PocCandy #3: Awesome Pants

The third weekly installment of PodCandy is here!



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Taste the Rainbow

You know that bit at the beginning of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where Richard Dreyfus is making a mound out of his mashed potatoes and telling his wife, "This means something"?

Stay with me.

My favorite color has changed. Again. First it was green. Then it was red. Now it's a completely different green.

This means something.

I decided in the third grade that my favorite color would be green. Just decided it. Don't know why, although it might have been because everyone else seemed to like blue and purple. Whatever my reasons, it stuck. The kind of green I liked shifted a bit over the years -- kelly green, then throughout the 90s it was hunter green, but I always preferred greens that were closer to blue than to yellow. You know those little tests young people give each other, where they'll say, "What's your favorite color? Your favorite animal? Your favorite body of water? Why do you like them?" and then they'll tell you what it means? Someone did that to me once in college, and they said that the color was how you see yourself. (For the curious: The animal was how you think others see you, and the water was how you thought of sex.)

My reasons for liking green? It goes with everything. It's nice, doesn't put itself forward. Hmmm.

Then, ten years ago, as I was leaving the realm of perpetual student-ness and heading, finally (or so I hoped), into my adult life, I found myself liking red. Deep red. Dangerous red. I may still have been as obscure as ever, but it wasn't because I wanted it that way.

Over the last few weeks, maybe months, I've been drawn to colors that I'd always considered plain ugly: Spring greens, velvety pea soup greens, mossy greens, dusty pale celery greens. Like dense, jungle-like flora.

Hey, I just realized that the font I chose for this post is called Verdana.

This means something.

PodCandy: Stand by Your Moment

Hi, Everybody!
My second podcast is here. It's my Most Embarrassing Moment story.


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Feed Me, Seymour!

That's my ego talking.

As you most likely know, I just starting posting podcasts! That means that I've also started sitting on the edge of my seat, looking for responses to my podcasts. You know how some performers are notoriously insecure? I'm one of those. [See: 30 Rock character Jenna Maroney.]

I heard that Philip Seymour Hoffman is insecure, to the point where his need for reassurance becomes annoying to other performers. And how many accolades has this guy won? This actually scares me a bit. If you can be that good and still not know it, then where is the hope for the rest of us? I don't even have an artsy beard.

It's interesting how much you have to push past in order to put yourself and your creative work out there. I don't want to come off as some kind of tool, saying "Hey, watch me sing I'm a Little Teapot!" but if I don't publicize at all, then anyone who could potentially enjoy my work won't find it. It's hard to toot your own horn. And then when I do, I wonder if the world will want to put its hands over its ears.

I've gotten positive feedback on the podcasts so far. (Thanks for not being jerkwads, guys.) Yet I still feel all weird about it. I wonder if that goes away, or if it's just always going to be there.

This post isn't just a thinly veiled fishing expedition for compliments (at least, not more so than any other post). It's just another attempt at being honest about what's going on in my head and my heart while I put more polished, performance-y stuff out there.

Wouldn't want to be discreet or anything.

PodCandy Is Here!

Hi, Everyone!
The first episode of Holly's PodCandy is up and listen-to-able!


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Picky Facebook Addict

I just read an insight into what makes Facebook addictive: It's the fact that you don't know when you'll get correspondence or a response to a post, but it could happen at any time. I know that, in addition to clawing desperately at distractions from my job, I compulsively check to see if anyone liked what I said. That's my addiction.

At the same time, over the last couple days I've been "hiding" most of my Facebook friends. Partly because I realized that the things a lot of people say are contentious and make me sadder rather than happier, and who needs that? It's also because, with so many posts, I found myself thinking, "Wow. I am SO not interested." It turns out that unless someone has something funny to say or a video to post, I really don't need to know about it. It's interesting to learn that a dude from high school hosts a radio show or that some improv buddies are making it in L.A. But your work hours today? The fact that you hung out last night with a friend I don't know? The fact that the weekend is coming up? Good gosh, I have a calendar for that.

You know what makes me want to put a bullet in my head? Reading about what somebody just cooked and/or ate.

Says the girl who assaults your eyes with blog posts about her own internal minutiae. But at least I put some interesting big words in there.

Siderolite.

Ursa Major

I suspect that I am a bear.

I've suspected this for a while -- that I'm not as tame as I appear to be. That lurking somewhere inside is something big and dangerous, and I've spent the past few decades working hard to be nice because I know I could do some real damage if I wanted to. Not that I'm not genuinely nice. It's just that I'm not as safe or as easily trod upon as one might think, based solely on the goofy exterior.

This bear is not a bad thing. It's good, and it's what I was meant to be. And I'm slowly growing into it.

It's not often that I'm visibly upset. So when I get to the point where it is visible, it's time to take me seriously. It's not time to question me as if I haven't thought through the issue, or as if I don't have good reasons for feeling what I feel. It's not the time to play devil's advocate. I'll just get meta-angry at the fact that my anger is not being respected. And while a person could still probably presume upon my self-control and poke me with sticks, I suspect the day is coming when I'll learn to stop apologizing for being big and having claws and eating meat, and when I rear up and roar they're gonna feel real dumb standing there with that stick in their hand.

A growl begins, deep and low.

Grrrr.

Shithead Is as Shithead Does

Pets and kids are adorable.

Bad behavior is not.

If you are a child or animal, and you act like a shithead, then you are a shithead.

If you are a kid-parent or pet-parent and find bad behavior adorable in your little one, that makes you a shithead, too.

Take note, Philip the Cat. My room is not your Jungle Adventure Playland. You will be sorry when I buy a Supersoaker and a python.

[For the record, Philip's owner isn't a shithead. He's more of a hapless, working, single pet-dad. Philip is still a shithead.]

Columbus Day

We don't officially have this day off at work. What we have are some "floating holidays," which we can use as we choose. So I chose to take today off. And I've realized that this day is not about rest, or about getting things done that I might feel rushed doing on a workday. Today is about avoiding a job I've come to dread.

Since I joined publishing 4 1/2 years ago, I never planned to stay. I wanted something better. But that's the thing -- it had to be better. And I'd had worse, so I knew that my present situation wasn't too bad. Most of the time, it was neutral. It paid my bills and paid for some fun classes that helped me explore my real interests. It required little of me but my time. And my bosses and coworkers have been wonderful.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, it would get stressful, and I would want out. I've hit that point again, and have been there for months. I may get used to these new tasks and settle back into neutral mode. But I don't want to. I want out. I just don't know where I'd go or what I'd do. I don't know what other job I could get that I would hate less. I have no desire to deal with the stress of unemployment. And I'm still thinking of quitting. It's that bad.

I'm actually considering retail.

May the 4th Be With You

Less than a month till I hit November 4th, the tenth anniversary (or thereabouts) of the day I moved to Maryland, and the day by which I prayed God would bring long-awaited changes in both the career and romance departments. So far, I've mostly had lots of roommate drama and upheaval instead.

There were times where I'd get anxious, knowing that the date was drawing nigh. I didn't think that was quite how God meant me to feel, but I didn't want to be complacent, either. One of the big reasons I prayed a prayer with a date on it was so that I couldn't let God or myself off the hook. I wasn't just tired of waiting and disappointment; I was tired of being OK with the disappointment. And being anxious was a way of proving that my heart was still invested.

The other end of the spectrum -- resignation -- didn't seem like the right feeling, either. I wasn't sure how not to feel one or the other, anxiety or resignation. What other option was there?

I'm feeling all right today, though. Hopeful, but not desperate. Like things could still happen, and that even if they don't, there's a way to be OK without simply absorbing disappointment as the norm. God must have gotten me here, this feeling-fine place, because I wouldn't have known where it was or how to find it. And I don't know if it will last. But I'll take it.

I could hit Nov. 4 and feel awful or feel nothing, neither of which is very appealing. But right now there are still 3 1/2 weeks, and because I don't know what will happen, I shouldn't be planning my feelings prematurely. So I'll go with the Feeling OK as long as it lasts. And that side dish of hopefulness ain't bad, either.

Love, Hate, and All That Skate

I saw the better part of a figure skating program on TV this afternoon. I'm never sure whether I like skating or not. I mean, I like it. But these people's dreams sometimes hang on the thinnest of blades. It's easier to watch the showcases, where it's all about fun and showmanship instead of technical perfection and competition. But still, it's hard to watch.

Is it because, like so many other girls, part of me wanted to be a skating princess, and longs for that glittery dream that I'll never have?

Yep. Of course that's part of it. But I think it's more than that. I think there's also a feeling that creeps up whenever I watch a classical performing art form, like ballet -- there's a world of beauty and discipline that I relate to, and while part of me wishes I could do the beautiful things I'm watching, I'm confident that, had dance or skating been my focus instead of music, I would have grown to hate it just as much. Because it wasn't music's fault. It was me. Or rather, all that discipline didn't mesh well with my temperament. Or too well. A perfect storm of legalism.

So I won't be doing any serious skating anytime soon, then.

Serious Comedy

I've been taking a class on writing comedy sketches -- the short bits you see on shows like Saturday Night Live. It's a fair bit of work, and I'm always tense about getting my homework done, until I finally have it ready to email in. But there are upsides. Today's upside is that I got to have the following thought while revising: I kept the sister faking her death and the seeing-eye turtle.

Man, if I ever have a job where creative decisions sound like that, that will be the answer to countless prayers.

Coming Soon... Podcasts!

They're in the works! My friends, Ben and Anya, have been helping me record, edit, and otherwise set up Holly's PodCandy, which will hopefully make its debut in the coming weeks. I'll let you know when they're here, but for now I wanted to give you a heads-up. Soon, you'll be able to hear the dulcet tones of my voice, should you so desire.

Please desire :-).