Language Changing Before Our Eyes (Ears?)

When I was a kid, we walked to school through three feet of snow, uphill both ways; all we had to play with was a stick and a pile of dirt, and we were grateful; and there was this crazy part of speech known as the adverb.

One nice thing about working at a publisher is that I get to be around other people who care about the difference between there, their, and they're. One of my colleagues was lamenting the disappearance of the adverb this week. And I've already done my own lamenting about shifting trends in subject-verb agreement when it comes to singular nouns that denote groups. And as much as I believe in following conventions for the sake of clear and effective communication, and as much as it pains me to say it, I think this is just how language evolves. It's interesting to think that language can change significantly within one generation. By the time my peers and I are in our eighties, will usage that's considered incorrect now be acceptable and even taught in schools? Perhaps I shouldn't protest so much and just accept the inevitable.

Like being trapped in the tundra and finding a place by a rock where I can sit and let cold, numbing death slowly overwhelm me.

The Grinch vs. "The Christmas Shoes"

There have been discussions bouncing around my pastor's blog and in the recent sermons about whether Christmas is too consumeristic or whether it's nifty and people just need to chill with the Scrooginess. Rather than coming down on one side of the other, I'll give you my little theory about why there are sides at all: We all need something different. I kinda meant to save that for the last paragraph or two, but here it is right at the beginning! But if you listen to people talk about why they love/hate this season and all its trappings, it usually comes down to personal experience, and what they want to embrace or feel the need to reject. There's no right or wrong stance, because on one side is people saying, "People have bad experiences and do bad things," and on the other side is people saying, "But some people have good experiences and do good things," and both are true and neither negates the other.

So, some folks have bad memories from childhood, or don't have anyone to celebrate with, or can't afford to buy things for people, or feel pressured to participate in the extravagant materialism, and they'd like the world to ease up on the Christmas already. And others love the lights and the opportunity to give or the opportunity to receive and the baking and the trees, and don't want anyone raining on their parade. Of course, there are variances and nuances, and I'm not trying to oversimplify anyone's feelings. What I'm saying is that maybe it's OK to fall anywhere in that spectrum of approaches, and perhaps we don't need to make it so antagonistic. One person feels accused or left out and vents a little, and other people react, and suddenly we have a volley of hard-line stances and recriminations: "You're a mindless consumer who doesn't care about the third world!" "Well, you're a Grinch who doesn't know how to have fun!" And on it goes.

How about a little less accusation and a little more invitation to find some joy, each in their own way?

Snow: A Positive Post

It snowed last night, which was awesome. It started out as rain, which is wet and cold, and I went out, and it turned to snow for me, which you can brush off, and I was all, "Yes!" Ha ha, yes!

And then after I got home, I went out again. I changed into the Greatest Parka Known to Man, Even When Taking Its Frumpiness into Consideration, and went to the grocery store. Cuz I really needed to, y'all. I let the supplies run down before Thanksgiving weekend and then I got a little sick and I was living off of cereal and pasta for a week. I made up a little ditty about my little foray to the market, which involved saying grocery like "grocer-ay," but I don't remember it off the top of my head. Anyway, best night to go to the store. A ghost town, man. Luxury. And then we hoofed it home again, my parka and me. In the snow, which was neato torpedo.

I spent some quality time this morning with some angry thoughts about Snow Haters. I was going to post some hate in response. But now I'm thinking, let's end the hate. I'll just explain where I'm coming from, invite you to join me, and let you make your own choice, because how you respond to snow is a deeply personal decision.

I rather startled my roommate last night with my impassioned defense of snow. Here's where I think all my impassionedosity comes from: I grew up with snow, and liked it the way any kid would: Yay, it's something pretty to play in, and maybe you get a day off school. How can you beat that? When I grew up and heard fellow grown-ups declaring they hated snow, I was shocked. Do you also hate weekends and compliments? How could you hate something so pretty and fun and get-out-of-schooly? The response: "It's hard to drive in." That seemed like the kind of grown-up-ness they warned me about in Saturday morning TV. Not for me!

But it was also more personal than that. I loved snow without question, and when people declare they hate it, I hear, "I hate this thing you love." It's like telling somebody they're "wasting time" on a hobby they love, or that the food they're eating is disgusting and you would never touch it. Even weather people are guilty, saying that 75-degree weather in mid-December is "gorgeous" and a lovely snowstorm that means you get to make snow angels and drink hot chocolate without sweating through your sweater is somehow "awful." Says who?

So I'll try not to be grouchy when people don't want to feel the cold and don't want their heating bills to go up and don't want to drive slower and don't know how they'll watch their kids when school is canceled. If you'll try not to hate when even the ugliest parts of town look unsoiled and peaceful for a few precious hours after the snow has fallen; if numb fingers and toes make me feel like I've earned an evening warming them up again with a yummy hot drink; if all the songs about Christmas being snowy are like prayers and celebrations for me; if I feel like when it snows, it's a gift and I don't have to just be happy because other people get things they like -- I get to have things I like, too.

Pink and Snow and Christmas and Happy

It got up to 69 degrees in Boston today. Plenty of people were delighted. I don't mind being comfortable outside, honest I don't, but weather like this weirds me the heck out. It's December! In Boston! I moved up here because I wanted snow for Christmas without all the worrying -- and believe you me, I do worry when I don't think the temperature leading up to the big day is falling fast enough. I'm like a little kid. Or great big baby. Want snow! Want snow now!

I know I talk about this every year. But I feel the need to vent because Facebook is full of people who are rejoicing over the warm weather. I don't want to hate all over their updates, but I gotta let this out somewhere. So the blog it is.

My blog is pink and pink is the color of candy and candy comes from the North Pole and so does Santa and Santa is Christmassy and the North Pole is snowy and I like Christmas snowy and I like my blog because it's pink and Christmassy and snowy even though it's pink and snow isn't pink.

Unless the Cat in the Hat gets pink cat-ring all over it.

But that is neither here nor there.

It isn't even anywhere.
It's not in a house,
It's not with a mouse,
It's not on the stair,
It's not in a chair.
It's not in the sky, where snowflakes should fly.
It's not on the ground, where snow drifts should mound.

I do not like green deciduous trees in December.
I do not like them.
Holly I am.

Nor Sure Whether I Should Share This or Not

So I'm gonna, because I don't have a whole lot else to say. For your entertainment, here's a little exchange I inflicted upon my roommate a few minutes ago:

Her: You want $25 for free?

Me: What do I have to lick?

[Pause.]

Her: I may never recover from the images that came to mind when you said that.

Me: It could be a lollipop.

One More Thing about That Movie

It made me want to be an actress.

I wanted that already, but this made me re-want it. The way the animators made visual magic, the actors made magic with their voices. I want to do that with my voice, with my face, with my body. I want to create something both real and super-real.

A modest dream, no?

Holly Reviews a Movie

We went to see Disney's "A Christmas Carol" yesterday. I loved it! It made me feel all Christmassy, which is no small feat. Rather than give away some of the pleasant surprises by describing it all, I'll tell you why I liked it.

First, the animation was amazing. OK, I don't know diddly about animation or computers or special effects, and usually they wash over me and I don't pay much attention, but I'm pretty sure the animation was amazing. It was amazing to the point where I'll go back on my word slightly and give away one thing: When they close up on Scrooge's face, you can see the pores and hair on his nose. There were other highly effective moments, but I want you to experience them for yourself so I'll keep my mouth shut.

Second, it managed to affect me. A story I've seen and read countless times, and it had me laughing and crying at all the right moments. Part of that may be because the movie and I met at the right time and place; I find that's the way with books and movies. But I found myself taking a step forward in my attitude toward the poor. As with everything else, my feelings are always shifting on that subject, and I'm coming out of a season where I've felt a need to steel myself against guilt and legalism and the feeling that I'm obligated to carry the pains of the world around on my shoulders. This meant that stories like this felt like kind of a guilt trip. But as I get used to not feeling guilty, I have more room to care about people without it overwhelming me. It was nice to watch a moralistic story and not come away feeling like a jerk, or at least like someone else was trying to get me to feel like one. I also have more understanding of Scrooge with each passing year; time, loneliness, disappointment, and fear really wear on a soul.

What I liked best, though, was the combined feeling of longing and hope with which I left the theater. I think that's what felt Christmassy about it. I wanted what I saw on the screen: beauty, snow, love, joy, contentment, snow, meaning, and snow. It's not the same excitement I had as a kid; it's grown up now, and there's always a sense that Christmas will never live up to what I hope it will be, if only because I still have so far to go in my own ability to enjoy moments for what they are. But that hope-longing combo -- that feels like prayer. I've been learning a bunch about how broad the definition of prayer can be. I used to think it had to be verbal; now I don't think that at all. I once read a great line in a book about how a dying woman's suffering was worship "because she willed it to be so." I think that's all it takes, a turning in your heart with whatever else you're doing, choosing to direct it towards God; it doesn't have to be a constant striving to make everything "sacred." Fasting and dancing can be praying with your body. Singing, even secular songs. Cleaning my room. If prayer is communicating with God, then surely the choices are at least as wide as our options for communicating with people.

I came away from the movie with the usual awareness of all the things I want and still don't have, but was excited to daydream about them and bring them to God and enjoy the process of asking and expecting.

Yep. Got all that from a cartoon.

Places I Want to Live

A castle
Underwater
The North Pole (not the real one -- the one with reindeer and candy-cane lamp posts)
A log cabin
A gingerbread house
One year each in --
Norway
Sweden
Netherlands
Italy
Russia
Japan
France
Hong Kong
Spain or Portugal
South America
Montreal
India
Africa (sub-Saharan)
North Africa
New York
Chicago
St. Louis
Australia
Salzburg
Heidelburg
Antarctica
Mongolia
Hong Kong
...and I'd like to get a decent handle on the languages of each while I live there.
Alaska
Scotland
A modernized cave
In my own little red house where I can rake leaves and chop wood and have a fireplace and have people over.

Oh, THAT'S why the vegetables tasted raw.

Because they WERE.

Why is My Butt Still Attached?

I love Fall. I love Winter. I love it when the weather gets cool, then cold. I love Thanksgiving and Christmas and a birthday in December. I love decorations and music and presents and time off work and special food and visiting family and catching up on sleep and then stockpiling more sleep for later. I love the threat of freezing my butt off so that I need slippers and blankets and yummy hot drinks every evening when I come home.

So why is it so warm outside that I barely need a light jacket, and am sweating after 15 minutes of walking? I certainly don't wish any suffering on people who have no choice about being on the street, or even upon those wusses who complain when it gets below 70 degrees (and you know who you are, you wusses!), but I'd really like it to get cold. This kind of warmth is nice in September or even October, but this late in the game it just feels wrong. At some point when I was a kid, we must have gotten our first snowfall on Nov. 11, because from that point on I've had that date in my head as the perfect date for the snow to start. But apart from one wondrous day in mid-October, we ain't had nothin'.

Let it snow (please!), let is snow (please!), let it snow (pleeeeeeeeeeeeease)!

Priorities

On Friday, I did something I almost never do: lost track of time. At the end of the workday, too! I looked at the clock on my computer and it was only 4 minutes till the shuttle left from work to the T station that gets me closest to home. I scrambled to pack up my things, dress for outdoors, and began running down the hall. Then screeeeeeeeech! I realized that, in my now-locked desk drawer, was a giant cookie. I had to go back.

I didn't think I could go back, find the key in my purse, lock everything again, and make the shuttle. So I went back and took my time, took a different shuttle to a different station, and probably added 20 minutes to my commute. 20 minutes out of my evening wasn't such a high price to pay for a giant cookie, when you consider that my big plan for the evening was to eat the cookie.

It was a GIANT cookie.

Genetics is Funny

It's kind of amazing how a kid can look like both parents at the same time. I suppose I'm that kid, really; I look like whichever parent I'm standing next to. But right now I'm thinking about my nephew, who's 20 months old and looks different every time I see pictures. I don't know how he looks like both my brother and his wife at once. Different expressions accentuate different similarities, though.

When smiling, he's pretty much his mom.

He looks most like his dad when he's confused.

Hulk Mad!

Everything is annoying me! Flaky friends ("friends"). Malfunctioning technology paired with an overwhelming workload at a job I mostly appreciate for its light workload. A video where it looked like people had important things to say but I'm not sure because the "background" music was as loud as the people talking and I was so distracted I missed most of what they said.

Hulk practice being thankful now:
--That 2-week headache seems to have finally gone away. Also, I don't know if they were part of the solution, but Ben-Gay and Head-On feel really cool and I would use them just for fun.
--My roommate brought home Trader Joe's chewy chocolate chip cookies last night and I combined them with peanut butter, extra chocolate chips, and little milk to keep it from sealing my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Very, very yummy. Must repeat if possible.
--I get to watch improv tonight without the pressure of having to perform.
--I'm allowed to be angry, and the people who love me best are the ones who'll encourage it and won't be all shocked and offended that I'm human and don't appreciate being crapped on.
--There's still candy in my desk from when coworkers had leftovers after Halloween and brought them to the office. I was not shy about relieving them of their burden.
-- Getting kinda excited about upcoming holidays. Hulk like holidays.

Hulk blog done now.

It's Not a Toomuh

Although, heck, for all I know it could be.

I get headaches all the time. Have ever since I was a kid. In elementary school, they thought maybe I had a milk allergy, though I don't remember going without dairy, so that, to my knowledge, remains an untested theory. When I was about 12 or 13, I remember going to a hospital and getting some kind of scan (CAT? HORSE?), and I'm pretty sure they didn't find anything but the usual innards. I had a week-long headache when I was about 15, and a doctor prescribed me some mega-strengh ibuprofen that didn't work. And then, a few years ago, my primary care physician recommended Excedrin Migraine, which usually works but leaves me very jittery (and usually pretty happy).

Folks have suggested that I might be under- or over-hydrated. And that I get my eyes checked. These aren't bad ideas, and I might look into that eye thing. It might not kill me to see a specialist, either; there have got to be a hundred reasons why I should get my head examined. If there's something genuinely wrong, by all means, let's figure it out.

But heck if I can find a pattern. Apart from this and the inconvenient-but-not-life-threatening issue I sometimes get surgery for, I'm obnoxiously healthy. Headaches just appear to be my body's response to anything that's even slighty off, physically or emotionally. Tension, cold, hunger, tiredness, stress, oversleep, wrong food, wrong drink, tight turtleneck, heavy backpack, bad-shaped pillow -- here comes a headache.

My dad had headaches as a kid, too. I don't know if he still gets them. I should ask. Dad, do you still get them? Did anyone ever figure out what was wrong with you ;-)? Is this part of that melancholy-perfectionist thing you and I share? Can we send it back? Do your model trains help?

Maybe I need toy trains. Or a Spirograph. Remember Spirograph? That was neat.

Plaid Poncho Vindication!

I've been wearing my plaid poncho again. Some of you may remember this from a post a couple years back, wherein I was told that it was the most hideous article of clothing anyone ever dared to place on a human body. OK, slight exaggeration. But the response was negative, and folks hadn't even seen it!

Well, obviously I can take neither hints nor direct commands, because it still dwells in my closet and I still put it on. And I get compliments on it, I tell you!

What's more: I saw Jackie wearing one (albeit with a different tartan pattern) on a rerun of "That '70s Show." And she's meant to be stylish, isn't she? Well, then.

If you catch me outside over the next couple weeks, you may see it for yourself. And perhaps you'll raise your assessment from "Unthinkable!" to "Meh."

Don't be a hater.

Quittin' Time

Ben's comment on my last post made me realize that many people probably only have a partial picture of my recent improv experience, and it might be helpful if I explain this whole quitting deal a bit further. (Ben, I hope you didn't think I was ignoring your comment -- I just thought the questions deserved some attention and it took a few days before I found the time to sit down and type this all out.) For reference, here's Ben's comment, which I imagine sums up the questions most people would have:

As a fan, I'm concerned. ;)

Seriously, I didn't realize improv wasn't fun any more. Why is that? Is it possible that there's a way to make it fun again?

You're so good at it, and it seemed to give you more joy than anything I've ever seen you do; I guess I don't understand why you're considering quitting.

Of course, I don't want this message to sound like I'm pressuring you not to quit. Just wondering what you're thinking about...

I know this must be what people are thinking, because it involves thinking I'm awesome. That just rings true, doesn't it?

Basically, I was thinking and feeling several things. One of the biggies is something I've been aware of from the beginning, which is my tendency to take things so seriously that the fun gets sucked out of them. This happened with music. It even happened with this blog, which is why 2007 contained a whopping 14 posts; I had only been blogging for a few months when I felt the pressure of having to post almost every day, and I took a year off before returning to a moderate output. At various points throughout my improv experience, I wondered if I should take a break, but I never did. And for the most part, I was glad to have kept going. But eventually the nerves I felt before performances felt more like dread. I was losing the expectation that a show could go well. Rehearsals became something to get through. I was beginning to feel disconnected from the activity, rather than fully engaged; in the past, I had been truly engaged, even when that engagement involved frustration.

Now, this hadn't been going on all that long, and in the midst of it I had the hugely positive experience of the grad show, which I'd thought could have been the home run that knocked me out of my slump. But I'd begun to have negative associations with the activity of improv, and one show wasn't enough to undo that feeling. I'd already determined to take a break after this round of House Teams, but after last weekend's rehearsal, I was wondering if that break should start even sooner. I went home and prayerfully made a list of reasons to stay and reasons to go. My reasons to stay were the same as those that had kept me in situations in the past -- I'd made a commitment, I didn't want to disappoint anyone, there was always the chance that things could get better and I didn't want to miss out. I only had one reason to go: It wasn't fun, and I didn't really expect to get any more joy out of it in the near future. In light of that one reason to go, all the reasons to stay became reasons to go, because they were coming from a motivation that didn't involve authentic joy. For someone like me, who's always tried so hard to do the "right thing" that I hardly even know what I want in a situation, actually paying attention to what I want takes practice. This seemed like the perfect opportunity for practicing just that.

I was thrown when my improv coach gave me encouragement, telling me that she was pushing me harder because she saw me on the verge of a breakthrough. I have talent? Potential? Dang it, those are positive reasons to stay! I wasn't expecting those! Right up until Tuesday's show, I didn't know what I was going to do. But I've been used to letting other people heavily influence my decisions, and I figured it was time for me to make my own, even if that meant trusting my assessment of the situation above everyone else's. So that's what it came down to; I needed to make my own choice, even if it ended up being a bad one. I do feel like I made the right choice regarding improv, but I think that it would be OK even if I hadn't, because at least the choice would have been mine.

I've been learning how intertwined trusting in God and trusting yourself can be. For example, if you're going to trust what God says to you, you have to place some trust in what you think you've heard from God, which means trusting your own ability to hear God! Scary. It can lead to some interesting mistakes, but the motivation is right, and God-ward. I'm also learning that our instincts and desires aren't necessarily the suspicious entities I'd once thought. Perhaps they're like hunger and thirst -- while they can get out of hand, they're essentially good things that we need to pay attention to, and God can steer us by these as well as He can by anything else. So then, if I'm going to let God lead me by my desires, I'm going to have to pay attention to those desires. If I'm going to find joy in God and find God in joy, then I need to pay attention to what is and isn't giving me joy! Perhaps I've said this here before, but it's worth repeating: It's a kind of discipline, not letting myself fall into my old habits of discipline!

And quitting something halfway through?? I never do that! Even if the quitting itself isn't the best idea (though in this case I think it was -- bonus!), it could be good for me just to buck convention that way. It can be easy to assume that it's human nature to always do what's easiest and most self-indulgent, but that's not my problem. My problem is taking the "no pain, no gain" philosophy to the unhelpful extreme of "more pain, more gain." But sometimes more pain is just more pain, and it's a sign that you should stop what you're doing and go make yourself some chocolate milk.

I don't have a plan, which means that I'm not determined to quit improv forever. I feel more like it's a seed, and because I value it (it was SO good for me, I got so much out of it, and I'm so glad I did it), I choose to plant it and step away, trusting that if and when I come back, it'll not only be there waiting for me, but it will have grown bigger and stronger in my absence. In the meantime, I have other things to explore that will only help. Remember that week of physical theater I did in July? When I came back from that, I felt somehow bigger, expanded. Right on the heels of that, I had the most amazing improv class! Somehow, taking creative and emotional risks, even though they were more physical and less comedic, left me much more able to do improv comedy. I expect my various creative explorations to reinforce and support each other this way, like lots of poles resting against each other to make a teepee. I also think it's important for me to keep exploring, and not commit solely to one activity yet. It would be premature.

I have a few ideas about what I can try out next. Perhaps after the new year, I'll try acting classes, or another physical activity like improvisational movement or some kind of dance. Those ideas both excite me.

But like I said, no plan.

I Understand about Indecision

So, I got a response from my improv director and, long story short, she's encouraging me to stick it out through the term. She sees me as on the verge of a breakthrough.

I don't think I made it clear to her that I was only planning on taking a break, not quitting forever. Still, I wasn't expecting encouragement, and it's thrown me into confusion again.

I'm still leaning toward letting this be my last night for a while. Because I like the idea of not having to worry about it. Six more weeks of rehearsals and shows sounds long.

I don't need anyone else's blessing to quit. But as Mr. Bingley said in Pride and Prejudice, "I should like it all the same."

I'm inclined to trust that my breakthrough will still be there, waiting for me, whenever I decide to come back.

Lord, help me to make a good decision.

Get While the Gettin's Good

I quit!

This is a good thing.

I almost never quit things. I see my commitments through to the end. The bitter end. This often means sticking with things much longer than I should, just to make sure they're extra dead, and there's absolutely no joy left to be found in them.

I'd like to avoid doing that with improv. So rather than ride out this term of performing teams for another two months like I'd originally planned, I emailed my coach today to tell her that I'd like Tuesday to be my last show. Now I just need to hear back from her.

I don't know if I'll stay away from improv forever. But it's not fun anymore, and I want to have positive associations with it, so I think it's best to leave before I run it completely into the ground. My prayer now is that Tuesday will go well, like the grad show did, and I can go out with a bang.

Art Is Everywhere

There was cat hair stuck to the toilet this morning. No idea how it got there. Don't care to know. Then I looked out the window at the changing leaves. Suddenly I was inspired. Wrote a little song about it like to hear it? here it go:

The tree are getting pretty
Trees trees trees
I'm allergic to a kitty
Sneeze sneeze sneeze

That last part, about being allergic? It's not even true! Fiction! How's that for creativity? In your face, Art!

I bet Art likes it when you throw things in its face.

Famous People Who Are Nice, According to a FedEx Driver I Met in My Early-Level Improv Classes, Who Has Delivered to Said Famous People

Steve Carrell

Four of the five members of Aerosmith

My parents

... normally call me on Sundays. But tonight they were late, so I called and my mom answered. She sounded funny. Did I wake her up? Had she been crying?

"Oh, hi honey!" she said, "not that we forgot you..."

"Except we did." That was my dad's voice in the background.

"Did you really?" I asked.

"Rick and Christa came over."

Ah, OK. Old friends visiting from out of town. That funny sound in Mom's voice wasn't sleep or tears. It was alcohol. They had friends over and had a lot to drink and forgot they had a kid. So I said it was OK and they didn't have to talk and they could go back to the friends and the drinking and she said, "OK."

"I'm not missing any limbs and haven't gone to the emergency room."

"OK."

I know they love me and all, but it's hard to compete with a refrigerated box of wine.

Guess I'm Not the Only One, Then

Back in August, at one of my improv classes, I admitted to having seen the Hannah Montana Movie. My coach looks at me and says, "Did you cry?"

How did he know? He doesn't know about my blog. I didn't mention it on Facebook. This is so weird! I was almost scared. How did he know? How did he know???

I stared at him blankly, wondering by what kind of witchery he'd come by this knowledge.

"I know other people who've seen it, and they said they cried."

Oh.

I was at the grocery store

...and was having trouble finding the salami. And I thought, Where did they hide it?

Cuteness

... is Nature's defense mechanism for the incontinent and whiny.

Perhaps I'll live to be 100, in which case I'm right on track.

I've spent the better part of my life being impatient for things I don't have yet. This may be typical for people in their teens and twenties -- we think we should get the career and the money and the relationship, and then our adulthood will be established and we can spend the next sixty years living it out.

But I'm pushing 35 now, and these things are still in my future, if they're in the cards for me at all. Sometimes, I get antsy as hell. But being antsy doesn't really help. And at least in the career department, I've already been there, done that as far as picking one goal and focusing all my energies on it (music, in case you weren't paying attention for the preceding 334 posts). I'm now trying to learn how to function without a detailed plan, without prematurely committing to any one endeavor. My plan for the present is to not have a plan.

And it's hard to stick to! It takes a kind of discipline not to fall into my previously established forms of discipline. This is part of what I'm running into with improv. At this point, having graduated from this theater's training center and being on student performing teams, I find myself around plenty of other people who take the pursuit seriously. They're trained actors or stand-up comedians and on track to do improv professionally. I can see who the most gifted performers are, and look up to them and want to be a part of them like they're the cool kids at school.

In each activity you pursue, you're likely to encounter people who have made that their world. Not that they have no other interests; but we each have some "core worlds" we're a part of. Now that you're involved in this activity, do you want it to become one of your handful of core worlds, or do you want to hang on the periphery? You can only be a part of so many things, and you can be seriously dedicated to even fewer.

My family, my roommates, and my church are three core worlds for me. Music used to be one. Work, tellingly, is not -- though I spend a lot of time and mental energy there, it does not hold my heart. I could choose to become ever more a part of the improv world, and let that be my primary creative outlet. And it could be fine. But I haven't done all the exploring I need to do, so in spite of my creative serial monogamy, I think I need to tear myself away and dabble in a few other worlds. Yeah, there's the desire to have my evenings and weekends free and curl up with a candle and a book at home. But there's also the desire to do Shakespeare and dance and sing in musicals.

And darn it, all this exploring takes time! Yargh! I thought I'd have my ducks in a row ten years ago, but ducks are stubborn. And lines are probably overrated anyway. So here I am, almost old enough to be president (we all know the age requirement was the only thing standing in my way, right?), and I'm still trying to figure out what I want to do without prematurely putting down creative roots. (Oh my gosh, do you know what this means? I'm sowing my wild oats, artistically! Who knew I had wild oats?) I'm almost as old as Mozart was when he died, and I've barely begun to show the world what I have to offer. Heck, I hardly know what I have to offer. Yet this is a process that can't be rushed, like pregnancy or reaching your adult height. So as tempted as I am to settle into something so that I can say, "This is what I do, and this is my plan to become successful at it," I know that I did that once before. I'm having to unlearn it!

I'm trying to remember that taking my time is how this process will work best for me.

It's just that it feels so much like waiting.

"Just a Joke"

It sounds like an excuse, doesn't it? "Hey, it's just a joke! Lighten up!" Like the sort of thing you'd hear from a group of bullies, or from somebody who'd just insulted you and doesn't want to deal with the consequences of being called out as a jerk.

But I've found myself thinking it a lot. And I wonder if often it's true: Some things really are just jokes, and we don't need to get so ruffled about them.

This is an issue for me, both in public and private. In public, as you all know, I do improv comedy. Full of jokes. And nothing is sacred. I've dived right into subjects that some might find offensive, and others have dived into subjects that make me uneasy. But I'm finding more and more freedom in being unafraid as a performer, and also in being harder to offend as an audience member.

On a personal level, my sense of humor has gotten me pretty misunderstood. A few people have assumed that because I state something in a humorous way, I must not be taking a situation seriously. (On the contrary, I find that humor is often an acknowledgement of the seriousness of a situation, because that's when levity is most needed.) Or they have experienced jokes as taunts and mocking, and assume that must be how I'm using them, too. When I first encountered this, I was shocked. My experience was that humor was a form of inclusion; you joke around with people you like. Any teasing is done with affection, and requires a kind of intimacy. And it's indicative of trust -- you trust that the other person meant well, and they trust you to take it all in good fun.

I learned the hard way that not everyone functions on this level. I've been accused of having terrible motives behind the things I say. It was incredibly hurtful to have people I thought of as friends take one of the traits I felt I wielded most skillfully -- humor -- and tell me that they saw it as a destructive weapon. I spent a long, agonizing time looking inward to see if what they said about me was true, and eventually came to the conclusion that it was not. In my need to understand how they could have misjudged me so drastically and so aggressively, I came up with analogies.

One is that of a high school varsity baseball team. Imagine them throwing the ball fast and hitting it hard. Then imagine a 9-year-old on the field. If the teenagers include him in the game, it's a compliment, an indication that they see him as an equal. But if he's not used to that kind of game, freaks out a bit, and gets hit with the ball a few times, he's not going to have any fun. His pain is real. But it would be wrong for him and his mom to declare that the other ball players are terrible people, that they meant to hurt her son, and baseballs are weapons that should be banned from our schools. I felt like one of those ball players. I tossed jokes to my friends, they had no idea how to handle what was coming their way, and in return for a baseball I got accusations thrown at me. Where this metaphor breaks down: I never expected them to play at my level. I was always careful. But it wasn't enough, which made it even more surprising and difficult when even my slow pitches were mistaken for grenades.

From what I've observed, "taking a joke" is largely a matter of giving people the benefit of the doubt. Are we going to assume we know another person's motives, and further assume that those motives are bad? Or are we going to acknowledge that we all bring our own shit to the table, and perhaps our reactions have more to do with our shit than they do with the joke-teller? I'll even give an example by fessing up to shit of my own: I have a big nose. I know I have a big nose. So if, in an improv sketch, somebody in character decided to make fun of my character's appearance and called me a fat, scuzzy-haired, big-nosed stink-bag, I wouldn't react to the "fat," "scuzzy-haired," "stinky" bits, but I might feel a twinge at the "big-nosed" bit. But I'd be wrong to assume that the other actor meant anything by it, or that they even think I have a big nose. It's my issue. I could even approach it optimistically and hope that they consider that insult to be as fictional as the other three.

That last point is important, because the way I and many people I know use humor is to tell others that things are OK. You don't make fun of something if you think it's a real problem. Which means that, if somebody makes a joke about something that feels scary or sensitive to you, you can take it as a sign that it might not be as bad as you think. But to do this, you again need to give that person the benefit of the doubt.

This applies to public situations, too. There are some performers we come to trust, and we can take jokes from them that we might not take from an unknown. But we can choose to give the benefit of the doubt, even when unknown performers are involved. It'll stop us from making unfair accusations about people we don't know, and it will keep us from getting our feelings hurt so often. Less pain all around.

I think, in our culture, we have a tendency to take offense and express outrage because it shows that we care, and that we have standards. But from my vantage point, it seems like that's just a large-scale way of making ourselves look good by making others look -- and feel -- bad.

It's a lot more fun to be free to laugh.

No Long Processions or Boring Speeches Here!

My improv graduation show went well! I had been in a slump for about a month, and even now have some negative feelings about performing improv in general. But the show itself was fun, felt pretty good, and the positive feedback seemed enthusiastic and genuine, both from friends and family, and from the experienced performers and teachers who were there. I had begun to feel like I wasn't good at it, but now I think it's just that I had some weak performances, and there's an important difference.

I may still take a break after this term of student teams, but now I don't have to feel like I failed, or have a sad feeling whenever I think of my time in improv. The grad show was redemptive. I'd prayed a lot about it, and when there were opportunities to get prayer from other people, I asked them to pray about the show. I really wanted it to be a good memory. And now it will be.

It was also an interesting experiment in pushing my own boundaries. I hadn't realized how much of our show was about sex until we did it all together, and the fact that a lot of our improv went in that direction added even more. I may have been the guiltiest party in that regard. Yet, in spite of the presence of my parents, little brother, several church friends, and God in the audience, I wasn't embarrassed. I ended up being more concerned that I'd taken a comedic cop-out. Even then, when I asked a couple of my teachers whether they thought that was bad, their response was, "Nah. It just tends to go there."

Cool. I feel like one of the things God is working on in me is this sort of internal stiffness -- stick-up-my-ass-ness, if you will. I don't want to be afraid or unable; if I'm not going to do something onstage, I want that to be a choice that comes out of confidence in my relationship with God, not merely a fear of risk. My natural tendency is to stay on the conservative and careful side of things (and this tendency is not necessarily godly in itself). I don't think I'm in danger of becoming a libertine just because I pretended to eat a mushroom burger while bowm-chicka-bowm-bowm music played in the background. And besides, it was funny.

I was also pleased that the other actors didn't seem afraid of me. Most of the time it's like I have this invisible force field around me that convinces people that I'm made of glass and will shatter in tears if they touch me or say anything untoward; I guess I come across as emotionally and physically fragile. But in our last improv bit, I ended up on the floor, and one of the guys came over and sat on me. (It's funny how something that would feel weird in real life can barely even regisiter in your consciousness when you're in the middle of a scene.) He didn't put his full weight on me, but I was still happy that he didn't hold back out of fear of breaking me or freaking me out.

So, here's to freedom!

And as we learned that night, sometimes you just have to sit on each other.

Sick, Again

I don't know what kind of game my immune system thinks it's playing.

I had some cold-cough weirdness less than two months ago, during which I lost my voice for a few days. (OK, I find laryngitis fun, I'll admit that.) I almost never get sick, but now here I am, with throat-nose weirdness. Very similar. And a little embarrassing.

Here's a good thing: They gave me a laptop at work a few weeks ago, which means I'm able to work from home, which means I don't have to get behind or use up sick days when I'm functional but germy.

I've cancelled my evening appointment, and will try to rest and recover. Here are some things I won't be doing:

Cleaning my room
Cleaning the apartment
Shopping for groceries
Filing my loose documents
Unpacking from an overnight trip and putting my duffle bag back in the basement
Putting on makeup and doing my hair
Tae-Bo (ha! like I was about to do that anyway)

I've Come So Far

On Friday, I was telling my family the body-parts-that-begin-with-P story, and my brother informed me that being female was no excuse for drawing a blank, because we also have a body part that begins with P if you use slang. Not the nicest word, but in a comic setting, not to be ruled out. But I didn't even think of it, much less rule it out.

So I guess I have a way to go yet. But if you agree that swearing, drinking, and using naughty words constitutes genuine progress for me, then you'll be proud of what I'm about to do in the graduation show for my improv class.

I also have not outgrown

laughing at farts.

It's the Kneecap

In an improv warmup on Saturday, I was trying to come up with a body part that started with P. It took me several awkward seconds to think of patella. Last night, during another warm-up, someone tossed out the word penis. Oh, duh! How was that not obvious to me on Saturday? The only excuse I can think of is that I don't have one.

Although I think patella is probably funnier, I find it odd that the obvious P-word completely passed me by. This may be my first notable experience with comedic penis envy.

Things I Have Not Outgrown

Cream of Wheat
Looney Tunes
pajamas with feet
naps (actually, hated those as a kid. love 'em now.)
mooching off my parents
writing my Christmas list in October
the Muppets
letting dogs lick my face
throwing my arms in the air and saying, "Ta-da!" when people clap
wanting my mom to feel sorry for me when I'm sick
fairy tales
Disney cartoons
having crushes on movie stars
the suspicion that I really can breathe underwater
Sesame Street
wanting to be famous
the desire to please authority figures
junk food
TV
daydreaming
imagining performances when I'm not onstage
the tendency to agree with people, in an effort to be pleasant, before I realize how compromising it could be
chocolate milk
wanting to see the world
wanting to live in a castle
liking plaid
hoping for a snow day anytime between Oct. 1 and May 1
acne
wanting to be popular
being shy around cute guys
finding food in weird places hours after I've eaten (true example: eyelid)

Mangia, Mangia!

Last Christmas, one of my (male) roommates got me a calendar entitled "Porn for Women." It has pictures of mostly-clothed men saying things like, "I don't have any advice, but I'm a good listener, " and "I don't have to have a reason to bring you flowers!" It's up in our kitchen.

Mr. September is urging us to have another piece of cake, because he doesn't like to see us looking so thin.

Ladies, take heart, because men like this exist! Not just in calendars, but in real life.

In Connecticut, in fact.

I hear my dad say this to my mom just about every time I visit: "Eat up, Bon! You're too skinny!" She has to keep turning away big pieces of cake and pie. He does it with me, too, though I don't need as much urging. Dad remembers with pride the night when I was fifteen and the family went to a buffet that had a whole separate table full of desserts, and I got one of everything.

Part of this is my dad's personal aesthetic -- he grew up in the era of Marilyn Monroe, where a little wiggle in a girl's walk was considered a good thing. Part of it may be his disbelief that we women get full on less food than he does. But in recent years, I've come to believe there's a third contributing truth:

My dad is an Italian mom.

Food equals love. You doubt me? Mamaluke, what do you know? Hit yourself upside the head for me.

Ray Romano does a standup bit about Italian and Jewish "food mothers": If you want a lot more, tell her you want a little more. If you want a little more, say you don't want any. If you don't want any, you have to shoot her.

I haven't had to shoot Dad yet.

But that's because I usually do want another piece of cake.

Break Me off a Piece of That Kit Kat Bar

I'm thinking of giving myself a break from some activities. Improv in particular. This occurred to me on Monday. I thought two hours would be enough time to walk from my office to the library, putz around for a while, and then walk to improv class.

Nope.

I'm glad to have been involved in all these creative pursuits. But it would be nice to have time to putz around the library once in a while. Or buy hats for winter. Or groceries. Or do laundry. Or read those books I got at the library. Or lie on my bed and daydream. For hours. And hours.

Sometimes I forget how much freedom I have. I can take a break from improv at any point. I can come back at any point. I can explore other things. I can just watch TV for a few months. I can do anything.

The other night I went to Trader Joe's to see if anything caught my eye. The granola did. I was standing before the shelf for a while, trying to decide between two different kinds. And then I thought, "I could get both!" That sort of thing usually doesn't even occur to me. It felt so extravagant!

And then later, it occurred to me that maybe it was a little sad that that was my idea of extravagance, and that it took me so many years to do such a seemingly small thing as buy two granolas in a grocery store.

You know what else rarely occurs to me? Quitting things once I've started. But I can. If I want to.

I just need to figure out whether I want to. And I may have to figure out by doing -- or not doing, as the case may be.

Who Goes Home with the "Honor Student" Bumper Sticker?

Would you like to come to the Student Awards Night at my daughter's elementary school?

It'll be great. The kids and parents get so excited, and it's obvious the teachers take pride in their work. The band will play, there will be a little skit, and the PTA sells sodas for a quarter each.

Or how about this:

We had a big meeting at work today. They showed a whole slide show about the national sales convention. It looked like a ton of fun. I didn't go to the convention, so I don't know how it applied to me, but the sales people in the room seemed to enjoy reliving it. They announced some figures and statistics and I clapped when they said a number. And they gave us bagels. My coworker and I giggled when we saw people in the slideshow with bad haircuts.

What? You're not jealous? You're not eager to attend these events? You're not excited for the fifth grader and the salespeople? What could possibly be the reason?

Yet the entertainment industry is baffled by the fact that no one watches the Emmys.

I'll catch an awards show every few years, and as happens with my dad and Big Macs, that's often enough to remind me why I don't partake more often. I caught the Emmys on Sunday, landing there because I needed something on while I painted my toenails. What lured me in was this year's host, Neil Patrick Harris, whom I find endlessly charming. But I missed his opening number, and once that's done there's too much other stuff going on on an awards show for the host to be sufficient reason for watching. Well, I say "stuff going on," but what you really get is a night of lists. Here are six mini-series you haven't heard of till now. Here are dramas other people rave about. Here are comedies, two of which you may be able to catch on a regular basis. Here are actors on the cable channels you don't get, or the PBS station watched by people more sophisticated than you.

I can see why entertainment folks feel like they should be able to pull this off. They are, after all, professionals in all the areas required to produce a great show, something which could not be said of most other industries (tractor sales? PVC piping? come on). And perhaps, in the early days when Hollywood seemed inaccessible, there was something of the fairy tale when we watched stars on the red carpet (as opposed to the "Her dress is hideous!" snark we tend to indulge in now, myself included). I certainly don't begrudge creative folks the opportunity to be recognized by their peers; heck, I daydream about working as a creative type myself one day.

But I think that amidst all the analyzing about declining viewership and target demographics and changing technology, they may be missing one simple, key point:

Awards ceremonies are boring to everyone who isn't up for an award.

Awesome or Obscene, Depending on Your Point of View

Went to a housewarming today. There was a chocolate fountain! Chocolatefountainchocolatefountainchocolatefountain. There was fruit to stick in there. Bah! I took the last chocolate chunk cookie and smothered it. There was one fingerprint spot, left uncovered like Achilles' heels. That's OK. Still yummy. Obnoxiously yummy.

One Nice Thing about Having Roommates

...is that I can be social without having to be upright. I can go home, crash in front of the TV, be semi-conscious, and still be hanging out with someone. I like that. I like lying down. Sometimes the hardest part about meeting up with people outside the home is that I can't rest my head anywhere.

My Memory

On a Tuesday morning eight years ago, my car was in the shop. The engine had blown, and I was taking the bus to work. During my commute, we passed a minor but traffic-impeding accident between two cars in an intersection, and I remember being grateful that I wasn't one of those drivers. Their day was starting off badly.

I had no idea.

Of course, it was only 8:15, and none of us had any idea.

I first got the news from a customer who walked into the store. I was otherwise alone in the bakery. After the second plane hit, I turned on the radio and kept it on. But my human contact was with customers.

I remember feeling, and seeing and hearing in some other people, an excitement. Not happiness. Of course not happiness. But an energy, a heightening of our experience, as we were all thrown into a world where the glass window through which we viewed the chaos was shattered and the wind came rushing in. For those of us not touched by personal tragedy, was this an opportunity to engage, to take part in a spiritual battle or a physical one, to find a dangerous hole and try to fill it with our own courage? It was like feeling stunned and numb, yet raw at the same time. What would this reveal about us? Would things eventually settle down and go back to normal? Would we hear a call and heed it? Would we rise to a challenge, or shrink back? Would we get lost again in the details of our lives -- and was that necessarily an evil thing?

I learned that my uncle had made it out of the World Trade Center without injury. I hadn't even realized he worked there.

The phone chains went into gear in my church North of D.C., and in the evening we gathered in our auditorium to pray. That I was glad to do. In a situation too big for me to understand, I was only too happy to turn to the One who was even bigger than the situation, and who cared for the hurting -- and the perpetrators -- more than I ever could.

I wasn't angry, and I wasn't scared, and I wasn't sure if that was an indicator of something missing in me.

In the days and weeks that followed, and New York began burying its fallen firefighters and policemen, there weren't enough men and women in uniform to attend the funerals of their commrades, so my dad and other firefighters and cops from outside the city went down to attend the funerals.

I wondered if my brother, then a Navy pilot, would be sent to fight. I'm still thankful that he wasn't.

I don't think there was any one "right" response to what happened on 9/11/01, either in emotion or in action. Eight years on, I don't know what the proper balance is between somber remembrance and finding joy in the present.

Perhaps the imporant thing is to acknowledge the validity of both.

New Links!

I've been finding some fun blogs out there, and I've added the links to the column on the right side of this blog. Hope folks enjoy them!

Dismissed from drama school, with a note attached

The note said: "Wasting your time. She's too shy to put her best foot forward."

The dismissed student was Lucille Ball.

From one shy funny girl to another: Thanks for being brave, Lucy.

Filing Recipes Will Have to Wait

Every couple of weeks, I feel the need to have a long day at home where I can intersperse relaxing with getting some items crossed off my to-do list -- one of the luxuries of spinsterhood. If I have a second day like this, I can delve into those long-standing items, the ones I wrote down a year or two ago and still haven't gotten to. The problem with not being a hermit is that such days can be hard to come by, and the cupboards grow emptier while the laundry pile grows bigger (for the record, laundry and groceries are on the immediate to-do list, not the year-long one).

Well, it ain't gonna get done this weekend. Because my Jeter-stalking friend, Chris, and I will be heading to NYC for a weekend of being fabulous. Sex and the City without the sex. This will be aided by the fact that I found out this week that I'm getting a sizeable bonus at work! (Really, I never expected anything so huge. Ha --that's what she said!) My salary ain't huge, but this should at least give me an excuse to replenish my barely-hanging-on summer wardrobe, and have a few drinks and sleep indoors while I'm at it.

Hmmm. This might be at odds with my sleeping goal.

You're Getting Sleepy, Very Sleepy

Or maybe it's just me.

I was never more well rested than when I was a struggling musician. By the end of that four years, I was down to two days a week at my retail day job. Apart from that and church on Sunday, I didn't have scheduled activities till I started teaching in the afternoons. So I could come hom from rehearsals and gigs at night, unwind by snacking (or having a super-late dinner!) with a book or in front of the TV, then wander off to bed and sleep till 10 or 10:30. I woke up when my body wanted to wake up. Then I could lie there awake for a while, and maybe work out before showering. It was great. So great. Most of the rest of my life sucked, but that part was great.

No more. It's all about the day jobs now. And while to some folks I come across as quite conventional and square, I have a determined nocturnal streak that my will has not been able to tame. It likes junk food and late-night TV. It's not a partyer, but it has plenty of energy for evening performances and hanging out with friends. It likes to go to bed around 1. And while it often manages to hit the hay by 11 or 11:30, it still feels very sorry for itself on weekdays at 7am.

The struggle has increased since I got myself into so many improv activities, which are geared toward night people. I want to sleep. Honest I do. I'm good at it. But it's happening less.

I've recently read about the importance of sleep. This was hugely validating, because while my practice may not be great, my desire is usually for 9 hours per night. Conventional wisdom is that we need 8, and most folks consider that a luxury, so I felt like a slob for sleeping longer when I had the chance. But at least according to one article, folks regularly slept 9 hours 100 years ago. So maybe I'm not a bum. I'm just old-fashioned.

In our culture, busyness is like a competition. Songwriter Sara Groves wrote ironically, If you sit at home, you're a loser/ Couldn't you find anything better to do?. If you're going without sleep, it must be because you're busy, right? I kind of get tired thinking about it.

Last night I saw a Nova episode about sleep. They're still trying to figure out exactly why creatures need it, but based on studies done, it looks like one of the huge benefits is that the brain uses the time to work through, practice, and solve problems. One scientist theorized that by sacrificing sleep, we sacrifice wisdom! Not to mention the fact that we're mentally and physically impaired by tiredness, and the cost to health, well-being and lifespan can be considerable.

I don't want sleep to be something I save up for on one or two precious nights a week! I want to be rested, happy, and wise. Sleeping Brainy.

Cinematic Levels of Ick

If you were going to write a screenplay and make the Holly character look pathetic, it might go something like my evening.

We had our weekly improv performance. I'm not thrilled with how I did, but I'm getting over it by the time the second intermission comes around. Then I have a decision to make: Do I put my name in for the lottery? The lottery is where everyone who has improvised that night puts their name into a plastic pumpkin (like you'd use for trick-or-treating), and if your name is drawn, you get to do another improv set with the professional improvisers who've come to the show that night. The only rule, that I know of, is that you shouldn't put your name in if you got called the week before.

But I've been called twice already this term, and I didn't want to get called up too much, you know? On the other hand, I wanted to redeem myself after a weak showing earlier that night. After asking for the input of some of the other actors, I put my name in.

I got called. And our director, who drew my name, says as I walk up, "Did you get called last week?" I said no, and he said, "Holly's been lucky with the lottery." Which, combined with the insecurity I had already, left me feeling like everyone had seen too much of me and I was a selfish jerk for being up there again. So instead of getting out there more (my main frustration from earlier was that I'd been too quiet), I held back even more.

But wait, it gets better. After the shows, the actors and their friends go to this local pub. So I went, knowing I was too wound up to get to sleep after an upsetting show.

And I ordered my drink.

And I drank it alone, because no one else showed up. I just sat there by the window, looking to see if anyone I recognized was on their way.

Um, could something really romantic and redeeming happen now?

The Opposite of Playfulness

I'm learning to loosen up and be more playful, but it's hard. It's hard because I care about doing things well, and how things turn out, and my assumption has always been that that requires a certain amount of vigilance. I think playfulness and vigilance are opposites in that way.

If it's OK to get one's knowledge of cowboys from Tim McGraw songs (and why wouldn't it be?), you're not supposed to worry about the fall. You just ride the bull with all you've got. I'm generally not so good at that. When I land, I think "Dang, I landed. That wasn't cool." And I want to avoid it.

So I'm on the hunt for the cowboy in me. Or my inner knife juggler. Or stunt pilot. Or whatever other profession involves near-crazy levels of not-focusing on the potential hazards, and keeping your eye on the sparkly prize instead.

Oh dear. My job in publishing production is all about project management and spotting problems before they become problems. Vigilance. Undoubtedly a useful skill, but hmmm.

What's with the Pervy Vampires?

It's not so much that I want a vampire. I'm just annoyed that they don't want me.

All these movies and TV shows about guys who become vampires at age 17 or so. They get all undead and, naturally (unnaturally?) stop aging. At least physically. But if that happened to you a hundred years ago, surely the last century has brought its share of life experience. Emotionally, then, what could you possibly have in common with a high school girl? The not-yet-legal 16-year-old. Really?

OK, I can understand not wanting to date someone close to your age at that point. And you've probably given up on finding somebody who understands cultural references from your true youth ("Boy, wasn't W.C. Fields a scream in his Vaudeville days?"). But have you not matured at all? Do you not want someone who's at least old enough to vote, and maybe has a job?

Say, a youthful 34?

What a Difference a Day Makes...

...24 little hours...

Last night did a lot to improve my mood. Relational difficulties smoothed over, and an improv performance that I feel good about (and will continue to feel good about until our coach tells me to feel otherwise on Saturday). So today brings the kind of happiness that comes from relief. It's pretty nice.

In unrelated news, a coworker is leaving to study for a year in Edinburgh. I am jealous. Castles and tartan and Scottish accents. Yum.

Oh, and my voice is back! I got to do some voice-over work for my company today, and I dig doing it. I'm not allowed to be compensated in addition to my salary, so the editor has offered to bake me cookies. I'll take it! I've asked for chocolate chip. Yum.

That Didn't Take Long

Well, it's begun.

I do something assertive which, while it might not feel like a big deal to me, is not in line with the super-nice, submissive Holly people get used to, and I get a very strong, negative reaction. This is a pattern.

The question: Will I retreat from these situations? They are extremely unpleasant.

My answer: No. The world is going to have to get used to a less submissive Holly.

You know what other sorta-plural noun you can use with singular verbs?

Data. You don't have to, but you can (at least according to The American Collegiate Dictionary's usage panel).

Oh, and I have another grammar issue to address: The use of plural verbs with singular nouns that denote groups. Have I talked about this with you guys already?

I first noticed folks using plural verbs this way in England (The band are late for their gig). They were so consistent about it that I assumed it was one of those things that's considered correct on one side of the ocean when it's incorrect on the other. But a year or two ago, a friend sent me a British article wherein people described their grammatical pet peeves, and this was in there. According to the article, it's correct to use singular verbs when the noun itself is singular, even when the noun denotes a group -- and even if that group is in England. That bunch of grapes is sour. His family has no respect for his career as a monkey trainer. Congress is deadlocked.

The article then said that BBC guidelines make exceptions for bands (as in musical groups) and sports teams. I confess I'm not a huge fan of these exceptions, because we get a feel for language by hearing it, and this just puts noun-verb disagreement into people's heads as something that sounds right all the time.

As with just about everything else grammatical, I'm not going to go around interrupting people in mid-sentence just to correct them on this. Which means it will probably just get worse, and I'll have to deal with it. So thanks for putting up with my blog posts about it. Apart from family conversations at holidays, I might not have many other chances to vent about this stuff.

Does that make my family weird? If so, my family is weird. Not my family are weird.

Improv and Whispers

I felt so much better about our improv show this week than I did about last week's. We'll see what our coach has to say about it on Saturday. It's interesting that being a good improviser means being comfortable as yourself. Lots of my current pursuits require that I be comfortable with who I am, and real about it with other people. Easier said than done, obviously, but at least it's all heading in the same direction. I'm slowly, slowly finding my voice -- literally, even, in the case of the singing lessons.

Part of this discovery process involves learning to be offensive -- whether it's playing a controversial character in an improv scene, or learning to express my opinions or have a stronger personality around people who might not like it. I don't like being offensive, and I ceratinly don't intend to be offensive merely for its own sake, but the self-censorship has taken its toll. I feel a bit like my heart has been in a pressure cooker. The world has seen bits of steam escaping, but no one has seen how much is really compressed in there. I'm not looking for a big explosion (God help us all if that happens), but -- to extend a rather gross cooking metaphor -- I wonder if my heart is close to being, uh, done, and the lid can come off soon.

Is anyone else picturing a cooked heart now? I am. Not sure that's the most helpful image, really. Lord, I'm open to a better one if You've got it.

Interestingly, while I'm slowly finding my voice in my creative pursuits, this week I've managed to physically lose it to a sore throat/cough kind of thing. It went raspy, then it just went. Is it weird that I've always enjoyed this sort of thing? I've always found hiccups fun, too. Not sure if it's the novelty of it, or if I like having a little quirk for a while, or if the actress in me likes having a comedic role to play. Whatever it is, these little ailments never last long enough for me. I'm a little bummed that I don't have more opporunities to talk to people while my voice is gone. A person's voice makes such a difference in whether they're perceived as cute, masculine/feminine, sexy, smart, confident, or annoying, and I'm so curious to know how differently I'd be perceived by someone who had never heard my voice and could now only hear me whisper, and whether hearing my voice later would change that perception. Dang, so curious and no one to experiment on!

I think that pressure cooker/cooked heart image is odd no matter what voice speaks it, though.

In the Spirit of Bringing Things out of the Darkness and into the Light

And driven by a strong impulse toward confession:

1. I saw the Hannah Montana movie this weekend.
2. I was surprised at how much I liked it.
3. I cried a little.

But for the record, this ain't a bad lyric: There's always gonna be another mountain/ I'm always gonna want to make it move...

Shakespeare Can't Be All That Hard, Can It?

Boston has free Shakespeare performances every summer. I've gone for the last few years, and each time I come away wanting to do that. The acting, I mean. Of course, I haven't been in a play since junior high, but that doesn't mean I'm not brilliantly and naturally talented, right?



This week I'm taking in theatrical spectacles two nights in a row. Last night it was The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged), an tonight it's A Comedy of Errors. I'm such a sucker for this stuff. I can't claim to have read many of Bill's works, but I usually enjoy seeing a production. And I'm a sucker for that one Hamlet speech they do. Man pleaseth not me either, Hamlet. Though he comes awfully close when he's charming and funny.

Breaking a Mental Sweat

Like a good nerd, I kinda like reading the dictionary (and sometimes the encyclopedia). One nice thing about working at a publisher is that I have one on the shelf of my cubicle, and I pull it out when I'm not sure whether I'm spelling or using a word correctly, or I feel culturally ignorant and want to know who on earth, say, Typhoid Mary was. (Answer: She had "unsanitary habits," and you'd want to take a pass on the spaghetti if she'd been the one hand-rolling the meatballs.)

I'm a little excited because I just learned that I'm not crazy for using politics with singular verbs.

I like the thesaurus, too, though I'm often disappointed that it doesn't contain more. I remember watching the movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, in which Matthew McConnaughey and his cohorts are using a thesaurus to come up with the right word for an advertising campaign, and I wanted a job where I could use a thesaurus like that. Still do.

Or maybe a job where I can pretend to be a meathead gym owner who pretends to read the dictionary. Fun either way, I say.

Deep Shallowness

I find myself frustrated on two levels after improv classes and performances. On one level, I'm upset if I don't hear laughs from the audience. On another, I'm upset if I feel I've sacrificed quality scene work just to get cheap laughs. And then I'm extra upset if I make that sacrifice and the laughs still don't materialize!

I want to be a mature and generous performer, creating solid characters and solid scenes, not being a slave to immediate audience response. But I'm realizing that, as with everything else, I can't just choose to be mature. I can make choices that foster maturity, but that's not the same thing. I'm also realizing that denying the desires and instincts that drive me won't help; I'll do better to acknowledge them and try to satisfy them properly, so that I'm not driven by them against my better judgment.

Here's what I mean: I like hearing applause and laughter; I like positive attention; I like approval from authority and being liked by my peers; and I want to feel capable and competent. I can feel all these at work in me when I go to improv classes and rehearsals, and step out on the stage. I can tell myself that the desires for laughter and attention are shallow, but the fact is that they run deep in me. And I'm no longer convinced that they're petty and should be uprooted and replaced by loftier preoccupations like Art or The Good of Mankind. My desires simply are what they are. They're big and unwieldy, but they could also be the magnets that pull me toward the true North of my vocation (which I can easily see serving the purposes of art and God and the good of my fellow man, without leaving me shrivelled and bitter). Often, trying to apply the improv principles that I'm being taught only goes so far in overriding these deep-running desires anyway. Not that my desires and these learned principles are inherently incompatible -- it's just that it can be hard for someone who's inexperienced (as I am with improv) to get them working together rather than against each other.

It's a lot like physical instincts, I think. I saw a documentary that said that our digestive system has so many nerves and wirings that it's almost like a second brain. Denying our stomachs was compared to denying our lungs after walking up a flight of stairs: We might be able to keep our breathing down for a while, but eventually we need the additional air. I also read that we're wired to make up for discipline in one area by cutting ourselves slack in another -- so someone might run three miles and then eat a big muffin. I imagine this crosses disciplines, too -- someone might be great about food and exercise all the time, for example, but hasn't taken the time to think about spiritual matters or isn't good at maintaining relationships.

So I figure the way to handle my nature's desires isn't to try to ignore them or just "discipline" my way through them, because that won't work. And it won't make me happy. Instead, I'd like to have them fulfilled in some healthy fashion, so that I'm free to make mature creative choices. I think that's what "generous" actors must be able to do. They're not so insecure and starved for the limelight that they can't step back and make their fellow performers look good. I was mature enough to do this as a musician, but I'm not there with improv yet.

I don't know what those healthy desire-fillers will be. If my own experience is anything to go by, the whole process will take a while, and I'll just have to be where I am while I'm there. I'll have to keep working to find the balance between applying constructive criticism and enjoying what limited skill I have already.

But I'm kind of excited at the thought of having these desires filled, somehow.

Some Quotes from the Roommies

"Five years ago, she would have been big in Japan."

"That's my latest bad habit: looking at crotches."

"So, there are these two really funny things about Stage 3 hypothermia..."

"Next time I go [to karate], I'm gonna be like, 'Sensei, when do I get to wrestle the ladies?'"

"Having been chased by a bull before, I can't say I'd like to be a cow."

Occupations I've Considered but Have Not Had (yet)

Voice actor
Classical radio DJ
Truck driver
Music transcriptionist
Medical transcriptionist
Humor columnist
Teacher of music appreciation (both high school and community-college levels)
Copywriter
Car salesperson
Traveling sales rep for gourmet chocolate company
Piano salesperson
Bank teller
Songwriter/lyricist
Mail carrier
Marketing manager (a bit ambitious, as I have no Marketing experience whatsoever)
TV comedy writer
Writer for "Uncle John's Bathroom Reader"
Dog walker
Duck-boat driver
Museum tour guide
Freedom Trail tour guide
Ghosts and Gravestones tour guide
Art salesperson, at a gallery in a mall
Insurance company call-center customer service representative
Sports-team mascot (have recently learned those suits are air-conditioned!)
Just about anything at Despair, Inc. (creators of Demotivators series)
Greeting card writer
Famous person

I'm a Bad One, I Is

I took another step down the Road to Perdition this afternoon as I violated the sanctity of Cookie Day. Each month, cookies are laid out at the office in recognition of everyone who had a birthday. We're given explicit instructions to take only one. Which I did.

At first.

Then I waited an hour, and went back for a SECOND COOKIE. Didn't even wait till I got back to my cube to tear into it. Yeah, that's right, I did it!

And my birthday isn't even IN July.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa!

And if They Crash, They Buy It

The attitude of cab drivers in Egypt, as quoted by a well-travelled Lebanese girl I met:

"To us, the traffic lights are like apples. If it is green, we eat it. If it is yellow, we eat it. If it is red, we eat it."

300th Post

It's 2:30 am. Who's wide awake? I am. What's keeping me awake? The improv performance tonight, and everything I could have done or could have said. The way that I have trouble differentiating between when I'm improvising and when I'm having a conversation, and am not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing or just a normal thing. The fact that I have to get up and go to work tomorrow in an office where they expect you to be conscious, the knowledge of which doesn't make sleeping at night or being awake during the day any easier.

Dang. Dang da-dang dang dang. Dang diddy dang da-dang da-dang diddy diddy.

Someday, when they're writing my many scandalous, unauthorized biographies, they'll romanticize nights like this. My genius, my agony and my ecstasy, my endless (and imaginary) succession of torrid and tragic love affairs. But the reality is that I have Cheez Balls stuck to my teeth, and if I ever do fall asleep there will be a lot of orange drool involved.

Incommunicado

I head out of town on Friday for a long weekend with the Fam. We'll be chillin' by a lake. As work is already pretty relaxing at the moment, I don't know if I'll feel a huge need to lounge around, although I'm pretty good at it. So we'll see if I can find fun ways to keep myself entertained. Maybe I'll sing through some Sesame Street CDs with my nephew. Not because he likes the songs, but because I do.

Have really been scrounging for reasons to stay awake at work. Took one project off a coworker's hands today to appease my conscience. Otherwise, not much else going on here.

Have my second improv show tonight. Scared again. Dealing with it. Have a couple friends coming this time. Laugh loudly, guys!

I'll probably be offline for the long weekend. I know my posts are rather infrequent anyway, but for 4 days I'll actually have a decent excuse for that.

Slooooooooooooowwwwwwwwww

I took a sick day yesterday to get stuff done around the house. Yet there's so little for me to do at work that when I returned today, I had almost nothing to catch up on. So I become further acquainted with "The Show" by Ze Frank. (He finished it over two years ago, but it's worth checking out if you never have: http://www.zefrank.com/.) They basically paid me to write in my journal. A slow day.

In other news, much like the singing recital, my first improv show went well as far as I know. The big deal is that I got through it and can move forward. The most redeeming compliment of the night for me came at the pub after the show, when an actor from another team said that after he saw my audition, he assumed I would make a team. Yay!

Sometimes I'm glad to be hanging out with theater types. You know at the end of Saturday Night Live, when they're all hugging each other? I sometimes wonder how necessary that is, since they see each other every day. But putting yourself out there creatively, and especially in front of a live audience, is hard. So I can understand needing support, encouragement, and reassurance.

At rehearsal on Monday, my Level 5 instructor gave me some final advice: Think less, explain less, and expand my character range beyond the low-status and clueless types.

So basically, stop playing myself.

Maybe I can practice that during my many empty work hours.

A "Sea Change," if You Will

... because I'll be using a water metaphor ;-).

For years, sadness was my Normal. I might bob upwards briefly, but I always sank back down. But lately? I find myself floating up, and only being briefly brought down by troubles. My Normal has changed, or at least it's looking that way.

How effing cool is that???

Stuff

Not a ton to update you all on. I gave my first non-karaoke singing performance in a recital on Sunday, and it went well, as far as I know. I don't have any recording of it, and it went by so fast. And one of the big reasons I'm taking voice lessons is because I'm not always great at being able to tell whether I'm singing properly, so I'm not the best judge of my own performance. People did seem to like it. I made it theatrical and entertaining.

One odd thing: The accompanist was sight-reading that day. While it's not a complicated piece, she wasn't able to to make the fun changes I'd hoped to make. She also had trouble following me on tempo changes. And I hadn't expected that she'd play my melody line with her right hand. All of this I discovered in our run-through 15 min. before the recital. So I set myself a different musical challenge. I wasn't able to relenquish all my interpretive freedom, but for the most part I synched myself up with the tempo and rhythm she played; otherwise we just would have sounded bad. I exercised my ensemble muscle instead of my solo muscle. That's OK. In that way, I felt like my old musical experience came to bear.

I had my first rehearsal for the improv-student performing teams on Saturday. The goals are different from those we aim for in class. In class, we go for characters, relationships, and solid scene structure, and rely on humor growing from that. In the performing teams, because we have so little time, we go more for the jokes. So it's a change in mindset, but that's OK. It's all about learning. I'm not thrilled with how I did in rehearsal, but that's also OK, ultimately. It would be weird if I never had a bad class or a bad show. It would be like those couples that never argue-- an indication that there are no risks being taken, and who you really are as a person is being hidden. So, there's a triumph for me: I risked enough to screw up :-).

The other team members are really nice. First performance is tomorrow. Eek! Each rehearsal, each performance -- they all scare me a little. But I hope that pushing through each time results in progress, and isn't just me pushing the same stone up the hill each time.

Yeah, it's gotta have a cumulative effect.

Physically Theatrical

Hi Folks. I thought I'd tell y'all a bit about what I was up to last week. It's kind of hard to explain, but I'll do what I can.

It's called physical theatre, but different companies define that differently. The company that ran this program combines dance,mime, and acrobatics to create non-verbal performances with varying levels of artistic abstraction. I did a day-long workshop with them a couple years ago when they came to my church, and I got to see them perform that night and at church the next morning. It was very cool. The feats they pull off are crazy. Strength, balance, and storytelling -- maybe like Blue Man Group or Cirque du Soleil, but without all the garnish. They use almost no props, which is where the mime comes in: They have to create environments and objects out of the air.

When I think "mime," I think cheese, but it wasn't like that (whew!). It'll actually come in handy in improv, where we have to do essentially the same thing. In improv we call it "object work." Because you don't know in advance what you'll do, you can't plan sets and props, so you have to act things out and make it as clear as possible to the audience and to the other performers. You act out an activity, interact with imaginary objects, go imaginary places. Mime is great for that.

As for the dance, we covered some of the most basic of the basic ballet and modern dance building blocks. It makes me want to be a better mover. I'm too busy for it right now, but the seed is planted in my head that I could take classes for different kinds of dance and become more graceful. Not that I'm a complete clod right now. It would just be neat learn some of these things for myself, even if they don't apply directly to my performance aspirations.

One thing I liked was breaking down movement into distinct parts: Incline your head to the right. Rotate your neck to the left. Project your chest forward. Lean your waist backwards. Incline your hips to the left. You can isolate body parts and be in control of them and put together cool movements by experimenting with different combinations. Here's a fun one to try: Move your head + neck and hips to the right, but keep your chest and waist centered. Then do the same to the left. Looks wacky! Breakdancers do a lot of moves using these kinds of isolations.

Another thing we did a lot of was non-traditional partnering. Traditional partnering would be like what they do in ballet -- the girl does something pretty, and the guy lifts her up and maybe tosses her somewhere. Non-traditional partnering is actually a bit like Renaissance music. In early music, parts were rarely written for specific instruments or voices; instead, there were lines written in various high and low ranges, and you used whatever instruments and voices you had to cover those ranges. So, as a sackbut (trombone) player, I could trade parts with a singer or a bassoon or a lower viol (precessor to a cello). In non-traditional partnering, your physiology does matter, but you can have any kind of pairing; it's not gender-specific. And you learn that you can bear a lot of weight if that weight is placed on strong bones and you're not relying on pure muscle. So, if I place two feet and one hand on the ground like a tripod, a 170 lb. man could wrap himself around my waist, with most of his weight over my hips and legs, and I could hold him up. (I can't move that much weight on any of the machines at the gym.) We learned to hold each other up by leaning toward each other, by grabbing wrists and leaning away, and by leaning onto each other until one person is completely off the ground. Eventually, you can start climbing around as if you're on a jungle gym. It sounds weird and like a serious violation of personal space, but it was pretty amazing how we were all able to change mindsets and think like dancers. I often partnered with other women, but I noticed that there was a difference in my own mind between the inside and the outside of the studio most when I partnered with guys: I could do all kinds of stuff in rehearsal, and still be shy when we ate dinner later that same day.

The whole week was a long exercise in noticing, facing, and pushing through my fears, both physical and social. We did a lot of group work, and it can be easy for me to feel like the odd man out and withdraw preemptively. So I had to choose to keep getting in there. And as with most of my fears, it turns out other people felt the same way and had to fight it just like I did.

And of course, there were lots of discussions about the purpose and nature of art and theater.

It's funny: While I was there, I longed for improv because I felt more comfortable with it. Now that I'm back, I'm afraid to get back into improv! But the great thing about doing all these scary things is that, once I've done them, I've done them! I've done something I've daydreamed about and now I have an experience instead of a wish.

So tonight, it's off to experience another improv class :-).

Black and Blue

I gotta get to bed in preparation for my first day of work in over a week, but I wanted to let you know that I had a good time at my physical-theatre camp, and have the bruises to prove it. Lots of contact with a hardwood studio floor. I feel all hard core. (Hey, that rhymed.) Hoo-ah!

Stop the Presses!

Whoa.

I'm sitting here on my couch, watching the Boston Pops 4th of July concert on TV. This is slightly weird, seeing as how I live in Boston and could have simply gone to the concert. But I was out all day at a cookout with the Burns family (who lived up to their name by wearing very little sunscreen, but were very welcoming and showed it by making fun of me just like my own family would).

Hey, they're using real cannons in the 1812 overture! There are army artillery guys out there on the Esplanade firing away, in time and everything. Awesome!

I can hear fireworks from my window.

Both those statements were tangential.

What got me online was a series of close-ups of one of the trombone players with the Boston Pops. I played in orchestras with this guy in high school! I Googled to make sure.

So, mild bummer, watching a professional orchestra play, since that's the life I left behind without having seen the fulfillment of my aspirations. But now I'm not bummed; I'm a bit stunned. See, after Googling my old section leader, I decided to give my email one last check before leaving my laptop behind for a week (I'm going out of town to a dancey kind of theater camp -- have I mentioned that?). Not much to see in the Inboxes. But new in the Spam folder...

"House Team Notification"

I made it onto a student improv team! I had resigned myself to not making it this go-around. I was even appreciating how God wasn't rushing things, and had moved on and was looking forward to my life in other ways. Now I have to shift gears back. But I think I'll live :-).

A mild hiccup, because this is real life: I'll miss the first rehearsal because I'll be out of town. But I doubt I'm the first person that's ever happened to. Assuming they don't relieve me of my place because of this conflict, when I return I'll be gearing up to be not just an improv student, but an improv performer! Woooooooo! I'm not onstage with a world-class orchestra like my old colleague, but I'll have a different stage.

Hey, this means that those of you in the Boston area can come see me! Let me know if you're interested.

Neil Diamond and Sweet Caroline now.

Sweet, indeed.

Trying to Be Rudy

We were told we'd hear if we made it onto a student improv team by today. If we don't hear, then we didn't make it. I haven't heard, and it's 5:39. So, there you go. Rats.

I'm not surprised, and it occurred to me today that it's a good sign that I'm able to tell that I didn't do well enough to get in, as opposed to being completely deceived about the quality of my own performance compared to those of the other auditionees. So, it's back onto the metaphorical horse tonight, as I head back to class, and likely to interaction with folks who did make it. As well they should, because there are talented people in my class.

It's awkward, trying to learn new things in your 30s. Without realizing it, I got used to being good at things like music and academics as I was growing up, and I developed perfectionism by avoiding things that didn't come naturally to me. I could get by without cultivating the determination acquired by kids who had to come from behind. No longer. I'm now doing improv with people who both have formal acting training and are ten years my junior. Or who are just plain more naturally gifted at it. I've auditioned for the student teams twice, and have failed to make it in twice. But I still want to do this, so that means dusting myself off, sucking up the embarrassment of being mediocre, and keeping going.

One thing I'm learning is to give myself credit for pushing past the fear and giving it a shot. And although I punked out and didn't take the April auditions, I've now given it another shot. Looks like I'll be waiting till Fall till I get another shot, but to my knowledge there's no limit on how many times you can try.

One of the big reasons why I'd like to get onto one of these teams is that, once you've made it through Level 6, there are no more weekly classes to take. I'm halfway through Level 5 now, and I'd like to continue to have regular practice. Once I graduate, if I'm not already on a team, I imagine it'll only get harder because I'll "lose my chops." Although, I suppose I could start taking classes at the other improv theater in town. So, nothing is fatal.

I used to want a blemish-free record. I didn't want to be like the college kid Rudy, in the football movie; I wanted to be the guy who got first string quarterback. But the first string doesn't have a movie made about him, does he? I'm noticing that a lot of successful people talk about not giving up. Well then, here's where the rubber meets the road.

I'm going to class tonight. This is me not giving up.

Seriously, Verizon?

Verizon has done it again. I don't even have an Inernet account with them anymore, and they've managed to do it again.

I got the old account moved to a roommate's name. I moved away. A year ago. But like a stalker just released from jail, Verizon tracked me down once I thought I was finally free. This past Thursday, I got a call from them saying they'd received a complaint from me. Um, not recently. Apparently, someone is having trouble with the account, and somewhere in the bowels of Verizon's records, they still have it listed under my name The woman who called me was nice and didn't push the issue, but she wasn't able to fix it, either.

So I gave them a call to get my name erased from every document they've ever had, so they can't call me and can't find my new apartment and can't keep texting me and asking if I'll meet their parents because no one's as pretty as I am. And they said I'm not listed on an account with them.

Great. I am, but I'm not. I'm listed enough for them to call me, but not enough for them to erase that listing. Sounds like a stalker ploy to me!

Please lose my number again, Verizon. Please stop thinking that we "had something special." Don't make me get that restraining order.

Because I will.

I Like TV

There, I said it.

We're not supposed to like TV, are we. Or maybe we can like certain shows, but we're not supposed to admit it when we just like to flop on the couch and watch whatever is on because it's on, and we're not that picky.

But I do. As a kid, I wanted to watch TV even when I was at my friends' houses. As an adult, when I have a choice between reading a book and watching TV, I'll usually choose watching TV. If there's a TV on in the room, I'll watch it (unless it's sports), which means I get almost nothing else done when the TV is on.

As with just about everything else that came naturally to me, I spent most of my life beating myself up for this and trying to fight it. I've lived without a set at various points, during which I read a lot. I actually think reading and watching TV use similar parts of my brain. Both provide fodder for my own imagination, and I daydream a lot.

I guess that's about all I've got as far as analysis goes. That's OK.

Grand Day Out

Today was our company's "Day Out," basically a picnic. And we got real sun for the first time in a while, so that was great! I participated in the goofy team games because the winning team wins a free day off. I'd play full-contact football for a free day off. OK, maybe not, but I'd definitely do that game where you have to place your head on an upright baseball bat, run around said bat 6 times, and then try to run back to your teammates.

Well, my team (The Soggybottoms) didn't win the day off, and my smack-talking coworker's team did (he promised to think of me while he was on the beach with his tequila). But I did come away with a little sumthin' sumthin' to remember my day away from my desk. I got a teal bandana, several grass stains (wiped out after that bat spin), and a possible sunburn (we'll see tomorrow morning).

It's been a while since I was a kid, but if I remember correctly, that makes it a good day.

Sword Fights and Tight Pants! (Unsurprisingly, the Band, Queen, is Involved)

My roommates and I watched the original Highlander movie this weekend. I got the "immortal" edition DVD set from the library, which includes Queen videos from the soundtrack. Sheer '80s awesomeness.

As for the movie itself, it helps if you know what it's about before you see it -- which I did, thanks to a few random epsisodes of the subsequent TV show from the '90s, viewed on some lazy Saturdays in my college dorm. So, in the spirit of helpfulness, here you go:

There are these immortal guys who can't die unless their heads get cut off. They have a kind of Spidey sense about when another immortal is in the vicinity. There's no rule saying they can't be friends with each other, but there is a rule saying there can be only one in the end, so most of them try to cut off the heads of the others with swords. If one immortal cuts off the head of another, he gets to soak up the dead one's power in a nifty lightning show called The Quickening. Being immortal has its drawbacks, because you outlast your spouse(s) and you have to keep assuming new identities, but it's fun because you get to enjoy changing fashions throughout the centuries. (If you make it to the 1980s and you're Freddie Mercury, this includes tight pants and phallic microphone stands.) The movie focuses on one immortal named MacLeod, who was born in the Scottish highlands, which is why it's called Highlander. Early on in his life, he discovers he can't die after fighting a Russian immortal who wears this really cool animal-skull hat. My roommate Adam wants one.