Rohan's To-Do List

I am dogsitting for a Treeing Tennessee Brindle named Rohan while his people parents (two of my former roommates) are on their honeymoon. Here, as far as I can tell, is his list of goals during his stay with me, along with some notes he's made to himself:

To Do
-- Pull Holly down the stairs, thus giving her the gift of flight. She can thank you later.
-- Eat all of her roommate's Oreos -- done!
-- Go through the garbage daily. Spread it around the floor for easier tearing and chewing.
-- Reclaim former bedroom, despite the fact that there's a new roommate living there. He'll understand.

Personal Standards
Stay as dirty as possible. When at the dog park, play until fur is wet and spiky with the slobber of other dogs. Then run so as to kick up dirt that can stick to the slobber. Roll around if needed. For full paw coverage, seek out mud puddles. Run through them multiple times -- don't cut corners!


Human Training
NB: There's a reason why The Man is called "The Man" -- he's human and he's trying to keep a dog down. Fight the power!
-- People should be taking you outside as much as possible. If Holly won't do it, one of the guys will. Whine until someone caves.
-- Pull as hard on the leash as possible. Holly needs to learn to keep up. Don't relent. Remember: You are the boss!
-- Stinginess is considered an undesirable trait in human beings, but they will try to get away with it anyway, especially when it comes to food. By rights, food is yours if you can get to it. If a human is eating it, position yourself strategically and make Sad Eyes. Practice in a mirror if necessary.
-- Furniture is yours. Don't buy into the lie that you can't be anywhere you want to be. Extra credit: Weasel way onto Holly's bed, dirty paws and all. Don't be afraid to use the Sad Eyes. She can't resist forever.

Pretty/Not Pretty

It's astounding how much of a difference it makes when I feel pretty in a given situation. It's the difference between coming from a place of abundance or a place of lack. It might sound really superficial, but it's something I've observed in myself, and when I mention it to other women, they know what I'm talking about.


I spent a lot of money on my bridesmaid dress for my friend's upcoming wedding. And then I spent more to get it fitted. But I love how it looks on me, and how I look in it. Both times that I've left the bridal shop after working with the seamstress, I've been really psyched. The responsible part of me feels foolish for spending that kind of money when, technically, I'm unemployed. And the socially conscious part of me doesn't know how to reconcile that kind of spending with the fact that I haven't donated a similar amount to help the hungry and the suffering. But it's also true that feeling beautiful and confident leaves me feeling more gracious and generous toward the world.

I enjoy situations more when I feel like I look good in the midst of them. It's easier to talk to people and care about them and be interested in them during the conversation, because I don't feel such a need to get compliments and be built up by them. I'm better able to enjoy the beauty of nature or some pleasant surroundings because I don't feel like I'm a smudge on an otherwise lovely picture.

Those who've known me for a while know that it took a long time for me to learn to appreciate my own appearance, and to play it up rather than downplay it. I spent most of my life assuming -- no, convinced -- that I was ugly. And it wasn't really because I had people telling me I was ugly, although I imagine there are very, very few people who make it to adulthood without receiving at least a few insults about their appearance. I just didn't get much attention for my appearance one way or the other, and my mind filled the void with negative thoughts. That's all it took, really: A void for my mind to fill, and I lived the life of an Ugly Girl.

I read an article several months ago by a woman who suggested that we not immediately compliment girls on their looks when we see them, because it teaches them that that's the first (or, worse, the only) thing people notice about them. Now, I'd agree that it's important to make sure a girl knows that every aspect of her personhood is valuable and appreciated -- her intellect, her character, her personality, her potential -- but I'd take a different approach to the beauty issue. If my experience is anything to go by, girls are going to care about appearances eventually, whether it's part of their nature or because the rest of our culture cares. Maybe it's hardwired in humanity and we can't avoid it; I don't know. What I do know is that when I was told not to worry about appearances, what I heard was, "You don't have that going for you, so you should learn to be happy some other way." It didn't work. Why leave a void where compliments could go? I believe that every girl and every woman has beauty, and that she should know it. Go ahead and appreciate every aspect of who she is, and help her to appreciate it, too, but please include her beauty. What could be the harm in helping a girl to feel smart and beautiful? Knowing that I can pull off a tight, strapless gown certainly doesn't lessen my confidence in my intellect.

My point is that it doesn't have to be either/or, praising a girl for the internal or the external. It can be both. Having both in place certainly makes a huge difference to me.

How I've Been Acting So Far

Unemployment doesn't really feel like unemployment at this point. I've been responding to lots of ads for (mostly unpaid) acting work, and have taken several auditions and even shot a few amateur and student films. Most stuff happens within the span of a few days -- my week will look wide open on Monday, and by the end of Sunday I'll have had multiple auditions and shoots. It's giving me some much-needed experience, and will also help pad my resume and give me material for a reel (which is a series of video clips of the work you've done).

There was one week in there where I felt pretty good about how my new career was going. At my first couple auditions, I got a really positive response. By the third one, however, it had occurred to me that maybe the people I was auditioning for were just nice, and they were saying, "Awesome, awesome!" to lots of people. It's hard to tell. When I do get a part, is it because I didn't have much competition? When I don't get a part, is it because someone else just had the look the producers wanted, and it's not related to my skill level? There's no way to know. And there's no straight edge against which to measure myself. It's even more subjective than music, which is saying something. When I was a musician, I at least knew if I'd played what was on the page accurately. But acting feels much harder to pin down, at least to me. One person's idea of camp might  be someone else's idea of overacting. One person's idea of subtle understatement might  be someone else's idea of woodenness. 


Anyway, I'm out there. I don't have final, edited footage to show you guys yet, but hopefully that will start rolling in soon.


Another next step is to get professional headshots. I have a decent photo that I've been sending out, but it's clearly not a pro shot, and it makes a big difference when you have that, regardless of how good a likeness or how flattering the photo I have now is. It's like being good-looking, but showing up to an interview in shabby clothes; presentation is a big part of the impression you make. Once I have a pro shot, I'll start looking for paying work. A lot of big films shoot in Boston, so I may be able to get work as an extra. That's not a ton of money, but it would be moving in the right direction, and would pay as much as my unemployment benefits. And I hear they feed you!


So, that's my life over the past couple weeks. I'm trying not to worry too much about the future, because this is one of the few times in my life where I have the luxury of making decisions without fear. It's my chance to practice finding things I like, and not wasting energy on things I don't. Here's hoping I find lots of stuff to like!

Israelite in the Desert. And Flossing

I am an Israelite in the Desert. You may have caught that from the title. Here's what I mean:

The Israelites were in a bad situation that they didn't like (slavery in Egypt -- I doubt I'd like it, either). God got them out of there, and they were headed toward a land that would be great. But they had to go through the desert to get there. God hadn't given them a map, or even paved roads, but He went before them in a way that they could see and follow -- a pillar of cloud during the day, and a pillar of fire during the night. And he provided manna, a bread-like substance that appeared like dew every morning, but would only last for that day, so you had to collect it each day and couldn't stockpile it.

That's me. I didn't want to be in my day job, and God got me out. I have an idea of where I want to go (Musician Actress Comedian Writer Princessdom), but not much of an idea of how to get there. God hasn't given me a map, so I have to check in each day and see what inspires me and what opportunities present themselves.

Eventually, the Israelites got tired of wandering and started grumbling that they would have been better off if they'd stayed in Egypt. I'm not there yet. I can imagine, though, that if I get towards the end of my severance and still don't see a land of milk and honey on the horizon, I may begin to ponder what kind of new day job I might hate the least.   


But like I said, I'm not there yet. I really, really hated my job, and most of the other jobs I've had, and am in no hurry to have another. I'm not opposed to work itself; I just want to find something that doesn't make me hate my life.


In the meantime, I have days to fill that don't have much outside structure. That's interesting. I'm keeping a list of what I do each day, to prove that I did, in fact, do stuff. I have time to do workout videos, floss regularly, and get enough sleep. And I've been looking for activities that I think I would actually enjoy, mostly acting-related. 


Nope, definitely don't miss the job.

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

Der Boyfriend and I didn't even last another two weeks from that last post. I probably shouldn't get into it too much here, because it involves another person and I doubt he wants me telling the world about it (as if the whole world reads my blog). But it was sad. And I was sad.

I was cheered up a few days later, though, when a coworker and I were called into a meeting and were given a speech about reorganization and handed severance packets. Ha ha! Freedom presents itself! There were other related positions we could apply for, but I didn't even need a full day to consider that. It's one thing to quit without anything else to go to. It's another to be told that your job won't exist in 10 days and there's some severance waiting for you. The cage door was unlatched. I wasn't going to keep sitting there just because I didn't know what was on the other side of the door, saying, "Well, maybe they'll gild it for me!"

I've said it a bazillion times, and I'll say it again: While my bosses and most of my colleagues were great, I hated the work. Hated it. I didn't used to hate it. It used to be neutral. But it hadn't been neutral for about 18 months. They kept training me to do more stuff, giving me more responsibility, and wanting me to think. I'm not opposed to these things in principle, but this was not the setting that suited me. It was not "my kind of hard." These were not the challenges I was born to tackle. These things were challenging precisely because I don't like functioning that way.

Yesterday was my last day on the job. Today, I slept in, ate two breakfasts, and took a nap. That might sound like an inauspicious beginning to the next stage of my life, but I think it's going to be important for me to allow myself some downtime, and if I'm not allowed to laze around on my first day of unemployment, then when the hell am I allowed to do it?

I have a few ideas about what this season will look like, actually. I think it's finally my chance to see this whole Musician Actress Comedian Writer Princess thing get off the ground. I don't quite know how to get there, so I'll be trying to listen closely to God, and see what ideas inspire me. It's going to be about finding things I like to do, not just slaving away because I have to and hating my life forever. 

I don't know if it looks like it from the outside or not, but I have an over-developed sense of responsibility. You get a job. You make money. You don't live off the system or mooch off your family and friends. OK, that's not over-developed; that's just being an adult. But it is overdeveloped if you never take a chance and you never pursue your real dreams because responsibility defines your life to the point where you take no risks. I'm at the point where it feels like a bigger, more unreasonable risk to never try to find something that I will enjoy. I may as well do it while I have no one else depending on me.

So, we'll see what comes of the next 3-4 months. If nothing else, I'll at least have more time for blogging, right ;-)?

Der Boyfriend

Hi Guys,

You may have noticed my absence over the last two months. At least, I kind of hope you have. I seem to have entered another season where I just don't have much impulse to write. As you know if you've read many of my posts, I'm trying to pay attention to what I want to do, and not force myself into a lot of "shoulds." So, I'll be riding out the no-posting wave. This is no reflection on you, my dear readers, who are cute and cuddly :-).

As you know, I don't do a ton of dating. When I do, I don't post about it here, because that just seems like a risky way to handle new relationships. However, I do seem to have landed myself in a situation that's lasted more than a few dates, and it is taking up some of my time and energy. I'm not quite ready to write about it here, but it does account for a lot of the time I spend away from Blogger. The lucky fellow is a German mad scientist who says things like, "I made clear to him the error of his ways." Who wouldn't want to hang around while somebody says stuff like that in a German accent?

So, that's at least part of what I'm up to. Just enough to tease you with, right ;-)?

A Thing I'm Supposed to Like but Don't

My roommate and her fiance are often up and out of the house on Saturdays before I even get out of bed. For the record, I'm often awake for hours before I get out of bed. I like to lie there, daydream, read, check Facebook. I might grab some breakfast and take it back to bed so I can eat it there. But I'm in bed, or at least on it. I'm lying on my bed right now.

I think they go hiking. Or to the Boston Harbor Islands. Or somewhere outdoors where they can take her dog.

I hate hiking. The thought of getting myself up early on a Saturday morning to do it is unpleasant. Hiking is so effortful. Synonyms: Trudging, slogging, death-marching. Why go to the woods just so you can walk through them so quickly and with imaginary purpose that you have to spend all your time looking at your feet to avoid tripping? I'd rather stroll. I'll stroll anywhere. Or mosey. Or amble. Or -- Oooo! -- meander.

I'll happily walk for miles, as long as we're not in a hurry.

And as long as you don't try to drag me out of bed early to do it, as if it's my job. I have a job, and I don't like that, either.

Tantrum

I don't wanna go to work tomorrow.

I didn't wanna go to work today. I was planning on it, but I honestly have a cold and didn't want to cough all over the office kitchenette. So I called in sick for non-psychosomatic reasons, and will now have an even bigger pile of work to tackle in the morning.

I don't wanna go.

I'm feeling sorry for myself. Having Sundays where I start to get bummed because the next day means going to work. Not wanting to go to sleep at night because that brings morning faster and morning means having to go to work.

Ugh. Sometimes it just weighs on a body, you know?

I feel bad complaining, because I have friends who don't have steady jobs. At the same time, if "Other people don't have jobs" is your best reason for not complaining, perhaps it's not wrong to hope for something better.

Post-Op Shoe!

My roommate had to take a picture with her camera, upload it to her Mac, then email it to me to I could save it from there. Everything is stupid. But we now have a picture for you, ladies and gents! Don't even talk about how it's sideways; we're lucky I got this up without tearing my laptop in half with my bare hands. Note the cute pearl-colored toenail polish. This is cute, and not a sign of some horrible fungus.

I AM Too Stupid to Use the Camera

I took pictures.

I hooked the camera up to the computer.

After a couple tries, I saw the pictures I took on the computer.

And now they are gone.

I hate cameras. I hate computers. I hate technology. I hate software. I hate that everything is stupid.

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Hate hate hate hate.

Technology ruined a perfectly good injury.

My Brush with Death

Last night, outside the door of my comedy partner Ben, I discovered a rusty nail. I discovered it by stepping on it with my boot, and placing my weight on it so that it went straight through the sole of my boot and into my foot.

This was not intentional. I'm not stupid. Though my powers of observation could probably use some improvement. And in my defense, it was right in front of the door. Where people's feet go.

For those wondering how a nail might place itself perpendicular to the ground so as to be dangerous to people feet: It was one of two nails protruding from a thin piece of wood that had come loose from a table that was sitting on the porch. One table's relaxation on a late spring evening equals one tetanus hazard for me.

I live a very low-drama life, so I'm slow to assume that anything truly bad will come of accidents like this. Apart from a dime-sized spot of blood on my sock -- and I was surprised there was even that much -- things looked fine. So it's good that Ben decided to act concerned, or I probably would have spent the next week running around, pumping infection and tetanus through my body. If I'd gotten dead from stepping on a nail, I would have felt really dumb. Worst. Obituary. Ever:

Holly died last week because she wasn't looking where she was going. Between stepping on a rake and slipping on a banana peel, she impaled her foot on a rusty nail. This is what all the grown-ups warn you about, kids. Let it be a lesson to all. Need we even mention that she was not up to date on her tetanus shots? Always get your shots, kids. She didn't live to get any of her comedy sketches on the Internet, but she'll live forever in a grainy movie they show to second graders about the dangers of running around vacant lots barefoot. Take heed.

Ben went online to see if he could find out what the odds were that I would die. The general electronic consensus was that I should get a shot. I thought that the fact that the nail went through my boot, leaving an orange rust dot on the sole, meant that maybe the boot had wiped off some of the rust and tetanus and ickiness before it got to my foot. But when I called the 24/7 nurse help line on my health insurance card, she said the opposite was true: Outdoor footwear has lots of nastiness on the bottom, and the nail could have picked it up and put it in my foot. Swell. And perhaps eventually, swollen.

So Ben called the person with the most encyclopedic knowledge of health problems that he knows: His girlfriend Jeannine. She was also concerned. And she has a car, which she drove from half an hour away to come pick us up and take us to a hospital. She also knows all the hospitals in the area. Somehow, walking 45 minutes to the nearest hospital, possibly pumping toxins from my foot to the rest of my body, seemed stupid. And I'm not stupid, as I've already stated. But I think it bears repeating.

And that's how we spent our evening in the emergency room. The staff there was remarkably friendly, to the point where it felt like everyone, male and female, was flirting with me. Or maybe that was the effect of the caffeine-laden headache pills I'd taken earlier that day. I had a whole crowd of medical professionals around me, explaining what they were going to do. They asked if I minded all the attention, and I wanted to say, "Are you kidding? I'm a comedian. I fantasize about these situations. Now hand me a seltzer bottle and a rubber chicken and let me get to work making you laugh before I die." But they were the ones who got to work. Because the puncture wound was so small, they were going to give me a couple injections of Novocain, then open the wound up and clean it out. I asked if I could get a tetanus shot, too, because apparently I was in the mood for needles. Maybe I am stupid.

One of the doctors was noticeably cute. Though he wore clogs, and they were shiny, which made me think he might be gay. Rats. Because that's obviously the only thing that would stop him from hitting on me, his patient, whose stinky foot was in his face.

After I was all cleaned up and shot up and bandaged, I put my dirty bloody sock back on. They thought that wasn't the best idea, even though I promise I'm not stupid. They gave me a "post-op shoe." Maybe I can take a picture of it for you. Hang on a sec.

...OK, my camera is dead, so that's charging. I'll see if I can get back to you on that.

After the emergency room, Jeannine knew of a 24-hour pharmacy where I could get my prescription for Cipro filled. Cipro: That's what they give you for Anthrax, too. Cool! I'm supposed to pop those pills, and soak my foot three times a day. I think, in layman's terms, that means I'm supposed to sit around and watch DVDs this weekend. Doctor's orders.

So, that was my brush with death. I'll try and get a picture of the shoe up at some point. Unless I'm too stupid to work my camera.

This Is Why I Can't Have Nice Things

Because they throw other things into stark relief.

How's that for glass-half-empty thinking?

I enjoyed shooting this web series. I want to do more things like this. But when I got home in the evenings, I was bored. I'm almost never bored at home, because I like sitting around the house and watching TV. But it wasn't enough after doing something that was both challenging and satisfying, even if I felt like I could have done better. TV wasn't hacking it after that.

And neither is work. I mean, it's not bad. I've certainly had worse. But Tuesday was rough. I spent a weekend acting and then hanging with friends, and then I had to come to a job that made me think about logistics and solve problems and understand boring stuff? Blergh.

Also, two of my friends got engaged (to each other) on Monday night. That's great, in a non-sarcastic way. I don't necessarily have trouble being happy for other people. It's just that watching things happen in other people's lives makes mine look even slower in comparison, like being passed on the highway.

So, things are as fine as they were two weeks ago. But when a fun thing comes my way, it's like getting a bite of food and realizing how hungry I am.

Now my tummy's all growly.

So Far, So Fun

It was fun.

Hee hee!

The whole time we were shooting, I was there. I wasn't daydreaming about being anywhere else.

And the kiss? Didn't happen. There was another scene that involved a peck or two, but the other actor, the director, and I choreographed The Big One so that people couldn't see our faces. I just waved my arms around instead. Rock on.

We have another weekend of shooting to go. I'm looking forward to it. How often do you hear me say that?

Next step: Superstardom. Or perhaps just being even more distracted at work. Who knew that was even possible?

My Poor Nerves

Yesterday, I thought I was getting sick. I determined to take today off, so I'd have time to recover before my big weekend. I did call in sick, but as I type this at home, I feel fine, and I suspect I didn't have an illness at all: I was just nervous about last night's rehearsal for this weekend's film shoot.

Yeah, that's right, film shoot, baby! I am an ACK-TOHR!

Really, it's a web series, not a movie. But we still have to shoot it. And the deal is, I'm the female lead. It's great to be cast, and to have people think you're good enough to play the part and (I hope) easy enough on the eyes to be convincing as the object of someone's affection. But if yesterday's psychosomatic (emphasis on psycho) episode is anything to go by, I'm even more nervous and insecure about it than I realized. What if I'm goofy looking? What if I'm not funny? What if the audience just finds me annoying? Eeeeeeeeeeeeek!

I probably shouldn't indulge that negative voice loop.

It's ultimately a good thing, to be doing something I care about so much that I almost made myself sick with nerves. But dang, it could have been inconvenient. And I freaked out a fellow actor, whom I'm supposed to kiss in one of the scenes (never done that before -- double eek!), who's now afraid that I have actual cooties.

I'm a big old bundle of insecurity. It's bringing up feelings from when I was a musician, and never felt prepared enough for my performances. Only this time, I also lack training and experience. Awesome.

I see that I'm up to 35 followers now, despite (or perhaps because of?) my silence over the last two months. Welcome! In a few months, there ought to be some webisodes for you to check out, along with the blog posts and podcasts. Another chip away at the boulder of my anonymity, since I'll be credited in these webisodes under my full name. That's OK. If anyone decides to stalk me, I'll take it as evidence that my performance didn't suck.

Heck, I'll even tell you what it's called, since the production team has set up a Facebook page and perhaps other sites related to the production: "The Ex Factor." Pun intended. It's written by Greg Lam and produced by Malarkey Films. If you're in the Boston/Somerville area, you can even be an extra this Sunday.

If any of you are of the praying persuasion, I won't say no to any prayers for me and the rest of the team as we shoot this. I really want to do well. And it's a talented group of people, both behind and in front of the camera, so it would be great if the end product showcased that and got folks some well deserved attention.

Thanks for reading, guys. And until the shoot is over, Eek, eek, eek, eek, eek!

Gone but Not Forgotten

Hey guys, just wanted you to know that I know that I haven't posted anything in a while. Sometimes it's not easy finding the balance between writing about things and doing things worth writing about. I don't plan on being gone forever. Don't wander too far!
Thanks :-),
Holly

PodCandy: Furball

A depressed guinea pig gets an interview:

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Winter Boots

I bought new winter boots a couple weeks ago, just in time for Spring. They seemed like quality boots that I'd be able to wear for years, but that's not the only reason why I bought them. The salesman was tall, cute, and had red hair and a London accent. I would have bought paper boots from him. Expensive paper boots.

Fortunately, my Spring purchase from a dashing salesman wasn't as stupid as it could have been. They actually appear to be sturdy items, and I got to try them out today because New England got some friendly April slush-rain-snow-stuff. Not enough to really put these suckers to the test, but enough for me to notice the difference between them and, say, sneakers. I walked in straight lines, with a normal stride, without regard for puddles, slush mounds, or anything else. No hopping, dodging, or walking in a big arc to avoid what could be a massive lake in the middle of a parking lot. I was the proud possessor of Podiatric Invulnerability! And when I got to work, I got compliments.

Another questionable purchase, redeemed!

PodCandy: Flakiness

My first rant! Listen to me get angry:

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Bloggeriffic

I just wrote a new post about eBay, and found a typo in the post about perfume and edited it. But Blogger has an aversion to hard returns today, and refuses to acknowledge my request to separate paragraphs, making these posts blank-space-free. I just wanted you to know that this is not my fault and I can write and I can structure what I write and I don't normally jumble it all together in one big blobby mass of words that's visually off-putting and hard to understand like a run-on sentence. Just so you know.

eBay

In my quest for oppotunities to spend money and acquire material possessions in order to get closer to God and grow spiritually, I have joined eBay. Results have been mixed. Good: I've gotten what I think are some pretty good deals. I also look pretty in my new dress. Seriously, rowr, if I do say so myself. Bad: Adding a competitive component (auctions) to an activity that I already find stressful and guilt-inducing (shopping). My new friend: The "Buy It Now" option, which sets a price above the minimum bid and allows you to bypass the evolutionary free-for-all that is bidding and become the fittest before anyone else gets their paws on what I want. Godliness creeps ever closer.

PodCandy: Claustrophilia

Some people's nightmare is this woman's dream.

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This is How We Learn

Through trial and error. As part of my Princess Project, I thought it would be fun to smell nice. Hence, last night's quest for perfume. I've never had real, full-on perfume. I've done body sprays and lotions and such, but never a signature fragrance. So I headed to Macy's perfume counter and got sprayed. I had no idea how to make a choice, so eventually I just took the leap and snagged one that seemed nice enough. I had to ask what the difference between eau de toilette and perfume was. For those who are as ignorant as I was, here it is: Perfume is stronger, and eau de toilette is more diluted. Perhaps I should have gone with dilution, then, because I applied the perfume this morning, and I can smell myself, which I don't think you're supposed to be able to do. Pretty sure other people can smell me when I walk by, or come within fifteen yards. Am also pretty sure that that's bad. I hadn't even meant to spray myself directly. I meant to spray a mist in front of myself and walk into it. But I guess the little nozzle-y thing wasn't pointed where I thought, because I nailed myself. Noted. Also, this scent is reminding me of my first year in England, back in '97-'98. Specifically, it reminds me of the house of a gracious couple from my church who let me type my post-grad dissertation on their computer. They had a very young son, and I'd catch bits of British children's TV shows while I wrote about Mozart bringing trombones in at the end of Don Giovanni. So, instead of feeling sexy, my mind is full of the puppet animals on Dappledown Farm. Side note: I let myself get talked into buying some more expensive boots (this time for snow) by a cute-but-engaged shoe salesman who had a London accent. Other side note: I bought a top last night that is so unusually structured that I'm not 100% sure that I put the right body parts through the right holes.

PodCandy: From Frugal to Regal

I'm not looking to be spoiled. Just ripened a bit...

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The Princess Thus Far

I figured y'all deserved some kind of update on this whole Lenten Princessy deal. So, here's what's up:

I've spent a shitload of money.

I'd list out the stuff I bought were it not for the suspicion that it would be unfathomably boring for you. I will say that my purchases included a pair of $200 rain boots -- yikes! -- and a very, very flattering sweater. Most of the items have been useful, but not necessary. It's felt a bit extravagant, and I did have some of my usual Buyer's Remorse for a day or so, but you know what cures that pretty quickly? Compliments. One or two people saying, "Awesome boots!" or "That looks really hot," and all of a sudden it's worth every penny. All twenty thousand of them.

I'm also hanging out in some Scripture a bit, which I haven't done much of over the last few years. I realized that I had a filter that enabled me to interpret any verse in the Bible in the most legalistic, disheartening way possible. That was bad. So I stopped, to give my filter time to dissolve. I've been able to handle the occasional Psalm, but for the most part I haven't been pressuring myself to delve into the book if I didn't want to. I've gone in a couple times since Ash Wednesday, though, and it's been all right.

So, a little Bible, a lot of cash dropped.

We are pleased.

The Granny Cart

I couldn't do it.

I have a pretty high threshold for some unpleasant things: I can be quite dorky and/or frumpy in public. I can handle a fair amount of ambient noise. Twenty years of playing trombone prepared me well for these things.

But when they all came together in a perfect storm in the form of the Granny Cart, I was defeated.

I tried, honest. After selling my car a few years ago, grocery shopping was one of the few areas in which I had trouble adjusting. A wheelie cart seemed like a fine solution. But these things are so ugly, loud, and flat-out awkward that I gave up after a few tries. I spilled stuff. I huffed and puffed it up a hill. I was almost deafened by the rattling. It was awful.

You win, Granny Cart. You managed to out-dorkify and out-noisify my 30-odd years of built-up tolerance. Well done.

Well done.

One Man's Hell

... is another man's heaven. Example: Do you relish the idea of a flight that lasts 15-22 hours? Sitting in coach, unable to wriggle around or fart freely, with "Big Momma's House 2" as your only entertainment option?

I do.

OK, the not-farting thing gets uncomfortable, but I love the thought of having such a long stretch of time where I'm practically forced to do what I almost always want to do anyway: Nothing. And no one expects me to do any more than that, when I'm on a flight. When I land, no one asks what I accomplished. I'm not expected to do laundry or cook real food or help mankind or improve myself or further my career. I don't need to make up some answer to cover up the fact that I sat and stared at things for the equivalent of two working days.

There will be a podcast related to this next week, so I won't spoil it all by elaborating too much. But know this when you listen to it: I mean it.

PodCandy: The Nice Girl and the Shower

I'm sorry. Or, you're welcome.

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This Year's Lenten Escapade

This year, unless something changes radically, God and I will be focusing on the Princess part of Musician Actress Comedian Writer Princess. It's been rather neglected so far. I'd assumed it was primarily a marriage goal -- not a literal desire to marry royalty (not that I'm saying no); just a desire to find the right guy. It hadn't occurred to me that it might have a lot more to do with how I treat myself, or that it might be a Daughter Thing, allowing God to spoil me.

Spoiling. When this Princess idea began to germinate in my brain a couple weeks ago, that was one of the big internal resistances that popped up immediately: I don't want to be spoiled. I don't want to be frivolous or self-indulgent or shallow. The problem is, I may be on my guard too much. It's one thing to be spoiled; it's another to allow someone else -- God or other people -- the pleasure of treating you well.

I can be way (way way way way way way) too practical. It would do me good to let myself buy things because they're pretty, not just because they're essential to survival. Spend money? On unnecessary items? On expensive, unnecessary items? That's going to take some practice for me.

And I'm not used to giving a lot of effort to being pretty or feminine. I put some effort into it, of course, but there are always reasons to exercise restraint -- I didn't feel pretty enough, I didn't have money, I didn't have a guy to appreciate it, I wanted such things to come naturally instead of painting them on. But I think I'm in a place where it wouldn't be a matter of tacking on externals; it would be an expression of how I'm feeling on the inside.

What does this have to do with Lent, a time before Easter traditionally observed by solemnity and fasting? Well, if you've been paying attention -- and why wouldn't you? I'm fascinating -- I'm pretty good at the self-deprivation, delayed-gratification thing. Too good at it for my own good. It makes sense for me to add something rather than subtract it for Lent, thus learning something about the joy and goodness of God in the process. So, this year, I aim to let myself do whatever feels fun and pretty and princessy for Lent, and explore what it's like to be God's daughter -- a princess who isn't locked away in a tower, but who gets to go to balls and drop her handkerchief before dashing suitors. I don't have a specific outline for what I'll do when, because I need the freedom to be spontaneous; even fun rules quickly become burdensome rules for me. Maybe I'll buy clothes, or items for my room, or anything I can find that smells like sandalwood. Maybe I'll hang out at home and play atmpospheric music and light a candle. Maybe I'll go on dates and let gentlemen wine and dine me in return for my sparkling conversation and dazzling smile.

Maybe I'll do it all.

I Am Bored

I'm thinking of overhauling my LinkedIn profile. It's too nice, too professional. It has my work experience, which is too varied to be impressive and not a great indicator of my ambitions. It has my current job, which is, as far as I'm concerned, a placeholder. I'm not interested in getting job offers based on the face that I present to the world in that profile.

What I really want to do is fill it with snarky, irreverent comments -- about myself, about my work history, about everything. The employer who finds that fun is the one for me. If anyone decides they're not interested because I'd rather talk about pleather and whether corn syrup makes convincing saliva on camera, then congratulations: The lack of interest is mutual.

If you're linked to me, here's your heads-up. You can disavow any association now, should you see fit.

PodCandy on Facebook!

It just occurred to me that I haven't told you that Holly's PodCandy has a Facebook page, and that you can "like" it. I don't know what good that does you, since I also post links to the poscasts here, although it does have some extra little status updates. OK, so yeah, you'd get extra little status updates. That's fun, right?

When I got this podcast onto iTunes (did I tell you you can also find it on iTunes?), I learned that there's another podcast called simply "Podcandy." I haven't listened to it, but it's probably great, since it has a good name. In all locations, though, mine is officially known as Holly's PodCandy. Because it's mine. I'm Holly.

TTFN.

The Burdens Italians Bear

I'm a lot of things. One of the things I am is Italian. I exaggerate, talk with my hands, and find a way to work olive oil into most dinners. All stereotypes. All awesome.

But it ain't all easy. There are a few genetic handicaps that come with these ancient Roman roots. And, like all self-respecting daughters of Italy, I handle it with dignity by talking about them to anyone who will listen, and talking more loudly if that person starts to walk away.

Problem 1: Grease. Not the cooking kind. The skin kind. I've had acne since I was ten. As you can see in the right-hand column of this blog, I'm now 36. That's a long time. And it doesn't look like it's going to let up soon. Medication has been keeping it at bay, but all I have to do is miss one application to realize that the medicinal levy is barely holding back the deluge. Upside: I may never wrinkle, ever. If my experience is anything to go by, this is a fountain of youth, but the price of eternal youth is eternal zits.

Problem 2: I wear my food. I'm like a magnet. Or a Swiffer. Or a black hole into which chocolate, peanut butter, and tomato sauce are irresistibly drawn. That Tom Sauce is a sneaky fellow. I keep trying to keep him away from my pure sweaters, but he finds a way to get at them. And Chocolate Chip always seems to fall onto the couch, waiting to be sat upon so he can melt onto my pants. P. Butter has found his way onto, of all things, my eyelid.

Something to look forward to: Turning into my Nona, who talked about bowel issues at suppertime. "A little shit with your dinner," as she said. What's the Italian word for "classy?" We're that.

From the Top

There's a show on Public Radio called From the Top, which features young (under 18) classical musicians. I couldn't listen to this show when I was trying to make it as a freelancer. Apart from the difficulty of listening to people 10-15 years my junior getting all kinds of attention and applause while I played to my apartment walls and scrounged for $60 gigs, it was a reminder of my own lost musical innocence. Music had become competitive, stressful, frustrating work.

This morning, six years after setting professional music aside, I turned on the radio and found that From the Top was on. And I'm not hating it. It's still not the easiest thing in the world to hear brilliant violin playing coming from a 16-year-old, followed by screams of approval from the audience, but it's kind of nice to hear the interviews with these musicians. They seem like nice, likable kids, and I begrudge them their success less.

This is progress for me: Not hating America's most talented young people.

PodCandy: On Dancing

I do things you can't see and talk about it:

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A New PodCandy is Finally Here!

A guide to fake productivity (because real productivity is for people who don't listen to podcasts).

Listening at Work: A Tutorial

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Things That Are Hard

Work
Staying awake
Doing work
Getting work done
Bein' green (technically, this is "not easy")
Being at work
Not taking a nap at work
Running uphill

The Adventures of Gimpy Girl, Episode 3: Wherein Everything Returns to Blah Normalcy

My knee is mostly better. I won't be running a marathon tomorrow (or ever, ever, ever), but I can now walk up and down stairs and down the hallway without people asking me what on earth I've done to myself.

In other words, I'll need to find some other way to get attention.

Must get that monkey.

I Am THAT Employee

We had a meeting scheduled at 9am, so I left the house early. Then the following happened:

The bus didn't come for 20-30 minutes.
The subway was also delayed, so I waited a further 20-25 minutes.
When I got to work, I wasn't sure where the conference room was, so I ran around the building looking for it. I made a full circle back to my desk, where I asked a coworker for directions.
I got to the conference room and found there was no one there.
I got back to my desk again, to learn that the room had been changed.
I walked into the meeting over an hour late, to learn they had pulled up one of my projects and were talking about how wrong all my data was.
When we pulled up my other project, we were unable to work on it because I had the item locked in the system from my desk. At this point, everyone is just laughing.
While I was supposed to be learning things, I was staring at my boot and discovered that the sole is coming off.

Fact 1: This comedy of errors made this whole morning more fun than most, despite my less-than-stellar job performance.
Fact 2: Meetings are hard.
Fact 3: Boots are interesting.
Fact 4: I originally began this post with an announcement that it is my 500th. Until I realized that 500 does not immediately follow 459.

The Adventures of Gimpy Girl, Episode 2: Wherein I Wonder How I Can Milk This

I could work from home. That would be quite reasonable. Too reasonable, in fact.

I shall work from bed. But in order to stay in bed, I'll require help. I would like this help to come in the form of a trained monkey, because trained monkey! He'll be called Jerry, and he'll have to wear stupid outfits, because I want to be amused. I'll say, "Jerry, fetch me a drink! Make me a sandwich! Now dance, Monkey, dance! With oomph. Really work it."

And then I won't be able to let him go, even after I've recovered, because we'll have formed a bond. I'll take him to work at the office where he can further assist me.

But if he gets promoted first, our friendship is over.

I Just Want to Bang on De Drum All Day

I tried to take a career-development workshop held at my office today. I made it through two hours, during which I took a lot of notes about how unhappy I am here. There are a few other stressors at the moment, too -- mostly the kinds of conflicts that just come from living in a world with other people, but which I hate to my core and make me sick to my stomach. I want to live alone, far away from conflict and ickiness. I was thinking about that and feeling sad, so I carried that feeling into the workshop. Add to that the fact that I'm not interested enough in my own job to talk about it, and that I'm not even remotely interested in the jobs of other people in the room. I didn't see that being a helpful attitude to bring to the round of mutual informational interviews we were about to begin. So I had a chat with the facilitator and decided to just go back to my desk and get some daily work done, because that may be more likely to lower my stress than sitting in a room thinking about how much I don't want anything to do with publishing or normal jobs ever again, and how I'm tired of the way having roommates means always being upset with somebody or wondering if they're upset with you, and wanting to cry.

I'm blogging and crying at my desk instead. Much more productive.

The Adventures of Gimpy Girl, Episode 1: Wherein I Become Asymmetrical

I wiped out spectacularly on the ice on Friday night. Don't for a second think that this means that I no longer love snow with a singular and unreasonable devotion. All it means is that I had an excuse to follow through with the vague plans I already had to do nothing for the entire three-day weekend.

I managed to twist my right knee, ankle, and (only the good Lord knows how) the inside arch of my foot. Any chance it looked like a rockin' dance move and not completely spazzy? Probably not. But since I didn't see myself fall, and, to my knowledge, there is no video footage, we'll go with the idea that it did, in fact, look like I meant to land on my ass in the hurdle pose.

Then I walked for another 15-20 minutes. I was on an errand to exchange some gloves for mittens, and wasn't no little crippled-ness gonna stop me. Not sure if that walking around made it worse or better or neither. All I know is that I did it.

I was on the couch pretty solidly on Saturday, and for impressive chunks of Sunday and Monday. Fortunately, I'm good at watching TV. I learned the word pestilential, thanks to a documentary about Ulysses S. Grant and the Civil War, which is fun (the word itself, not the Civil War or anything that is, in fact, pestilential). Wore heels to my roommate's birthday dinner, which I freely admit was stupid. But I don't care that it was stupid, so there.

Now I'm back at work, learning what it means to have less-than-optimum mobility. It's embarrassing. And slow. But if anyone has the temperament to deal with embarrassing slowness, 'tis I. And on the upside, my left leg is getting all kinds of excercise.

OK, I gotta run and catch a shuttle bus. Or hobble and catch a shuttle bus, rather.

Shark-Fishing with a Spear

Injuries incurred during such an activity would be evidence of awesomeness.

My injuries don't happen during awesome activities. In college, I rolled my ankle during a game of mini-golf. This holiday weekend, I'm on the couch icing my knee because I crossed a street too fast and slipped on the ice. Also not awesome.

I achieve physical lameness through metaphorical lameness.

Which, as a writer, I actually find kind of awesome.

Hello, Readers!

I see the number of folks openly -- nay, brazenly! -- following my blog has risen recently. Hooray, and welcome to you all!

You're joining some fine fellow-followers.

Kudos for Consitency, Little Buddy

"Are you being contrary?"
"No!"

My nephew has hit the Terrible Twos. He's still a good kid, and from my non-parental perspective, he continues to get ever more fun. He can roar like a dinosaur now. And stomp around. So we enjoy the same activities.

But he's also learning to assert himself. And the battles he chooses aren't always ones he'll want repeated to the public when he's older. So I'm going to tell you now.

He needed his diaper changed. He didn't want his diaper changed. He said so. Fair enough. But it was getting changed, whether he wanted it or not. Did he resign himself to his fate? Of course not. That's not how one asserts oneself. One does that by not only declaring that the diaper change is not necessary, but that, once the change is complete, one wants the old, dirty diaper back. One wants it baaaa-haaaa-haaaaaaack.

Like the Israelites in the desert, wanting to go back to Egypt.

Yeah baby, I just compared diaper-changing to a Bible story. Sermon illustration high-five, anyone?