Good Santa, Bad Santas

My brother is Santa every year for the kids of the people in his old squadron (Bro, did I get that right -- squadron?). He's perfect, and not just because he's not elf-sized. He has a deep voice useful for ho-ho-ho-ing, and kids love him. Where a grown-up might see a big, scary, intimidating fellow, kids seem to see a big, friendly, teddy-bear horsey jungle gym. He taxis up in a plane, dressed as Mr. Claus, and the kiddies go nuts.

Good Santa.

My sister-in-law was a self-declared Bad Santa. She went around putting those teeny alcohol bottles in everyone's stocking (baby nephew being the exception). In Boston, those bottles are called "nips." If you're not from Boston, you're welcome to snicker at that like I did.

Bad-but-fun Santa!

Then there's what I did to my nephew. Wicked Aunt Holly should not be so proud of herself. And yet, proud she is. Guess what she got him. Guess guess guess! OK, I'll spill: You know that bunny suit that Ralphie gets from his Aunt Clara in A Christmas Story? Yeah, I did. Commissioned a smaller version of it, so the Neph could wear it before he's old enough to hate me.

Not-yet-hated Santa!

Crowded House

Come Christmas dinner, we had the following countable life forms in my parents' place:

1 me
2 parents
1 brother,
his wife
and my baby nephew
sister-in-law's parents
2 neighbors
3 dogs
1 dead thing in the heat ducts that made our house smell like sauerkraut

Total mammals: 14

Poo Poo on Snow-Haters

When snow falls, I experience a complex and nuanced series of emotions. It's difficult to put into words, but if I were to try, it would go something like this:

SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW
YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY!

Good Times, Good Times

Today was a rather awesome extended holiday party at work. Lots of food. Lots of activites. Very little work accomplished. A good day.

There was a bit of a dip for me when the man I was talking to asked if I was joining the Ugly Sweater Competition. I wasn't.

Pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke, and I was supposed to get it. But any comment about a woman's appearance is dangerous territory. Men, I'm trying to help you here. I'm good at laughing at myself (door wide open for friends and family to contradict me here), but I still spent the next hour-and-a-half wondering if I looked like a doofus in my sweater. Best to give only compliments.

The notorious landmine in the Wrong Comment Department, of course, is anything along the lines of, "When's the baby due?" Brian Regan, the comedian, made that mistake once, and concluded that the rule is, "Never guess about that -- ever ever ever ever ever ever ever." Yeah, actually, that is the rule. A year ago, my sister-in-law was pregnant, and was approached by another pregnant woman, and still didn't enjoy the assumption by a stranger that she was having a baby. If that ain't safe, ain't nothin' safe, so just don't go there. Ever ever ever ever ever ever.

Although, there is a bright side for the pregnant women out there, I think: If people recognize you as pregnant and not just heavy, it's probably because the rest of you looks rather thin. I see a compliment in there, if you want it.

But be careful your beautiful baby bump isn't shrouded in Possibly Ugly Sweater.

Good Christian Men, Rejoice!

... for I am available.

I just don't know what I'm doing. How exactly does one convey "godly" and "on the prowl" at the same time? Wear a leopard-print head covering? Quote the naughty passages in the Bible? Do a Bend and Snap to pick up a dropped Communion card?

This is hard.

Wait, I know. I'll ask somebody else to do the heavy lifting. Dad, I'm still your little princess, right? Would you do something kingly for me and maybe stage a tournament in the front yard -- you know, so eligible men could compete for my hand? I'm thinking a test of strength (caber toss?), a test of courage (going down the fire pole -- extra points for doing it head-first), a miscellaneous skill of their choosing (play the lute? exceptional penmanship? surprise me, gentlemen!), and some demonstration of a sense of humor. That'd be awesome, thanks!

Whew! That wasn't so bad. Now to sit back and wait.

[Cricket chirps.]

Um...

[Checking watch.]

Heck.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

'Tis December, and that means lots of songs with my name in them. Yippee! I don't care if I'm not, technically, a plant. I like hearing people sing my name.

And the prettiest sight to see
Is the holly that will be
On your own front door

The fact that I don't live on anyone's front door will not stop me from taking this as a personal compliment.

Maybe I Have a Thyroid Problem

For at least the last ten years, I've been colder than just about everyone else in any given room. I first noticed this in England, where they keep their homes cool and everyone has the temperature tolerance of a polar bear, so I wrote it off to my coming from a country that has mastered insulation. Then I lived with my parents for a bit, but they have plenty of quirks about them, so I still thought I was the normal one. But you can only live so many years, in so many places, before you begin to realize that it's you, not everyone around you, who has the problem.

My company just moved to a newly renovated building. There are finally people in the cubes around me! (How I'm supposed to sing with the radio and take naps now, I don't know. Must work on this.) Thus, I have a gauge to see how warm it is, contrasted with how warm I feel. The verdict: Big, big difference. The folks around me are in two layers at most, and those layers are not heavy. I, on the other hand, was mummified in the following until lunch today: Button-down shirt; light sweater; big cardigan over the sweater; big chunky poncho over the cardigan, which also functioned as a coat in the warmish weather today; outdoor hat; fleece blanket over my lap. I was not uncomfortably warm in this.

Surely I left the realm of Normal about 2 1/2 layers ago. After two years of iron supplements, surely I'm not anemic anymore. I'm gonna look this up on WebMD or something.

Penelope the Destroyer

Dear, sweet Penelope. All teeth, paws, and a blur of fur. A heart of gold. And like adolescents of any species, she hardly knows what to do with herself.

Since I've been doing posts about pets lately, I thought it would be a shame to deprive you all of this photo. Worth a thousand words, yes?

Delila's Bad Weekend

Things have been rather rough for Maria's cat.

Yesterday I walked into the living room where Adam was watching TV and sat down. Delila the Cat quickly jumped up on the couch, looking for company. I smelled something bad. She usually has a slight smell because of the eye gunk common to her breed, but this was worse. Then she crawled onto Adam's lap and he said, "Do you smell that?"

"I didn't say anything, in case it was you."

"No, it's not me."

It really was bad. When Delila jumped back onto my couch, I took a look. There was poop hanging right out of her, and getting all into her fur, of which she has a lot.

Then she sat down.

Yeah.

So Maria and Delila spent some quality time with the shower. We could hear the meows from outside the bathroom door. But that kitty's a trooper, and she didn't seem too traumatized afterward.

Then today her tail caught on fire.

I'll repeat that.

Her tail caught on fire. We had a candle lit on the coffee table. Normally she doesn't jump up there, but the coffee table was closest to John, who was dishing out affection to Jake and Jezebel, and Delila wanted in on the action. She sure got it. Fortunately, the flames went out quickly and she didn't appear hurt at all. But gee whiz.

It's a bad time to be Delila's butt.

High Achievers

You know how NASA has that plane they take astronauts up in, where they can experience weightlessness briefly? I was told last night that they also do science experiements up there, and when they ran out of more serious stuff to experiment with (crystals are very serious), they decided to bring up water balloons.

This was a whopping reminder to me that most of these guys (and gals, yes?) were once military pilots -- frat boys with buzz cuts and a dangerous curiosity tempered (somewhat) by genius IQs and international law. I wonder not that they brought up water balloons, but that it took them so long to do so. Surely, if they could toss pumpkins from the plane with some assurance that no one on the ground would be hurt, they'd be doing that, too.

Counter Dog!

Jake has special powers.

This dog walks with two limps, can't run, and is on a special diet to make sure his joints don't have to carry too much weight. Yet somehow, when no one is looking, he manages to attack food that's way up on the counter -- even 18 inches back on the counter -- pull it down to the floor, and devour it.

How does he get up there? And more on my mind, where the heck does he put the food? I mean, I know he eats it, but how does he fit it in? I understand the instinct to eat until the supply runs out -- for an animal in the wild, not knowing when your next meal will run by means gorging when you have the chance. I'm not judging. But I'm bewildered. Jake probably only weighs about sixty pounds. His stomach can't be all that big. But he managed to eat about five monster cookies in one go last week.

Let me describe the Monster Cookie, so you have an idea. It has oats, peanut butter, chocolate chips and M+Ms -- lots of good cookies in one! Very, very filling. And big. I made them each about nine inches in diameter, and about 3/4 in. thick. (Mmmm, I'm gonna have one for dinner. Gonna make some vanilla cocoa I bought yesterday, and dunk the cookie in it. Oh yeah...) I, a grown-up human, can only eat one of those a day, and my capacity for cookies is great. So how does Jake do it? Is there something canines have going on physiologically that allows them to shove it down like that?

Inquiring minds want to know.

I Razed Myself

If I got a concussion, would it be noticeable?

I'm having my doubts.

I did the Viking thing for the party. Helmet, tunic, boots. I was showing off for my friends, and whipped out the final accessory: A mallet which, for some reason, had come in my tool kit instead of a regular hammer. In my enthusiasm, I accidentally conked myself in the head with it. (Hey, what if life were a cartoon and my helmet had rung like a bell? That would have been cool.)

As the laughter subsided, my friend Sean had me reenact The Conking for the camera, saying it was a "classic Holly moment." I was happy to oblige, but later I thought about his words and wondered, Do the people who know me think this kind of ditzy spazz-out is typical of me?

Well, duh. Of course they do.

If you had called my family to tell them I'd hammered my own head, my dad would have said, "Who let her play with a hammer?" Then they'd all have exchanged looks, silently agreeing that Holly can no longer be trusted with hardware.

And they'd be right.

Viiiiiiii-kiiiiiiiiiiing!

My roommates and I are having a Halloween party. It'll be a day late, unless you're celebrating All Saints Day, in which case it's right on time. I haven't worn a costume in years and years, so I've had lots of time to plan. I want to be a Viking! Braids and a horned helmet, baby. Yeah!

About fourteen years of imagining, and I left myself one night to look for a costume. So pickins were slim. I snagged the last helmet at The Garment District. For the tunic, I had to buy a white thingy that looks more Grecian Goddess-y, so I may need to add a protective layer of tinfoil armor. I plan on being both elegant and invincible when I start razing villages. No cone boobs, though (sorry, boys).

Side note: The Garment District (a single store in Boston) can be a fun place to people-watch. The day before Halloween is like Christmas Eve at the mall, except at the mall you don't get to watch men trying on ugly skirts atop the mountain of Dollar-a-Pound clothes.

Anyway, what I lack in authenticity (because the plastic armor I might have found 3 weeks ago would have totally been authentic), I hope to make up for in theatrics. What do you think of me learning some German lyrics from Wagner's Ring Cycle and belting 'em out like a mad Valkyrie? That ought to scatter some peasants.

I'm baking cookies, too. Pillager meets June Cleaver. Being a melancholy type, I don't often get excited, but I'm rather excited to get my Vike on on Saturday (OK, kinda made that word up). I think it's largely the costume thing. I've always wanted to wear costumes -- one reason why my recently rediscovered acting bug holds so much promise for fun. Costumes, costumes, costumes! Holly wants to play! (Dang, there's Elmo again.)

I Draw the Line at Coin Slots, Too

I'm a fan of low-rise jeans. We've covered this before, but here's a one-sentence refresher: I'm not an immodest dresser, but low-rise pants fit me better than other kinds.

I thought about not writing this because it's Too Much Information, but what is a blog if not TMI? So, here's the thing: You gotta be careful with the undergarments when wearing the low-risers. Otherwise, you get someone standing behind you thinking, I see she wore the Care Bears today.

So, take caution is all I'm saying.

I'll end it there.

I'm Three People

My blog style has begun to carry over into my regular life. As you know, every once in a while I'll refer to myself in the third person here, because apparently I think it's funny to sound like Elmo. But now I find myself doing it in conversation, and even by myself. I'll be at my desk, will type something incorrectly, and say out loud, "Holly made a mistake!" Or I'll drop something and say, "Oh, Holly!" It's like I'm my own swear word now.

I can't decide if I think this is cute or annoying. For the sake of my own self-esteem, I think I'll choose cute until further notice.

Kicking Butt and Saving (Most) Lives

I am a Floor Warden! Or a Searcher. Not sure what the distinction is, actually. But I wear a Floor Warden hat, which is the important thing. What do I do? I save lives! Assuming they don't argue.

Of course, if they argue, I just kind of leave them to it. I'm not a confrontational person.

My job is to go around our floor at work and make sure everyone evacuates in an emergency. Obviously, everyone else had already turned the position down, so they were left with me. Last week, I had my first hat-wearing fire drill, and I walked around making sure people left. I was surprised at how many people refused to go, because they knew it was a drill. The happier ones at least offered to bribe me, but one stressed soul just said, "I don't have time for this" and closed her office door in my face. Um, OK. I wondered if I should be a hardass, but as it was a drill, I opted not to tick off my superiors (at my job, everyone is my superior).

Perhaps it was cheating, but I accepted the Hershey bar they gave all the wardens for getting people off their floor. I did tell them about the guy who insisted on going to the bathroom before leaving the building.

Apart from that, I embraced the dorkiness of the hat (fire-engine red!) and the accompanying flashlight. It helped that one of the other wardens is a super-hot chick, and she wore her hat with pride. I figured if she could do it, so could I. We also briefly played light sabres with the flashlights, because we're both cool and mature.

To my knowledge, no one died during the drill, so I'm calling it a success.

Killing Me Softly

I've recently been given a new position in my new company. It's a lateral move, which means the same salary. I'm not sure what I'll be doing. I haven't asked a lot of questions. This may sound apathetic, and perhaps even irresponsible, but it actually doesn't matter to me what I'll be doing, as long as it's not immoral -- and frankly, I don't know how immoral you can get with textbook supplements, unless it's all a big front for illegal organ donations, and that just seems like an impractically messy combination.

At this point, my job feels a bit like chemotherapy. I can't just up and quit it, so I do the next best thing: I sit there and let it happen to me, and pray that it kills the cancer before it kills me.

I Have a Person!

A few posts back, I lamented my lack of "people" -- folks to handle specific tasks that I either found unsavory or had no particular talent for. Well, I remembered this week that I do have one guy: The Booze Guy. His name is Mike, and he works at Tony's Liquors, near my parents' house.

Dad first introduced me to Mike a couple years ago, when I stole a gift idea from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and needed help with the implementation. It really was a great idea: As a wedding gift, buy the couple bottles of wine that reach their peaks on key anniversary years. Although I can't take credit for the idea itself, I do take pride in having stolen a really good one.

Problem #1: I know nothing about wine. When that's your first problem, do you really need a Problem #2?

Well, we went and had a consultation with Mike, and he came through brilliantly. I gave him a price range, and he came up with some wine selections and packed it all in a nice, sturdy, wooden wine box. The bride and groom were really pleased, and everyone was impressed with me, so of course Mike became one of my favorite people.

This week I needed help again with wine as a gift. (For such an inexperienced drinker, I seem to be making quite a habit of wrapping up alcohol for other folks.) Mike came through again, this time finding a specific brand from California. Yay, Mike!

And yay me! On my way to utter dependence on others.

Like a Haggis Burrito

I have this great wool poncho from my mom's closet. It's red-and-green plaid, and I look forward to the three days in Autumn when the weather is just right for me to wear it. A plaid poncho may seem like an odd, Scottish-Mexican combo, but it works somehow. And there's something hip about taking an article of clothing from the '70s and making it work.

I have this great moss-colored hat I've been wearing with it. I mention my hats a lot because one of my goals for when I had spending money was to buy and wear hats. Now I have spending money and I'm buying and wearing hats, and each time I do it it's a teeny dream come true.

Buy hats, be a movie star, win a Pulitzer like Dave Barry. My aspirations are modest.

1492, Where Are You?

How was everyone's long weekend? Nice and long, was it? Did you go out of town, take the kids to see their grandparents, maybe get some chores crossed off your to-do list? Or did you spend your time lazing around gloriously, becoming more acquainted with your bed, the golf course, or daytime TV?

Would you like to know how my long weekend was?

Short, that's how.

Because we didn't get Columbus Day off. Instead, we gave him the collective finger. Perhaps my company is run by Norwegians who staunchly support Leif Eiricksson as the discoverer of America (though as a mongrel with both Norwegian and Italian blood, I have no loyalties here). Perhaps this is where we're supposed to use one of our "floating holidays," a concept which is new to me. Or perhaps everyone just looooves their jobs. All I know is that yesterday, while the lights weren't even on on the other floors of the building, a tiny smattering of employees was toiling away under the flourescents, and I was one of them.

Bitter? Perhaps.

I mean, I do have those floating holidays, I guess. It was just a shock to find out, only a week ago, that if I wanted Monday off, I was going to have to ask for it, and sacrifice the option of using it in the future. It's different, you know?

And here's my question: If I don't get a long weekend every six-to-eight weeks, just when am I supposed to do laundry? Answer me that!

Cheap Date

After 200+ posts, you all probably have a certain image of me. I can imagine your thoughts. Holly: That broad is straight-up class. And yeah, I am. It may surprise you, however, that at heart I'm a simple girl with simple tastes. I'm as happy eating a burger as I am eating a steak. I'm usually content to go to the movies, or even stay home and watch something from Netflix. A cheap date, really. And fellas, I'm single! Can you believe some cheap bastard hasn't snatched me up yet? Astounding. I just can't work it out. Which reminds me of a joke I heard from my roommate, Helen (the one with the feet):

What did the constipated mathematician do?

He worked it out with a pencil.

Ha! See? A sense of humor, too! I'm great at parties. Call me!

Anyway:
I gagged on lobster once. Really, I gagged on it. I was never a big seafood fan, but usually I can at least get the stuff down. Not this time. It was at a surf-n-turf party, and the host had gotten each guest a lobster. I'd never had it, but everyone likes lobster, right? But it was all slimy and seafoody. (How did I not see that coming?) I was sitting right next to the host when I practically retched. I felt so bad. He was very gracious about it, but man, that's a whole lobster wasted! I don't remember if somebody else took it off my hands, but I sure hope so.

Sometimes I'll notice that my pinky is raised while I slurp my cocoa, but that's about as close as I come to being a swell.

I guess I'm just white trash with money, without the money.

Big Brother

I believe I've mentioned before that my little brother is, in fact, significantly larger than I. Twice my body mass. It's occurred to me recently, however, that you may have been left wondering, "How does such a size difference manifest itself, exactly? Are his arms twice as thick? Are his teeth twice as long? Is his head twice as dense?" (Yes, no, yes.)

Bro is concerned about Internet security, so he's asked that I not post pictures and names here. But he didn't say anything about artistic renderings. Thus, I've created a visual aid for your benefit. It's not scientific in its accuracy, but it'll at least give you a mental picture when I do posts about family holidays.

Here you go!

Insane in the Membrane

My skin has gone nucking futs. I've always been a bit of an Italian greaseball. (Thanks for the genes, Dad; I hope that, like you, I'll end up looking 10-15 years younger than I am by the time I retire.) Sometimes, it all gets out of control. I got acne at age ten, and it's never really gone away. I've been on sundry medications, on and off. Then, when I was twenty-six, it got worse than it had ever been, very quickly, and refused to get better. I wound up on Accutane (which to me sounds like Beltane -- perhaps it's the ancient Celtic festival of erupting skin). It really helped me, and for the last six years I've felt normal.

But now it's back. In the last month, I've gone from Almost Adult skin to 15-year-old-with-raging-hormones skin. That's not the kind of youthful look I was hoping for. So this time, I'm nipping it in the bud. When I realized it wasn't going to go away, I called the dermatologist and have an appointment for the end of the month. I suppose there's a chance that food or stress or any great number of factors could be at play here, but there are so many variables that I wouldn't be able to control them all. And besides, I'd really like to just be able to live my life without being paranoid that a busy day at work or a yogurt at lunch is going to turn my face into a topographical map.

So, we'll see how that all goes. If, two months from now, my lips have half an inch of salve on them, you'll know I'm back on the 'Tane.

Here's hoping this time it sticks, huh? I'd hate to have to write this post again seven years from now. I'll be freaking forty, for Pete's sake.

Freestyle

I think it's safe to say that my roommate Adam is the only person I've ever heard rhyme "Moldy bread comin' outta my eye" with "Superfly."

Rub-A-Dub Dub

There are five humans living in our apartment. We have a rotating cleaning schedule, where we each take a week to do ALL the cleaning there is to be done -- scrub the toilets, take out the garbage, dust the ceiling fans (I forgot that one when it was my turn). The three animals, who contribute much, much more than anyone else to the fur that collects on every surface, don't take part in this rota. Hardly seems fair, does it? But they're so darn cute.

Your week to clean is your Hell Week. Or, if you're a romantic (and don't mind wearing dresses), Cinderella Week, and you can wear your hair in a scarf and sing while scrubbing on your hands and knees. Every girl dreams of that, right?

I'm not a big cleaner. I can do it, like I can do a lot of things, but I don't get into it like some people do. Some people, like my roommate Helen. She has diagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, which is awesome. She loves to clean, and happily makes deals with the rest of us. I think she cleans every week now, with the rest of us trading favors. Not the sexual kind.

Not that it doesn't comes close. Helen has foot problems, so what she wants most in exchange for all her hard work are foot rubs. I gave her one this week. Is it weird that it wasn't weird? It helps that she has nice feet -- no cheese, warts, or flaky skin. You know how you can go to the doctor's office and not be embarrassed by things that would normally embarrass you in public? I think it's like that. You just turn off this switch in your head and it's OK. And it's not like there was toe-sucking involved or anything.

Wonder what chore I'd have to get out of to be willing to do that.

Today's Revelation

I'm not sure this is completely true about myself, but let me toss this out there:

I can be insecure about my talents and abilities. Or at least, I thought I could. But now I'm wondering if it's not my talents I'm unsure of. What I really doubt is that my talent will get me anywhere.

Certainly no one felt they owed me or my talent anything when I was trying to make my way as a freelance musician. No one offered anything I didn't cry out for or demand. I'm not much of a Cryer or Demander. And here's the kicker: I don't want to be. It's not how I'm wired, and while I do see the need for more boldness and less knee-jerk apology in myself, I don't expect I'll ever be comfortable wrangling favors out of people that they are unwilling to give freely, either professionally or personally.

Thus my talent stayed where it was, shut up in my apartment where no one could hear it.

My fear is that it doesn't matter whether I was a kick-butt trombone player, whether I have monster verbal skills or charisma on stage. I do wonderfully when I'm on a track laid out by other people, but I'm not a bushwhacker; if I wasn't able to carve out a career for myself when I had the proven skills, training and degrees, then why on earth would I be able to do it when I'm just a dillettante? And if no one "discovers" me or gives me an opportunity, where does that leave me?

Believe it or not, I'm not despairing over these questions. (Been there and done that already.) I'm in more of a "I'll just be myself and see what God does with that" stage. I actually hadn't meant to get so negative; my aim was to share that I don't think I'm as insecure as I may have led everyone, including myself, to believe. I'm just afraid that talent alone -- or even talent plus character -- doesn't carry the promise of ... well, of anything.

My hope is that, while talent promises nothing, God actually promises a LOT. I'm trusting that if God made me the way He made me, then He must also have some idea how it's supposed to work. I'm even beginning to place eggs in a risky basket: the idea that not only is there work out there that suits me, but there's a way to go about finding it that will suit me as well. I'm not entrepreneurial, but I'm social. I'm not administrative, but I'm communicative. I'm not aggressive, but I'm amusing and good with kids. I'm banking on the idea that I can get where I need to go without enduring a process that's completely antithetical to my nature. Maybe occasionally antithetical, but not completely. That would suck, and I no longer have the self-defeating appetite for suckiness that I once did.

"In the Female Prison...

Are seventy-five women
And 'tis among them
I wish I did dwell."

-- from some Irish folk song I heard (sung by men, it should be noted)

That was apropos of nothing.

So, I'm thinking I could use some People. You know, like, "I got people for that," or, "I got a guy." I'd like a tech guy, a financial guy, maybe a clean-up-my-accidental-homicides guy. I'm not big on doing my own dirty work, and while adulthood is great as far as getting to stay up late while watching TV and eating entire pints of Cherry Garcia, it stinks as far as having to be responsible and do lots of boring shit you don't wanna do. Work may build character, but it sure is inconvenient and annoying. I've been earning my own way in the world for almost 10 years now, and that feels like enough to me. When do I get to be The Talent and have other people do the hard stuff I don't like?

Holding Out for a Hero

Today I wore a hat!

In other news...
I had never watched the TV show "Heroes." But my roommates have it on DVD, and I've been watching Season 1 all week. It's a lot of fun! I think I'd be driven insane if I had to watch it on regular TV, though, and wasn't able to rewind bits of dialogue I didn't catch. Or if I had to wait a week between episodes. Torture!

One of the girls in my improv class jokes about writing a comic book about a hero called Sarcasmo. I think most of us in that class can relate to that power -- and to being misunderstood and reviled because of it.

If I could have a super power, I wonder what I'd want it to be. I haven't seen Season 2 yet, so maybe someone can answer this for me: Do they have anyone with the power to command animals yet? That could be fun in a Dr. Doolittle/Tarzan kind of way. I'd probably be more like George of the Jungle, crashing into trees. Leopard skin could be nifty, although maybe it's a little bit jungle hooker. Gotta keep the jewelry understated with that ensemble. I think I'd like to ride on an elephant. Hey, maybe my parents' dog would finally come when I call her. She can be a stinker.

Perhaps I would also train a monkey to do my job.

Bling

I ordered some jewelry. I don't wear jewelry, but I'm trying to learn. As with so many other things, what other female humans learn in junior high, I am now learning in my thirties. Jude Blume books only taught me so much.

A few weeks ago, my friend Misten (you remember -- Derek Jeter's biggest fan and future wife) invited me to one of those parties that's like a Tupperware party but not for Tupperware. It was for jewelry. I know squat about jewelry. But as you know, I've been acquiring some pretty clothes lately, and this event seemed to go nicely with the recent increase in attention that I'm paying to my own appearance. I'm also a sucker for compliments, and when the saleswoman started putting pieces on me and everyone ooo'd and aaaah'd, I thought, Attention! Yay! More, please!

Then I was shown a necklace that can be worn as a belt or a bracelet, and the frugal Scandinavian in me thought, Why, this is practical!

The nail in my coffin was the wine. I have no eye for accessories, but after a couple helpings of the vino, everything in the catalog was looking good to me. What's the wine equivalent of beer goggles? Wine, uh, glasses?

Misten also said that men's attention is drawn by sparkly things. (Of course, mine is, too. It's also easily sucked in by cartoons and things that smell like butter.) Hey, can't hurt, right?

It shouldn't surprise me that the same principles I've been learning about clothes apply to jewelry as well: Different items look good on different people. Size, shape, color, brightness. A well-placed piece can accentuate what's most beautiful about you -- the color of your eyes, a long neck, a slender wrist, cleavage (OK, not so much for me on that last one). And the wrong pieces can make you look dumb. So don't wear those.

Now I need to get up earlier so I can put time into coordinating outfits and picking out the shiny bits to go with them. I'm not used to this. I'm used to being the chick to runs out of the house with wet hair because I'm cutting it close and I'm tripping over the mess in my room and I forgot to make a sandwich but I can bring an apple but I'd really like a sandwich too but I'm late but I can take the time out of my lunch break but I should really go, so I may be on time or I may be well fed or I may be neither but I'm rarely both. We'll see if I can be the girl in the well-coordinated outfit with the guy-catching sparklies and mostly-dry hair.

I still can't be bothered with eye makeup, though. That's another lesson, for another party.

Prodigal Denim

Today is a day of found things!

My roommate got her watch back after leaving it at her karate studio last week. And I got my jeans jacket.

For some reason, the jeans jacket was a really big deal to me. I couldn't let it go. I always hate losing things, but since I discovered it was missing yesterday, I actually prayed about it a lot. Tons of things went through my head: Am I being materialistic? Am I not trusting God to provide the funds to buy another one, or to help me find one that suits me the way the old one did? What's the deal?

I can explain some of the deal. It's a pretty useful article of clothing, and as I mentioned in my shopping post, it's hard to find items that suit you -- when you do, you pounce. The color, the cut and style, these all suited me. And I hadn't paid much for it -- I was afraid that to replace it, I'd have to spend $80 or so. Although I'm on a shopping kick, it irked me that I'd have to spend money on something I'd just recently owned. Besides, how can I enjoy the new clothes I've been purchasing, and enjoy the long-awaited means to buy them, if I'm being taught some lesson about not clinging to worldly possessions?

And did I mention that I hate losing things? I hate it. Don't you? It feels so wrong, like illness or betrayal.

I also become sentimentally attached to possessions. I chastise myself for this a lot, but perhaps it isn't straight-up materialism. Regardless of whether it's good or bad, it is.

The last place I remembered having the jacket was at the gym last week, so I called them first thing yesterday morning to see if they'd found it. Debbie, the very nice girl on the phone, checked the Lost and Found and every women's locker, and found nothing. When I came home last night, I dug through my room again. Nothing. Today, a desperate woman clutching at straws, I went back to the gym to ask again, and was the creepy chick opening every locker. Nothing.

I prayed the whole walk home from the gym. Giving the situation to God, asking that He would bring the jacket back to me. Or, failing that, that He would bless whoever took it (I prayed this reluctantly) and that He would provide one as good or better. I asked Him to help me trust Him by helping me believe that He cared about this, because I care about it, and He cares about me. I didn't want to hand my worries over to a God who thought I was bad and didn't deserve a nice jacket. I wanted to hand them over to a God who cares about our little things as much as He cares about our big things -- because when you think about it, compared to how big God is, everything about us is little. And if He wants us to be faithful in small things, then He must be faithful in small things Himself.

And really, who's going to trust a God if they don't believe they can really trust Him?

Well, long story made medium, I still held out hope that the jacket would be somewhere in the apartment. It made me happy just to think about getting it back. I came home, turned on the lights, walked into the living room, and there it was, tossed right on the couch. At first I wasn't even sure it was mine -- I checked the tags and labels to make sure. But hooray! Happy jacket. Happy happy jacket.

This may sound like a silly story of a messy girl who can't keep track of her clothes. But I'm confident that God is demonstrating that He cares about silly, messy girls and their wardrobes -- and loves said girls enough not to call them silly. I can trust Him to care about my desires -- for a jacket, or for a job. He cares about my feelings and my eyebrows and my safety and my acne. God is worth tears and leaps and psalms and potluck dinners and blog posts and endurance and study and long conversations.

While I was trying to figure out how messed up I was to miss a jacket so much, God was setting me up for a very nice surprise.

Thanks, Lord. I look forward to wearing my jacket tomorrow :-).

Night and Day

This is the difference between me at work and me at improv class.

Work: Cutting and pasting a few hundred questions into the proper format because the editor didn't wait for me to provide properly formatted files for the author.

IC: Walking around the room acting out "despondency, 6 on a scale of 10... now 7, now 2!"

W: My mind wandering for 30 seconds between each pasted question (Did I really leave my jeans jacket at the gym? Is it really lost forever? How will I find another one that suits me? How much will I have to shell out for it?)

IC: My mind running a mile a minute, coming up with opening lines for when it's my turn to start a scene.

W: Signing out the key to the sick room because I'm about to fall asleep at my desk.

IC: Constantly smiling, so pumped that an hour at the pub and a 45-min. commute home aren't enough to bring me back down.

Last week, the sermon at church touched on choosing to be happy in your current work situation. The easiest way for me to be happy at work is to enjoy the way it leaves my mind free to daydream about other things.

But improv class feeds something in me that isn't getting fed anywhere else. I wonder if this is the case for my classmates. Now that we're on Level 2, people are no longer there for purely functional reasons ("I want to give better presentations at work"); they're there because it's a lot of fun. I wonder how much I'm called to do this in a way that's unique and destined to be big, and how much it's just a good thing for anybody to do. I confess, I'm hoping for big things. But even if my big changes aren't going to come directly as a result of improv class, I'm glad to be doing it. It's such a gift every week.

One of the most remarkable things about it for me is that when I'm there, I'm there. I'm fully present. That's almost never the case for anything. It wasn't the case when I was a musician, even; I was usually waiting for rehearsal to get out so I could go home and eat. But in improv class, I don't wish I were anywhere else. This is novel.

I've been telling everybody to take improv classes if they can. Unless you're shy to the point of having a psychological disorder (and perhaps even then), I think pretty much anybody would find this fun. It's not all scary performance and trying to be funny. There are tons of group games where there's little pressure to perform, and you get to loosen up and laugh like a kid. It's like a moon bounce for your brain.

It even took my mind of my jeans jacket, which I have lost. I'm distrught. It looked rather sharp. All these fun new clothes I've bought, and no jeans jacket to wear over them! Whatever shall I do???

Improv can't bring my jacket back. I'm just going to have to absorb that sartorial blow and recover as best I can. But boy, it'll take your mind off the pain like a Percocet.

Percocet and a moon bounce, people. The giddy joys of improv class are calling you... calling... calling...

HEY! C'MERE! it seems to be saying.

Yes, that's definitely what it said.

Shirtless

Have I got your attention?

After mentioning Improv Everywhere in my last post, I went on You Tube and watched a few videos of their stuff. Food Court Musical was pretty funny. And I just watched one of a bunch of shirtless men wandering around an Abercrombie and Fitch store. Some of them I think were just looking for a chance to take their shirts off, but some were really regular-looking guys, and I admire their guts (ha!).

I'm posting about it because I wasn't strong enough to let that little joke pass by.

Links!

Check it out, dudes. I finally figured out how to get links to other blogs in my sidebar. Only took me two years! I also just set up a Sitemeter thingy, since I can't get to sleep. Now I'll know how few of you are reading this.

Hey, I found those corduroy pants! I've been trying to find some for a year or two. Such shopping craziness. I'm so rarely in the mood to go, so I figure I'll ride the wave. And I got another hat! The world is not going to be able to handle all my cuteness. I'm like a kitten hugging a rainbow.

Level 2 improv classes start tomorrow. It's been a month since Level 1 ended, and I was going into withdrawal. Though a few classmates and I did tide ourselves over a bit by taking our act onto the subway. I haven't told you about that yet! Have you heard of a group called Improv Everywhere? They're in New York, and now I think they have a branch in LA. What we did is like a beginner version of that. We just went onto the T (that's what we call the subway here in Bean Town) and started improvising -- odd conversations, dancing, whatever came to us. It almost scares me that it didn't scare me more. I've always wanted to be the kind of person who wasn't afraid to do this kind of thing.

It's one o'clock in the morning, and I'm wide awake. Maybe I'm excited -- new clothes and the prospect of improv class can make a girl positively jittery.

I read that if you can't sleep, it can be counter-productive to just lie there trying not to be awake. The article said it's OK to get up and do stuff, or you may just end up putting too much pressure on yourself, and that makes it even harder to fall asleep. Plus, you end up associating going to bed with striving and failure, which are not conducive to rest. Hence the late-night blogging. Oh, and did I mention I might be a bit excited? Sleeplessness is often how I can tell I'm pumped. Over the last 3 1/2 months especially, I've been quite jazzed about what God is doing, and all the things I feel free to hope for. I'm beginning to think that paying attention to pipe dreams may not be a distraction; it may be faith.

Shopping Theory

I've been on a shopping kick this week. It's a rare thing. Normally I hate shopping. I have no stamina for it. When I was fifteen and looking for a white dress for my confirmation, my dad took me to the mall. He kept asking if I wanted to keep looking, if I wanted to visit more stores, because he didn't mind. Meanwhile, I was dragging my feet and feeling like my brain was starting to ooze out my ear.

So I'm trying to take advantage of this burst of motivation. I'm having to fight my natural frugality to do it. So far, so good.

There's more to fight than frugality, though. Trying clothes on, and especially trying pants on, is a frustrating experience. In recent years, I've come to the conclusion that this has little to do with size and much to do with shape and proportion. And because each woman is shaped differently, the vast majority of items are not going to fit her, no matter how shapely or straight or voluptuous or thin she is.

It's like a job search, where the looking and waiting can leave you discouraged and feeling like everything in the world is wrong with you. After a dozen pairs of slacks that make me look lumpy, I can be tempted to make two dozen resolutions to eat more fruit and get to the gym more often. Then I'll find that one pair that looks great on me and I'll wonder what on earth was wrong with all those other pairs of pants. That's the goal: to find the pair that makes the other pants look wrong, rather than making me look wrong.

I write all this because I sometimes have other women say to me, "You're so thin, you can wear anything." This is completely untrue, and that's not false modesty or that self-deprecation most women are guilty of when it comes to their appearance. I look terrible in plenty of things. I just don't buy those things, so you don't see me in them. (Well, sometimes I buy stuff that doesn't look so hot on me, because it's cheap and I figure I'll just deal with it, but I'm trying to break myself of that habit.) I'd like to take women who are down on themselves on a shopping trip with me, so they can see me try on all kinds of awful looks and feel better about themselves.

It's all about finding what works for you, and it's going to be different for everybody. For example, low-rise pants were a Godsend I did not expect. I lean toward the modest side with clothing, so I avoided this style at first. But when I tried some on accidentally, I realized that they were just what I needed. There's a huge difference between my waist and my hips, and it's next-to-impossible to find something that will fit both. With low-rise pants, I don't have that problem! Hurrah! I've also discovered that stretchy items, rather than being awkwardly tight, can be quite comfortable.

This weekend, I head out again in my quest for corduroys or something equivalently casual. I've made several trips and come back with nothing (although sometimes I come back with something I didn't plan for, like last Sunday's hat and debit-card theft). But eventually I'll find the pair for me, and I'll look great, probably in a different pair than the one that will make you look great. And that's OK, because there's one for each of us.

Say It Out Loud if You Have To

In a piece I was working on today at work, an author misspelled democracy as decocracy.

Wouldn't that just be another word for patriarchy?

New Hat! Thievery!

On my list of things to do when I have money: Buy and wear hats. Well, friends, I have a little bit of cash, and I have bought a hat! Unfortunately, I don't know how to describe it to you, which doesn't do you much good. But I bought it and it's a happy thing.

You know what happened, though? Somewhere in the three purchases I made yesterday, somebody swiped my debit card number! Grrrrr! I got a call today from someone wanting to confirm that I had purchased some domain name. Neither it nor the company sounded familiar, and I was told that somebody must have used my number. Well, I'm glad it's been caught quickly. I called my bank and they're on the case. I expect they'll get the fraudulent charges erased; and if -- worst case scenario -- they don't, at least the purchases were very small.

Normally, I'd expect to feel bad about the inconvenience of it all, and would be worried that somehow it will fall on my shoulders to pay for someone else's crime. But there's an emotional consequence I did not expect from myself: Suspicion. When I was in college, our apartment was broken into while I was away for Thanksgiving. I was unruffled. But today, I found myself wondering whether the guy who made the intial call to me was honest. I wondered, as I was passed from one bank operator to another, whether I should be confirming my passwords and personal information over the phone. It was harder to trust everyone because one person out there has shown themselves untrusworthy. And for that I am pissed. For unrelated reasons, I've been thinking lately about what a big problem I have with blind selfishness and disregard for others, and this added fuel to the fire. The person who trips the final wire in the minefield of my temper will be most unfortunate.

But while I'm giving them an earful, I'll be looking cute in my hat. Pretty hat!

I Love the Gym

But don't worry, I haven't become so distracted in my affection that I can think of nothing else. I've actually missed many a date with Gym. But when I go back, I remember why I love him so. He makes me feel pretty.

And it's nice to get reacquainted with my muscles. I lean toward the scrawny side, so it's easy to look at me and wonder where they are. Well, they're there, lifting tiny little 5lb. weights and feeling happy that they were invited to the party at all. Sometimes they'll even step into the spotlight and show Miss Cellulite she's not the only girl in the room.

Speaking of parties, this is my 200th post! A seasoned blogging veteran, I am.

Vlog

Today's post is brought to you by the letters B and V.

I kinda dig linguistics. Not enough to be in any way proactive about it, of course. That would be work (or, in Spanish, trabajo. I think.) Just enough to think, "Huh" about certain things. Like, have you ever noticed how much the letters B and V sound alike? And how when you cross from one language to another, sometimes one replaces the other? Take the aforementioned trabajo. Does anyone out there know if it's related to our English word, travail? I'd be willing to bet a Snickers bar that it is. Marquioni, as the reader who knows the most about Spanish, can you tell me whether I'm onto something, or if I'm completely off my nut? I know I work at a textbook publisher and all, and I have access to books where this information would be readily available, but that would mean looking things up.

If I'm right, and B and V do occasionally do each other's trabajo, then I feel somewhat vindicated (or bindicated). In college, I had a classmate whose last name was Satava. But I had never seen it written; I'd only heard it said aloud. I once had to write it, asked about the spelling, and was told, "It's just like it sounds," upon which I spelled it Sataba and was laughed at. Meanies.

And am I alone in thinking that V is a cooler letter than B? I think that's why we have V for Vendetta and not B for Boo-Yah. Perhaps this is an issue for Sesame Street to tackle. Surely they'd find a way to address it while preserving B's self-esteem. Perhaps V is cooler, but that doesn't mean B is any less valuable. He's kind of cute, in a chubby, ticklish sort of way.

Work-Related Injury

I am all alone.

As people leave my office "to pursue other opportunities", my workplace becomes quieter and quieter. Which means I get away with more and more. I've been the only person in my whole block of cubicles for weeks, and yesterday the offices along the wall also emptied. So I've gotten braver about singing along with the songs on my Pandora Radio. It's way fun. But today I got a little carried away today, doing a Muppet dance to Maneater in my chair, and conked my ankle against a metal bar on the stool I use as a footrest. Owie.

Not much else to distract me here. I feel like I should be singing cowboy songs -- just lonesome me and the tumblin' tumbleweed...

Understandably Misused Words

Would it be too obnoxious to complain again about some word mistakes I hear? I'm pretty good about not correcting people, I think, but a girl's gotta vent her grievances somewhere. I even looked these things up, to make sure I wasn't nuts.

1. To quote a T-shirt a friend of mine has, "There is no 'X' in 'espresso.' "

2. Nor is there an "X" in lackadaisical. I think people combine it with lax.

3. There is no hard "C" in et cetera, which means it's pronounced et-set-er-a, not ek-set-er-a.

4. It's not wrong to pronounce the "T" in often, but I find it unnecessary. We don't pronounce it in soften.

5. If you're on guard or cautious, you're wary, not weary. Weary means tired. I think people combine wary with leery.

6. If you're haggling over a price, you're bargaining, not bartering. To barter means to trade without the exchange of currency -- like swapping raccoon pelts for blankets.

So there they are, a few of my little pet peeves. Gotta run, but feel free to add some. And if I got something wrong, well, I'm pretty much asking to be corrected, aren't?

Faceless on Facebook

I done been taken to task by my Mama for not posting enough. I can't argue. I confess, I can't quite figure out how to handle the blog, Facebook, email -- all these things I want to do to keep in touch with people and respond to what they've written, without falling into another legalistic situation where it becomes all pressurized (the pressure coming from myself).

I wouldn't even have a Facebook page if I hadn't been invited to join a group there. I don't think my profile is complete. I definitely don't have a picture up. And I might not have specified my gender, because it seems to think I'm a man. It has been nice to be found by people I haven't been in touch with for years, so that's something cool. I usually accept the games and add-ons people send me, which means that, among other things, I'm a knighted hottie werewolf with the power to freeze people and the beginnings of a vegetable patch that will end global warming.

I should know better than to make predictions about future diligence, but I sometimes think I'd be better at keeping up with online communication if I didn't spend all my working hours in front of a computer, and I wonder if you all would hear more from me if I had work that suited me better. There are vague memories bouncing around my head of my time as a musician, when email was something I looked forward to, and wasn't merely a desperate distraction from, uh, work-related emails. Of course, when I land my dream career, if I'm still just as delinquent as ever, you'll know it's not the job at all; it's just me.

Speaking of which, I've amended by hoped-for job description: Rock-Star Actress Comedian Writer Princess. That last item is new. A bit different from the others in that one must marry into it, but it seems like the surest way to end up living in a castle. So if you run into any Scottish dudes (or lads, I should say) of royal lineage, let me know.

Just don't send them to my Facebook page.

Free Horribleness

Hi, guys! It looks like you can watch Dr. Horrible for free now, because they're showing it with commercials or something like that. So, in case the whole payment thing turned you off last time, here's another shot: http://drhorrible.com/

There's a button for "watch it right now."

Sample lyric, to whet your appetite:
This is his dry-cleaning bill -- four sweater vests!

Tired Girl

I work not with the reading material people buy for pleasure, but with textbooks.
Not with the textbooks themselves, but with the supplements that accompany them.
Not with the content of the supplements, but with the formatting.
And the production schedules:
Has authoring begun yet?
No, that's late. Will that make the supplement late?
Yes, that will make it late.
It's taking a while for the author to answer the copyeditor's queries, too. Will that make it late?
Yes, that will make it late.
I just sent the author some files I found, rather than wait for you to send me formatted ones. Will that affect the formatting?
Yes, that will affect the formatting, and it will make it late, because it will take time for me to fix it all.

Are you bored yet? Falling asleep, maybe? Me, too. Literally. I fall asleep at work. Shhhh, don't tell anyone. You might wake me up.

I start to feel tired on Saturday night, at the thought that only one day separates me from having to return to my job. Most days I don't hate it, but some days I do. And I'm always looking forward to the weekend, when I'll be able to rest. I haven't figured out how much of my tiredness is related to my medical condition (which has improved since the second surgery -- yay!); how much to my lack of inspiration at my job; how much to my lack of physical activity (which my roommate and I will try to change this coming week); how much to the fact that I'm nocturnal, and I won't be well-rested until I'm allowed to sleep past 9am on a regular basis; and how much is my non-physical temperament, which means I'm always more inclined to recline than to jump up and down. Whatever it is, it feels physical, mental and emotional -- the Complete Tiredness Package.

The thing is, I've had worse, at least as far as jobs go. I've done retail, where I was constantly apologizing to customers who assumed that because I was wearing an apron, I must be stupid. I've worked in sales, where the boss liked to call people into his office on a regular basis an yell at them (and I mean yell). I've temped. I've earned much, much less than I do now (which is really saying something). So I haven't been inclined to leave my current job unless I found something fabulous to take its place; I need a benign job to keep the bills paid while I figure out what I really want to do, and this job fits the bill.

At least it did.

This past week, I started wondering if there might be a better interim job, something that could be a stepping stone to the pipe dream. I certainly don't want to pick something arbitrarily, and I'm wary of getting stuck in something that's just good enough to keep me complacent and cause me to stop looking for my ideal. But maybe there's something out there that would be worth smiling about in the morning.

I do OK. It's a bit like math and science in high school were for me: I'm smart enough, and work hard enough, but they sure as heck weren't my strong points. I can get the job done, but it doesn't showcase any of my greatest gifts (except for some people skills). And now that most of my immediate colleagues have left and I'm picking up their work, I find myself being asked on a fairly regular basis to do tasks that I just barely understand. It's like spending all day writing with my left hand. Oh, did I mention that I work with computers all day? Surely the it's only a matter of time before the incongruous pairing of me and computers tears a whole in the universe, creating a vortex into which space, time, and reality itself are sucked and altered forever.

I hope that doesn't result in a new universe in which I'm again asked to work with computers. Then the vortex wouldn't be the only thing that sucked.

Anyway, this isn't to complain. It's just what's going on. In the interest of balance, here's some good stuff about my situation: I love having a salary, with paid sick and vacation days and holidays. I like not having the pressure of having to job-search, especially as I don't yet know what kind of job I'd want to search for. Because my salary has gone up a bit and my rent has gone down a lot, I feel financially comfortable for the first time in my adult life (this is a biggie!).

So yeah, it could all be much worse. Much, much worse.

But I'm still holding out for better.

Smouldering Wick

I am in possession of a book which bears the same name as my blog, albeit with a classy British "u" in "Smouldering." It's in the form of a devotional, which means it's a collection of very short essays, usually less than one page each, and is meant to be taken in small doses rather than read in large chunks.

So far, I'm recognizing the thoughts expressed by Adam Pope, the author, as lessons hard-learned. On the surface, many of his statements appear simple, even obvious, but I know that in my own life it took painful, difficult experience to drive these truths home in my heart. I'm enjoying having these lessons reinforced. And when I run into lessons I have yet to learn myself, I'm confident that they come from a place of experience, even though it's an experience I haven't been through (yet).

Adam's style is unique (or at least unusual enough for me not to have seen it before) in that he writes in the second person, as if talking to himself. It's important to keep this in mind when reading. We're not used to hearing or seeing "you, you" unless it's from a preacher or teacher, someone looking us in the eye or pointing a finger. But these are the reflections of a man wrestling with God, on his knees before God, on his face before God, asking himself honest questions and telling himself truths he doesn't want to forget.

If you enjoy the more serious, contemplative parts of my blog, you may enjoy this book as well. You can check it out here:
http://www.mioomi.com/adampope/

One Great Aunt

I spent the last several days travelling to and from New Jersey to be with family and celebrate the life of my great-aunt, Evelyn, who passed away this past Saturday. She was a woman who was good at eating, drinking, and being merry, so we did all these things in her honor.

Some fun facts about my Aunt Evy:
She loved Atlantic City and would talk gambling with my brother.
She chose her restaurants and pubs based on whether they gave twofers -- a chip good for a free drink when you bought one.
She spent her whole life near the shore, and I never saw her without a tan.
She was 91, but lied to her boyfriend by telling him she was only in her eighties.
She was the most efficient phone-call ender I ever met. No conversation was left to linger.

Fun Story #1:
She no longer drove, so Clarence, who lived next door to Evy with his wife, would give her rides when she needed them. His hearing wasn't great, so one day when she knocked on his door, he couldn't hear her over the TV. So she let herself in. He had been sitting in his underwear, and he quickly tried to cover himself with a newspaper. She waved her hands dismissively, saying he didn't have anything she hadn't seen before. After which she walked over to him and gave him her latest request: "I want a third husband... who can drive at night."

Fun Story #2:
A couple years ago, my cousin got married. There was some difficult and painful family history, which the priest decided to detail in his homily. It was awkward, long, and from what I'm told, boring. At long last, Evy leans to the person next to her and asks, none-too-quietly, "Is he still talking?" To the disappointment of all in attendance, this was not enough to stop him.

Fun Story #3:
One Christmas, my brother flew low over the tiny airport near my parents' home. This was planned, and my dad and I headed out with the camcorder to videotape the event. It was cold, so I had on this big L.L.Bean barn coat, and my dad caught some footage of me in it. Evy sees the video and says, "You look so fat!"

I made my first purchase of keep-at-home alcohol a couple weeks ago, and tonight I broke it open and made myself a drink, which I now raise to Evy: Here's to the great-aunt who loved Manahattans and her family; who always owned multiple swimsuits; who was barely five feet tall, but could fill a room with her personality; who was first to belly up to the bar at her 90th birthday party; who never stopped sending me birthday money, because she knew I could really use it.

Here's to you, Aunt Evy.

Joined at the Brain

One of my roommates showed me some video clips by these guys:
http://www.umbilicalbrothers.com/site/stuff/videos.php

Not really brothers, but they're so in synch with each other and their performances are amazingly tight. A couple things are rather random (not sure how Yogi Bear ended up getting shot on the Leno show), but I was blown away by how much they communicate with only their movements and human sound effects. And Australian accents are hot.

Little Girl, You're in the Middle

Friends, I have wretched news to report: In my improv class, I fear I may be -- gasp! dare I say it? -- average. I don't get all the laughs or all the attention or all the praise. Sometimes I screw up. Sometimes I'm not even noticed at all. Tragedy! Abomination! Mortification! Frick-knickers!

I know you're as shocked as I am.

But really, it has taken a fair bit of mental and emotional discipline on my part not to get discouraged by the absence of good grades and gold stars. I'm a good little Lisa Simpson, accustomed to accolades from her instructors. When I don't get that, I wonder if I'm any good at all. I went into this class knowing that I'd have off days, and that one of the big reasons for learning improv at all was to practice taking risks and learning to make mistakes. I knew I was a beginner, and that I couldn't expect to master the art without putting in time and effort. And the last several years have taught me that some things just take time, and they cannot be rushed; like with physical growth, you can make choices that are helpful (eating well, getting rest), but they can't accomplish the work of years overnight.

I've learned big lessons in recent months about what I listen to -- what criticism is unfounded, what praise is worth absorbing. This is proving helpful in the silences, when I'm left with only my own assessments of my performance. I don't obsess over what might be wrong. I allow myself to see the pattern of what God is affirming in me, both directly and through other people: My humor, my gift with words, my performance ability... even physical beauty (but that's a whole 'nother blog post). So, I'm still enjoying improv, even though each class doesn't end with the instructor telling everyone to look to me as an example, or calling me off to the side to confide that he hasn't seen talent like mine before. (OK, no class has ended that way.) I'm just learning, and practicing, and waiting, and seeing where things go.

Although, hey, maybe this need for praise, applause, and approving laughter is proof that I was, indeed, born to be an actor.

Even Hypothetical Sickness is a Bummer

I got another comment on my post about mononucleosis. Further confirmation that it is not nearly as cool as I'd hoped. Way to rain on my long-term illness parade, people. I guess these things aren't as fun to experience as they are to talk about. Who knew?

Wonderfully Horrible

Last week, a friend from work turned me on to this:
http://drhorrible.com/

For one week, it was viewable free online. Now it's $4 on iTunes -- not bad, I think. This isn't an advertisement, just a recommendation.

It stars Neil Patrick Harris. I love this guy. I could totally go for a guy like him. Except for, you know, the whole being gay thing. Although, technically, that just means he wouldn't go for me. Details.

Teaser

One of my roommates, Adam, is a videographer, and he's been filming life in our house. There's talk of posting things on YouTube. Our friend Sophia is taking a film class, and she borrowed some of Adam's footage for one of her editing assignments. This was just posted. It's super-duper short, and contains the briefest of clips from Adam's interviews of us, where we talked about why we moved in here and what we're hoping for, and shots of the others practicing their various crafts. When I say super-duper short, I mean it -- it's only a minute! But it's the first of what will hopefully be a series of fun clips that I can give y'all links to on this blog. So, here it is:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3YabYHnD88

@&$%#$&^%$#!

I heard a fun phrase in a movie last night: "bat-shit crazy." I've decided to try to work it into conversation. As many of you know, I've been learning to swear over the last couple years, largely because I'm trying to subdue my hyper-active conscience. And because sometimes it's really funny. Eventually, I'll probably back off on it, because I don't want to be a foul-mouthed person, but there are a few gems I'll have to get out of my system first. Among them:

ape-shit
fuck me (when said in reaction to being startled, as in "oh, fuck me, I didn't see you there!" -- not meant as an invitation)
shit-eatin' grin
ass-pansy (courtesy of my newest roommate)
dumbass (somehow always brings a smile to my face)
I also can't seem to stop paying people the compliment that I find something they've done "badass."

I may need to add to this list as things come to me.

As I appreciate originality in profanity, so too do I appreciate it in its alternatives. One of my coworkers revealed today that she makes up her own harmless exclamations, and sometimes reaches into the annals of history to resurrect words that are no longer considered offensive. I find that sometimes we can use Britishisms, too, because they don't carry the weight here that they would across the pond. Some fun examples of these:

Newly made-up:
fart-knockers
frick-knickers

Historic:
blast
bother (from Winnie the Pooh, I believe)

British:
bloody
bollocks
bugger

There's also the Yosemite Sam Option, for you rootin' tootin' hombres out there: OooooooooRatsafrackinfreepanogginzortarrrrrrrrrrabbit! It helps if you jump up and down repeatedly while you shout this.

My alternative to taking the Lord's name in vain is to sound like a grandmother:
Oh my word!
Good heavens!

Or a kid from the '50s:
Uh, golly!
Geez!

I think I've thus far managed not to sound like Ned Flanders, but perhaps I'm kidding myself.

So, people, got any good ones I should add to my repertoire?

Another Trip to the Candy Store

More pictures for your viewing pleasure.

Here I am, in my natural dirty blonde, baking cookies with my cousin, Christy. Doesn't she look like she's up to something more? (Note to Christy: Cousin Karaoke will happen. Covering Spinal Tap shall remain on my to-do list as long as it takes!)

Eye Candy

Whaddup, peeps. Since I don't have a lot of stories to tell, I figured I'd give you something to look at to tide you over. I put some of these up on Flickr before, but was told they looked very small, so hopefully this go-round you'll actually be able to see what you're looking at. Some of these are from this past Christmas.

Here's my uncle looking like Santa. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, he likes to go up to children and say, "I know where you live."

A couple days after my hair turned red in a freak sitting-for-half-an-hour-while-my-cousin-dyed-it incident. If my posture looks wonky, it's because I'm leaning forward to pick up a present. Mom likes this shot a lot.

At first I thought this was just a picture of Annie and Casco, the family dogs, sitting by the window. Then I realized my dad is face-down on the dog bed. I don't know how to explain that to you.

I'm Gonna Be a Star!

And Baby, you can drive my car ;-).

My friend Ben, a.k.a. The Serial Killer, is taking film classes. Whew! I can hear you say. What a relief! This is evidence that he's not a serial killer, because film students are so normal. You all can rest easier with the assumption that if he's spending unusual amounts of time in a basement with video equipment, it's because he's doing something artsy.

In a previous post, I alluded to starring in one of his homework projects (I played a woman who arrived at a furniture store after it closed and called her boyfriend to tell him she couldn't get the chair he wanted. My performance was Oscar-worthy. Well, I haven't seen it, but surely it was Oscar-worthy. There was Drama.) I was paid in Mexican food ($7 enchilada plate -- score!).

Today, I had a bit part in another assignment. The shot took place in the future, and I got to wear a tinfoil hat. Tinfoil hat!

I'm enjoying that improv class, too. During drinks after class last night, one of the guys said I was good at it, noting that "not a lot of women are funny." I chose to take the compliment. No disrespect to all the funny ladies out there.

For most of my life, I'd ruled out acting. I did a couple years of drama club in junior high, and wanted to be in old-fashioned musicals, but was already focused on playing the trombone and told myself not to get distracted. Later, I was afraid I wasn't pretty enough. And then I assumed I didn't have acting talent.

God is erasing the big "NO" I've had written over that whole area. People keep asking me what I want to do and what I'm doing to actively pursue that goal, but this season is about broadening horizons, not narrowing them. I've begun telling people that I want to be a rock-star actress comedian writer, and I'm not really joking. I expect to pick up music again, and I DO want to write and perform/act/be on stage and somehow be involved with humor and comedy. Why not? I was the one who'd said no, not God.

As little opportunities come my way, I say yes. Yes to this blog. Yes to karaoke nights. Yes to improv.

Yes to tinfoil hats.

Hey There, Delilah

One of my new roommates has pets. There's Jake the dog, who's a big sweetie. And there's Delilah the cat. As many of you know, I lean more in the dog direction, but I have to say that Delilah is actually pretty cool. In fact, if I were to describe her in two words, they would be:

1. Freaking
2. Hilarious

You might say, "So she's funny, but looks aren't everything" (ba-dum ching!). To which I would reply: Yes, they are, and they are exactly what makes Delilah so funny. She has this flat face and squinty eyes and crazy fur. And no spine. She can lie on her back and roll up to lick any part of herself, and will let her legs point in any direction they want to to get the job done. I've never seen a cat do this. It doesn't exactly make her a role model for young ladies, but I find it highly entertaining.

I haven't quite figured out what kind of person I think she'd be like. So far the best I've come up with is Trailer Park Mama. Pretty laid back in the looks department -- curlers in her hair, great big pink mumu (moo-moo? how do you spell it? you know, those things that look like nightgowns) -- but perfectly friendly, happy to invite you in and share her beer.

My roommate is even writing a children's book about Delilah. I'll let you know when that comes to fruition. In the meantime, I'll leave you to ponder Delilah's self-grooming regimen. You know you were.

Three Days

If I shed the irony, will everybody cheer me? -- Barenaked Ladies

Two weeks ago tonight, I was in Connecticut, chilling at my parents' place before going on a weekend known as Tres Dias. It started out as a movement withing the Catholic church in Spain, where it was known as Cursillo, and Tres Dias is the ecumenical version. It is, as the name suggests (for those of you who figured out the Spanish), a three-day weekend. During this time, talks are given, chapel services held, discussions are had, and lots of food is eaten.

I didn't know what I was in for. My mom had done a weekend a couple years ago and really enjoyed it, and I was happy to go along and hang out with her and do whatever came my way. That turned out to be a pretty useful attitude; one of the oft-repeated phrases of the weekend is, Don't anticipate, participate! It gets annoying. But it's good for people who have control issues, or who, like me, tend to be so analytical that they don't fully engage.

I had to ditch a lot of things to engage in the weekend experience. Ironic detachment was a biggie. Normally, when given a Christian setting that involves butterflies and teddy bears, I would have shrunk back in aesthetic snobbery. But that didn't seem like the best plan here. I decided instead to dive in and accept things for what they were, not for what I wished they were. And I ended up receiving a lot.

What I heard were women sharing real stories of what a big, loving God had done in their lives. What I saw were women being loved by God and drawing pictures for Him to put on His fridge, and God loving every minute of it. And because I allowed myself to stop analyzing constantly (and was even partially successful!), and because I allowed myself to genuinely appreciate others' ideas and experiences and communication styles, I was able to take in the love of God in whatever form it came. So many times over the weekend, I found myself enjoying Jesus' love for me. I wanted to spray-paint His name on a water tower. I wanted to write "Jesus hearts Holly" all over my math notebook.

I wasn't able to keep analysis at bay forever, and I thought about what I'd say on my blog when I returned to Boston. I wondered what overview I could give, what jokes and clever turns of phrase I could make. I wondered how I could explain my experience to people who don't know Jesus and perhaps don't want to (although if you do want to and aren't sure what to do, I can introduce you -- there's nothing I'd like better!). But I realized that, while God gave me my senses of humor and irony, He also gave me a capacity for genuine feeling and expression. So, without irony, without apology, and without qualification:

I want Jesus so much.
I love Jesus SO MUCH.

I Am Not Dead

Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen,
I come to you after a long, unexplained absence. Sorry about that. Over the last three weeks, my activities have included, but not been limited to, the following:

-- moving across town
-- painting a room (my first time!)
-- getting paint in my hair
-- going on a Christian weekend with my mom
-- acting for - nay, starring in - a homework assignment for my friend's film class
-- plastering the seams of a temporary wall (another first!)
-- begin attending that improv class I told you all about
-- doing 8 bazillion loads of laundry, and only have about 400,000 to go.

So, I've been accumulating stories and amusing anecdotes and the deep thoughts you've come to expect, but haven't had the usual abundance of lounging time during which I could blog about it. I've kind of had a life! Crazy, huh? Don't worry, I'm still hoping to find some kind of balance between having a worthwhile existence and taking the time to tell everyone else about it.

I Am Still Employed

This is disappointing.

I'd been daydreaming about severance since last fall, when rumors started swirling about our division's impending sale to another company. In many ways, I've been ready to move on to more creative work for a long time, but I didn't have any other job to go to, or any real specific idea about what I wanted to do, or how to go about finding it. So I stayed put, thinking that if I could only get myself laid off, I'd have six glorious weeks to figure it out. It would also be a convenient time for God to drop something spiffy in my lap.

After holding out for months, waiting for blessed redundancy, the day finally came: The sale is final! Come to the office today to learn your fate! Several of my friends were told that they're only needed through September or December. But of course this isn't based on talent or commitment; it's based on whether they already have someone to do your job or not. Turns out there's no one quite like me. Darn my indispensability! I was offered a job, permanently. Rats and double rats.

So, on to Plan B. Whatever that is. At this point, it will mostly be prayer. Although I did sign up for a comic improv class this summer, which should be challenging and fun at least, and may lead me down unknown paths, perhaps even leading to physical injury.

Hey, disability leave!

Transition

Hi Everybody,
Thanks for bearing with my intermittent blogging. My current excuse is that I'm moving, and have been busy with related activities. I'll have to get back to you with a different excuse once I'm settled in the new place.

I promise I haven't forgotten about you all!

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

I got a new laptop! She's a Dell Project (RED) one, so she's a lovely deep red color -- a sleek Ferrari of a computer. Her name is Ruby Dell.

She's the second one. The first came a couple weeks ago, but it was in a bad way. The box was torn and the laptop beaten up so badly that it was bent. Bent. I couldn't have done that much damage if I'd jumped on it. Perhaps using Big Violent Gorilla Shipping Lines was a bad idea.

Dell was cool about replacing it, so now Ruby is here. I'll get it set up today. I'm not very computery, as you know, but she sure is pretty.

Sleeping Beauty

Or not.

The problem with being a grown-up is there's no where to take a nap.

We have an indoor plaza with an opaque glass ceiling and lots of tables and chairs where people from work eat lunch and hang out. I was down there just now, writing, and got sleepy. So I put my head down on my folded arms, on the table. I was quite enjoying myself when a guy wearing a suit and carrying a walkie-talkie rapped on the table to make sure I was OK. Naturally, I was composed, and was able to reassure him.

Or not. Perhaps I was a bit startled, had hair in my face and the print of my sweater on my forehead (no drool, though -- high five, Me!), and was only able to convince him I was fine because he really didn't feel like hanging around, anyway.

Either way, it was quite a nice way to spend a lunch hour.

My Chinese Haircut

You can get $20 haircuts in Chinatown! Risky, you ask? Perhaps. You're a lot of things, Holly, you may be thinking, but Chinese is not one of them.

You're right. Just about everything about the shape of my head and face is as far from Asian as you can get. But my stylist was cool, and she didn't steer me wrong. I got tons of compliments on the cut she gave me back in September. That was all I needed to be convinced it was a good idea.

I went back today, to the same woman. She said she liked my hair color. "The real color or the dyed color?" I had to ask. Answer: The real color! And here I was thinking it was mousy. I'm not sure what mousy really means, but my hair has been in this awkward transition between blonde and brown for the last several years, and mousy somehow seems to apply.

Apparently, though, lots of Asian girls try to get their hair dyed my color, and it's pretty difficult to do when the original color is very dark. They're also quite big on light skin in Asia, aren't they? My Chinese roommate once told me that pronounced (rather than flat) noses are seen as a sign of nobility. And she said that there's a disturbing trend where Asian women get creases added to their eyelids to make them appear Western.

Fair hair, pale skin, pronounced noses, Western eyes. You know what all this adds up to, right? Me! All this time, I've been a hot Asian chick and I had no idea. Why didn't I learn all this sooner? I could be on a tour of the Far East right now.

I'm Gonna SUE My Ass!

Several rumors are about to be started about me, by me, as I think of them. Here's what I've got so far:

Holly is not my real name. I can't tell you what my real name is, because it's so secret even I don't know it.

I smell faintly of tuna.

Even my very limited creativity can be directly attributed to absinthe. And literal green fairies who visit my room when I try to sleep. They leave turds.

I'm a quiet, polite neighbor who keeps to herself.
Corollary: Pets and deliverymen have been reported missing after last being seen near my home.

I give raisins on Halloween.

I used freelance musicianship as a front for laundering miniscule amounts of money.

I've been photographed romping on the beach with Owen Wilson and Matthew McConaughey -- and I had cellulite! Tabloids have declared me unforgiveably fat. Although I was labelled a "mystery woman," no one suspected either actor of actually dating me.

The Screaming Burrito

For this momentous occasion, I'm using a font with a fancy name: Lucida Grande.

On Friday, April 25, 2008, at 5:49am, my nephew came into the world. Hi, new nephew! Both baby and mama are doing fine. Dad and grandparents are all happy. Aunt is happy, and kind of relieved that she didn't break anything when she held him. Also relieved he didn't hate me and cry nonstop. Off to a good start.

The Neph looks like Baby. It'll take some time before we start to see what's disctinctive about his appearance. He does have a full head of dark hair, though. I predict he'll be built like his dad, but with his mom's face. You heard it here first, folks.

He didn't cry much while we extended family were around, but apparently he does his share of it at night, when big people are inclined to sleep. When he was first born, he was of course not the happiest of campers. They wrapped him up in a blanket, and there's a picture of the wrapping with a wailing baby head sticking out of it. His dad called him a screaming burrito. And so the nicknaming begins.

Actually, that's not true. This kid's had nicknames for months.

Jokes My Brother Didn't Make for Fear of Being Physically Assaulted/Reported to the Police by Concerned Hospital Workers:
To his wife, between contractions: "You're not handling this very well."
To the social worker who came to see if my sister-in-law might develop post-partum depression:
"My wife has beaten me twice already."
To anybody: "Those soft spots on his head? They're for shock absorption!"

Jokes I Didn't Make for the Same Reasons:
To the women at the nurses' station: "Do you have any white babies for sale?"
Had I been caught while smuggling champagne in for the new parents: "Oh, this? Anesthetic and sterilization in one! You're not going to confiscate my steak knife and drop cloth, are you?"

Do we ooze responsibility or what?