Like Big Bird!

I caught a bit of a PBS show about whether birds evolved from dinosaurs. They say a whole mess of dinosaurs, including T-Rex, could have had feathers. I like that. Makes them friendlier somehow. Any chance they could have been yellow and sung songs with grouches?

I like eating dinosaurs
That's what I like to do
And when I'm done I brush my teeth
Like mommy told me to

Meat is what I like to chew
I tear into the flesh
And then I use a toothpaste
To keep me minty fresh

My days are full of hunting
Some roaring and some stomps
And nightly oral hygiene
To give me healthy chomps

I might be big, I might be strong
Everybody's scared of me
But at night I still come home
To my T-Rex mommy

Killing Cereal

We had snacks at work again today.

Snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks .

Which brings me to a little promise I made last week and quickly forgot about: To tell you how my coworkers and I decided Ben could be serial killer. I'd sent around this link:
http://www.malevole.com/mv/misc/killerquiz

Feel free to take the quiz. I got 7 out of 10 (not bad!). It shows pictures of serial killers and computer programming language inventors, and you have to guess who's who. We were talking about the pictures, and Chris says Ben fits the profile -- smart, white, polite.

Ben, concerned and wondering whether he should be offended, says, "You think I look like a computer programmer?"

Because I Don't Have Much Else to Say...

I'll just clarify that I may have the heart and mind of a poet, but I haven't done the work of one. So, to be fair to my friends who are true poets, perhaps I shouldn't declare myself one yet. Perhaps I'm more of a coccooned poet. My fear of cliche has kept me from seriously trying my hand at it. My experience last week made me think it could be worth getting over the fear, though.

I also learned that poetry can be much easier to appreciate when it's read aloud. I'd heard that poetry is meant to be read aloud, which always struck me as odd. Now I see how much a live performance can bring to it! It was quite fun. I'd recommend it, even to those who don't think they'd like it. You might be pleasantly surprised. Maybe not. But maybe yes :-).

Slammin' Poetry

I went to an open mic poetry night last week. Isn't that one of the most Cambridgy things you can possibly do? Anyway, in the hours I was there, my thoughts followed a progression something like this:

I'm not a poet.

I don't want to be a poet.

Damn it, I'm a poet!

Maybe I'm Janice

Have I done a Muppet post yet?

A girl I used to work with sent me photocopied pages from a book she owns called Sesame Street: Unpaved. She did it because of the recent presidential primaries; there's a particular Muppet she thinks looks like Mitt Romney. Can you guess who it is? I'll tell you at the end of the post.

Anyway, I had this Muppet's picture up in my cube, and Ben (the serial killer) comes over and we talk for a bit. Then he says, "I'm looking at this picture, and I'm looking at you..."
"Do you think I look like him?"
"Not completely. Your eyes aren't flat. And your face isn't fuzzy"

Don't let that throw you off in your guessing, folks. Ben also thought I resembled the computer wallpaper I had a couple months ago. It was a picture of a polar bear.

I do bear a few resemblances to a Muppet, though they're not necessarily physical. I like to sing and dance, and I've always wanted to be on a variety show. I'd like to take Manhattan someday. If I'm ever in a rock band, I'd want it to be the Electric Mayhem.

I think if I were to have a crush on a Muppet, I might pick Rolf. Although Animal could be a very fun date.

OK, ready to find out who's on my cube wall? It's Guy Smiley. Raise your hand if you called it!

Snack Time

I wake up every morning in a bed that's too small, drive my daughter to a school that's too expensive, and then I go to work to a job for which I get paid too little, but on pretzel day? Well, I like pretzel day. --Stanley Hudson, The Office

Today it's snowing in New England. It's a gentle snow, but long and steady enough for long-distance public transportation to be disrupted, and for my office to close early. Woo! Slightly less woo: I was so hungry that I went and bought a panini. By the time I got back, we'd all received notice that the office was closing immediately. I could have saved five bucks! Then my coworker, Ben, comes over and says, "Not to make you feel like your purchase was even less necessary, but snacks are here."

We get snacks every Friday at 2pm. My coworkers and I like snacks very much. Our jobs involve very little live interaction with others of the human kind, so when snack time rolls around, we'll often spend a whole hour, talking and laughing and distracting other people from their work. Snacks are very important to us. We like snacks.

Today, it became apparent to all of us just where snacks stood on our priority list. We'd just been released early from work on a Friday, and with the rest of the office deserted, we go have snacks. They'd been set out at the time of the announcement -- too late to take them back, but not important enough for anyone to stay for -- except us. We had them almost entirely to ourselves! Glorious abundance! I even brought some home.

Snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks.

Perhaps I'll tell you all later about how our conversation revolved around Ben fitting the profile of a serial killer. But more the basement kind, not the snapping-at-the-office kind, so we think we're OK.

Mono: Molto Bene?

Has anybody out there ever had Mononucleosis, a.k.a. mono? I've often thought that would be a great illness for me. I'm very good at sitting around. And do you know if you can get disability pay while you have it? Wow, that could be a real kick-start to the writing career. I'm going to give this some serious consideration.

I've never had it, though, so I don't know what it's like. Do you just get weak, or do you actually suffer? I only want to be sick if it's fun.

Incontinental

Another installment of Things You Don't Want to Hear Over an Airplane Intercom:

"I can't believe you said that, Kevin! You're the most inconsiderate co-pilot ever. I'm so distraught I don't know if I can land this thing... No, I'm not speaking to you anymore... Hello, control tower? Would you tell my co-pilot to prepare for our descent? And would you tell him to make the announcement to the passengers and crew, if he's not too self-absorbed to do so?... What, the speaker has been on the whole time? Why didn't you tell me? I hate you! I hate you all!"

And in other news, I read that scientists have discovered a fossil that indicates bats developed flight before they developed sonar (I assume this is from an evolutionary perspective, not a life-cycle-of-every-bat perspective). I'm picturing a bunch of bats smacking into cave walls, getting really ticked off. Surely there's a metaphor in here somewhere, no? I'll let you decide how it would apply to you, but here's what I think of myself: My sonar is better than I (and even other people) have given it credit for, and I'm learning to trust it more. A few cave-smacks and some loud interference shook my confidence, but I'm coming back, baby!

Brotherly Love

The family was together at my parents' home this weekend. My brother and his wife are in the process of closing on their first home and all sorts of impressive grown-up activities. She's coordinating the bulk of it while he's in various other parts of the country, finishing up his training. Don't let all her brains and ability fool you, though. Sure, my brother was attracted to her strong character and intelligence, but I once heard him claim that he knew she was The One when they went to see Jackass, The Movie, and instead of squirming or being offended, she laughed her jackass off.

L is sometimes fascinated/appalled at our brother-sister dynamic. (She's an only child. She says her parents felt no need to mess with perfection.) Yesterday morning, J had made some hot cereal and couldn't finish it all, so he pushed it in my direction because I was hungry, saying, "I guess you'll want your own spoon."
"Oh, I'm not picky..." and I looked up to see him, eyes wide with sadistic glee (his usual expression), licking his spoon exaggeratedly. Liiiiiick. "You still want it?" Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. "You still want it?" If even I wasn't grossed out at this point, it was a matter of honor to get up and get my own clean spoon.
"Just trying to help you make a decision," he said. "You seemed to be having some trouble there." L shook her head.
I explained, "You learn to receive affection differently when you have a brother. There was one Thanksgiving when he threw a roll at me across the table."
"I remember that," J chimed in helpfully.
I went on, "People think it's bad that he threw something at me. But he did it because he knew I liked rolls." Some see a projectile. I saw a young man giving up food from his own plate. Brings a tear to the eye, does it not?

Thinking about this does bring up a question for me. J, if you're reading this, do you remember: Did I catch the roll? My ego wants to know.

Here are some of the other services my brother provides:

- He points out when I'm doing or saying something stupid.
- He tells me when I look bad before I take myself in public (L is also happy to help in this regard)
- He offers to "talk to" people who insult me (though he may feel as territorial as protective -- dissing me is, after all, his job).
- He teaches me to cheat at party games -- with flair! (He taught me so well, in fact, that during a game of Scattergories, when we had to come up with a President whose name started with the letter I, he and I both came up with "I-senhower.")
- He keeps an eye on me when I go drinking. Though this may be largely for his own amusement. And he's as likely as not to say, "Do you think he's cute? Then finish your drink and go talk to him," and push me toward the bar.

All in all, a pretty useful guy to have around.

Mobile Isolation

Today I'm washing my winter coat. It's a great coat. Not great-looking, necessarily. It's this long, massive down number, the warmest L.L.Bean had in its arsenal. I tend to be cold anyway, so I sacrificed fashion for utility. Not that I noticed the sacrifice right away. At first, I told myself that the look was still beautiful, in an unconventional way. I called it Sexy Eskimo, and I imgined myself strutting down the street accompanied by wah-wah trumpest, a la Bugs Bunny when he put on lipstick. Or like those stunning Russian women in the fur hats.

Then I saw myself.

I caught a glimpse of my own image as I passed by a mirrored building on my way to the subway after work. There was something familiar about it, and I realized: I'm the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come! A frumpy conical monolith, shrouded in mystery and periwinkle, impervious to the scrutiny of stylish but freezing Bostonians around me. In this glorious garment, I'm aware of the cold only on a detached, intellectual level. I'm oblivious to snow, rain, wind, and oncoming traffic.

Mom's not happy about that last bit. The hood comes well in front of my face, cutting off all peripheral vision and a fair bit of sound. I have to turn the upper half of my body a full forty-five degrees to see if cars are coming or to make sure I haven't lost my walking companions. It's my own cozy little world.

I'm way too comfortable to care that I look somewhat less than fabulous. I'll be fabulous in the Spring. Then the danger won't be my walking in front of cars. It will be all the men walking in front of cars because they're staring at me.

Humor me on that.

I'd Like to Bring My Bankie to Meetings

We do boxing at my gym twice a week. A few sessions ago, I was paired with a girl who works with children, and is getting her Master's degree in business management. I wonder if one is good preparation for the other. Are we really all that different from kids, after all? We're cranky when we're tired, impatient when we're hungry, and we get all happy when others give us hugs, praise, or cookies. The biggest change for me is that these days I'd love to be told to take an afternoon nap. I like the idea of our childishness being overt:

"If we transmit the files on 4/15, we should be in good shape to... Johnson, Smith! What's going on back there?"

"Nothing."

"Am I going to have to separate you two?"

"No."

"OK... So, we should be in good shape..."

"Ow!"

"That's it! What's going on?"

"He bit me."

"Johnson, what did I say before?"

"No biting."

"And what did I say would happen if you did it again?"

"I wouldn't get to go to the sales conference in Florida."

"So what's going to happen now?"

"But it's not fair! He started it!"

"I don't care what he did. We don't bite in the office, do we?"

"No."

"No sales conference for you."

"This is so unfair."

"Life isn't fair. And don't give me that face."

"Ha!"

"Smith, this isn't funny. You'll stay late for the rest of the week."

"Aw, man!"

"I'm pinning this note to your lapel. Have your wife sign it. Or do I have to call her?"

"No."

"Good. I know neither of you likes this now, but you'll thank me when you're middle management."

Ancient Wisdom

I was introduced to "Ask a Ninja" last week. How long has that been around, and why did it take this long for someone to open my eyes to its brilliance? If you haven't seen these YouTube masterpieces, allow me to whet your appetite with this useful gem, a Ninja Pickup Line:

From across the room, I thought your body was punching. But now, up close, I can see that it's kickin'.

Typo

During an IM exchange with my supervisor a while back, my fingers goofed. Instead of "got it," I keyed in, "go tit."

Whoopsy.

Mr. Mom

Today I forwarded am email I got, full of random bits of advice. My Dad, who is rarely online, read it and replied that he was really excited to try the method for cleaning the lint filter on the dryer. This was not a joke. Dad has taken over more and more of the housekeeping duties over the last 20 years. It started when we moved from Germany to Maryland, and he began doing the grocery shopping at the military base where he worked because it was less expensive than the civilian stores we lived near. When he became a firefighter, he had more days at home than my mom, so he kept it up.

Dad has his special -- oh, let's just call it anal -- way of doing things. By the time I was in grad school, he was cleaning the bathrooms proudly. One day I came downstairs and saw a washcloth sitting on the kitchen counter. "Dad, is that the cloth you just used to clean the toilets?" "Yeah." "It's on the counter where we put our food." "Hey! Those toilets are the cleanest things in this house!" It was probably true, but I bet you'll hesitate now if I invite you over for Thanksgiving.

He has a sponge system -- this sponge for dishes, that rag for counters. And a towel system -- this towel for hands, that towel for surfaces. I mess it all up when I come home. It's great, because it usually ends up with him doing things himself if he wants them done right, and I get to do what I do best: Watch TV in the other room. Or sit at the table and tell stupid stories while he's trying to concentrate on getting a ring out of the cherry-wood island. Or anything that doesn't require a toilets-cleaner-than-counter-tops mentality.

Maybe it's military discipline that just sticks with a guy. My brother certainly is becoming more Dad-like that way. I'd just assumed it was latent genetics.

Anyway, Dad was quite appreciative of all the little household hints in the email. I wrote back to remind him not to forget the tip about placing a safety pin in your slip to keep your skirt from getting clingy. His response: "That's an old one -- been doin' that for years!" Apparently these are the pearls of wisdom a man picks up during fifteen years on the fire department. Those guys are all kinds of useful.

Miscellany

"Those cold temperatures, plus that precipitation -- that'll make the snow."
Gotta love the weather man.

"It's mostly the sandwich tray. That's the big news I wanted to share with you. There were over thirty sandwiches!"
-- My supervisor, brining me up to speed after Thanksgiving break, when he was one of the only people in the office.

I wore a red sweater, and my roommate started singing "Lady in Red." I've rewritten the lyrics to make it more appropriate:
The lady in red
Is covered in wool (head to toe)
It's three inches thick
So she won't get cold
And I hardly know
This woman by my side
Under that sweater, I can't see
The way you look tonight

But Perhaps I'm Too Picky

I just saw a bit of an adaptation of "Pride and Prejudice" on TV, and am struck by the following thought:

If I ever receive a marriage proposal, I really, really hope it does not begin with the words, "My dear cousin..."

The Retirement Jeep and Other Stories

My parents just ordered a new car. It'll be a candy-apple red Jeep Liberty with "all the bells and whistles." With my parents, that could mean actual bells and whistles. But I'm told it also includes GPS. It's not quite the GPS my Mom would like, though. It'll probably be all polite, and she anticipates that being ineffective. What she would prefer is more along the lines of Global Positioning Sarcasm: "You missed the turn, idiot! Did I stutter? Now we're going to have to go a half hour out of our way. I'm not going to be the one to tell your husband why we're late getting home." Perhaps she knows she's likely to get mad at it, and wants it to give her a good reason.

Mom tends to get lost. [I have her permission to share this. We share the same priorities: Funny trumps Embarrassing. By a LOT.] She grew up in North Dakota, where everything is straight, flat, and laid out in squares. You can see a silo 30 miles in the distance, aim toward it with your car/plane/buffalo, and get there. One can easily imagine, then, how more haphazard layouts might be confusing to someone used to that kind open terrain. Haphazard layouts. Hmm, where might one find those? Let's pick a place at random-- say, Europe. Oh, hey, it just so happens Mom got lost in Europe! Who saw that coincidence coming?

One summer, when we were living in Germany, Mom loaded up the dog, my brother and me for a vacation to Belgium and Luxembourg. [A little tip for the travelers among you: Don't go there unless your idea of fun is not having fun.] So, we're driving through Germany, through lots of little towns. On a tiny street in a tiny town, there's a little booth with a bar that lifts, like you'd see upon exiting a parking garage. It's empty, and the bar is up. That was odd. We drive some more, and some more. We haven't seen signs in ages. How long does Germany go, anyway? When will there be a sign telling us where we are? Eventually we make it into a city, and start trying to find out where we are. Not so easy when you don't speak the language. Finally, we manage to figure out that we're in Luxembourg City. In case you didn't major in Geography, I'll let you in on a little-known fact: That's not in Germany. I know, where's the logic? Turns out it's the capital of Luxembourg. We were in the capital, and we didn't even know we were in the country.

It's kind of understandable, though, because Luxembourg is small. What's much more impressive is that we once accidentally almost went to Canada. I had spent the summer in Maine, doing music stuff. Mom came to take me home. A couple hours into the trip, we stopped to eat, then headed back on our way. I noticed we seemed to be passing a lot of the same towns we'd passed before lunch. We looked, and we were heading South, the correct direction to for getting to Connecticut. How was this happening? Then we realized: It was happening because we'd spent the first two hours of the trip heading in the wrong direction. Looking at a map, we saw that we'd almost hit Canada. Four hours after our initial departure, we get back our starting point and Mom sends me to a pay phone to call Dad and tell him we'll be late, with an added command: "Don't tell him what we did." How am I supposed to pull that off without lying? So I call, and say, "Dad, we're leaving Hancock now." "I thought you were leaving at noon!" "Yeah, uh, we're leaving now." "OK." Close call.

Yeah, with or without the sarcasm, that GPS is a good idea.

Upon reflection, it's also apparent that I'm not the most useful person to have as a passenger.

Things I'm Bad At

Finding Stuff. Doesn't seem to matter what it is. When my brother and I were kids and hunting for Easter eggs, he'd find them in places I'd just looked in and passed over. This once happened with a whole frigging basket. How do you miss a basket?
Fast forward 25 years, and I'm digging through electronic storage sites, looking for files. Still can't find them.

Taking compliments. Oh, I'm excellent at fishing for them, I just can't take them. Self-deprecation, if not my native tongue, is certainly my primary language now. It took me years to realize that disagreeing with compliments insulted the giver, not just myself.
Although, there was one time as a kid when I went in the opposite direction. I was about 4, and wearing a pink dress. A woman behind a counter told me I looked pretty, and I said, "I know." What? What's wrong with that?

Laser Tag. I was so bad I didn't know I was bad, until it was finished and we were handed our scores. Some people had 4-digit scores. Mine was 43. Can you die and stay dead in laser tag? Maybe I was dead.

Anything requiring upper-body strength. Now that you've had access to pictures, that shouldn't surprise you. Arms like toothpicks. It's a wonder I can lift my own hands.

Cleaning. This is probably because dirt, frankly, doesn't bother me all that much.

Liking vegetables. Never been a fan of the veggies. Better to accept the truth than live in denial. To be fair, though, they're awfully strict with the rules. My favorite plant-based foods are not considered vegetables. Peanut butter (from peanuts!) and chocolate (from cocoa beans!) and cows (from hay!) are all, apparently, in other parts of the food pyramid.

Fun With Convalescence

I have a health issue that required surgery a few months ago. Don't worry, it's nothing life-threatening. I won't get into details here because it gets weird, but it's not necessary for anyone to know what's wrong to appreciate the point I'm going to make. And my point is this: Surgery was awesome. I loved the whole process. There was almost no pain afterward, but I was told to take several days before returning to work, mostly to recover from the anesthesia. I was also ordered to wear sweat pants for a while.

So, let's look at this summed up:

-- I take a nap while the doctors do all the work.
-- I awaken and get immediately doped up with pain meds.
-- I get a week off work.
-- My parents take me home and spend the whole time saying either, "Don't get up," or, "Go lie back down."
-- I get pictures of my insides that look like Mars from a distance. (I almost wanted to put them up on the wall of my cube, just to see if anyone would mistake it for outer, rather than inner, space.)

Um, can I have this bi-monthly, please?

You can imagine my excitement, then, when it turned out my health issue hasn't been resolved and I'm going to get to do this all again. It'll probably all go down around the end of March. Warm up the couch, Mom, my butt's going to be planted on it soon!

Worth noting: I mentioned briefly in a previous post that I salivate at the thought of severance pay. Now you know I look forward to surgery largely because it gets me a week off work. It's not like they torture me there or anything, but surely this is indicative of a need to move on. My church, during what is traditionally the season of Lent, does what it calls 40 Days of Faith. During these 40 days, each person is supposed to ask God for something really big, something that requires a lot of trust on our part. So today, on Ash Wednesday, I present my request: Lord, I pray for a job that's more fun than surgery.

Another Try With the Photos

OK, at the suggestion of the lovely Sylvia, I put some photos up on Flickr. I haven't figured out how to get them onto the blog, but I've got a web address where you can go see them. I also haven't been able to make it a live link yet. Sorry I'm so bad at this, guys. But at least it's a step. Can you copy and paste this?

http://www.flickr.com/photos/laughholly/

Let me know how this works!

The Picture My Mom Likes

We interrupt our series of Things That May Be Obvious to You But Were Revelations to Me, But Hey, at Least I Learned Them Eventually, Right? to bring you the first pictures on this blog! Because I know what you've been thinking: Boy, that Holly sure is smart, funny, spiritual, and lots of other flattering adjectives that she's too lazy to type about herself. But, is she hot?

The answer is yes. Duh. But because I believe in letting you think for yourselves, I'll post some photos and you can decide. I also believe in helping people, though, so I'll help you decide: You think I'm pretty.

OK, here we go...




And so you can see, here's my natural hair color, next to the cousin who's responsible for the red:




We're baking cookies!

OK, these images are looking awfully small, and I don't know how to make them larger without them getting all pixel-y. So, you can't see any of this very well. Sorry, still working out all this tech stuff.

Captain Obvious, Part III

Before I go on to the third thing I learned, I'd like to ask if Part II made sense to you all. I'm not sure I made my point well, or if it was even clear what my point was. I guess my point was twofold: 1. Even if you're not incredibly skilled in an area, if you're strongly inclined in a particular direction, you'd do well to pursue it at least to a small degree, even it's not on a professional level. 2. I've come to believe that, at least in the case of writing, I do possess some skill, and that I'm not chasing a dream that can't -- or even shouldn't -- happen.

I don't know how you tell the difference between pursuing your dream in the face of doubters who are wrong and doubters who are right. I think that's where my next point comes in:

Lesson 3: God is in this. I've always had a notion of honoring God with my work, but it's a bit new to me to think that I honor Him most when I try to pursue work that aligns with the way He made me, and that that will be a source of joy for me. I think it can be tempting in our culture to believe that practical work is the most useful, the most helpful to society, and creative or entertaining work is diverting at best, self-indulgent and corrupting at worst. I have a fair bit to say about that, but my main point here is that God made you how He made you, and He intends to use that, whatever it is. For myself, I've come to believe in the value of entertainment and laughter, both as a spoonful of sugar for conveying serious thoughts, and also as ends in themselves. I see how much I turn to these things myself, and I'm not sorry that other people took the time to create them. I want to do the same for others. There's so much that weighs people down. Comedy may seem like a balloon, a bright, colorful bubble with no substance, but sometimes such balloons keep people from sinking. Not forever, of course, but they help.
I tend to be cynical about fridge-magnet sayings like "Believe in your dreams!" And as a Christian, I used to dismiss "Believe in yourself" as ungodly humanism. But I now see truth and value in both attitudes. I do God no favors by disregarding the dreams He's put in me, the skills He's allowed me to acquire, and the character He's built up in me. I choose to believe in my dreams and in myself because God created both of them.

Captain Obvious, Part II

Hello, boys and girls, and welcome to Holly's Life Lessons That You May Have Known Already. Last time, you'll remember we talked about how our seemingly silly childhood pleasures give us insight into our core traits. Today's lesson is about how we can take our natural inclinations seriously.

Lesson 2: Perhaps we're not kidding ourselves. Every year, American Idol starts with dozens of laughable auditions from people who really shouldn't be there. They've dreamed of this moment their whole lives, only to be put on TV for the rest of us to mock. If we're supposed to pay attention to what we enjoyed as kids, how are we to avoid pursuing dreams which we can't back up with talent or skill?
A year ago, I knew I liked humor and writing, and was pretty sure I was good at it. But what if I was wrong? Doesn't everyone think they could write Top 10 lists for David Letterman? Few probably can, and I suspect I am one of those few, but how can one really know?
After this past year, I arrived at this answer: Even if I'm deluded about how my skill compares to that of other people, I'm still better at writing than I am at most other activities (e.g. doing my taxes, astrophysics), and I'm more likely to find fulfillment in work that involves my core traits. And there's a place for the opinions of other people. Most of the bad performers we see on American Idol probably haven't sought much criticism from people who truly know good singing. And those who had received input -- and found it to be positive --probably received it from people who aren't qualified to judge singing ability and star power. I've received praise from people whose opinions I trust, so I've decided to stop asking whether I have any business trying to be a writer, and to instead get on with the trying.
Of course, you, my readers, will undoubtedly have an opinion on this. So if you think it's OK for me to quit my day job, but only if I do so to take another day job, feel free to speak up. Your validation will come should I ever be laughed off of Literary Idol.

Captain Obvious is a Wise and Insightful Fellow

It occurred to me a couple nights ago that you may be wondering what I was doing with myself during my year away from this blog. Well, for one thing, I did some vocational counseling. I loved it. Among the things I learned:

-- I like writing.
-- I like it when things are funny.
-- I like an audience.

You may be wondering why it took professionals to help me see what any one of you could have told me back in 2006. So I'll be a little less flippant now and tell you, on a deeper level, what I learned.

Lesson 1: That stuff we long-ago dismissed as silly isn't silly. You know how you wanted to be Evel Knievel or Dorothy Hammil or Luke Skywalker when you were a kid? Did you spend your summer hours on your driveway, pretending you were them? What did you enjoy about that -- the thrill of physical risk, the pretty pink skirt, almost kissing your sister because you didn't find out she was your sister till Return of the Jedi? Did you enjoy competition, wish for an audience, or love rounding up the younger kids next door to be Storm Troopers? There's something worth noting in all of that, and at your core, you still carry around most of those traits. Today, you may drool at the idea of extreme sports, or like getting dressed up for a party. (If you're still trying to kiss your sister, though, I recommend moving out of the family house NOW.) You may assume everyone in the world daydreams about what you daydream about, but it's not true. I, for example, have zero desire to take my bike of any sweet jumps. If you do, then you can acknowledge that desire as a God-given (albeit insane) trait, rather than dismissing it as a silly childhood pursuit. It doesn't have to remain in your childhood, either. Who says you can't hit a mountain biking trail, just because you're older and (hopefully) more mature and (possibly) decrepit?
When I was a kid, one of the things I wanted to do most was be in musicals -- singing, dancing, acting -- "doing it all." Once I hit sixth grade, I was giving myself to tromboney activities to the exclusion of nearly everything else, but what remained the same was this: I am a natural performer. Whether anybody likes what I do is another matter, but even my coworkers at my decidedly non-showy office job can attest to the fact that no matter how you slice me, I'm still a ham.

As you might guess from the fact that I numbered the above lesson, I learned more than one thing throughout the vocational counseling process. However, I don't want to flush my writing career down the toilet with a case of carpal tunnel from trying to cram a year's worth of lessons into one blog post. I feel a Post in Installments coming on. Besides, I wouldn't want to tax your attention spans;-).