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?

Auntiferous

My nephew is now expected to arrive on Friday. All four grandparents and I are planning on being at the hospital for the Blessed Event.

I was never baby-crazy, but since I received the news that I would be an aunt, I've really been looking forward to having a kid to mess up. I have stupid jokes I want to teach him. And, as I think about it, I realize kids and I like a lot of the same things: Candy, crayons, cartoons. That should occupy some fun days out. And then I can drop him back off with his parents. "OK, so he's had a gallon of ice cream, and then we rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. He could use a good hosing down and probably a trip to the dentist. Bye!"

If I ever become a mom, I'll have to get my act together. But when you're an aunt, you get to be eccentric. I can fly around the world, have exotic pets, wear big hats, buy him noisy presents. This kid's gonna love me.

On a more serious note, though, it's gotta be good for a kid to have a whole ring of (mostly) responsible adults who love him and have his best interests at heart. I'd like to be the kind of aunt he can talk to when he likes a girl or gets into trouble (hopefully not in the same conversation). And if he turns out to be shy and nerdy, he'll have a grown-up to relate to ;-).

Before all that happens, though, his parents will need extra hands to change diapers. So here's to being barfed and pooped on. Stinkiness, here I come!

Dangling a Carrot

My sister-in-law is expecting a baby boy, and we've reached the point where he should show up any day now. We're all waiting for the phone call. She and my brother are concerned about the timing, though, because his flight schedule is erratic and he really, really, really wants to be there for the birth. Thanks to modern medicine, inducing may be an option, but wouldn't it be nice if the little tyke could be coaxed out more gently?

Let's consider the gene pool from which he springs. I bet if you wave around a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and a foot-long roast beef sub, that guy will make his way out in a right hurry. Here, baby baby baby! Come get the pretty drink and gum the yummy sandwich!

All That and a Bag of Chips

There's a cabinet at work on which people place free food. It's a happy place. I left work around 5:40 today, and happened to walk by the cabinet. There were three little bags of chips, and most of the workforce had left already. Ha!

Ben the Serial Killer was standing there, reading. "Do you think it would be bad for me to take two bags?" I asked.

"As long as you don't take both of the barbecue ones," he replied, while taking one himself.

"So as long as my selfishness and your selfishness don't conflict, we're fine."

"You know, that's one theory about the foundation of morality. It's called Enlightened Self-Interest."

"I don't know how enlightened it was of me to take two bags of chips..."

"...but it was definitely self-serving..."

"...so I'm halfway there!"

I served myself well, too. Those chips and a bottle of chocolate milk were my dinner.

Inner Space

I read something last week about how skinny people could be obese without knowing it. It has to do with percentage of body fat. I guess that makes sense -- if you weigh 125 pounds, and have no muscle to speak of and teeny-weeny bones, then you could have 40% body fat and be dangerously unhealthy. And you wouldn't know, because it's all on the inside somewhere.

Obviously, I don't have all the facts on this. And I read it on the Internet, a blurb which was in turn taken from a morning news program, which probably had precious few facts in it anyway. So don't go panicking because of what you read here. Unless you struggle with weight, and you're relishing the idea that those obnoxiously skinny people around you could be fat and not know it. If that's you, go ahead and enjoy this.

This all made me wonder if I'm unhealthy. What if I have secret Inner Body Fat? Around my heart, between my ears, in my toes -- it could be anywhere! There's some test where they send sound waves or something through you, and see where they find resistance. I don't have access to that. You'll just have to drop me in a pool and see if I float. Like a duck, or very small rocks. Or fry me up and see how much I sizzle. Cuz I'm hot, baby ;-).

Cute in Hats

I have an unwritten list of things I want to do when I have disposable income. Near the top: Wear hats. Why would it cost money to wear hats? you may ask. Answer: It doesn't. But it costs money to buy them. And, unlike umbrellas, you can't just pick them up for free at restaurant coat checks. You have to find ones that look good on you and don't have lice.

For many a year, I assumed I wouldn't look good in hats. Boy, was I wrong! I look freaking amazing. It's a bit of a shame we don't live in a hat-wearing society. Sixty years ago, everybody wore one. Now, unless it's a baseball cap and you're moving furniture, you probably don't sport any head gear. It takes some free-spiritedness. But I feel ready! Even if it turns out I can't pull it off as well as I think I can, I'll never find out if I don't try. But I need money. Dagnabbit.

You know what I don't look good in? Lace. Makes me look like a librarian. Not the secretly sexy kind, either. The kind who shushes you all the time, and really, really means it. I think it's because I'm bony. The ironically square look looks unironic on me. Mary Janes? Forget it. I might turn a few heads, but only because people would be checking to see if I had a literal stick coming out of my ass.

Though that would give me something to hang my hat on.

Night of Debauchery

Misten and I went out again on Friday. A run-down:

-- Got dolled up in cute '40s-style dress.
-- Went to pricey but super-yummy Italian restaurant.
-- Ordered way too much super-yummy food, and ended up with massive bag of leftovers for super-yummy lunches throughout the week. Not used to spending so much money on myself.
-- Stayed till restaurant closed at 11:30.
-- Went to bar down the street.
-- Was confused that the stamp on my hand didn't show up.
-- Was introduced to the wonder that is the black light, under which stamp miraculously appeared while others laughed "with" me.
-- Settled in with my drink, when Misten asked me, "Holly, do you notice anything about everybody here?" I looked up for the first time. "All the men appear to be together," I said. "Yeah," she said, laughing. The place had been my idea. I'd managed to take her to a gay bar.
-- Upon realizing that no man in the room would be interested in me, I began slouching comfortably.
-- Was devastated to notice I'd left my bag of glorious leftovers at the now-closed restaurant. Four days later, I'm still mourning this loss.
-- Stayed at gay bar till after 1am. The subway stops running at 1. Oopsy. Misten is unruffled.
-- Misten is stopped twice by men with cameras who want their picture taken with her because she is "beautiful beyond belief." Yay, Misten!
-- Misten has brainstorm and suggests we stay in a hotel instead of taking cabs home. Spend more money on said room. It's pretty swanky, though.
-- Stay up till 3 or 4am talking. In spite of good conversation, my eyes are crossing from alcohol and exhaustion.
-- Woke up. Drank some water and threw it up. Guess I should have hydrated a bit more the night before. Lesson learned.

So, there you go. Had so much fun I didn't go home. Spent more in one night than I usually spend on fun in a week, or even a month. Did something spontaneous. Threw up.

I'm learning, friends. I'm learning.

Stalking Derek Jeter

We'll see if having Mr. Jeter's name in this post causes more Googlers to land on my blog. This isn't just a cheap ploy, however. It's legit. And it's my friend's fault.

Two-and-a-half years ago, I temped with a girl I shall call "Misten." She's a lot younger than I. In fact, I'm closer to her mother's age than to hers. She has an uncle younger than I am! We once had a conversation about how, as a thirty-something woman, in Medieval times I'd probably be a grandmother, and "almost dead."

Misten turned 21 last year, and since then we've gone out drinking a couple times -- she because she can, and I because, frankly, I need to loosen up. Be proud of me, then, that I went out with her Thursday after work -- spontaneously! We split a bottle of wine and discussed one of her favorite topics: Derek Jeter. You'd think, as a Boston girl, that she would hate him. Nope. Somehow she grew up into a Yankees fan, and she's obsessed with the man she calls "Captain Sexy-Pants." I can't really argue. I mean, hot millionaire ball-player!

I don't have her initiative, though. Unless my memory is failing me, I've never staked myself out across the street from someone's hotel. Misten cannot make the same claim. In her defense, Misten says that in order to trail Derek during his stays in Boston, she only skipped work once -- and it doesn't really count, because she was 18 and working for UHaul. That'd hold up in court, right?

And she classifies herself as a shy stalker, keeping her distance, not getting close enough to be "ho-y." (Or, as she's Irish, McHo-y. In the spirit of even-handedness during our conversation, I also gave myself a more Germanic moniker, von Ho.) And she doesn't stalk alone. Her friend Jonathan goes with her, because stalking alone is just creepy. So really, that's not even stalking; it's a fan club. It's fan-clubbing.

Before you decide this sounds like a fun pastime you may wish to pursue yourselves, be warned that there are side-effects. In Misten's own words, "When a man doesn't live up to my imaginary vision of Derek Jeter, it's very off-putting." Ah, there's a lesson there, my friends. These obsessions with celebrities can negatively affect one's more commonplace relationships.

So if you're going to go after a superstar, stick with it and don't settle for anyone else.

American Idle

I was doing so well. For two-and-a-half months, I had largely managed to avoid American Idol. I watched The Biggest Loser or whatever it took to keep myself away from Fox at 8pm on Tuesdays. Until last night. I watched The Simpsons (on the same station as American Idol), and then they started talking about how Dolly Parton was the coach for the week, and I like Dolly Parton, and the next thing I knew I was watching. And then it went further. I began to care. Yargh, I'm a goner!

The auditions are really what I'd been avoiding. There are too many people kidding themselves, or they're so close but not quite, and dreams get dashed, and I get get all philosophical and it all just brings me down. Of course, I got all philosophical last night, too, but that was because of Dolly Parton's lyrics. She's a heck of a songwriter, man. I really like her. And she just seems so nice.

And she sings about Jesus so genuinely. Have you seen the movie Elf, with Will Ferrell? You know that part where he's in the toy store and they talk about how Santa is coming, and he gets super excited, shouting, "I know him! I know him!" That's how I feel when I find out somebody else knows Jesus: You know Him? I know Him, too! You get excited when you hear others talk about somebody you like, and I like Jesus.