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.

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.

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.

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.)

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.

Blog Etiquette

I was informed tonight that it's poor blog etiquette to bring up things mentioned in someone's blog outside of the blog-and-comment arena. In other words, what happens in Blogland, stays in Blogland. I was unaware of this rule. My blog is an extension of my life. I consider it kind of a performance, but I don't mind talking about it any more than I'd mind talking about a recital I'd just given. In fact, I love it when people tell me that they read this thing. So I'd like to say two things:
1. I don't know what the rules are, so feel free to break them.
2. I don't know what the rules are, so if there's something I should be aware of so I don't go offending people, could you let me know?
Thanks.

Motivation at the Gym

I go the gym during my lunch break. Are you impressed? Don't be. I counteract whatever benefits there are to exercise by eating like a twelve-year-old with a salary and no adult supervision.

I would like to share with you some of the snarky pearls my trainer has had for me and my fellow lunchtime exercisers:

To a woman struggling with these insanely difficult ab exercises he made us do: "Oh, should I eat some popcorn while I watch your drama?"

To me when I had on bright red shorts and a blue T-shirt: "Did you wear your Wonder Woman outfit just for me?"

And again when I was all in blue, "You're Smurfette today!" (Perhaps it's worth mentioning that my hair is yellow.)

When I take the recommended 30-second break between sets: "Would you like me to get you a blanket and pillow?"

And when I made a face at having to use 10-lb. weights for something-or-other: "A case of alcohol weighs ten pounds. I bet you can lift that." This was made right after the weekend of the wedding. How did he know?

Strength training with sarcasm. This is why I'm such a tough cookie and am able to intimidate everyone. (You may snort derisively here.)

Everything is Warm and Fuzzy

My roommate is studying the history of the world. I wandered into the kitchen as she was taking notes and sat down and derailed her process. I did pick up little bits of what she was learning, though, and I came to a conclusion: I like the Ice Age better than the dinosaur eras, because mammals are furry. In my mind, every cave family had a pet wooly mammoth that resembled Mr. Suffleupagus, who the kids could snuggle up to on cold nights, which I guess would have been every night.

I looked up the spelling of "Snuffleupagus." Only one "P." And it is most certainly not "SnuffleuFFagus."

Oh, while I'm here I should clarify that a few posts back, in "The Courage to Ask a Better Question," I was talking about the love of God. I guess that might not have been clear, since I followed that post with that "Note to Hypothetical Future Boyfriend." Not that I'd mind having that, either.

OK, so back to this whole mammal thing. Some of you are probably saying that I wouldn't want to have a pet wooly mammoth because they were dangerous and smelly and they didn't really walk around saying things like, "Oh, Bird..." You're the same people who tell me I don't really want to live in a castle because they're cold and dank. Well, you're wrong. I totally want to live in a castle, because they're way cool. I'd rather live in a cold, dank castle, surrounded by stones and history, than in a modern apartment with boring white walls and brown carpeting and vinyl siding.

And if I have a pet mammoth who sleeps by the huge fireplace in the great hall, then that's my prerogative.

Peanut Gallery: An Invitation

Ladies and Gentlemen, I hereby invite you to vote on which posts you've enjoyed the most (or hated the least). My motives are entirely selfish, but they're practical, so please humor me. As you may have gathered, I would like to do more writing. To that end, I'm thinking about printing out some of these things, cleaning up the spelling, and sending them off to little local papers to see if anyone's interested. But I'd like to take an opinion poll first, to see which ones are worth sending. If it's not too much trouble, could you leave a comment giving the titles to two or three you think are halfway decent? I promise this is not merely a clumsy attempt to fish for compliments (it's partly that, but not merely that). And hey, if you think I should chuck it all and learn a trade, you can say that, too. But I won't like you anymore.
All right, people! It's time to make your voices heard!

Dim-Sum and Then Some

Went out for Dim-Sum last night. I got chopstick burn on my right ring finger. Is that supposed to happen?

Comments About Comments

Well, the sneaky, underhanded people who try to trick you into buying things have found my blog. I've begun getting anonymous comments asking me to email these mystery people directly. I will not publish them, nor will I respond.

To everyone out there who actually reads my blog, though, I love hearing from you. The more comments, the happier I am. Don't feel like you have to be witty or clever, either. I just like a response. I get so excited when people tell me they actually read this thing, and I'm not just sending words out there into a cosmic void. I love interacting with an audience, whether it's live or in the time-delayed realm of the blog. So don't be shy. Just don't tell me you have a great way for me to make money by allowing you to advertise.

Dim Lightbulb Going on Over My Head

Sometimes I have revelations. I don't necessarily get all the answers, but I'll understand something I didn't before. Usually this Something is a way in which my thinking has been messed up. I've had a few revelations this week, but today I give you two:
1. I'm afraid no one will want what I have to offer -- as a writer, as a woman, even as I try to sell my car. I recognized this as a blatant falsehood before, but recognizing something as false does't always stop you from believing it on some level. It's an addictively self-pitying thought, though, so I strongly recommend that you don't go there.
2. I don't trust God to speak to me in a way that would refute these supposed negative opinions from other people. I imagine Him telling everyone that they're pretty or special or whatever, which of course renders those words completely meaningless.

So I'm not just asking God to speak to me and tell me what's true, because I doubt I would believe it. I'm asking Him to prove me wrong. If something is true, and I need to change my thinking to line up with this truth, then show me, don't just tell me. My head is aware of plenty of things, but my heart is not convinced. I want convincing.

I'd also like to mention that I spoke up for myself yesterday. I won't bore you with details, but it meant I had to redirect someone's line of questioning. Normally I don't do this because I don't want to be rude and correct someone. But I did it. Boo-yah!

Note to Hypothetical Future Boyfriend

I prefer chocolate to jewelry. I mean, jeez, you could crack a tooth on a diamond.

The Courage to Ask a Better Question

It's hard to admit the need to be loved. At least I find it hard. But it's there, whether I admit to it or not. It's a place in me, feeling like an empty stomach, sealed off and protected, but very, very present. On Saturday, I fessed up before God that it was there. I often hide it from Him, and I definitely hide it from other people, because I don't like to reveal that kind of weakness. And I felt like if I opened up that space in myself, it would be like a vacuum suddenly exposed to air, with anything and everything rushing in to fill the space, dangerous and out of control.

On Sunday, I got prayed for during church, as I always do. The girl who prayed for me said I don't have to let everything in all at once; God can fill that place slowly, as long as I let Him. Huh. Hadn't thought of that.

So I've been asking. And this prayer, this asking God to fill the deepest, most vulnerable part of my soul, feels in itself like the answer to all my other prayers -- for meaningful, enjoyable work; for love and friendships with other people; for joy and happiness in this life, not just the next. I've asked God to do this before, but maybe I'm readier now. Or maybe I'm not putting up the defenses so much.

Y'all Either Love It or Hate It

I try to avoid controversy, and politics in particular -- not just in this blog, but in conversation in general. So, you can appreciate the bold move I'm making when today I choose to address a divisive issue. The thing that makes this division so fascinating is that it's difficult to tell on which side a person will fall unless you ask them outright. Geography can be a general indicator, but I've found even that quite inadequate.

What is this issue, you ask? No, it's not whether you're a cat person or a dog person or go both ways. It is: Country music.

See? You're having an opinion right now, aren't you?

I'll come right out of the rhinestone closet and declare that I like Country music -- not every song or every style, but I definitely appreciate the genre as a whole. I can appreciate some reasons for not liking it. Hate the twang? I do, too. Often corny? Yes. But there are bad songs in every genre. I can tell you that there has been plenty of very bad classical music written. The classical stuff most people hear is the stuff that was good enough to withstand centuries of wear. The stuff written by some guy in Podunkscheidt, Germany, hidden in a trunk all these years, waiting to be discovered like the poems of Emily Dickenson? In all likelihood, they should stay in that trunk. It's a good thing not everyone who picked up a viol had some crazy, rich nobleman to subsidize his mediocrity.

All that is to say that you can't dismiss a whole category of music just because some of it is bad. You can dislike it, but you have to have a better reason. There's also a big difference between criticizing something from the inside and criticizing it from the outside. When I hear a bad country song, I'm embarrassed the way I would be if I were next to a family member who started making loud, rude statements in public -- they're obnoxious, but they're still yours. I'm not just an out-of-towner wandering into a bar, shouting at some poor banjo player, "Hey Cleetus, why don't you grow some teeth?" That's just wrong.

I also freely admit to some redneck tendencies. The flamingoes on the lawn of my parents' otherwise stately and elegant home? My idea. That my folks were not only willing to go along with it, but were enthusiastic, is one of the many reasons why they are so flippin' cool. Jeff Foxworthy (of course I'm quoting Jeff Foxworthy) defines redneck-dom as "a glorious lack of sophistication." 'Tis I.

One thing critics often don't realize is that Country music doesn't take itself too seriously. Most of the lyrics that sound ridiculously funny are meant to be so. OK, not all. But most.

For anyone who's interested in having their horizons expanded, I present what is really a pretty mild selection of songs (and performers) you can check out -- evidence that there is quality songwriting out there. Again, you don't have to like them, but I hope you'll agree that there's some good craftsmanship -- clever lyrics, good storytelling, a fine relationship between the words and music.

It All Goes Down in Your Mind -- Johnny Cash
I Never Cared for You -- Willie Nelson (simple, sweet)
Crazy -- Patsy Cline (written by Willie Nelson)
Past the Point of Rescue -- Hal Ketchum (makes me think of cold, windy autumn days)
Cryin' Shame -- The Mavericks (I love the way his voice wails)
Fast as You -- Dwight Yoakam
Nothin' 'Bout You -- Brooks and Dunn
Real Good Man -- Tim McGraw
I Wanna Talk About Me -- Toby Keith
She's Everything -- Brad Paisley (Fellas, don't think women aren't suckers for this kind of thing. I know I am.)

And here are a couple songs written by Country artists, but made famous by other people:
When You Say Nothing at All -- Allison Krause
I Will Always Love You -- Dolly Parton (made famous by Whitney Houston)

And I'd also like to say that any man who can rhyme "midnight mass" with "mounted bass" has my respect (that would be Brad Paisley, "You Need a Man Around Here").

Middle-Aged English Guys

My coworker, Ben, walked up to my cubicle around 5:30 today and announced, "I'm going to be a really funny-looking old man." As Ben is currently twenty-six, I wondered what might have started him on this train of thought. What it was, was an eyebrow hair. He had just discovered that he had one very long, curly eyebrow hair. He pulled it out, but is confident that more will follow, and that he is destined to have those wild, unruly, face-dominating eyebrows found on British men approximately age 45 and up, including actors who, presumeably, get paid to be looked at.

Ben told me about some of the options he was aware of, such as eyebrow trimmers. Which leads to the question, Why do so many crazy eyebrow guys fail to take advantage of these things? It does not hurt to trim hair, correct? I seem to remember a Sesame Street bit wherein Grover goes to get his fur trimmed, and he discovers that it doesn't hurt. Why, then, can't a guy just take a pair of little scissors and do some topiary? It's not like he has to pluck like a girl or anything. Ben has as advantage over the old English guys in that he realizes that huge eyebrow hairs do indeed make make an old man far more funny-looking than he would otherwise be.

Some of my writing energy today went into finally typing up a letter to Verizon, which I may post for you all soon. So I hereby thank Ben, who does not have his own blog yet, for giving me permission to tell his eyebrow story here. I couldn't not talk about the eyebrows.