Rowr

You know what I like better than dinosaurs? Mammals. I like the fur. The feathers thing was a nice middle ground, but fur wins out. I don't know much about the movie 10,000 BC, but it has lots of big furry animals running around, which appeals to me. And saber teeth. Those are cool.

A long time ago I wrote about wanting a woolly mammoth as a pet. Still do. Now I'd like to add a saber-toothed something to the list. Weren't there animals besides tigers that had them? A tiger would be OK, though. I could have a kitty door for him, like the Flintstones. Anybody remember that cat's name?

So, what's on my pet list now? A big dog named Snort, a woolly mammoth, a saber-tooth of some kind. I saw a giant sloth once at a museum. That might be cool. But kind of close to a bear. I could just get a bear. I saw a car commercial several years ago that showed a big bear making himself comfortable on a red couch, and I thought the bear looked even more comfy than the couch -- like a big bean bag. And I wanted one.

Mom, if one follows me home, can I keep him?

Like Big Bird!

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

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

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

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

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

Killing Cereal

We had snacks at work again today.

Snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slammin' Poetry

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

I'm not a poet.

I don't want to be a poet.

Damn it, I'm a poet!

Maybe I'm Janice

Have I done a Muppet post yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snack Time

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

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

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

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

Snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks snacks.

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

Mono: Molto Bene?

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

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

Incontinental

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

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

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

Brotherly Love

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

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

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

Here are some of the other services my brother provides:

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

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

Mobile Isolation

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

Then I saw myself.

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

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

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

Humor me on that.

I'd Like to Bring My Bankie to Meetings

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

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

"Nothing."

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

"No."

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

"Ow!"

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

"He bit me."

"Johnson, what did I say before?"

"No biting."

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

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

"So what's going to happen now?"

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

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

"No."

"No sales conference for you."

"This is so unfair."

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

"Ha!"

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

"Aw, man!"

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

"No."

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

Ancient Wisdom

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

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

Typo

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

Whoopsy.

Mr. Mom

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

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

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

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

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

Miscellany

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

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

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

But Perhaps I'm Too Picky

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

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

The Retirement Jeep and Other Stories

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things I'm Bad At

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun With Convalescence

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

So, let's look at this summed up:

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

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

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

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

Another Try With the Photos

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

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

Let me know how this works!

The Picture My Mom Likes

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

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

OK, here we go...




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




We're baking cookies!

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

Captain Obvious, Part III

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

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

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

Captain Obvious, Part II

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

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

Captain Obvious is a Wise and Insightful Fellow

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

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

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

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

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

The Color of This Blog -- Times, Like, a Hundred

My mom (who, for the record, was not as grossed out by the salt and blood thing as I made her out to be) is excited about me finally putting pictures up here. Since I have none, she's volunteered to send one of her favorites. It's not in my possession in digital format yet, but I wanted to warn you all in advance: The hair color you'll see in this picture is bright, bright red. Not ginger. Red. Or, as noted on the container, Vampire Red (said in a deep, horror-movie voice).

I'll explain. First, we were in North Dakota. Second, I have a cousin. Third, I'm on a budget.

Mom is from North Dakota, and my grandmother and uncle live out there. 9 years ago, I was out visiting Granna and my cousin Christy, then 16, dyed my hair purple for me. It smelled like grapes. As it washed out, if left purple all over the shower curtains, towels, shirt collars... Since then, I've often thought, You know, I don't think dark purple was really my color. I'd look much better in a deep, forest green.

So this year, when we all headed to ND for Christmas, I told Christy I wished we'd done green. "We can take care of that," she said. So we went a-huntin' for dark green hair dye in every punk store in Grand Forks. There are more of those than you'd think. At the record shop, Christy bought some incense and she said, "Hey Holly, they don't have hair dye, but they have piercing needles!" This is a girl who's pierced her own father's ear. That should say something about both of them.

We eventually found green hair dye, but it was fifteen bucks. Honestly, who spends that much on their hair? Surely no one. So we went to another store where the only green was really light and yellow. Not foresty. But they did have a deep red for eight dollars, and it was just a few days before Christmas, so that seemed both cheap and festive. Killer combo!

Thus I went red.

You'll see.

Guess Where I'm Writing From!

From my home computer! It had all kinds of things that weren't working two days ago. It wouldn't even boot up. It had done this before, and it required a fair bit of TLC to get it functioning again. But tonight I turned it on, just to see, and ta-da! Happy machine.

Sorry for writing you off so quickly, my Dell.

I'd still like to look into that laptop, though. For the onion rings.

Sweet Dell, You've Been Good to Me

Yesterday, my computer crashed for the third time in as many years. I've had it since Christmas of '01, and the poor thing has been limping for a while now. At the moment, it appears to be in a sort of computer coma -- there are signs of life, but it can't quite do anything. I have friends who have put in long hours resuscitating it in the past, and this time I think rather than bother them again I'll take the plunge and get a new one. Big investment for little me.

And this time, I'm thinking: Laptop! I have daydreams about writing for this blog as I sit in coffee shops. Or let's face it, for me it will be a sub shop, and I'll have to wipe the off the grease from my onion rings before typing a sentence. That's OK. Coffee shops are for poets and novelists. I don't have the attention span to write a novel, and you all have seen my poetry. Truck-driving ducks? Pass the ketchup, please.

I'm also looking forward to eavesdropping on the conversations of the people around me and putting what they say into what I write. You know, for authenticity. Otherwise I'm just left coming up with my own jokes, and who knows how quickly that well will run dry. Best to start plagiarizing and quoting without permission now.

I haven't even chosen a new machine yet, and I'm already looking toward the next big purchase: perhaps a digital camera! I'm not much of a photographer, but I'm rethinking my original desire not to put any pictures on my blog. As Marquioni noted in one of his comments, he only knows me through the characters I type. When I started this, I quite liked the idea of creating a face made only of words, so that people's views of me weren't filtered through anything visual. But let's be honest, those who know me already know what I look like, and those who don't are dying to know what I look like, aren't you? It's OK, you don't have to admit it here. Holly knows.

And speaking of knowing me through my words, I managed to be surprised at the response I got (some of them outside this blog) to that post about salt and blood. Even though I'm the one who wrote it, sometimes I can be like a naive girl, not entirely aware of the effect she's having on those around her. It appears the verdict is in, though: Writing about salty, blood-tasting lips is, indeed, hot. Thanks for the feedback, fellas. If this blog weren't already pink, it would blush.

Kissable Sentences

My brother read and approved of my little blog about Continental. Especially flattering as he was my muse. A 6'2", 250 lb., farting muse.

So, a couple weeks ago I hung out in the city after work. I didn't feel like going home, so I grabbed some high-sodium food from the Value Menu at Wendy's, and sat and wrote for a while. Then I wandered down to the Prudential Center to see if there were any nice journals at the bookstore. I love journals. It's always my hope that I'll have experiences worthy of the beautiful blank book I'm buying. I found none that inspired me, none that made me want to have beautiful, book-worthy experiences... except the expensive leather ones. So that's what I got. It felt like an investment in my future, an act of faith, a declaration that my future deserves such a book.

By the time I'd bought it and done some more writing, though, I was pretty dehydrated. The last thing I'd eaten was French fries, and my lips were getting a little raw. They tasted like salt and blood. And I thought, "Oooo, My lips taste like salt and blood. That's a cool sentence!" Then I thought, "My mom won't like that sentence. She'll think it's gross. And she thinks I downplay my beauty too much, and this isn't going to make anyone want to kiss me." And I also thought, "Maybe men will want to kiss me because I write cool sentences! Maybe they'll say, 'Wow, salt and blood! I'm drooling at the thought of the female brain that wrote that sentence."

What do you all think? Salt and blood may be gross, but writing about them is totally hot.

Uh, right?

The Continental

My brother has been a Navy pilot for the last 8 years, and is now leaving active duty to fly for Continental Airlines. He is a fine, upstanding young man, and I would place my life in his hands any day. He's also a freaking riot, and it's a darn shame that commercial pilots are supposed to maintain a professional level of boringness in their in-flight announcements, because his would be an improvisational hoot. In honor of this next step in his life, I now offer a few of the things he won't be allowed to say over the intercom:

Ladies and gentlemen, I don't know about you, but I feel the need: the Need for Speed. We'll be flying into the danger zone shortly, once I've buzzed the control tower. Please pay very close attention as the flight attendant demonstrates how to operate your parachutes.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching our destination. I hope you all slept as well as I did. As we begin our precipitous drop, I'd like to remind you all not to try the stunts you're about to see at home, mostly because you all don't have planes.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm your captain... because I'm awesome. Today I'll be your captain. Yes, you're welcome! You know, in a way I have the gift of flight, so it's kind of like I'm a superhero. In fact, why don't you call me Captain Awesome. Now you kids, don't all rush the cockpit to get an autograph; there'll be plenty of time for that once we're back on the ground. For now, just tell your parents how much you want to grow up to be me. And parents, enjoy your in-flight movie, and sit back and enjoy the Awesome.

Carrying a Tiki Torch

On Sunday, I caught a bit of the Charlie Rose program. He was interviewing Tiki Barber about the NFL playoffs. I'd heard the name Tiki Barber before, but didn't really know who the man was or what he did. I gleaned from the conversation, though -- this is how smart I am -- that he played for the NY Giants and, upon his recent retirement, was picked up by one of the major TV networks as a commentator or correspondent of some kind.

I don't generally follow sports, but everything Tiki said was interesting to me. He was so intelligent, thoughtful, and articulate, and he talked about football in terms that someone like me could appreciate and understand.

And he was pretty.

I imagine a catch like that already has a wife, so allow me to issue the following statement: Mrs. Barber, I'm not after your man. I hope you won't mind too much, though, if I respectfully admire him from afar. He seems like a swell fella. And he got me to like football, for Pete's sake. The man could be canonized for performing a verifiable miracle.

And in Winter, It Freezes

Boston has a spitting epidemic. You can't walk more than a few yards in America's quintessential college town without having to dodge globs and splats on the sidewalk. I can't complain about it much beyond that, though, because I've seen worse -- in Paris, of all places. The city of light. Of romance. Of great art. Perhaps Parisians are all too busy making love, but if my walks were anything to go by, not one of them knows how to clean up after their dog. Le doodoo all over the place. Tres icky.

And because I'm a teacher at heart, here's a medical tidbit I learned last night from my roommate, who's a nurse: Alcohol inhibits the body's natural anti-diuretic hormone. Translation: Most of the time your body has the good sense not to wet itself. When you drink, that overwhelming urge to pee isn't just from taking in lots of liquid, or even the same general lack of control that affects every other part of you. There's a chemical that's no longer able to do its job. So, next time you're sitting in a bar and realize you've suddenly soiled your Jordaches, you can slur your way through this nifty little scientific explanation as to why. That ought to impress the cute guy who'd been staring at you ever since your barstool started dripping.

Brilliant When Tipsy

I don't necessarily have a ton to say, but I wanted to build on yesterday's post and see if I can get some momentum. I went out for drinks with one of the editors I work with tonight, so I'm just a little tipsy -- but that ought to make me funnier than ever, right? Let's say yes.

OK, here's something not funny, but which concerns several of you personally: I've decided to take your compliments to heart. For a long time, I worried that I might be kidding myself, wanting to find a career that involved humor and writing. Thousands of people watch sitcoms and listen to David Letterman's Top Ten List, and think, "I could do that." But they can't. Who's to say I'm any different? Well, many of you have said that I'm not kidding myself. Out of some twisted false modesty, though, I thought that your perspective might be skewed by the fact that you're my family and friends, and you like me. And in dismissing your opinions, I did you a disservice. My family and friends are (for the most part ;-) ) intelligent, discerning, informed people. So I now choose to take your encouragement seriously. Thanks for saying all the nice things you've said, even when I wasn't as receptive as I could have been. From now on, I promise to let it all go to my head until I'm unbearable. That shouldn't be a long trip.

Hey, most of you might not know this, but the division I work for is being sold. We may or may not have jobs with the company that's buying us. I was excited when I found out, because I began salivating at the idea of severance pay. Many of my coworkers have begun polishing their resumes and sending them out. I still feel too vague to do that -- I don't know where I'd send a resume -- I don't even like my resume -- but, as the Powers That Be at our company like to say, "The winds of change are blowing," and I find something exciting about that.

OK, getting a little sleepy now. Not a really funny post. This whole blogging thing may be a bit like rehabilitation for me, where keeping going is the key -- excellent quality may have to wait. I hope you'll be patient with me. But if you're reading this after all the months I've been away, then you certainly don't need lessons from me in patience. Congratulations on your vast reservoirs of biblical virtue!

Bringing Bloggy Back

Hi Everybody,
One year ago, over Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend, I announced that I was backing off from blogging in an effort to find out how to enjoy things, and not just do them out of obligation. I never expected to be away this long. In fact, for the last several months, I've thought about posting again, and have had many bloggy thoughts, but have had some kind of internal paralysis that prevented me from getting online and doing it. While I've been gone, several of you have mentioned that you missed my blog and have gently encouraged me to come back. I really appreciated that.

This paralysis hasn't just affected my blog. It's affecting my entire life, including my desire to find work that relates to humor and writing. My tendency is to beat myself up for my inaction, which isn't especially helpful. I know I'm capable of pushing past the lack of inspiration and motivation, of forcing myself do produce and achieve, because I've done it before. The problem with that is that I pushed past that lack of inspiration so much that I forgot what inspiration felt like. I got so used to not enjoying the process that I no longer enjoyed the achievements the processes led to. I didn't want that to happen again. And I didn't want change for the sake of change; I wanted something better than what I had, and that meant being careful and deliberate about what I chose to pursue.

You won't be surprised when I say that I'm a person of thought rather than a person of action. This doesn't mean I never do anything; it just means I tend to live most of my live in my mind, and when I Do, it's usually because I've given the situation a lot of thought and I'm able to back up my actions with reasons. I'm cautious and calculated, and would rather plan my steps than just start running. I don't like falling, and it takes me a while to pick myself up once I've fallen, so I take careful steps. I find that people of action don't mind falling, and they learn by trying and failing, then trying again. I learn by processing internally. Failure tends to hit me quite hard. I know failure is both inevitable and necessary, but that knowledge doesn't change my fundamental nature, which is to work things out in my head before moving.

So there I was, wanting to blog, knowing others wanted me to blog, beating myself up for not Doing more, and still feeling stuck. I kept praying that God would help me to Do. I'd have moments of inspiration, and I tried to feed them, in the hope that inspiration would become motivation, motivation would lead to action, and action would lead to change in the areas in which I most desperately want change. I didn't want to skip those first steps and jump right into action, because I didn't want changes that didn't include inspiration.

I've heard people say that it's easier for God to steer a moving car than a stationary one. But, as a friend and I discussed a few months ago: Who says this is the most accurate or most helpful metaphor? Why must we be cars? Why must we be moving? Who's to say we're not just wasting energy and time, and heading in a direction far removed from where God would have us? If you're a car, and decide to move from Baltimore in the direction of Santa Fe, and you're putting your energy into getting there, what happens when God says He wants you in Buffalo? Will you even hear Him over the din of traffic and your own engine? You've just wasted time and fuel, and you're hundreds of miles out of your way.

That's how I feel in most of the areas of my life, including writing. I'd like to be able to tell people I'm looking for jobs, I'm doing research, I'm writing a lot and it's just a matter of time. But I feel vague and directionless, and I when it comes to taking action, I'm unconvinced. This wasn't always the case. At several points in my life, I've been able to focus on goals and go after them. For the last couple years, though, the goals have been out of focus. For reasons that I don't completely understand and have trouble explaining, I haven't been able to make my life happen, any more than a depressed person can wake up and say, "You know what? I'm going to have an Attitude of Gratitude!", or a chronically ill person can say, "I'm going to put mind over matter and run a 10k!" I don't believe in being utterly passive, but there's a lot to be said for acknowledging your human frailty. I don't know where the line between these things lies.

This morning, I prayed a different prayer. Instead of asking God to get me past whatever hang-up was keeping me from blogging, I prayed that He would restore my blog to me. That seemingly slight change in perspective freed me up, and quickly left room for the very motivation I'd been needing. Thus, here I am, online at home, blogging for the first time in months.

I also admitted to myself and to God that I would like a guide in the world of writing. There are endless resources for writers, including books and web sites, where you can do research and begin carving a career for yourself. But this kind of professional, entrepreneurial bushwhacking is exactly what I found so hard as a musician, an area where my skill was proven and acknowledged. How much harder would it be for me as a writer, where I have no professional experience, and I feel gun-shy from having experienced failure in other areas? Almost all the advice I got was along the lines of, "Here are some resources. I used them. You can, too!" Today, I realized that I need something more personal, almost along the lines of a mentor or private tutor. When I was in high school, my family and I would have been utterly lost when it came to searching out and auditioning for music schools if it hadn't been for my trombone teacher. He held our hands through the process, and was an incredible source of practical counsel and personal perspective. Because no one was offering that kind of almost-parental attention in my pursuit of a writing career, I assumed that it must be wrong for me to want it, that I was supposed to be stronger, more mature, more independent. After all, I'm not in high school anymore, right?

However, whether your desires are right or wrong, it's best to acknowledge that they exist and work with what's there, not with what you wish were there. And sometimes, desires aren't bad; sometimes, they're even needs. So today I asked God for a person or group to guide me in the process of becoming a working writer -- not just a book I could read, but a human who would take a personal interest in me, interact with me, appreciate and affirm my individuality. Someone who would give me a nudge when I need a nudge, but who wouldn't force me in directions that don't suit me at all. I was so excited when I realized I could ask for this, and this excitement is another reason I have the energy to do this blog post you're reading.

I don't know what will come of these prayers. I don't know if I'll have the freedom to post again tomorrow, though I hope I will. But what God gave me today was enough to produce this one post, and that's more than I've been able to do in a long time. If you're a praying person, and would like to see more blogging and more from me as a writer in general, please feel free to pray with me as I take these small but significant steps toward my still-fuzzy dreams. I do believe in a God who answers prayer.

If you're reading this, it's probably because you've been faithfully checking in, every several weeks, to see if I've returned. Thanks for not giving up :-).
Thanks for reading,
Holly

Ruh-Roh, Raggy!

Beause I wouldn't want to be distracted by actual work...

Last Friday, while working on a series of electronic files, I found myself having to retype the words "Process" and "Product" several times. These words were all in caps, but I decided that only the first letter should be capitalized. This meant I could leave the capital Ps as they were. To make sure I typed the rest of the word correctly, I sounded it out in my head -- "rocess," "roduct." Words beginning inappropriately with R make me think of Scooby Doo, so I spent the day with his voice in my head: "Rrrrrrocess! Rrrrrroduct!"

Alas, no Scooby Snacks were involved.

Only slightly fictionalized

Sometimes the goings-on in my brain don't realize that that's where they're supposed to stay.

External situation:
I was eating a banana as my mid-morning snack while sitting at my desk at work. A large, unopened can of V-8 sat between my computer monitor and keyboard. I'd take a bite of banana, then put it down next to the can so I could mouse around and type while I chewed.

Internal sequence of thoughts:
Last week, in yoga, our instructor read aloud a passage from a book which referenced the phrase, "going with the flow." In high school, I had stumbled upon a passage from David Cassidy's autobiography which also included that phrase. There was an episode of Malcolm in the Middle in which David Cassidy guest-starred as a Vegas lounge singer at whom women threw their panties. On Saturday Night Live, Amy Poehler recently gave a brief commentary about using the word "panties," as opposed to simply calling them "underwear." One instance where the word underwear is used is the song, Walking 'Round in Women's Underwear. This song is sung to the tune of Winter Wonderland.

Soon, two worlds, the Internal and the External, will collide. I pick up the banana to take another bite, and the peel hits something on my desk, resulting in a pleasant pong. "From whence commeth such an beauteous noyse?" thought I. There's still a musician lurking inside me, so I hit various objects with the hard end of the banana peel to try to reproduce the sound. V-8 can? No. Keyboard? No. Monitor? No. Other side of the V-8 can? Yes. Pong. Pong.

At this point, I have Winter Wonderland running through my head, so I start to hum, accompanying myself with the banana:

Sleigh bells ring (pong)
Are you listening? (pong)
In the lane (pong)
Snow is glistening (pong)
A beautiful sight (pong)
We're happy tonight (pong)
Walking in a winter wonderland (swing - thwack! - CRASH- SCREAM!)

Thinking I'd give it a big finish, and failing utterly to foresee the consequences of my own actions, I managed to scare myself and attract the attention of coworkers by hitting the can too hard and sending it ricocheting off sundry desktop items. The scream was my own. The barely suppressed laughter was everyone else's.


The Truth
I have a compulsion toward confession, so I feel the need to tell you all which parts of that story are true and which aren't. You don't have to read this if you find such distinctions boring. Anyway, the only part I made up is the playing out of the humming and ponging. The train of thought was real, as was the fact that a coworker caught me hitting the can with the banana peel. There was, alas, no crash and no scream, unless you count me laughing a little too raucously when he told me I reminded him of both his two-year-old daughter and a mental patient. I wanted to pong my way through Winter Wonderland, but by the time it was in my head I'd already thrown the peel away, and I wasn't going to fish it out of the garbage, even for the sake of art.

Jungle Peaches

Today I have the song Jungle Boogie stuck in my head.

This is because we have a friend crashing at our place for the month of May. This friend has a puppy named Peaches. This morning, Peaches was jumping up and putting her front paws on the door, and her master said, "Get down, get down!" I now have those words looping through my brain, backed by horns and a guy saying, "... and shake it around..."

For those interested in further reading on this topic, see my most favorite Onion article ever:
http://www.theonion.com/content/node/29205

The Difference Between Moms and Dads

As you can see in the previous post, my Mom's response was, "You did what!?" (She has since forgiven me.)

My Dad's response, on the other hand, was, "Here's the proper technique for jumping from a slow-moving train, for future reference." (I think he would want me to mention that he did have a brief stint working on the railroad last year, so he would actually know.) Disappointingly, it does not involve leaping head-first and landing with a somersault. Nor does it involve landing on the back of a horse that's running at the same speed of the train, with a sack of money over your shoulder. No ladders dangling from helicopters, either. No wonder he quit the railroad. They don't have any real fun.

The Scourge of the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority

She is a menace. She is a danger to herself and the countless citizens who rely on the MBTA for their commuting needs. She is clearly an unbalanced individual who needs to realize that public transportation is a privilege that can be revoked.

She is I.

Today I leaped off a moving train. I hesitated to post this news because I knew my mom would worry retroactively.

Mom: I'm sorry. The train can't have been going more than three miles per hour.

Everyone else: It was kind of fun. Embarrassing but fun.

Here's what happened: I left work earlier than usual because my brain was done. I got on a train different from the one I normally get on, thinking it might get me to a stop not far from where I wanted to be. I asked a couple of the other passengers to make sure, and it turned out I was wrong. By this time, the train was moving, so I bolted and jumped and tumbled into a crowd of commuters waiting for the next train. They were very concerned and helpful. I fell to the ground as soon as my feet hit the platform, but was physically fine. Embarrassed, but fine.

A couple hours have passed now, and it looks like the emotional shakedown of this is giddiness. I wondered if I'd be too ashamed to even write about it in my journal, but it looks like entertainment value has trumped dignity again and I'm putting it out there for the world to see. I'm a little excited: It turns out that I'm braver-slash-dumber than I'd heretofore given myself credit for. Ta-da! Yay me.

Slightly less Yay is the fact that I'm now afraid to wear the same coat while commuting, at least for the next week or two, lest I be recognized. It's quite distinctive. Imagining what this episode must have looked like is leading me to a realization that I probably have developed a fashion style, and it is this: Salaried Crazy. I don't have a lot of money, but it's been enough to get me some nice items that I can wear to work. I had on a bright peacoat, a long denim skirt, a sweater with a huge billowy collar that spilled outside the coat, rugged lace-up boots, and a cute knit cap that has ear flaps and ties under my chin. Lots of bright colors. Now imagine all that popping out of a moving train and slamming into a crowd of screaming strangers. A knit pastel blur, then a female voice coming up from the ground telling everyone that, apart from being stupid, she's fine.

I hadn't seriously considered before that I might be genuinely eccentric. But I jumped out of a train. I dress funny, even with all the help I get. I take naps at the table where I eat lunch, because I'm tired and I want to. I laugh out loud at the books I read, regardless of who's around. The knit hat starts to look less cute and more like something I wear to cover the holes through which I lost my marbles.

Yeah, maybe I'm eccentric. Or maybe I'm just a nerd who's a little loopy. Either way, I'm good. (And Mom, I'll try to get on the right train from now on.)

Keeping Expectations Low

Hi Everybody,
I think I got everybody's hopes up with my last blog post, making it look like I'm writing again. I mostly had something I needed to get off my chest. I do want to get back to this eventually, but I don't want to make any promises about it happening soon or regularly. Sorry if this is disappointing. When I'm ready to recommit, though, I'll probably send out an email, and maybe write myself a little celebratory post.
Thanks for being patient while I practice being lazy. I hate to keep people waiting, and I wouldn't do it unless I thought it were truly necessary.
Sincerely,
Holly

For anyone wondering about God

Christianity is offensive. I'm not talking about its practice and the hypocrisy of professing Christians (though those are significant); I'm talking about the basic tenets of the faith itself. Sin and hell are offensive. The idea that a man should die horribly for people who don't deserve it is offensive. The notion that we're bad enough to deserve that kind of punishment is offensive. Being told that people who've committed unspeakable atrocities can still go to heaven is offensive.

I want to ask you not to dismiss Christianity right off the bat, though, even if everything in you screams that it's wrong. I have my reasons for believing, but you shouldn't just take my or anyone else's word for it. More than anything, I hope you'll do something that most of us find very hard: Go to the source, God Himself. Just ask Him if He's real, if Jesus and the Bible are real, if Christianity is true or not. If He's not there, then all you'll have lost is the breath it took to speak the words. But you will be taking the risk of getting an answer, and I know how frightening that can be because I've been making myself do it for years, and it still scares me. Ultimately, I only want to believe all this if it's true. If God gets back to you and says I'm dead wrong in all I believe, let me know. In the meantime, I offer the following thought, both as a caution and an opportunity:

We will never find Truth, whatever it turns out to be, unless we're willing to let it change us.

Deep Thoughts

This weekend I had a phone call with my father and brother. Most of the conversation revolved around my brother's upcoming decision about whom to fly for when he leaves the Navy. There was talk of money, retirement plans, vacation time, saving for the future -- lots of impressive grown-up stuff. My three major contributions to this exchange, however, somehow managed to cover the following subjects:
1. Sea monkeys
2. Galoshes
3. The song Disco Duck
The men didn't seem to lose respect for me, but that was probably because they weren't surprised.

Taking It Easy

Hey Everybody,
As part of this process of learning to enjoy God and enjoy life and figure out what would be fun to do, I'm going to release myself from the pressure to post on this blog regularly. You probably thought I had done that already, since I've been so sporadic about it for the last month or two, but it's taken a while for my mind to catch up to my actions (or lack thereof). I meant to post more, and felt a little bad about not doing so.
Your expectations have probably lowered by this point anyway, but I thought you deserved more formal notification. I might end up posting six times a day now, or I might not do anything for several months. The point is that I don't want to make any promises, because I'm not the one in the driver's seat.
I'll be out there, buying clothes, skipping church small group meetings, and trying not to feel guilty about any of it. I hope you all have your own kind of fun, too.
Thanks for reading and hanging in there with me,
Holly

Miscellany

Things went much better the next day with Verizon. I called our special person, Shauna, who knows who I am and solves all my problems. God bless her. I hope the evil behemoth she works for doesn't suck out her life force.
Subject Change
Today I went to a "round table discussion" hosted by the investment firm that handles my company's 401(k) plan. I signed up to go because the invitations went out right after I signed up for a 401(k) and had trouble navigating the company's web site, so I figured I had two cents to put in. When I walked into the room today, the first thing I noticed was the cookies, because I hadn't had lunch. The second thing I noticed was that it seemed sales-y. The woman who was obviously in charge was very friendly. We all had folded cards in front of our seats and there were markers spread around the table so we could write our name on them -- a cross between the United Nations and Romper Room. There was a also a tape recorder with a huge mic coming from it in the middle of the table. What had I gotten myself into?

I ended up really enjoying it! I've often thought that I would enjoy an environment where people sit around a table, batting ideas back and forth, being all smart and creative. Today I found that it's true, I do. A mini-revelation. So later I prayed, "God, this is a Thing. Here." I know how doing something full-time can drain the fun out of it, so I don't know if sitting around talking is what I should end up doing as a career, but it seemed worth noting. I also made another connection. I'd known before that I like to be entertained, and that I like to perform. Today I realized that I like to be entertaining. Serious performance might not be for me, but I like lighter fare, and I love, love, love to make people laugh. I also like to be the center of attention. I've learned to keep that beast under control, but perhaps it would be good for me to find an occupation where I don't have to -- someplace where I can be a big fat free-range ham. These were some of my thoughts today.

And finally, some funny signs, seen by me and people I know.

An advertisement for teeth-whitening strips on the mirror in the ladies' locker room at the gym: Isn't it funny how whiter teeth make your thighs look thinner?

Bumper sticker, quoted by my sadistic gym trainer: I had to lose my soul to make room for my sarcasm.

At a store called Sam Cinnamon's, in Portland, ME: On one side of the door, We buy junk, and on the other side of the door, We sell antiques.

Outside a shop in rural Maine: Ho-made donuts.

And finally, an establishment in Alaska: Frank's Bail Bonding and Coffee Cabana.
Good to know it's there.

My Own Anger at Verizon Scares Me

Our Internet problems have been resolved, but for a few months now our phone line has been statical (I looked it up, and apparently that's the adjective form of static, as opposed to staticky). As the person in charge of bills and utilities in our house, it's my job to look into getting that fixed. I've been putting it off, mostly out of laziness, I guess. I don't use the land line, so the problem isn't in my face. That's my bad. I admit it.

I finally bit the bullet today and called them. It was after 5pm, so I got the routing system. After five minutes on the phone, I am now so filled with rage that I can't work, I can barely think, and I'm wondering what kind of bizarre psychological disorder I have that can possibly cause me to hate Verizon with such an unreasoning, violent hostility. I intended to work until 6 to make up for a long non-work-related conversation I had earlier in the day, but I couldn't do anything but come on this blog and vent.

They make it so hard to take care of problems away from home, which is where I am during the day, because I'm a grown-up and I have a job. This is also when they want you to call.

They want you to conduct all sorts of tests on your own line. Which I can't do from the office, obviously. So I have to go home and put myself through this again, in order to determine if we have to have a guy come out, which we'll have to pay for, because they've tested the line and determined that it's clear. Nothing is ever wrong with the line, even when it's not working.

Maybe it's not laziness on my part. Maybe it's not wanting to have to pay. Or maybe, though my conscious mind had happily forgotten the trauma of late summer, my subconscious remembered how frustrated and angry I was because of this one stupid company. It's consuming. As soon as I heard that woman's recorded voice, I was plunged back into the horror and dysfunction of Verizonland, and I wanted to smash parts of my body into hard objects and scream until she stopped talking and became a person who could help me.

There is something very, very wrong about all this. Some primeval corner of my brain is triggered by these interactions, and I become an angry animal who is no longer capable of understanding anything technical, but is more than capable of chomping on Recording Woman's jugular while she convulses, loses copious amounts of blood and dies, locked in my steel jaws. Not that I've thought about that.

Now the question is whether I should step up and handle this "like a man," do my household job and stop letting my roommates down, and deal with whatever frightening character issue I seem to have dredged up, OR, whether this is obviously too much for me and I should beg one of my roommates to relieve me of the task, because I'm too far gone to be effective, or perhaps just too far gone to interact with Verizon and still hold onto my mental health. I don't know yet. All I know is I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them...

A rose named "Philbert" would still smell sweet, but probably wouldn't be very popular

I had a conversation yesterday about unfortunate attempts to feminize men's names. I've come across such gems as Nigella (the famous Ms. Lawson) and Hubertina. A lot of women's names are variations on the masculine form. Most of the ones I can think of right now are either German or French -- Carl and Carla, Johann and Johanna, Jaques and Jaqueline, Daniel and Danielle.

But what if you went in the opposite direction? What if you wanted to name a boy after his mother or something? I've begun compiling a list in my head of possibilities. I'd love it if some of you could add to it:

Diano
Elizabert
Wendyn
Jennifred
Kellieson
Betholomew
Penelopete
Annaman
Daphned
Gwendoland
HollybutI'maboy

Crazy Holly's Going-out-of-Legalism Sale: Everything Must Go! (Part 2)

Let's see, we were talking about the conflict between the desire to do something and the desire to enjoy what I do... one option was no fun, the other just seemed stupid... OK, here we go:

There I was, stuck. I had been doing OK keeping the guilt at bay over Christmas vacation, till the day I came back to Boston. Maybe it's because I hadn't done much while I was home (although being lazy had been my plan from the beginning), or having to get back to my regular life, or having to leave family again, but I was bummed and felt guilty. Then, the next morning was church and the sermon was about Jesus' parable of the three servants who were entrusted with varying amounts of money by their master -- were they good stewards, or did they do nothing with what they were given? I didn't want to be a lazy and wicked servant. Crap! So I went back for prayer, as I often do. I gave just a skeleton of the situation -- not happy with current circumstances, feel a need to get moving, but have this legalism problem so not sure what to do. I phrased it in a way that would lead a person to advise action. But the girl wasn't there to advise, she was there to pray, and there's a big fat difference. Prayer requires listening to God. Everything she said had to do with patience, with waiting on God and trusting Him, with focusing on Him and letting Him deal with everything else, with letting Him lead the way and following Him instead of running ahead. It was what I had wanted to hear for a long time, but I had to hear it from someone else; I wasn't going to simply tell myself what I wanted to hear, because that felt... I don't know, like cheating somehow. (I don't yet trust myself when I have a strong preference but am not sure if it's the right thing.) This prayer convinced me that sitting tight for a while was OK. Now my plan, for the time being, is Inaction.

Here are a few things I believe:
It's possible to hear from God, both directly and through other people.
God is more concerned with the condition of our hearts and our relationship with Him than He is with what we do; motives outweigh results.
Unless the Lord builds the house, the workers labor in vain.
Prayer makes a difference.
There is always a godly way to handle a situation, but it's not always the way that appears righteous on the surface.
Sometimes God asks us to do things that seem dumb.

I don't believe in utter passivity. I have a couple metaphors that might help people understand what I'm up to. If Legalism is West and License is East, then I'm heading East. That doesn't mean I'm doing to drop off into the Atlantic; it just means I'm heading that direction in an effort to find the middle. Or maybe it's like straightening a trombone slide (something I know a little about). If it's bent, you can't just push it till it's straight; you have to bend it in the wrong direction until it finds straightness (is that a word?) on its own. So maybe I'll go a little too far in the opposite direction. Right now, I'm nowhere near being in danger of going way too far, and if I spend my time worrying about it, I'll play it much too safe.

I've gotten confirmation that I'm doing the right thing from a couple friends I trust. I don't believe they would be blindly supportive if they thought I was making a bad call. The biggest confirmation for me, though, is my own state of mind: When I think of all I would have to do to construct a more satisfying life for myself, and all the obstacles and rejection and self-discipline and mistakes, it makes me not want to try at all. A few years of failure was enough to cause me to lose all faith in my own ability to make myself happy. But when I think of letting God figure things out and bring goodies my way as He sees fit, then I have hope. I get excited about the future, and am able to enjoy the present. That in itself is a form of happiness.

I don't expect it to be easy to explain to people why I'm not taking the good advice they offer. That's OK. If I'm right and this is all God's idea, He'll come through eventually. Then it will be obvious that He was the one who made it all happen, not me. Most importantly, I'll know I can trust Him, and can rest the weight of my hopes on Him. In the meantime, I'm trusting Him by waiting.

Crazy Holly's Going-out-of-Legalism Sale: Everything Must Go! (Part 1)

I am undertaking something that will sound like a very, very bad idea to most people: Inaction. I'm not going to stop working or give up brushing my teeth or anything like that. It's inaction for all the bigger things I want -- all that Pursuing Your Dreams stuff. My plan for the time being is to do a big fat Nothing.

You may be wondering why.

I've been dancing around the idea for a while. Well, maybe dancing isn't the right word. More like tug-o-war. On the one side, we have my desire to do big things and see big changes. On the other side, we have my legalism and my icky propensity to dread anything that I feel I have to do. When I was an acitive musician, I didn't like to practice because I had to do it. When I practiced, I didn't like working up pieces for auditions or performances becaues I had to do them. I placed all this pressure on myself, and that made things unpleasant. Now that I'm looking toward other things, I find I feel the same way. I like doing this blog, but feeling an obligation to post almost every day makes me not want to do it. I'd like to find a more creative job, but feeling like I have to be bold and go out there and take the job I want is overwhelming and, again, I don't like thinking about it. I'd like to meet the right guy, but the more I feel responsible for my own social life, the more I wonder what's wrong with me that my efforts (feeble as they may be) aren't working. Obviously, that's no fun.

I wasn't sure how to resolve this tension. Was I just being lazy and fearful? Should I get past my own lack of enthusiasm for the process of pursuing my dreams and just push on doors until one of them opens for me? Am I being too passive, and thus condemning myself to a life of dissatisfaction? Surely no counsellor in the world would tell a person to sit around watching TV and wait for a great job offer, or to stay home in the evenings and wait for the mailman to come whisk you off into the sunset instead of getting out and meeting people. If you want to eat, you have to buy food, cook it, and lift the spoon to your mouth, right?

At the same time, part of me was saying that the answer to the above questions was, against all reason, No. At least, No for me, for now. This is largely because of the whole legalism thing, which I talked about in the last two posts. I feel so responsible for my own success and happiness that I stop trusting God to take care of me, in spite of countless biblical evidence that He takes care of His children. It's also because I still have only a small capacity for joy (to be discussed in later posts). I could get everything I want tomorrow, but that's no guarantee that I'll enjoy it. I've had good things before and been miserable with them. I'm aware of these problems in myself, and have been making a real effort not to give in to them. Part of this process is the whole "practicing sin" thing (one manifestation of this is not posting on this blog as often, which is why I haven't been posting as often as I used to).

But how far do you take it? Eating chocolate for breakfast over Christmas vacation and being slack about blog-posting is harmless enough. But for stuff that matters, shouldn't I be more disciplined and proactive, regardless of how I feel? I could take care of business, as I have in the past, but if I'm not sure of what I want, and I'm not enjoying the process of getting there, wouldn't I just be setting myself up for continured aimlessness and unhappiness? Action simply for its own sake didn't seem smart; I had to have a direction, a purpose, and I didn't have either one.

So there I was, dissatisfied but not really doing anything, and wondering whether I ought to get off my ass and get to work or if I should tackle the issues of legalism and happiness by staying firmly planted on my ass (and perhaps spending more time on my knees, figuratively speaking) . The first option was unfocused and intimidating. The second one seemed stupid and irresponsible, and would leave me wide open to criticism, both from other people and from myself.

This is yet another long one, split up into two parts. I did this one on my lunch break, and I've gotta get back to work now. The other one to follow... not sure when. Soon, I hope, but I'm practicing not putting pressure on myself, as you've just read, so it wouldn't do for me to go making promises.

Practicing "Sin"

I heard recently that Martin Luther advised those who struggle with legalism to practice committing little "sins." Here was a man who was abundantly familiar with the tortures of guilt. (The more I learn about that guy, the more I want to know. I don't have his strong personality, but I feel like I relate to him in just about every other way.) After years of trying to overcome my obsession with being good by being even better, I've come to the same conclusion he did. I turned 32 on Monday. The first 30 of those years were spent with a stick firmly up my ass. The last two have all about dislodging it, and I'm not done yet. (See that bad word I used? That's me practicing.)

The Bible says that the Kingdom of God (heaven on earth, a small sample of heaven to come) is righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy Spirit. JOY. Not likely when you're in a fruitless quest for perfection, powered by your own steam. The Christian deal is that you stop trying to bear our own weight; Jesus takes it all. Depending on where you are in your life, that may sound like either an impossible sacrifice or the biggest relief ever. In my case, it's just hard to get my head around, because I have such an overwhelming sense of responsibility for everything. But I've been coming to a greater realization of the wrongness of trying to do God's job for Him, and as that realization grows, I see what extreme (to my mind) measures are necessary to combat that tendency in myself.

Legalism itself is a sin. I don't know if God rates sins, or if so, how, but I do believe that some sins have worse consequences than others. Legalism distorts my view of God, which messes up my relationship with Him. That's wrong. It then leaves me empty and with nothing to give people. That's also wrong. And I think it's worse than whatever harm may be done to my body by eating extra cookies (something I would normally feel guilty about). If, by choosing to eat those cookies simply because I can, I can also combat my tendency to agonize over whether I should eat them, then the "sin" of eating the cookies seems like a good idea.

There's also a reason why I've been putting the word "sins" in quotation marks. I believe that sin is real, and that it is truly sinful. But I'm good at feeling guilty no matter what I have or haven't done. It's not so bad now, but there was time in my life when regardless of what I was doing, I felt like I should be doing something else. If I was playing in the pool with my 11-year-old neighbor, I should really have been practicingmy trombone. If I was practicing my trombone, it was selfish because my neighbor didn't have any younger friends within walking distance. I always felt wrong because I had no sense of discernment about what was truly right or wrong in a situation. But playing in the pool wasn't necessarily a sin. Neither was playing my trombone. It just felt that way. If I'm to do anything in my life, ever, I need to push past that and do things that feel like sins to me, because most things feel like sin to me.

Committing little "sins" in order to overcome the big one, legalism. That may sound like the worst idea ever. But it works a lot better than my previous plan -- read the Bible more and pray longer and go to church whenever the doors were open. All those things are good if they come from the right place. But for me it was all about working harder and continuing to fail miserably.

To hell with that.

Is There a Lutheran Version of Catholic Guilt?

In church circles, we often use the term legalism. I may have mentioned it before. There are two extremes in Christian attitude and behavior -- Legalism and Licentiousness. You can probably guess what they're all about. In a Christian context, the latter means presuming upon God's grace, doing whatever you feel like because you know you can be forgiven. Legalism is the opposite -- always trying to be good, as if your salvation depended upon it (which is ironic, because it's your own sin that you're being saved from).

I fall way the hell on the legalistic side. In my case, it seems to be primarily a matter of temperament, of nature over nurture (though there have certainly been those who added to the problem). I'm naturally a religious person -- not one who easily believes (far from it), but one who is inclined to follow rules. At least on the surface, I'm good at being good, and I don't deal well with the consequences of my missteps.

When I lost my childhood faith in God at the age of 13, my response was to up the religion -- read the Bible before I go to sleep, make my parents drive me to church (a half-hour away at the time), and in every way try to be as close to perfect as possible. I knew I had been baptized Lutheran as a baby, so I started going to Lutheran churches. I took my first Communion. I went through Confirmation. And the whole time, I felt guilty for not believing. Right up into college, I was convinced that I could do better at everything if I just tried hard enough. I could have the perfect figure if I stopped eating potato chips. I could be the best trombone player in the world if I stopped watching TV and practiced instead. I could believe if I prayed harder. Of course, I was never able to work my way up to any of those things. (Faith did come, but not because I achieved it.)

Have you ever listened to Garrison Keillor's A Prarie Home Companion? He tells stories of the fictional Lake Woebegon, a town in Minnesota full of Lutheran Norwegian farmers. Whenever he talks about how uptight they are, I recognize myself. Example: The church members go on a little cruise down the river. The boat lists and some people fall overboard. The pastor feels obligated to be with them, so he jumps into the water. That whole weird, useless sense of obligation is me all over. I don't know if it's genetics or what, but somehow, when atoms smashed together to form the gloriously unstable chemistry experiment that is my brain, they created a legalism machine.

Don't go anywhere. There's more to this story, but things were getting long so I'm splitting it up.

And I'm doing this from my cubicle

Hey, check it out. I wrote a home improvement version to the chorus of a Salt 'N Pepa song:

Let's talk about decks, baby
Let's talk about masonry
Let's talk about all the windows and the siding
That may be
Let's talk about decks

Let's talk about checks, baby
And your liability
If one of my workers falls
I'll make a call
And S-U-E
Let's talk about checks

As if you needed it: Further evidence that I need to get out more.

Thin Blood and True Believers

I'm anemic
This I know
For the doctor
Told me so.

I know some of you will be relieved to find out I have a physical flaw, albeit a temporary one, because frankly I was flirting dangerously with perfection there for a while. It is only temporary, though -- a couple months of iron pills and I'm back in the game, baby. I was told this could be part of the reason why I'm always cold, too. Is this why they say that people who can't handle cold climates have "thin blood?" Is it literal?

I'm a little disappointed that my coldness issue may be so easily fixed. I was looking forward to burying myself under sweaters and blankets this year. Such items made up 75% of my Christmas list. I'll just have to keep the thermostat at 55 degrees from now on. Brace yourselves, roommies.

Screeeeech! Change of direction, turning off of Anemia Ave. and onto Blind Boys Blvd.

Now that we're into the Christmas season, I can listen to festive CDs I got as gifts last year. I finally got a good earful of Go Tell It on the Mountain, the Christmas album by The Blind Boys of Alabama, and apart from the impressiveness of their arrangements and the skill of their guest artists, one thought came back to me over and over: These guys know Jesus. They know. I haven't heard anything about their beliefs, and as of this writing I haven't done any research. But they have the sound of men who know.

I did a bad thing.

You're familiar with the scenario: A kid is playing ball in the house. His mom tells him to stop or he'll break something. He keeps doing it anyway and breaks her favorite vase.

Now let's say the ball is a piece of taffy, the kid is me, and the vase is, uh, taffy again, and you have the situation in our kitchen two nights ago.

In case you're thinking to yourself, But a vase is art; taffy isn't art, allow me to gently correct you: YES IT IS. My roommate is an artist, so when she sets out an object because it's cool-looking, it's art. But I'm not an artist. I'm a musician, and an immature one. I make noise. And so does taffy, in the right hands (mine).

Much like my dad's prize birch, it was right out there, where I could reach it, so it's not my fault that I took it and played with it. I knew I could get a good slap out of it if I placed my hand flat against it and smacked it against the table. So I did. *BAM!* Ha ha, yes! *BAM!* That was fun. But that's enough; don't want to be greedy, seeing as how it's not my taffy and all. I'll just put it back now and -- uh-oh. Are those broken bits? Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I'll put it back and maybe my roommate won't know. It'll still look pretty or maybe she'll think it fell or maybe she'll think it was that way when she put it in the kitchen and she doesn't have to know what I did. But that's not cool. My conscience will bother me and George Washington and the cherry tree and surely there's a verse in the Bible about how thou shalt not pull a hit-and-run on thy neighbor's art/taffy. So I left a note:

Dear S--,
I thwacked it and I cracked it and now I'm embarassed and sorry. Can I make it up to you somehow?
Holly

She forgave me, because she's cool. I was relieved; I was prepared to go on the Internet and find replacement taffy and everything. But even after all the guilt and fear of confrontation, I'm not sure I've really learned my lesson. I suspect the only thing stopping me from hitting other food items is the assumption that, frankly, they just wouldn't sound that good.

This is my 100th post!

In celebration, a retrospective episode, a la TV sitcom.

Me: Wow, I can't believe we've been blogger and bloggee for almost five months now. Such good times we've had!

You, the Coveted Reader: Ha ha, yes, such good times. Why, I remember when you wrote about your brother's wedding...

Children aren't invited to the wedding, largely for safety issues -- it's all taking place outdoors, near a small cliff overlooking the ocean, and we don't want any young 'uns going over the edge. It's especially hazardous as there are shrubs at the edge, and when it gets dark you may not know the ground stops. I don't know what we're going to do about inebriated groomsmen trying to pee on the shrubs and taking a tumble. We may have to do headcounts every hour or so. Or at least a sweep of the shoreline the following morning.

Me: You have a good memory. Tell me more about what I've written.

You: Oh, sure. Here's a bit from one of your fictional works...

That Hun next door is the neighborhood bully. Nobody knows his real name; we all just call him “that Hun,” and he likes it that way. I guess he feels it gives him an aura of mystery. (Yeah, right, just like the stupid hat he wears makes him intimidating. Whatever. But if I’ve learned anything from Ollie, it’s to not make fun of stupid hats on aggressive people. It seems these conquering types are very sensitive about their headgear. But I digress.)

You: That one was particularly clever, I think.

Me: [Blushing.] Why, thank you. You didn't have to say that, you know.

You: But I mean it. You're the most bestest blogger ever.

Me: Shucks. [Pause.] You can tell me more about how clever I am.

You: Oh! Right. Yes. [Long silence.]

Me: Any day now.

You: Um, OK... OK, got it. This one didn't suck...

Here's what I know about wood: 1. It's brown. 2. They make trees out of it.

Me: Whew! I had no idea how clever I was. Sometimes you really need to hear it from someone else, you know? I can be quite critical of myself.

You: Obviously.

Me: [Taking bows and catching roses thrown by You. As far as I know, anyway, since I can neither see nor hear you.]

You: [Crickets chirping.]

There are Proverbs that warn of women like this

The pretty taffy is now on display in the kitchen. Am I still not supposed to touch it? What is she trying to do to me???