
Proud of myself, I said, "I put another log on the fire!"
"Wait, you didn't put my favorite log on, did you?" He looked. "You did! I was saving that log for years! I was going to turn it into a candle holder."
"Uh..."
He walks out of the room and proclaims to no one and everyone, "She burned my favorite log! I can't believe she burned my log. Years I had it." My Dad gets upset and he starts sounding like a Jewish mother.
It might help if I explain that my Dad has a visually creative side. He can draw and take nice photographs and decorate the house. He really did have a plan for putting holes in the side of this log and sticking candles in it, making a Yule Log. He also has the melancholy temperament to go with that creativity, because this loss of his log hit him hard. It was the refrain of the evening.
[Aside: Dad knows I'm writing this, and he says it sounds stupid if I just say it was a log. He says I should refer to it as a "Prize Birch." Big difference, apparently. If you know your wood, perhaps you can appreciate this. Here's what I know about wood:
1. It's brown.
2. They make trees out of it.]
At least now I know what I'll be getting Dad for Christmas -- a replacement log. And I'm getting a head start. Yesterday, Mom and I were out walking our dog when Mom spotted a fallen birch tree. "Holly, look! You have to pull off some bark for your Dad." I thought that was funny, so I grabbed some. It came off like paper. Then Mom one-upped herself and said, "You know what you should do? You should get a regular log and duct tape the birch bark on!" Oh, she's an evil genius, my Mom. After I'm done with this post, I'm going to go do just that, and make the presentation this evening. Here's my prediction: He'll look at it, laugh a little, and look up at me and say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" To which I'll reply, "There were two of us involved, and yes, we are."
Just so you know, Dad and I did patch things up on the day of the Incident. Toward the end of the night, I stopped being annoyed (after all, the Prize Birch was right there in the log-holder thingy), and said, "I'm sorry I burned your log."
He said, "I'm just bustin' your chops," and held open his arms. We hugged.
"But it was my favorite log."
Since then, we've begun discussing how to deal with this loss. Dad wanted to have a burial.
I suggested we just cremate it.
Going home to my parents' house is usually a vacation for me. The folks are quite low-key, and my biggest stress is wondering whether it's OK for me to be doing as much Nothing as I'm doing. There aren't any entertaining fights; we're not a "puttin' the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional' " crowd. We're one of Tolstoy's boring happy families.
However...
On Thanksgiving day, my Dad had fires going in two fireplaces. After dinner I was a little chilly and went to stand in front of one of them. It was down to orange embers, so I grabbed the biggest log from the pile and put it on. It caught fire quickly and was very nice. A few minutes later, Dad walks by the room, asking, "Why does it smell like the house is burning down?"
Proud of myself, I said, "I put another log on the fire!"
"Wait, you didn't put my favorite log on, did you?" He looked. "You did! I was saving that log for years! I was going to turn it into a candle holder."
"Uh..."
He walks out of the room and proclaims to no one and everyone, "She burned my favorite log! I can't believe she burned my log. Years I had it." My Dad gets upset and he starts sounding like a Jewish mother.
It might help if I explain that my Dad has a visually creative side. He can draw and take nice photographs and decorate the house. He really did have a plan for putting holes in the side of this log and sticking candles in it, making a Yule Log. He also has the melancholy temperament to go with that creativity, because this loss of his log hit him hard. It was the refrain of the evening.
[Aside: Dad knows I'm writing this, and he says it sounds stupid if I just say it was a log. He says I should refer to it as a "Prize Birch." Big difference, apparently. If you know your wood, perhaps you can appreciate this. Here's what I know about wood:
1. It's brown.
2. They make trees out of it.]
At least now I know what I'll be getting Dad for Christmas -- a replacement log. And I'm getting a head start. Yesterday, Mom and I were out walking our dog when Mom spotted a fallen birch tree. "Holly, look! You have to pull off some bark for your Dad." I thought that was funny, so I grabbed some. It came off like paper. Then Mom one-upped herself and said, "You know what you should do? You should get a regular log and duct tape the birch bark on!" Oh, she's an evil genius, my Mom. After I'm done with this post, I'm going to go do just that, and make the presentation this evening. Here's my prediction: He'll look at it, laugh a little, and look up at me and say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" To which I'll reply, "There were two of us involved, and yes, we are."
Just so you know, Dad and I did patch things up on the day of the Incident. Toward the end of the night, I stopped being annoyed (after all, the Prize Birch was right there in the log-holder thingy), and said, "I'm sorry I burned your log."
He said, "I'm just bustin' your chops," and held open his arms. We hugged.
"But it was my favorite log."
Since then, we've begun discussing how to deal with this loss. Dad wanted to have a burial.
I suggested we just cremate it.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Coyote Catches Roadrunner
Between 3:30 and 4pm today, my Dad is scheduled to drive my car, Roadrunner, to his new home. In exchange, Dad will come away with a wad of cash for me. It's taken a few weeks of talking with the father of the new teenage owner, during which we went from being really impressed with his courtesy to feeling rather jerked around. I'm selling for less than my asking price, but the truth is that no one else was offering, so I took it. I hope they take good care of him, because he's a nice little blue car and I don't want him to be mistreated. I'm happy to have this finally taken care of, after five months of trying to sell him, but I'm still a little sad to see him go. I suppose that's the downside of naming your material possessions.
In celebration of the closing of this deal, when I return to Boston after Thanksgiving I intend to visit the Lindt chocolate store near where I work and buy whatever the heck I want. I will then set aside a pretty bit of money with which I will buy fun stuff -- clothes, CDs, and other things I want. Not boring responsible stuff, like printer paper or vacuum bags or vegetables (all of which would be a waste of money anyway, because I don't work at home, vacuum often, or eat many vegetables).
With the rest, I will pay off what remains of my debt and start saving seriously, for the first time in my adult life. My feelings about this are summed up in the very mature and grown-up word, Cool!, and perhaps a little Happy Dance, similar to the one I do when I'm about to eat pizza.
A little side note: I have some yummy-scented lotion, and it makes my hands smell like Oreos in ice cream.
Also, I would like to say I am genuinely sorry that I haven't been blogging regularly. Jury duty is part of it, but not all. I've been a little tired. And I'm concerned that after only 4 months of this, I may be running out of things to say. I have been taking notes during this whole jury process, though, so I hope to at least have a few entertaining anecdotes once this trial is over, sometime next week.
In celebration of the closing of this deal, when I return to Boston after Thanksgiving I intend to visit the Lindt chocolate store near where I work and buy whatever the heck I want. I will then set aside a pretty bit of money with which I will buy fun stuff -- clothes, CDs, and other things I want. Not boring responsible stuff, like printer paper or vacuum bags or vegetables (all of which would be a waste of money anyway, because I don't work at home, vacuum often, or eat many vegetables).
With the rest, I will pay off what remains of my debt and start saving seriously, for the first time in my adult life. My feelings about this are summed up in the very mature and grown-up word, Cool!, and perhaps a little Happy Dance, similar to the one I do when I'm about to eat pizza.
A little side note: I have some yummy-scented lotion, and it makes my hands smell like Oreos in ice cream.
Also, I would like to say I am genuinely sorry that I haven't been blogging regularly. Jury duty is part of it, but not all. I've been a little tired. And I'm concerned that after only 4 months of this, I may be running out of things to say. I have been taking notes during this whole jury process, though, so I hope to at least have a few entertaining anecdotes once this trial is over, sometime next week.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The Nativity Story
The Movie Critic Part
This is not an edgy film, nor is it meant to be. The posters are advertising it as an "event for the whole family," so they had to hint at some of the more violent episodes, rather than showing them outright. I think this is OK.
They played it quite safe with Mary; I don't know if this was just how the actress played her, or if the moviemakers chose to do it this way becuse Mary is so venerated and they didn't want to offend anyone. I haven't seen Whale Rider, but I'm pretty sure Mary is played by the same girl who starred in that movie.
Overall, it doesn't really break any new ground. However, it's far better than what you were used to seeing in your Sunday School classes in the church basement. As both a Christian and an artist, I often find it easy to be embarassed by Christian artistic endeavors that fall far below the bar in creativity and quality. I feel no need to be embarassed by this film. If you're looking to pick it apart, I'm sure you could find plenty to pick at, but that's true of anything. I liked it.
The Biblical Part
What most Christians, myself included, look for in productions like this is biblical accuracy. One of the biggest challenges to any storyteller who cares about this sort of thing is remaining true to the Bible stories and filling the spaces in the narrative without venturing into territory that is not only not in the Bible, but flat-out unbiblical (there's an important difference). I believe the writers of this movie did a truly excellent job of fleshing out the Biblical accounts without taking inappropriate liberties. They played a bit with the timing of things (including the standard Creche Scene rearrangement which has the three wise men showing up at Jesus' birth, rather than two years later), but I, personally, am not too bothered by that.
My favorite part of all this was seeing the major players in this drama as real people with personalities, not just felt figures on a felt background; after all, they were real people. Especially Joseph. We're so used to seeing him as an accessory, dutifully filling out the triangle in paintings of the Holy Family, a quiet, passive guy saying, "Don't mind me, I'm just leading the donkey." I think we don't give him enough credit, but in this movie he gets to play a role similar to what he must have done in real life. He was a real guy. He had to make brave choices. And it's a big deal that God spoke to Him, just like He spoke to Mary, and Joseph listened. Even other people in the Bible found that hard to do. So yay, Joseph.
The Personal Part
I tried to be objective while watching this, so I could sound all intellectual when I described it. But I'm not going to be objective about any movie about God, because God is not a theoretical subject to me. He's my friend. I don't want to get a phone call or a letter from someone I care about and just analyze the grammar. I want to get to know them better. When I watch a movie about God, I want to come away knowing Him better somehow -- not academically, but personally. When I watch scenes where people are seeing visions and hearing from God and trying to follow Him when everything around them indicates it's a stupid thing to do, I'm not interested the way I would be in a philosophy class. I'm interested because I've had a taste of that in my own life, and I want more of it. And in the times when I'm asked to follow, I want to be faithful.
The parts of this movie that moved me the most dealt with God affirming His call on people's lives, caring for them when they felt forgotten, and keeping His promises, even when it takes lifetimes. For years now, I've been in various states of waiting; but more and more I'm able to see what God has been up to, even if I don't know where I'll end up. I cry when I realize that the same God who sent Israel a Messiah is the same God who watched over the safety of one young pregnant girl. The God who filled the sky with angels is the same God who remembered the lonely shepherds out in the cold. And the God who always manages to be the center of controversy in the world is the same God who heard my prayer when I broke down in the grocery store because I didn't have enough money.
"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what had been spoken to her by the Lord." -- Luke 1:45
I am hopeful.
This is not an edgy film, nor is it meant to be. The posters are advertising it as an "event for the whole family," so they had to hint at some of the more violent episodes, rather than showing them outright. I think this is OK.
They played it quite safe with Mary; I don't know if this was just how the actress played her, or if the moviemakers chose to do it this way becuse Mary is so venerated and they didn't want to offend anyone. I haven't seen Whale Rider, but I'm pretty sure Mary is played by the same girl who starred in that movie.
Overall, it doesn't really break any new ground. However, it's far better than what you were used to seeing in your Sunday School classes in the church basement. As both a Christian and an artist, I often find it easy to be embarassed by Christian artistic endeavors that fall far below the bar in creativity and quality. I feel no need to be embarassed by this film. If you're looking to pick it apart, I'm sure you could find plenty to pick at, but that's true of anything. I liked it.
The Biblical Part
What most Christians, myself included, look for in productions like this is biblical accuracy. One of the biggest challenges to any storyteller who cares about this sort of thing is remaining true to the Bible stories and filling the spaces in the narrative without venturing into territory that is not only not in the Bible, but flat-out unbiblical (there's an important difference). I believe the writers of this movie did a truly excellent job of fleshing out the Biblical accounts without taking inappropriate liberties. They played a bit with the timing of things (including the standard Creche Scene rearrangement which has the three wise men showing up at Jesus' birth, rather than two years later), but I, personally, am not too bothered by that.
My favorite part of all this was seeing the major players in this drama as real people with personalities, not just felt figures on a felt background; after all, they were real people. Especially Joseph. We're so used to seeing him as an accessory, dutifully filling out the triangle in paintings of the Holy Family, a quiet, passive guy saying, "Don't mind me, I'm just leading the donkey." I think we don't give him enough credit, but in this movie he gets to play a role similar to what he must have done in real life. He was a real guy. He had to make brave choices. And it's a big deal that God spoke to Him, just like He spoke to Mary, and Joseph listened. Even other people in the Bible found that hard to do. So yay, Joseph.
The Personal Part
I tried to be objective while watching this, so I could sound all intellectual when I described it. But I'm not going to be objective about any movie about God, because God is not a theoretical subject to me. He's my friend. I don't want to get a phone call or a letter from someone I care about and just analyze the grammar. I want to get to know them better. When I watch a movie about God, I want to come away knowing Him better somehow -- not academically, but personally. When I watch scenes where people are seeing visions and hearing from God and trying to follow Him when everything around them indicates it's a stupid thing to do, I'm not interested the way I would be in a philosophy class. I'm interested because I've had a taste of that in my own life, and I want more of it. And in the times when I'm asked to follow, I want to be faithful.
The parts of this movie that moved me the most dealt with God affirming His call on people's lives, caring for them when they felt forgotten, and keeping His promises, even when it takes lifetimes. For years now, I've been in various states of waiting; but more and more I'm able to see what God has been up to, even if I don't know where I'll end up. I cry when I realize that the same God who sent Israel a Messiah is the same God who watched over the safety of one young pregnant girl. The God who filled the sky with angels is the same God who remembered the lonely shepherds out in the cold. And the God who always manages to be the center of controversy in the world is the same God who heard my prayer when I broke down in the grocery store because I didn't have enough money.
"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what had been spoken to her by the Lord." -- Luke 1:45
I am hopeful.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Office Space
I've avoided discussing specifics about my job on this blog so far. I've also avoided, for the most part, the subject of my career aspirations. This is because my boss, who is also my friend, reads this blog.
But she ain't my boss no more.
She's now a free woman, having chosen a life of non-boss-ness. Which means she's free to read about all kinds of stuff to do with my job and my career, and I'm free to write about it. Yay! Now I can talk about truck driving school, clown college, Blaine! beauty school, and all the other things I dream about when I'm fast asleep in my cubicle.
In the meantime, my coworkers and I took advantage of our weekly Friday 2pm Snack Time to come up with some slogans for our little group:
"We fix your mistakes."
"We get the job done... when it counts."
"We don't know how far is 'too far' anymore."
"Achieving Goals Through Lowered Standards"
"Overcoming Traditional Notions of Success"
"Redefining accomplishment since 2002."
"Who else are you going to call?"
"Limboing the Quality Bar"
"We know better."
"We've been managed better than you."
"Groupspeak is not a virtue."
You are strongly encouraged to add to this list. Former Boss (FB), the guys and I are especially eager to hear from you on this one!
But she ain't my boss no more.
She's now a free woman, having chosen a life of non-boss-ness. Which means she's free to read about all kinds of stuff to do with my job and my career, and I'm free to write about it. Yay! Now I can talk about truck driving school, clown college, Blaine! beauty school, and all the other things I dream about when I'm fast asleep in my cubicle.
In the meantime, my coworkers and I took advantage of our weekly Friday 2pm Snack Time to come up with some slogans for our little group:
"We fix your mistakes."
"We get the job done... when it counts."
"We don't know how far is 'too far' anymore."
"Achieving Goals Through Lowered Standards"
"Overcoming Traditional Notions of Success"
"Redefining accomplishment since 2002."
"Who else are you going to call?"
"Limboing the Quality Bar"
"We know better."
"We've been managed better than you."
"Groupspeak is not a virtue."
You are strongly encouraged to add to this list. Former Boss (FB), the guys and I are especially eager to hear from you on this one!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Here's Your Sign
I was chastised today for not posting for four straight days; jury duty is no excuse. OK, you're kind of right about that. So here's a little bit about Signs I've Misread. Many of you will be familiar with Bill Engval (Blue Collar Comedy), or at least his most famous bit, "Here's Your Sign." It's about how stupid people should wear signs identifying them as such, so the rest of us know to beware. After you read what my brain has done, you may think I need to wear a sign myself.
1. There's a high-end jewelry store next to the building where I work. The company is turning 220 years old, and having a sale. Signs are all over, with the words "Historic Savings." My brain sees "Histrionic Savings." But honestly, wouldn't you be intrigued by a sale like that?
2. My roommate and I were walking around our neighborhood. It's densely built up, with only a few small patches of undeveloped land. From down the street, I see a sign near one that says "No Dumping." I think it says "No Camping," and wonder why anyone would want to.
3. This morning, on my way to jury duty, waiting to cross the street, I see a sticker advertising for "Foster Parents!" I read it as "Faster Parents!" (That's it, Mom and Dad, I'm upgrading to Parents 06.)
4. In the jury room, there are papers open on the table. One reveals a full-page ad for Filene's Basement -- "Where Bargains Were Born." Not, apparently, "Where Bananas Were Born." Must have been hungry.
5. This one was my mom: There was a photography store we'd pass called The Dark Room. The lettering was rounded in such a way that she always thought it said The Dork Room. Naturally, we had no reason to go in there.
6. And this last one you wouldn't have gotten if my friend hadn't called while I was trying to type this up two hours ago. It happened when I came home tonight and saw an old book my roommate had left on the kitchen table: Baghdad Without a Map. Harmless enough. Far more intriguing, and perhaps more dangerous, the way I saw it: Baghdad Without a Man.
I realize some of you will be tempted to get Freudian with #6. Oh, wait, that's more likely to happen with the banana one, isn't it?
1. There's a high-end jewelry store next to the building where I work. The company is turning 220 years old, and having a sale. Signs are all over, with the words "Historic Savings." My brain sees "Histrionic Savings." But honestly, wouldn't you be intrigued by a sale like that?
2. My roommate and I were walking around our neighborhood. It's densely built up, with only a few small patches of undeveloped land. From down the street, I see a sign near one that says "No Dumping." I think it says "No Camping," and wonder why anyone would want to.
3. This morning, on my way to jury duty, waiting to cross the street, I see a sticker advertising for "Foster Parents!" I read it as "Faster Parents!" (That's it, Mom and Dad, I'm upgrading to Parents 06.)
4. In the jury room, there are papers open on the table. One reveals a full-page ad for Filene's Basement -- "Where Bargains Were Born." Not, apparently, "Where Bananas Were Born." Must have been hungry.
5. This one was my mom: There was a photography store we'd pass called The Dark Room. The lettering was rounded in such a way that she always thought it said The Dork Room. Naturally, we had no reason to go in there.
6. And this last one you wouldn't have gotten if my friend hadn't called while I was trying to type this up two hours ago. It happened when I came home tonight and saw an old book my roommate had left on the kitchen table: Baghdad Without a Map. Harmless enough. Far more intriguing, and perhaps more dangerous, the way I saw it: Baghdad Without a Man.
I realize some of you will be tempted to get Freudian with #6. Oh, wait, that's more likely to happen with the banana one, isn't it?
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Who's the Turkey?
I got an email forward this week about a turkey story. (I forwarded it to many of you, but I want to post this for the world to see.) It was told by a woman who was having Thanksgiving dinner at her sister's house. When the sister ran out to pick some last-minute item, their mom decided to play a joke. She emptied the stuffing from the turkey, put a Cornish game hen in there, then put the stuffing back in over it. The sister came home and cooked it without any idea of what her mom had done.
When the turkey was cooked, the sister began removing the stuffing and found the game hen inside. Their mom said, "You've cooked a pregnant turkey!" and the sister began to cry. It took the whole family two hours to convince her that turkeys lay eggs. And yes, this sister is blonde.
Now, here's the part that concerns me, and concerns me when I read many blonde jokes: I totally understand where she was coming from. As I read this story, I was thinking, Why have I never come across this sort of thing before? It wasn't until the end, when the writer explains the bit about laying eggs, that I really got it.
Between these instances and the technology thing, I feel like that race of aliens on Star Trek: The Next Generation that wasn't very evolved and kept saying, "We are smart. We make things go." Holly not smart. Holly not make things go. Holly eat peanut butter. Holly play trombone and make funny blog. Holly not cook turkey; Holly just eat it.
Oh, hey, this reminds me of something my Dad said to me last year. I was at my parents' house, hanging out with them in the kitchen. I started singing like a little kid, "La la laaaa, la la la laaaa." My Dad goes, "You know what I like about you, Holly? Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell that you're not retarded." And the thing about that is, it was a compliment. He thought it was cool. And to be honest, so do I.
When the turkey was cooked, the sister began removing the stuffing and found the game hen inside. Their mom said, "You've cooked a pregnant turkey!" and the sister began to cry. It took the whole family two hours to convince her that turkeys lay eggs. And yes, this sister is blonde.
Now, here's the part that concerns me, and concerns me when I read many blonde jokes: I totally understand where she was coming from. As I read this story, I was thinking, Why have I never come across this sort of thing before? It wasn't until the end, when the writer explains the bit about laying eggs, that I really got it.
Between these instances and the technology thing, I feel like that race of aliens on Star Trek: The Next Generation that wasn't very evolved and kept saying, "We are smart. We make things go." Holly not smart. Holly not make things go. Holly eat peanut butter. Holly play trombone and make funny blog. Holly not cook turkey; Holly just eat it.
Oh, hey, this reminds me of something my Dad said to me last year. I was at my parents' house, hanging out with them in the kitchen. I started singing like a little kid, "La la laaaa, la la la laaaa." My Dad goes, "You know what I like about you, Holly? Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell that you're not retarded." And the thing about that is, it was a compliment. He thought it was cool. And to be honest, so do I.
Gittin' My Jurisprudence On
I went in for jury duty yesterday and managed to get myself seated on a jury. It's likely to go till Thanksgiving, perhaps even a little longer. I feel bad about leaving my work at my regular job for my colleagues to handle, but I gotta do my civic duty. Once I was seated, though, and I saw most other candidates dismissed, I wondered, What are they doing right? That is a wrong attitude. Since I'm committed now, I'm going to try to do my best. That means not talking about with you guys, though, until it's over. I don't know if I'm going to have much time/energy for blogging while it's going on. I'll see.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Rachel Ray Ain't Got Nothin' on Me
When I lived by myself, I didn't do much cooking. (Now that I live with three other women, I do even less. This is true.) On the occasions when I did bother to put more than ten minutes of preparation into a dish, it had to be something I was willing to eat for a week. Fortunately, I have simple tastes, much like one your less-picky dogs, and am quite happy to eat the same thing for both lunch and dinner, five days in a row. Ground beef, grated cheese, and jars of sundry tomato sauces were my friends. So was pasta.
Enter the Unintentionally Crunchy Mexican Pasta Casserole (wherein I used salsa instead of marinara, and cheddar instead of mozzarella -- am I brilliant or what?). This little gem came about because it's hard to predict how much the water in a sauce will cook the pasta when you throw them in a baking pan together and let them sit in an oven for a while. Answer: It'll cook just fine, in the places where these ingredients make contact with each other. If there's no sauce-pasta connection, remarkably, there will be no water transfer.
On this day, there turned out to be several unsauced areas of pasta. I started eating it, and had the following conversation with myself:
"Huh. This is crunchy."
"Do I care?"
"Not really."
"All right then."
Thus, because I was 1)hungry, and 2)lazy, I made the choice to embrace the crunchiness as though I had done it on purpose. This little bit of self-psychology actually worked on me, which means I either have great self-control or am incredibly stupid.
But hey, who says those two things have to be mutually exclusive?
Enter the Unintentionally Crunchy Mexican Pasta Casserole (wherein I used salsa instead of marinara, and cheddar instead of mozzarella -- am I brilliant or what?). This little gem came about because it's hard to predict how much the water in a sauce will cook the pasta when you throw them in a baking pan together and let them sit in an oven for a while. Answer: It'll cook just fine, in the places where these ingredients make contact with each other. If there's no sauce-pasta connection, remarkably, there will be no water transfer.
On this day, there turned out to be several unsauced areas of pasta. I started eating it, and had the following conversation with myself:
"Huh. This is crunchy."
"Do I care?"
"Not really."
"All right then."
Thus, because I was 1)hungry, and 2)lazy, I made the choice to embrace the crunchiness as though I had done it on purpose. This little bit of self-psychology actually worked on me, which means I either have great self-control or am incredibly stupid.
But hey, who says those two things have to be mutually exclusive?
Muff Stuff -- let's try this again
As you know, I’ve been on the lookout for suitable cold-weather ear coverage. A few weeks ago, I emailed my roommate, A, a few links to pictures in online catalogs, with the question, “Can I wear these?” She told me the fuzzy earmuffs looked cute.
I order the earmuffs. They’re expensive, but I can handle that if they look good and keep my ears warm. I get the package in the mail and immediately try them on. Oh dear. A is upstairs, so I go up to confirm what the mirror has already made painfully clear. As soon as she sees me, A collapses in peals of laughter. She manages to get out the words, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just didn’t expect that!” You know when people are apologizing through huge smiles and shaking shoulders, gasping for air, that they’re not really sorry at all; they’re enjoying themselves a great deal.
The earmuffs are going back.
[Epilogue: I told A that I was going to do a blog post about the earmuffs, and she started chuckling. I said, “You’re picuring me in them again,” and she said, “No, I’m remembering my reaction. But now I’m picturing you,” and she collapsed in laughter again.]
I order the earmuffs. They’re expensive, but I can handle that if they look good and keep my ears warm. I get the package in the mail and immediately try them on. Oh dear. A is upstairs, so I go up to confirm what the mirror has already made painfully clear. As soon as she sees me, A collapses in peals of laughter. She manages to get out the words, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just didn’t expect that!” You know when people are apologizing through huge smiles and shaking shoulders, gasping for air, that they’re not really sorry at all; they’re enjoying themselves a great deal.
The earmuffs are going back.
[Epilogue: I told A that I was going to do a blog post about the earmuffs, and she started chuckling. I said, “You’re picuring me in them again,” and she said, “No, I’m remembering my reaction. But now I’m picturing you,” and she collapsed in laughter again.]
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Hooray November!
This month has just risen in my estimation, for today I was made aware that November is National Peanut Butter Lovers' Month. How glorious. One more thing to be thankful for on the twenty-third.
In other news, my life in Gastronomical Neverland continued with last night's fare: pizza made from a mini-bagel (topping: cut-up hot dog), cooked in the toaster oven. It was followed by one of many recent enjoyable evenings spent viewing classic Warner Brothers cartoons on DVD. There is one possible danger to watching too many of these, though, and that is that my self-esteem will fall when I don't get wolf whistles and ah-oo-gah sound effects when I walk down the street; Bugs Bunny got them every time he put on lipstick. Oh wait, that's my problem -- I don't wear lipstick. I'm sure that if I did, men's eyes would shoot six inches out of their sockets. That's the kind of thing I should be going for in church, right?
In other news, my life in Gastronomical Neverland continued with last night's fare: pizza made from a mini-bagel (topping: cut-up hot dog), cooked in the toaster oven. It was followed by one of many recent enjoyable evenings spent viewing classic Warner Brothers cartoons on DVD. There is one possible danger to watching too many of these, though, and that is that my self-esteem will fall when I don't get wolf whistles and ah-oo-gah sound effects when I walk down the street; Bugs Bunny got them every time he put on lipstick. Oh wait, that's my problem -- I don't wear lipstick. I'm sure that if I did, men's eyes would shoot six inches out of their sockets. That's the kind of thing I should be going for in church, right?
Monday, November 06, 2006
Technology, and Other Stupid Things
I bought a digital food timer from Williams Sonoma. It took my roommate and me a half hour to not figure it out. Our conversation was filled with exclamations like, "Hey! I made it do a thing!"
We are not stupid women. We have college degrees. The problem with technology is that it's made by people who think a certain way. It's not made for artists and musicians who think in terms of aesthetics and metaphysics, and who want their food timers to -- oh, I don't know -- keep track of time. I don't want it to count UP. I don't want it to remember the time I used before for a completely different dish. I want it to go when I tell it to go and stop when I want it to stop. I want to feel smarter than the tiny device in my palm. Instead, I just felt like a big stupid lug, left no recourse but to assert myself by causing physical harm to my tormentor. I wanted to break it in half and say, "Hmm, I wonder how much time it will take them to put you back together. Guess we'll never know!"
They should test gadgets on people who don't like gadgets. People who like them will play till they figure it out. You don't need to make things simple for them. But people who want simplicity should be the test audience, because we're the ones who'll dump your fancy-schmancy product for something made of pipe cleaners just so we can work with items we understand.
In other news, another roommate just flew back from Texas. Among the items confiscated from her: anti-bacterial hand gel, concealer makeup, and applesauce. Apparently, if she'd had them in a clear plastic bag -- e.g. a Ziploc -- it would have been OK. But you can't have concealed concealer. She did sneak her lip gloss through by putting it in her pocket. The sheer diabolical genius! The pocket! They'll never think to look there! Turns out, they won't. The good news is that, while harmless blonde Texans are left with germy hands, exposed zits and Vitamin C deficiencies, we'll know the terrorists by the opposite -- they'll be well groomed and smell like Brown Sugar and Fig.
We are not stupid women. We have college degrees. The problem with technology is that it's made by people who think a certain way. It's not made for artists and musicians who think in terms of aesthetics and metaphysics, and who want their food timers to -- oh, I don't know -- keep track of time. I don't want it to count UP. I don't want it to remember the time I used before for a completely different dish. I want it to go when I tell it to go and stop when I want it to stop. I want to feel smarter than the tiny device in my palm. Instead, I just felt like a big stupid lug, left no recourse but to assert myself by causing physical harm to my tormentor. I wanted to break it in half and say, "Hmm, I wonder how much time it will take them to put you back together. Guess we'll never know!"
They should test gadgets on people who don't like gadgets. People who like them will play till they figure it out. You don't need to make things simple for them. But people who want simplicity should be the test audience, because we're the ones who'll dump your fancy-schmancy product for something made of pipe cleaners just so we can work with items we understand.
In other news, another roommate just flew back from Texas. Among the items confiscated from her: anti-bacterial hand gel, concealer makeup, and applesauce. Apparently, if she'd had them in a clear plastic bag -- e.g. a Ziploc -- it would have been OK. But you can't have concealed concealer. She did sneak her lip gloss through by putting it in her pocket. The sheer diabolical genius! The pocket! They'll never think to look there! Turns out, they won't. The good news is that, while harmless blonde Texans are left with germy hands, exposed zits and Vitamin C deficiencies, we'll know the terrorists by the opposite -- they'll be well groomed and smell like Brown Sugar and Fig.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
When Prayer is Fun
Some of you know that I came to the church I'm currently attending because of the prayer. Usually, when I feel the need to have another person pray for/with me, it's because I'm feeling fuzzy and confused and need them to listen to God on my behalf. So it was frustrating when, at some other churches, the well-meaning people would ask me for specifics about my prayer request, and would then essentially repeat it to God as a prayer. I'm sure God honored that, but it didn't necessarily give me any more insight than I had when I walked into the room.
You can imagine how psyched I was today, then, when I went for prayer and the man who came up to me said, "I'll just pray. When I'm done, you can tell me what your request was and we'll see if I missed anything." Woo-hoo! Then he had the patience to wait on God to hear what He would have to say, rather than just talking and saying stuff that sounded spiritual but didn't really have any relevance to me. The waiting paid off, too, because he heard some specific things, including the fact that I'm a musician.
The things God says are important, of course, but I find most often that the fact that He's spoken is the biggest deal.
You can imagine how psyched I was today, then, when I went for prayer and the man who came up to me said, "I'll just pray. When I'm done, you can tell me what your request was and we'll see if I missed anything." Woo-hoo! Then he had the patience to wait on God to hear what He would have to say, rather than just talking and saying stuff that sounded spiritual but didn't really have any relevance to me. The waiting paid off, too, because he heard some specific things, including the fact that I'm a musician.
The things God says are important, of course, but I find most often that the fact that He's spoken is the biggest deal.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Why Can't I Sound Like Kathleen Turner?
Years ago, I was riding in a big old car with my brother when some '70s music came on the radio. J immediately went into Pimp Mode, resting his right hand loosely on the top of the steering wheel and his left elbow out the window. He nodded along to the music, and in a deep voice said simply, "Yeah." Ever since then, I've wished I could have a low voice -- not so I'd sound like a man, but just so that I'd sound really cool.
My voice isn't bad, it just won't be earning me any street cred, ever. It sounds fine in my head, but as happens to most people, I'm surprised at what I hear when played a recording of myself. I think, Do I really sound that cute? Cute, like a nervous little girl. My "yeah" would sound more like "Yay!" and may be accompanied by hand claps and some jumping up and down. Very non-pimp. More like preppy cheerleader, which isn't really the image I'm going for.
It's like that when I sing, too. Again, not unpleasant, not even high-pitched, just girlish. This renders me incapable of delivering a convincing rendition of the blues. No matter how hard my life got, I'd always sound like I'm singing the pinks:
My boyfriend done left me,
I only have four left now.
My hair is too thick and shiny.
Math is hard,
Let's go shopping.
I think what I need is a seriously unhealthy vice, much worse than my current peanut butter problem. Smoking ought to do it. Or I could just go out into the desert and scream myself hoarse; I heard that a movie director told Lauren Bacall to do that in order to sexify her voice, and she sounded very cool.
All right, those of you who live and work around me, what would you prefer -- smoking or screaming? It will be totally worth it when I begin to cough in an alluring manner.
My voice isn't bad, it just won't be earning me any street cred, ever. It sounds fine in my head, but as happens to most people, I'm surprised at what I hear when played a recording of myself. I think, Do I really sound that cute? Cute, like a nervous little girl. My "yeah" would sound more like "Yay!" and may be accompanied by hand claps and some jumping up and down. Very non-pimp. More like preppy cheerleader, which isn't really the image I'm going for.
It's like that when I sing, too. Again, not unpleasant, not even high-pitched, just girlish. This renders me incapable of delivering a convincing rendition of the blues. No matter how hard my life got, I'd always sound like I'm singing the pinks:
My boyfriend done left me,
I only have four left now.
My hair is too thick and shiny.
Math is hard,
Let's go shopping.
I think what I need is a seriously unhealthy vice, much worse than my current peanut butter problem. Smoking ought to do it. Or I could just go out into the desert and scream myself hoarse; I heard that a movie director told Lauren Bacall to do that in order to sexify her voice, and she sounded very cool.
All right, those of you who live and work around me, what would you prefer -- smoking or screaming? It will be totally worth it when I begin to cough in an alluring manner.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
"Confessions of a Peanut Butter Addict"
This was the title of a story I read in Jr. High. It was about a hapless youth who first tastes peanut butter secretly in the back room of a store. He's hooked, and soon he upgrades from the kind where you have to stir in the oil to the homogenized, and then he goes completely over the edge with the chunky. It was outlandish and silly and, of course, could never happen to a real person.
Ha ha.
My name is Holly, and I'm a peanut butter addict. In high school, I was obsessed. Maybe it's because I was a vegetarian and my body craved the protein; I don't know. All I know is that I would look forward to getting home from school every day and eating something starchy with the PB. My locker smelled like peanut butter -- and I liked it. (Oh man, that's kind of Mary Katherine Gallagher, isn't it?) My favorite dessert was any solid piece of chocolate (e.g. bunny)dipped in a jar of PB. Even now I get kind of excited about it. I'm no longer dependent on it the way I once was -- I could totally go without if I wanted to... I just don't want to -- but I still mix the PB with desserts. Anything with chocolate, or -- oooo, you should try this -- white chocolate. Or caramel. OK, you can't see it, but I'm drooling a little right now.
Personally, I recommend chunky. The mixture of textures means you can eat more at one time before your mouth starts to revolt. I could (what am I saying, I do) eat it by the spoonful. Breaking it up with bread or crackers is more to appease my conscience than my palette.
I don't partake at work. The locker situation taught me my lesson: peanut butter stinks. Give me some at home, though, and I'm a happy girl. The next time I start whining about how life is hard and I don't understand it, hand me a PB & J and watch me shut right up. [Roommates, if you're reading this, take note. You may wish to try this next time I start crying and you don't feel like listening for an hour.] Peanut butter is happy. Happy happy.
And this post is over. Over over.
Ha ha.
My name is Holly, and I'm a peanut butter addict. In high school, I was obsessed. Maybe it's because I was a vegetarian and my body craved the protein; I don't know. All I know is that I would look forward to getting home from school every day and eating something starchy with the PB. My locker smelled like peanut butter -- and I liked it. (Oh man, that's kind of Mary Katherine Gallagher, isn't it?) My favorite dessert was any solid piece of chocolate (e.g. bunny)dipped in a jar of PB. Even now I get kind of excited about it. I'm no longer dependent on it the way I once was -- I could totally go without if I wanted to... I just don't want to -- but I still mix the PB with desserts. Anything with chocolate, or -- oooo, you should try this -- white chocolate. Or caramel. OK, you can't see it, but I'm drooling a little right now.
Personally, I recommend chunky. The mixture of textures means you can eat more at one time before your mouth starts to revolt. I could (what am I saying, I do) eat it by the spoonful. Breaking it up with bread or crackers is more to appease my conscience than my palette.
I don't partake at work. The locker situation taught me my lesson: peanut butter stinks. Give me some at home, though, and I'm a happy girl. The next time I start whining about how life is hard and I don't understand it, hand me a PB & J and watch me shut right up. [Roommates, if you're reading this, take note. You may wish to try this next time I start crying and you don't feel like listening for an hour.] Peanut butter is happy. Happy happy.
And this post is over. Over over.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Ethical Violations
I work at a publisher. We had to fill out a survey at our company today. It was an opportunity to report any ethical or policy violations we have committed, or suspect someone else may have committed. In the spirit of coming clean, I hereby confess to the following:
-I've been using company funds to keep my pet eliphant, listing him as an employee (L.E. Funt, editor of Babar books).
-I've told people outside the company how much I earn -- and while the act of disclosure was not a crime, the salary amount is.
-I've privately published a series of children's books about an orangutan named Curious James.
-My uncle's domestic partner's dog is employed by a competitor.
-I've been taking kickbacks in the form of 15-gallon drums of peanut butter.
-I brought a machete in to the office a few weeks ago, but that was only because I was completely high; you can't really blame me for that one.
-I've secretly outsourced all my email correspondence to Russia, which is why, in said emails, I'm always asking my Editorial Assistants if they're enjoying the snow outside.
-I had an Italian relative who "fixes problems" convince our coworkers that our recent charity drive was a really worthwhile cause.
-I occasionally freshen my cubicle with Napalm room spray.
That's what I can recall at the moment. If you can remember anything else I may have done, please let me know.
-I've been using company funds to keep my pet eliphant, listing him as an employee (L.E. Funt, editor of Babar books).
-I've told people outside the company how much I earn -- and while the act of disclosure was not a crime, the salary amount is.
-I've privately published a series of children's books about an orangutan named Curious James.
-My uncle's domestic partner's dog is employed by a competitor.
-I've been taking kickbacks in the form of 15-gallon drums of peanut butter.
-I brought a machete in to the office a few weeks ago, but that was only because I was completely high; you can't really blame me for that one.
-I've secretly outsourced all my email correspondence to Russia, which is why, in said emails, I'm always asking my Editorial Assistants if they're enjoying the snow outside.
-I had an Italian relative who "fixes problems" convince our coworkers that our recent charity drive was a really worthwhile cause.
-I occasionally freshen my cubicle with Napalm room spray.
That's what I can recall at the moment. If you can remember anything else I may have done, please let me know.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Pink (adding a little surrealism to your day)
I have pink hair that grows long, long, and people ask me how I got it and I say, "I'm part flamingo, and the more shrimp I eat, the pinker my hair gets," and then I laugh because I've fooled them again, I'm not really a flamingo at all, I'm just good with a crayon.
Romantic Music
I have a problem with Romantic Music -- not love songs, but the Romantic Period of classical music, which had counterparts in art and literature. I don't hate it all, and I actually appreciate the way composers experimented and pushed boundaries. Berlioz made use of extra brass choirs in his Messe des Morts, which was kind of a cool concept -- there's a full orchestra onstage, and there are small groups of brass instruments in various other parts of the concert hall, kind of a pre-electronic Surround Sound. Wagner tested the limits of singers', instrumentalists', and audiences' endurance with operas that were 3-4 hours long, as well as testing their tolerance for one man's ego. It's good to try stuff like that.
My problem is in the area of emotion. I've learned, through experience, that I don't respond well when I'm told what to feel and when. Romantic music is all about manipulating emotion, and it's not at all subtle. If you listen to some Romantic pieces, especially the "programmatic" ones that tell a story, it's like the composer is sitting next to you, saying, "Did you feel that? Were you moved there? How about here? Are you about to cry? Are you in love with this woman the way I was in love with her? Do you want to kill yourself the way I wanted to kill myself when she spurned me? I'll kill myself now if you don't like my music." I used to outright hate that stuff because, as in many church situations, I never felt what I was supposed to. It didn't take long for me to get defensive, and to assume a crossed-arm posture and an attitude of, "Go ahead, try and make me feel something."
A friend told me once that she loves that stuff, that she likes music that "tugs at your heart." Maybe my deal is that I just don't like having my heart tugged. I prefer an offered hand. It takes confidence to say what you have to say and allow the listener the freedom not to respond. Then, if what you say is compelling, the listener's heart will come to you. I feel like Brahms did this in his symphonies and large choral works. He wrote in the Romantic Era, and his sounds are romantic sounds, but I don't feel hit over the head with a passive-aggressive hammer. His stuff is quite dramatic, but I don't feel like he's shouting, "Feel sorry for me! Love me! Admire me! Shave your head for me!" He's just putting his own heart into music, and when I hear it, I'm there. The same is true with Rachmaninoff, whose sounds were hopelessly Romantic; they'd be downright sappy if they weren't so good. But I'm free to feel what I feel when I listen; I don't have his experience foisted on me; I can have my own experience, and it can be different each time.
I won't hate any of you for liking Romantic music. You allowed me to like Country music, so I'll extend you the same courtesy. I think, at the heart of this, there may be some parallels between my reaction to music and my reaction to, well, everything else. My heart just won't do what it's told. It's not cold, it's just unpredictable. When it does react to something, it's as much of a surprise to me as anyone.
My problem is in the area of emotion. I've learned, through experience, that I don't respond well when I'm told what to feel and when. Romantic music is all about manipulating emotion, and it's not at all subtle. If you listen to some Romantic pieces, especially the "programmatic" ones that tell a story, it's like the composer is sitting next to you, saying, "Did you feel that? Were you moved there? How about here? Are you about to cry? Are you in love with this woman the way I was in love with her? Do you want to kill yourself the way I wanted to kill myself when she spurned me? I'll kill myself now if you don't like my music." I used to outright hate that stuff because, as in many church situations, I never felt what I was supposed to. It didn't take long for me to get defensive, and to assume a crossed-arm posture and an attitude of, "Go ahead, try and make me feel something."
A friend told me once that she loves that stuff, that she likes music that "tugs at your heart." Maybe my deal is that I just don't like having my heart tugged. I prefer an offered hand. It takes confidence to say what you have to say and allow the listener the freedom not to respond. Then, if what you say is compelling, the listener's heart will come to you. I feel like Brahms did this in his symphonies and large choral works. He wrote in the Romantic Era, and his sounds are romantic sounds, but I don't feel hit over the head with a passive-aggressive hammer. His stuff is quite dramatic, but I don't feel like he's shouting, "Feel sorry for me! Love me! Admire me! Shave your head for me!" He's just putting his own heart into music, and when I hear it, I'm there. The same is true with Rachmaninoff, whose sounds were hopelessly Romantic; they'd be downright sappy if they weren't so good. But I'm free to feel what I feel when I listen; I don't have his experience foisted on me; I can have my own experience, and it can be different each time.
I won't hate any of you for liking Romantic music. You allowed me to like Country music, so I'll extend you the same courtesy. I think, at the heart of this, there may be some parallels between my reaction to music and my reaction to, well, everything else. My heart just won't do what it's told. It's not cold, it's just unpredictable. When it does react to something, it's as much of a surprise to me as anyone.
Back in the Habit
Hey, I'm back. I'm out of the blogging habit, having been away from it for the better part of a week. Still having some trouble distilling my thoughts into anything blog-worthy, but I'm gonna give this a shot anyway.
Let's see. About this weekend, and all that prayer. It was like a business transaction with God. I was not overwhelmed, or even whelmed, with emotion. Sometimes that was hard, because we're often told to expect some kind of Experience, and the people around me would sometimes get shaky or sniffly. I don't begrudge them that; it's just not how things usually go with me. But if God takes us at our word when we pray, and the effectiveness of our prayers isn't determined by the number of tears we shed when we pray them, then I got a lot done. And there are a couple signs that He was paying attention, and that He was at work even if I didn't feel it: 1. I usually wake up feeling guilty, about everything and nothing in particular; this is one of the fun parts of being me. But this morning, the couple of times I woke up early and then the final time I woke up for good, I felt good. That's rare enough to be notable. 2. I've had a couple friends whom I haven't forgiven for something they did years ago. I've prayed about it, but have always had a sense that some action step toward reconcilliation was necessary. Today, I became convinced of that, and passed the Communion plate by while I figured out what I should do. I wrote down some notes, and have the skeleton of a note I plan on writing to them. I don't know what reaction I'll get, but their reaction isn't my job. I just need to be humble, non-accusatory, and let God handle things on their end.
I'll keep my eyes open for signs of other change, too.
Thanks to those who prayed for me, even when I didn't ask for it. Just as I'm trusting that God worked in me, I'm trusting that He answered your prayers.
Let's see. About this weekend, and all that prayer. It was like a business transaction with God. I was not overwhelmed, or even whelmed, with emotion. Sometimes that was hard, because we're often told to expect some kind of Experience, and the people around me would sometimes get shaky or sniffly. I don't begrudge them that; it's just not how things usually go with me. But if God takes us at our word when we pray, and the effectiveness of our prayers isn't determined by the number of tears we shed when we pray them, then I got a lot done. And there are a couple signs that He was paying attention, and that He was at work even if I didn't feel it: 1. I usually wake up feeling guilty, about everything and nothing in particular; this is one of the fun parts of being me. But this morning, the couple of times I woke up early and then the final time I woke up for good, I felt good. That's rare enough to be notable. 2. I've had a couple friends whom I haven't forgiven for something they did years ago. I've prayed about it, but have always had a sense that some action step toward reconcilliation was necessary. Today, I became convinced of that, and passed the Communion plate by while I figured out what I should do. I wrote down some notes, and have the skeleton of a note I plan on writing to them. I don't know what reaction I'll get, but their reaction isn't my job. I just need to be humble, non-accusatory, and let God handle things on their end.
I'll keep my eyes open for signs of other change, too.
Thanks to those who prayed for me, even when I didn't ask for it. Just as I'm trusting that God worked in me, I'm trusting that He answered your prayers.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
The Sound of Silence
Hey Everybody. I'm not dead. I've just been busy or tired every night this week. And I haven't had anything burning to say, or any brilliantly witty thoughts to sprinkle out into the world. I've thought about you guys every day, though. And I've been thinking about stuff. One of the reasons I haven't written is that I haven't been able to arrange my thoughts into anything concise enough to post. I do have a few tiny things left from my college writings that I could put up here.
But I think there may be some more serious stuff coming up instead. I'll be spending Friday night and all day Saturday at church, praying and getting prayed for. That may sound boring to some of you; to me it sounds draining, but it also has huge potential for huge blessing or huge disappointment. It's very hard to place yourself in a setting where you're supposed to meet with God in a powerful way, because if you end up not feeling anything, you end up feeling profoundly shitty. At least I do. And because God is big, and because my life revolves around Him, I have two big fears:
1. God will do something.
2. God won't do something.
As you can see, I have good reason to be afraid.
So I've avoided anticipation and expectation as much as possible. I've prayed about this upcoming weekend a bit, but this week's busyness has probably been God's way of keeping me distracted so I can't work myself up about it. I've also had several years to learn how not to be devastated every time my expectations aren't met.
Anyway, that's what I'll be doing when I'm not blogging tomorrow and Saturday.
But I think there may be some more serious stuff coming up instead. I'll be spending Friday night and all day Saturday at church, praying and getting prayed for. That may sound boring to some of you; to me it sounds draining, but it also has huge potential for huge blessing or huge disappointment. It's very hard to place yourself in a setting where you're supposed to meet with God in a powerful way, because if you end up not feeling anything, you end up feeling profoundly shitty. At least I do. And because God is big, and because my life revolves around Him, I have two big fears:
1. God will do something.
2. God won't do something.
As you can see, I have good reason to be afraid.
So I've avoided anticipation and expectation as much as possible. I've prayed about this upcoming weekend a bit, but this week's busyness has probably been God's way of keeping me distracted so I can't work myself up about it. I've also had several years to learn how not to be devastated every time my expectations aren't met.
Anyway, that's what I'll be doing when I'm not blogging tomorrow and Saturday.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Holly, the Doggie Diva-Slayer
My roommate has a problem with diva behavior. When she's around a woman who's behaving in a diva-ish manner, A will take the woman down a few pegs. She is the Diva-Slayer.
I'm not a very confrontational, or even assertive, person. I'm learning, but I let a lot of stuff slide. When I was in junior high, we had a very sweet and very big dog named Little John. He slept on my bed (a twin) and he took up most of the room. I didn't have the heart to push him over, or even to yank the covers out from under him, so I'd be left with little space and almost no blanket.
It would seem I've outgrown that, at least as far as animals (and some children) go. A cute furry face is no longer enough to convince me that you should get whatever you want. Thus, when our four-legged houseguest Gigi climbed onto my comfy bedroom chair uninvited, and refused to get down, I was like, "Oh no you di'n't. You are not going to make my clean laundry smell like feet." I removed her, physically. Her brain couldn't quite comprehend that she was being defied. Oh, but she was, my friends, she was, and I was the perpetrator! I am the Doggie Diva-Slayer [impressive theme music here].
I love dogs. But while I will clean up your crap from the lawn, I will not take it happily when you dish it out in the form of attitude.
I'm not a very confrontational, or even assertive, person. I'm learning, but I let a lot of stuff slide. When I was in junior high, we had a very sweet and very big dog named Little John. He slept on my bed (a twin) and he took up most of the room. I didn't have the heart to push him over, or even to yank the covers out from under him, so I'd be left with little space and almost no blanket.
It would seem I've outgrown that, at least as far as animals (and some children) go. A cute furry face is no longer enough to convince me that you should get whatever you want. Thus, when our four-legged houseguest Gigi climbed onto my comfy bedroom chair uninvited, and refused to get down, I was like, "Oh no you di'n't. You are not going to make my clean laundry smell like feet." I removed her, physically. Her brain couldn't quite comprehend that she was being defied. Oh, but she was, my friends, she was, and I was the perpetrator! I am the Doggie Diva-Slayer [impressive theme music here].
I love dogs. But while I will clean up your crap from the lawn, I will not take it happily when you dish it out in the form of attitude.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Grits: Now that I have some, you can kiss 'em
I had grits for breakfast today. They were yummy, but the best part about them is they gave me an excuse for today's blog title. Nothing else I will say will have anything to do with grits. It will have to do with a little feminine attitude, though.
I live in a neighborhood where men in vehicles honk at girls on the sidewalk. I don't mind this, and even took it as the compliment I assumed it was meant to be, until I started getting honks on days when I was schlepping around in house clothes, running little errands before scurrying back indoors. A couple weeks ago, I was lugging this huge comforter to the dry cleaners in a big plastic bag. Surely this sort of thing isn't sexy. But it merited a honk, apparently. I found that disheartening, because it made me think that the honks don't mean, "Hey, you're hot," they just mean, "Hey! You're female!" I kind of knew that already.
And while we're talking about walking around: I try to be a considerate pedestrian. I'm the Queen of the Jaywalkers, but I don't generally run in front of cars, and I acknowledge with a wave whenever a driver stops and waves me across the street. How fast I move depends on who's driving, though. If it's a woman, I'll do that polite little quasi-jog that says, "I know you're in a hurry." If it's a guy, however, sometimes I'll take my time. I figure his reward is getting to watch me pass in front of his car.
Am I wrong?
I live in a neighborhood where men in vehicles honk at girls on the sidewalk. I don't mind this, and even took it as the compliment I assumed it was meant to be, until I started getting honks on days when I was schlepping around in house clothes, running little errands before scurrying back indoors. A couple weeks ago, I was lugging this huge comforter to the dry cleaners in a big plastic bag. Surely this sort of thing isn't sexy. But it merited a honk, apparently. I found that disheartening, because it made me think that the honks don't mean, "Hey, you're hot," they just mean, "Hey! You're female!" I kind of knew that already.
And while we're talking about walking around: I try to be a considerate pedestrian. I'm the Queen of the Jaywalkers, but I don't generally run in front of cars, and I acknowledge with a wave whenever a driver stops and waves me across the street. How fast I move depends on who's driving, though. If it's a woman, I'll do that polite little quasi-jog that says, "I know you're in a hurry." If it's a guy, however, sometimes I'll take my time. I figure his reward is getting to watch me pass in front of his car.
Am I wrong?
Friday, October 20, 2006
I'm a Brick (da-dit, daaa dut) House
I am mighty-mighty. Know how I know? It's because I broke my toothbrush while I was brushing. I had no idea my powers were so great. This weekend I might safety-pin a bath towel around my neck and try to fly off the roof of our house.
Or maybe it's not my arms, but my teeth that are strong. In which case I'll be one of those crazy old people who pulls boats and trains with their teeth to celebrate their 100th birthdays. Maybe I can open beer bottles with my teeth. Wouldn't that be cool/scary? Oh, I'd probably need a tattoo to go with that skill...
I'm trying to think of anything else special that I can do, but all I'm coming up with is ia list of stuff I can't do: roll my Rs (or, for the brass players out there, flutter tongue), wiggle my ears, balance a spoon on my nose -- I can't even wink without contorting half my face, which eliminates an entire facial language I wish I could speak. I can't really tie balloons (although I blow them up very well -- once blew up a full-size air mattress manually). Can't juggle or do the splits, but I can throw and catch a baseball.
Gotta run and go get a haircut. We'll see how good I am at that.
Or maybe it's not my arms, but my teeth that are strong. In which case I'll be one of those crazy old people who pulls boats and trains with their teeth to celebrate their 100th birthdays. Maybe I can open beer bottles with my teeth. Wouldn't that be cool/scary? Oh, I'd probably need a tattoo to go with that skill...
I'm trying to think of anything else special that I can do, but all I'm coming up with is ia list of stuff I can't do: roll my Rs (or, for the brass players out there, flutter tongue), wiggle my ears, balance a spoon on my nose -- I can't even wink without contorting half my face, which eliminates an entire facial language I wish I could speak. I can't really tie balloons (although I blow them up very well -- once blew up a full-size air mattress manually). Can't juggle or do the splits, but I can throw and catch a baseball.
Gotta run and go get a haircut. We'll see how good I am at that.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Pronoun Trouble
[Extra credit: Can anyone name the cartoon I got this blog title from?]
Last time, she pretended to know something about grammar and discovered that she can't spell, or at least shouldn't be left to edit her own material. Is she stupid enough to do it again?
I think we all know the answer to that question.
So, as promised, today we work with pronouns. The focus will be narrow -- specifically, pronouns as objects, as opposed to subjects. Let's start with examples and do the explaining afterwards:
Pronouns as subjects:
I wrote a blog.
Bubba and I busted broncos.
Pronouns as objects (the hard part):
Bubba told me to quit horsing around (ha ha).
It was a long day for him and me.
Hey, did you catch that last one? Him and me. Would you believe that's actually correct? (OK, I know some of you knew it already. Try not to gloat too loudly. That's my job.) It makes sense if you break it apart: It was a long day for him. It was a long day for me. Therefore, It was a long day for him and me. The and in the middle doesn't change anything. The same is true when the pronoun is the object of a verb instead of a preposition: The horse told Bubba and me to stop writing sentences about it.
OK, it's getting kind of late and I promised to be concise. But can I squeeze one last thing in here? The word which modifies what comes before it; this means you're not supposed to have a second sentence subject after it.
Right: She talks to angels, which all know her name.
Wrong: She talks to angels, which they all know her name.
I'm too tired to belabor that point now, which is just as well because I'd probably get snitty. I had to say at least a little something, though.
Last time, she pretended to know something about grammar and discovered that she can't spell, or at least shouldn't be left to edit her own material. Is she stupid enough to do it again?
I think we all know the answer to that question.
So, as promised, today we work with pronouns. The focus will be narrow -- specifically, pronouns as objects, as opposed to subjects. Let's start with examples and do the explaining afterwards:
Pronouns as subjects:
I wrote a blog.
Bubba and I busted broncos.
Pronouns as objects (the hard part):
Bubba told me to quit horsing around (ha ha).
It was a long day for him and me.
Hey, did you catch that last one? Him and me. Would you believe that's actually correct? (OK, I know some of you knew it already. Try not to gloat too loudly. That's my job.) It makes sense if you break it apart: It was a long day for him. It was a long day for me. Therefore, It was a long day for him and me. The and in the middle doesn't change anything. The same is true when the pronoun is the object of a verb instead of a preposition: The horse told Bubba and me to stop writing sentences about it.
OK, it's getting kind of late and I promised to be concise. But can I squeeze one last thing in here? The word which modifies what comes before it; this means you're not supposed to have a second sentence subject after it.
Right: She talks to angels, which all know her name.
Wrong: She talks to angels, which they all know her name.
I'm too tired to belabor that point now, which is just as well because I'd probably get snitty. I had to say at least a little something, though.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Addendum: Possessive Pronouns
I remembered this last night. It kept me awake. Briefly:
You don't need an apostrophe in a possessive pronoun: his, hers, theirs, its
You should have an apostrophe if it's is not possissive, but a contraction of it is: It is hard to remember this stuff = It's hard to remember this stuff.
Example: It's the dog's business if it wants to chase its tail.
OK, class dismissed. Don't push, remember your jackets, don't run to the door.
You don't need an apostrophe in a possessive pronoun: his, hers, theirs, its
You should have an apostrophe if it's is not possissive, but a contraction of it is: It is hard to remember this stuff = It's hard to remember this stuff.
Example: It's the dog's business if it wants to chase its tail.
OK, class dismissed. Don't push, remember your jackets, don't run to the door.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Not Punctuation, FUNctuation
This is my lame attempt at making a post about punctuation non-annoying. I mentioned a while back that my big pet peeves are English-related. Mistakes in grammar, punctuation, stuff like that. Some of you were English majors, so you may consider me a sad amateur. But others may be saying, I don't know squat about that stuff!
Stay cool, my babies. Holly gonna take care a'you.
Today we cover the letter S. [Side note: In my mind, with letters and numbers having colors, the letter S matches my hair.] Specifically, when is S preceded by an apostrophe? And how can I explain it without making things even more confusing than they are? Here are the basics:
You use an apostrophe before an S when something is possessive: This is Holly's blog. Those are Douglas's shoes.
You use an apostrophe before an S to eliminate the word "is": Holly is weird = Holly's weird.
You don't need an apostrophe when making a plural, even if that plural is a name: I made brownies and cakes. The Smiths went on vacation. There are not enough Hollys/Hollies in this world.
What if it's plural and possessive? That depends on whether the plural noun ends in S already. If it does, the apostrophe goes after the S: The two mammoths' tusks locked as they were fighting.
If the plural noun doesn't end in S, you add an S and put the apostrophe before it, just as you would a singular noun: This is the men's department, that is the children's department. (Are you listening, Macy's? I've seen your signs for the "mens" department. Do you not have professionals making those things? How many people do those signs go through before they are placed in prominent places downtown? Are you telling me no one in this chain noticed? No one??)
What if the plural and singular form of a word are the same, like moose?
I don't know that one. I suggest you write about gophers instead. The two gophers' tusks locked as they were fighting.
OK, that wasn't completely awful, was it? No one walking out in protest yet? Cool. Stay tuned: next time we'll cover pronouns as the object of verbs and prepositions. I'm almost giddy with anticipation.
Stay cool, my babies. Holly gonna take care a'you.
Today we cover the letter S. [Side note: In my mind, with letters and numbers having colors, the letter S matches my hair.] Specifically, when is S preceded by an apostrophe? And how can I explain it without making things even more confusing than they are? Here are the basics:
You use an apostrophe before an S when something is possessive: This is Holly's blog. Those are Douglas's shoes.
You use an apostrophe before an S to eliminate the word "is": Holly is weird = Holly's weird.
You don't need an apostrophe when making a plural, even if that plural is a name: I made brownies and cakes. The Smiths went on vacation. There are not enough Hollys/Hollies in this world.
What if it's plural and possessive? That depends on whether the plural noun ends in S already. If it does, the apostrophe goes after the S: The two mammoths' tusks locked as they were fighting.
If the plural noun doesn't end in S, you add an S and put the apostrophe before it, just as you would a singular noun: This is the men's department, that is the children's department. (Are you listening, Macy's? I've seen your signs for the "mens" department. Do you not have professionals making those things? How many people do those signs go through before they are placed in prominent places downtown? Are you telling me no one in this chain noticed? No one??)
What if the plural and singular form of a word are the same, like moose?
I don't know that one. I suggest you write about gophers instead. The two gophers' tusks locked as they were fighting.
OK, that wasn't completely awful, was it? No one walking out in protest yet? Cool. Stay tuned: next time we'll cover pronouns as the object of verbs and prepositions. I'm almost giddy with anticipation.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Ice Queen
A guy in my college dorm called me this once. Not because I'm cold-hearted, but because I like winter. I actually like the idea of an ice age, because they never had to wonder whether they'd get snow for Christmas. That was mostly because they didn't have Christmas, but if they did, they could rest assured it would be white. I get really uptight about that. If we have a 60 degree day in December, it really bums me out; if I wanted a warm Christmas, I'd live in Florida. I moved to Boston largely because I wanted more snow, and I was tired of Marylanders whining about how much they hate it, and cancelling school every time the weatherman called for 3 inches.
I love sweaters. I love bundling up. I love having hot chocolate in front of a fire after your fingers and toes have gone numb from an hour of building snowmen. I love the way no one gets any work done just because there's a blizzard outside. I love the smells of burning wood and pine trees and baking chocolate.
The crazy thing is, I'm one of those women who's always cold. I have to carry a sweater around in summer to put on whenever I enter and air-conditioned building. Other people will be in T-shirts, and I'll have on two or three layers, and that's not an exaggeration. You'd never guess I had Scandinavian blood in me. I would have made a lousy Viking, saying things like, "OK, Sven, I can pillage for a while, but I'm really gonna wanna be home in a couple hours or my ears will hurt. This helmet provides no insulation."
Oh, speaking of which, I need a fashionable way to keep my ears warm. Now that I've been forbidden to wear my Elmer Fudd hats and my ear-band thing, and the other ear-cover thingy pinches my head, what's left? Most girl hats don't cover ears, and ears are my big problem. The enire sides of my head will ache because my ears get so cold. Why do girl clothes always have to be so uselessly cute? Why can't they keep you warm?
I'm kind of excited about some of the other stuff I get to wear now that the weather is getting chilly, though. I stole some items out of my Mom's closet, including this fake suede & fleece jacket from the early '70s (which I wear with my Muppet scarf) and a plaid wool poncho. I love plaid. Love it. Especially when it has both green and red. All Christmassy. And I have this smart cream and coral tweed Coach peacoat. That might not mean anything to you boys, but if you saw it you'd like it, I promise.
So here's to staying up late to watch the news, just to see if the temperature will drop below freezing. Here's to waking up to see frost on the grass and cars. Here's to coats so thick you can't put a purse over your shoulder. Here's to feeling like you achieved something just by making it back indoors after being outside for more than 5 minutes.
[Postscript: I just reread this post, and I think I have an answer to my own rhetorical question about why girl clothes don't keep you warm. They're meant to attract men who will keep you warm. OK, I get that. But he might think it's weird if I mostly want him to hold his hands over my ears.]
I love sweaters. I love bundling up. I love having hot chocolate in front of a fire after your fingers and toes have gone numb from an hour of building snowmen. I love the way no one gets any work done just because there's a blizzard outside. I love the smells of burning wood and pine trees and baking chocolate.
The crazy thing is, I'm one of those women who's always cold. I have to carry a sweater around in summer to put on whenever I enter and air-conditioned building. Other people will be in T-shirts, and I'll have on two or three layers, and that's not an exaggeration. You'd never guess I had Scandinavian blood in me. I would have made a lousy Viking, saying things like, "OK, Sven, I can pillage for a while, but I'm really gonna wanna be home in a couple hours or my ears will hurt. This helmet provides no insulation."
Oh, speaking of which, I need a fashionable way to keep my ears warm. Now that I've been forbidden to wear my Elmer Fudd hats and my ear-band thing, and the other ear-cover thingy pinches my head, what's left? Most girl hats don't cover ears, and ears are my big problem. The enire sides of my head will ache because my ears get so cold. Why do girl clothes always have to be so uselessly cute? Why can't they keep you warm?
I'm kind of excited about some of the other stuff I get to wear now that the weather is getting chilly, though. I stole some items out of my Mom's closet, including this fake suede & fleece jacket from the early '70s (which I wear with my Muppet scarf) and a plaid wool poncho. I love plaid. Love it. Especially when it has both green and red. All Christmassy. And I have this smart cream and coral tweed Coach peacoat. That might not mean anything to you boys, but if you saw it you'd like it, I promise.
So here's to staying up late to watch the news, just to see if the temperature will drop below freezing. Here's to waking up to see frost on the grass and cars. Here's to coats so thick you can't put a purse over your shoulder. Here's to feeling like you achieved something just by making it back indoors after being outside for more than 5 minutes.
[Postscript: I just reread this post, and I think I have an answer to my own rhetorical question about why girl clothes don't keep you warm. They're meant to attract men who will keep you warm. OK, I get that. But he might think it's weird if I mostly want him to hold his hands over my ears.]
Friday, October 13, 2006
Moral Dilemma
I met up with a girl named Annie after work. She's kind of new in town, but she probably knows the city better than I do already, because I don't get out much. (That could change soon, though, because I just got a promotion and a little raise. I worked it out and it comes to about an added $15/week after taxes. That'll pay for 1-2 fun activities per week. So measured in dollars it's not a ton, but measured in Fun it's pretty good.) Anyway, Annie and I have a lot of artsy-fartsy stuff in common, and a similar sense of humor, so a mutual friend gave us each other's email address and we went out on the town. OK, mostly we were at Quiznos, but it was downtown.
While we were wandering the streets after dinner, we passed a man who was asking for change. He was doing this odd thing with his arm, kind of throwing it out to the side -- either quite purposefully or quite involuntarily, but definitely forcefully -- before bringing his hands together in a cup and asking for money. This caused me to have a Moral Dilemma. It wasn't about whether to give him money. It was, When I get back home to my roommates, do I do an impression of this guy? I mentioned this to Annie, and her answer -- without hesitation or equivocation -- was "YES!" Well, problem solved, then. Now I just need to decide how to give my interpretation. Was it more of a '70s disco move, or a tick? (That line is Annie's. She said I didn't have to credit her when I wrote about it here, but I am anyway.)
I actually do wonder about little things like that, and whether I'm doing the right thing. Part of it is my fearful, anal-retentive nature. Part of it is a genuine desire to live out my faith, and to be kind to people even when they're not around. Even with Annie's enthusiastic encouragement, now that I'm alone at the computer I'm wondering if I should even have written about this gentleman in a sarcastic way.
At this point, my friends and family will probably tell me to stop analyzing. It's not mean, it's harmless and funny, turn your brain off and go have fun.
I haven't gotten to the point where I'm getting lots of answers from God. But I have gotten a lot better at telling my brain to shut up. So that's what I'll be doing for the rest of the evening.
While we were wandering the streets after dinner, we passed a man who was asking for change. He was doing this odd thing with his arm, kind of throwing it out to the side -- either quite purposefully or quite involuntarily, but definitely forcefully -- before bringing his hands together in a cup and asking for money. This caused me to have a Moral Dilemma. It wasn't about whether to give him money. It was, When I get back home to my roommates, do I do an impression of this guy? I mentioned this to Annie, and her answer -- without hesitation or equivocation -- was "YES!" Well, problem solved, then. Now I just need to decide how to give my interpretation. Was it more of a '70s disco move, or a tick? (That line is Annie's. She said I didn't have to credit her when I wrote about it here, but I am anyway.)
I actually do wonder about little things like that, and whether I'm doing the right thing. Part of it is my fearful, anal-retentive nature. Part of it is a genuine desire to live out my faith, and to be kind to people even when they're not around. Even with Annie's enthusiastic encouragement, now that I'm alone at the computer I'm wondering if I should even have written about this gentleman in a sarcastic way.
At this point, my friends and family will probably tell me to stop analyzing. It's not mean, it's harmless and funny, turn your brain off and go have fun.
I haven't gotten to the point where I'm getting lots of answers from God. But I have gotten a lot better at telling my brain to shut up. So that's what I'll be doing for the rest of the evening.
Verizon Letter
As promised.
October 2, 2006
To the Customer Service Manager:
Our household has had three months of incredibly poor service from your company. You should know what’s going on so that you can address these problems within your organization.
· We were forced to disconnect and reinstall phone and DSL service simply so we could change the name on our bill. This is ridiculous, and it was the beginning of a series of difficulties that continues to this day.
· Each time we made any kind of change to our account, service would disconnect without warning. It also disconnected at other random times.
· Whenever service was reconnected, we developed other problems – our email accounts malfunctioned, we couldn’t access certain sites, and we were unable to download anything.
· Verizon never admitted responsibility for these added problems, despite the fact that each new difficulty originated with activity in our Verizon account. What’s more, we were made to feel stupid for not being able to tell Tech Support how to solve our problems. Some reps went as far as to suggest that the technical issues were our fault, thus adding insult to injury.
· Customer Service and Tech Support were slow and sometimes condescending. Being nice got us nowhere. We should not have to be pushy, argumentative and threatening just to get the service we pay for!
· Your call-routing system is atrocious. I suggest you try it yourself to see how frustrating it is. In addition to showing an unwelcoming face to customers, you’re doing your representatives a disservice because callers are doubly angry by the time they’ve battled through the system to get to a person. There were also two times when I didn’t even get that far – I was on hold so long that your system routed my call to New York.
· We’ve wasted countless hours and cell phone minutes trying to get our systems functioning.
This entire experience has been completely unacceptable, and we are now looking into alternative phone and Internet service providers. We sincerely hope you choose to examine these issues so that other paying customers don’t have to suffer the same inconvenience, frustration, and insults.
From your customers at xxx-xxx-xxxx
October 2, 2006
To the Customer Service Manager:
Our household has had three months of incredibly poor service from your company. You should know what’s going on so that you can address these problems within your organization.
· We were forced to disconnect and reinstall phone and DSL service simply so we could change the name on our bill. This is ridiculous, and it was the beginning of a series of difficulties that continues to this day.
· Each time we made any kind of change to our account, service would disconnect without warning. It also disconnected at other random times.
· Whenever service was reconnected, we developed other problems – our email accounts malfunctioned, we couldn’t access certain sites, and we were unable to download anything.
· Verizon never admitted responsibility for these added problems, despite the fact that each new difficulty originated with activity in our Verizon account. What’s more, we were made to feel stupid for not being able to tell Tech Support how to solve our problems. Some reps went as far as to suggest that the technical issues were our fault, thus adding insult to injury.
· Customer Service and Tech Support were slow and sometimes condescending. Being nice got us nowhere. We should not have to be pushy, argumentative and threatening just to get the service we pay for!
· Your call-routing system is atrocious. I suggest you try it yourself to see how frustrating it is. In addition to showing an unwelcoming face to customers, you’re doing your representatives a disservice because callers are doubly angry by the time they’ve battled through the system to get to a person. There were also two times when I didn’t even get that far – I was on hold so long that your system routed my call to New York.
· We’ve wasted countless hours and cell phone minutes trying to get our systems functioning.
This entire experience has been completely unacceptable, and we are now looking into alternative phone and Internet service providers. We sincerely hope you choose to examine these issues so that other paying customers don’t have to suffer the same inconvenience, frustration, and insults.
From your customers at xxx-xxx-xxxx
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Whatever I Can Write Before Thurs. Prime Time Shows Start
Now that my car is in another state, I have to carry groceries home on the bus. We don't have one of those old lady carts, so what I buy is limited to what I can carry. I'm going to have forearms like Popeye.
We have a little dog staying with us named Gigi. She smells like feet and Cheetos.
I have this wonderful scarf I've been wearing. It was a gift from a former trombone student and her mom. It's bright and striped and furry-looking, like a Muppet. I half expect it to perk up when people approach me, and give them some kind of greeting that sounds like, "Rowr." I haven't thought of a good name for it yet.
Here's a recipe: Mix chocolate cookies, chocolate ice cream, and a tiny bit of peppermint extract. Be sure to mix that extract around, or you'll burn a hole in your mouth.
Here's another recipe: Mix peanut butter, crumbled Graham crackers, and chocolate ice cream. Or vanilla ice cream and chocolate Ovaltine. It helps if you nuke the peanut butter a little first, just to soften it up.
I was so tired today that now I'm totally pumped to go watch TV.
Hope you guys don't feel to neglected today. I gave you lots extra to read over the weekend, though, so I think we're kind of even.
We have a little dog staying with us named Gigi. She smells like feet and Cheetos.
I have this wonderful scarf I've been wearing. It was a gift from a former trombone student and her mom. It's bright and striped and furry-looking, like a Muppet. I half expect it to perk up when people approach me, and give them some kind of greeting that sounds like, "Rowr." I haven't thought of a good name for it yet.
Here's a recipe: Mix chocolate cookies, chocolate ice cream, and a tiny bit of peppermint extract. Be sure to mix that extract around, or you'll burn a hole in your mouth.
Here's another recipe: Mix peanut butter, crumbled Graham crackers, and chocolate ice cream. Or vanilla ice cream and chocolate Ovaltine. It helps if you nuke the peanut butter a little first, just to soften it up.
I was so tired today that now I'm totally pumped to go watch TV.
Hope you guys don't feel to neglected today. I gave you lots extra to read over the weekend, though, so I think we're kind of even.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Um, Was That a Compliment?
I once had a conversation with some other trombonists where they joked about how to give not-really-compliments to other musicians. Example: "It was great to hear you play. I used to sound like that."
I also noticed last night, as I was flipping through a paper at the train station, that write-ups about people are really boring.
(Now watch me bring these two ideas together. Pure genius.)
Here, for your convenience, is a by-no-means exhaustive list of non-boring and questionable things you can say about me in, say, my obituary. I was quite amused by myself as I wrote it on the train ride home, until I got into a conversation with some architecture students.
Holly was blonde most of the time.
She made people laugh, often on purpose.
She was exceptionally intelligent, but she hid it well.
She always thought of herself as a great writer.
Whenever she played her trombone, we were happy at the end.
If true beauty lies within, Holly was the deepest, truest beauty we knew.
Animals loved her as if she were one of their own.
We didn't trust her any farther than we could throw her, but that's not so bad because one night we discovered we could actually throw her really far.
I also noticed last night, as I was flipping through a paper at the train station, that write-ups about people are really boring.
(Now watch me bring these two ideas together. Pure genius.)
Here, for your convenience, is a by-no-means exhaustive list of non-boring and questionable things you can say about me in, say, my obituary. I was quite amused by myself as I wrote it on the train ride home, until I got into a conversation with some architecture students.
Holly was blonde most of the time.
She made people laugh, often on purpose.
She was exceptionally intelligent, but she hid it well.
She always thought of herself as a great writer.
Whenever she played her trombone, we were happy at the end.
If true beauty lies within, Holly was the deepest, truest beauty we knew.
Animals loved her as if she were one of their own.
We didn't trust her any farther than we could throw her, but that's not so bad because one night we discovered we could actually throw her really far.
Foresight
A conversation yesterday, wherein I hurt someone's feelings, made me realize that I have to be careful, especially as I'm now putting thoughts on the Internet for anyone to see. Over the last year, I've been working hard at overcoming Legalism. For the non-churchy folks out there, that's when a Christian tries to impress God by following rules and being "good," rather than simply knowing Him and letting that relationship steer you. In my newfound freedom, there's always the risk of crossing the line -- from trying not to care as much about rules and what people think, to not caring how they feel. I don't want to cross that line. So now, before I have a wide audience, and before I start getting paid to be clever, I declare that I don't want to hurt people. I don't want to walk on eggshells, but I also don't want to be mean. So if you all try not to be hyper-sensitive, I promise to try not to be a dick.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Picture It
Since I don't have digital pictures to post for you guys yet, I'll describe one for you.
Back in May, when I went to visit J & L in Texas, we took a couple days in San Antonio. They have a Sea World there. Did you know Sea World has roller coasters? Yep. I hadn't been on one in maybe 15 years, but I remembered liking them, so I was up for it. J was totally psyched -- being a pilot, heights and speed don't scare him too much.
They scare me.
Naturally, J wanted to sit in the front seats of the front car. OK. That was a popular spot, so we had to wait a while to get on. This gave me lots of time to get nervous. I'm not a big talker, but I couldn't shut up, saying, "I can do this, I can do this, I can do this." So we get on. And up we go -- click, click, click, click, up that torturous track that gives you a view of how far you'd fall if you did, in fact, fall, which you know could totally happen. In addition to not being a talker, I'm not touchy-feely, but I grabbed J's arm as we crested the summit of that first big climb, and I screamed all the way down.
After that, I was fine. Arms up in the air, big smile, it's all good.
But this is about a picture, isn't it? Yeah. They have cameras for these rides. I had forgotten that.
My brother remembered.
Not only did he remember the camera, he knew where it was. And not only did he know where it was (bottom of the first drop, of course!), he had the presence of mind, halfway down that drop, to hatch a plan. So when we get off the ride, I'm surprised and J is delighted to find the following: A shot of me, mouth wide open, face distorted by fear and G-forces; and him, grinning right into the camera and pointing at me. I was appalled at my appearance, but that quickly gave way to acceptance that it was way too funny not to buy.
We gave it to Dad as a Father's Day gift.
Back in May, when I went to visit J & L in Texas, we took a couple days in San Antonio. They have a Sea World there. Did you know Sea World has roller coasters? Yep. I hadn't been on one in maybe 15 years, but I remembered liking them, so I was up for it. J was totally psyched -- being a pilot, heights and speed don't scare him too much.
They scare me.
Naturally, J wanted to sit in the front seats of the front car. OK. That was a popular spot, so we had to wait a while to get on. This gave me lots of time to get nervous. I'm not a big talker, but I couldn't shut up, saying, "I can do this, I can do this, I can do this." So we get on. And up we go -- click, click, click, click, up that torturous track that gives you a view of how far you'd fall if you did, in fact, fall, which you know could totally happen. In addition to not being a talker, I'm not touchy-feely, but I grabbed J's arm as we crested the summit of that first big climb, and I screamed all the way down.
After that, I was fine. Arms up in the air, big smile, it's all good.
But this is about a picture, isn't it? Yeah. They have cameras for these rides. I had forgotten that.
My brother remembered.
Not only did he remember the camera, he knew where it was. And not only did he know where it was (bottom of the first drop, of course!), he had the presence of mind, halfway down that drop, to hatch a plan. So when we get off the ride, I'm surprised and J is delighted to find the following: A shot of me, mouth wide open, face distorted by fear and G-forces; and him, grinning right into the camera and pointing at me. I was appalled at my appearance, but that quickly gave way to acceptance that it was way too funny not to buy.
We gave it to Dad as a Father's Day gift.
"Love, with a touch of mental illness"
This is how someone described my actions the night I went to pick up my roommate in my PJs.
Also from the same commentator, when he saw me wearing these pink socks and the roommate-picking-up-shoes: "Wow, even I wouldn't do that."
And while I'm dissing myself, here are some accidental insults that came my way a few weeks ago:
I was talking to my brother's fiance before the wedding, and we were making plans for lots of salon-y stuff -- nails, hair, whatever we could think of. I said, "You won't even recognize me by Thursday afternoon!" and her immediate response was, "Oh, good!"
The next day, I was at work and said I enjoyed a particular aspect of my job. A coworker said, "See, you were born to do this." I jokingly expressed concern, since my current job is entry-level and not something a person should want to do for 20+ years. He tried to fix it by saying, "Oh, well there are other things about you that make you not good at it." (He would probably want me to clarify by telling you that he meant I had other skills and talents beyond the scope of my current position. But it's way funnier without the explanation.)
Also from the same commentator, when he saw me wearing these pink socks and the roommate-picking-up-shoes: "Wow, even I wouldn't do that."
And while I'm dissing myself, here are some accidental insults that came my way a few weeks ago:
I was talking to my brother's fiance before the wedding, and we were making plans for lots of salon-y stuff -- nails, hair, whatever we could think of. I said, "You won't even recognize me by Thursday afternoon!" and her immediate response was, "Oh, good!"
The next day, I was at work and said I enjoyed a particular aspect of my job. A coworker said, "See, you were born to do this." I jokingly expressed concern, since my current job is entry-level and not something a person should want to do for 20+ years. He tried to fix it by saying, "Oh, well there are other things about you that make you not good at it." (He would probably want me to clarify by telling you that he meant I had other skills and talents beyond the scope of my current position. But it's way funnier without the explanation.)
Monday, October 09, 2006
Low-Maintenance
I used to wonder whether I was a high- or low-maintenance girl. So one day I asked the person who I thought would give me the most honest answer: my brother. If anyone's gonna be upfront about your character flaws, it's a younger male sibling, right? So I asked if I was high-maintenance, and he scoffed at me and rolled his eyes. "Are you kidding? You've had the same socks for, like, ten years!"
OK, that's actually true. Not to scare anyone, but right now I'm wearing a pair that is about 20 years old. But they're clean and all.
So I guess materially, I don't ask for much. A walk in the park and plenty to eat make me a happy girl. Kind of like a puppy. Let's see what else... I already mentioned I don't need jewelry... Wow, I'm making things way too easy, aren't I? OK, how about this: I promise to be indecipherable emotionally.
OK, that's actually true. Not to scare anyone, but right now I'm wearing a pair that is about 20 years old. But they're clean and all.
So I guess materially, I don't ask for much. A walk in the park and plenty to eat make me a happy girl. Kind of like a puppy. Let's see what else... I already mentioned I don't need jewelry... Wow, I'm making things way too easy, aren't I? OK, how about this: I promise to be indecipherable emotionally.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
