Cinematic Levels of Ick

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

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

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

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

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

And I ordered my drink.

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

Um, could something really romantic and redeeming happen now?

The Opposite of Playfulness

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

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

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

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

What's with the Pervy Vampires?

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

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

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

Say, a youthful 34?

What a Difference a Day Makes...

...24 little hours...

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

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

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

That Didn't Take Long

Well, it's begun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Improv and Whispers

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

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

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

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

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

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

And driven by a strong impulse toward confession:

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

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

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

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



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

Breaking a Mental Sweat

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

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

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

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

Deep Shallowness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some Quotes from the Roommies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a Bad One, I Is

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

At first.

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

And my birthday isn't even IN July.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa!

And if They Crash, They Buy It

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

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

300th Post

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

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

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

Incommunicado

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

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

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

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

Slooooooooooooowwwwwwwwww

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

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

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

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

So basically, stop playing myself.

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

A "Sea Change," if You Will

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

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

How effing cool is that???

Stuff

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it's gotta have a cumulative effect.

Physically Theatrical

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black and Blue

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

Stop the Presses!

Whoa.

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

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

I can hear fireworks from my window.

Both those statements were tangential.

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

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

"House Team Notification"

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

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

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

Neil Diamond and Sweet Caroline now.

Sweet, indeed.

Trying to Be Rudy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, Verizon?

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

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

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

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

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

Because I will.

I Like TV

There, I said it.

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

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

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

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

Grand Day Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Dad's-Eye View of "Emergency"

In anticipation/celebration of Father's Day:

I was talking to my brother on the phone yesterday and asked him how his son was. I'd seen my sister-in-law's status update on Facebook a couple days before saying that the kid had been to the emergency room, so I wondered what was up. Bro said it was "just a fever," and everything was fine. Then I heard him say -- and it sounded like this was more to his wife than to me -- "Well, it's not like he lost an arm or anything."

And, there you have it. It doesn't look like it's derailed Junior's future career as a professional athlete and astrophysicist, so it's all good.

I'm trying to remember one of the times I got hurt when my dad was the only parent home. They can't have been that traumatic if they're not coming immediately to mind, but I'm pretty sure there weren't a lot of offers to "kiss it and make it better." The help I got would have been more along the lines of, "Can you walk? How many fingers am I holding up? OK, then." Or, more likely (and I do remember this), "If you want, I can drop this shot-put on your foot to take your mind off that headache."

It's easy to say this is a Dad Thing, but I was actually thrown by an incident several years ago when I was visiting my grandmother. We were looking around her old attic, and when I stood up straight I sent my head right into a nail poking out of the ceiling, pointy-side-out. Impaled! Aaaaaa! Blood! Surely Granna would freak!

Nope.

She was all calm. I was kind of offended, really. I mean, what if I got gangrene and died? It's a head injury! I know I don't use my head that much, but it at least keeps me from bumping into things (nails excepted). Isn't this a big deal?

I think I may have figured out how my grandmother, who doesn't like me to go outside at night ever, and who wants me to keep my car doors locked while driving, is somehow unfazed by the nail-head combo: She's a farm girl. Her parents had a plane that they flew into town. Even when her eyesight was so bad that she was declared legally blind, she recognized an ancient piece of equipment on our property as a side-feed rake. Big-city dangers are strange to her. But if you get yourself injured at the homestead, then you drag yourself to the barn, improvise a tourniquet, and hope the hired hands don't eat all the dumplings before you hobble your way to the dinner table.

Honestly, I think it's good to have a balance of grown-ups around. One who feels your pain, one who tells you to walk it off and get on with your life.

And all of them to tell you, "If you ever do anything that stupid again, I'll kill you."

The Opposite of Lumberg

I almost forgot to tell you all: The meeting with my boss went well! I came right out and told her about my interests -- the real ones, not the could-be-adapted-to-an-office-setting ones -- and she totally got it! She grew up doing theater and musicals, and she likes public speaking, too. She's one of those nice people who's actually happy to see an employee follow their dreams, even if that takes that employee far, far away from the company.

She said that for as long as I'm going to have a regular day job, it may as well be one that suits me better than what I'm doing now. So if I can find a job opening within the company that fits that bill, she'll help me out.

She even understands that I'm unlikely to be here forever.

I don't know if there will be anything at this company that will suit me better. I'm not even sure how to determine such a thing, as the job descriptions are so buzzwordy and unhelpful (what does "developing and executing marketing plans and strategies to maximize sales" actually mean?). But it feels pretty good to come clean and be not just acknowledged, but affirmed. I don't have to be fake or obsequious. And I got an "I see myself in you," which is usually a good sign, at least from a relational perspective. Especially because she's not a "devil wears Prada" character.

So, while I keep up with the improv and the singing lessons and the blog and the public speaking and looking into local Shakespeare companies (haven't mentioned that one yet, have I!), I'll be keeping my eye out for company jobs that somehow put these skills to use. Methinks the Marketing Department doth require an serving wench.

Inflicting Myself on More People

I emailed my pastor yesterday. Among other things, I thanked him for the encouragement he gave me regarding my talk and said I was interested in doing more. Today, along with a response from him, I also got an email from an associate pastor inviting me to be one of four people from the speaking class (which had, I don't know, about 20 people?) to give our mini-talks to the whole church. Yay! That's a few hundred people!

I don't know if the invitation is a result of my inquiry, or if I would have gotten it anyway. I want it to be the latter. I wonder why that is. I think I want to know that I earned something by merit, not just because I was even a mildly squeaky wheel. There's a big desire in me to feel invited. This applies to just about any setting, and I think it's one of the main reasons I'm a more natural performer and was slower to take to social interaction. When you perform, there's an agreement between you and the audience; they're there voluntarily, and it's up to you to give them a good show. But in social situations, somebody could just be humoring you and wishing they could go home and play with their guinea pigs.

Either way, though, I'll take the gig. I want to be brave enough to speak up and ask for things, so I'm not sorry I did.

So, folks, right now it's looking like July 26 will be the big day. That should give me time to get nervous again.

Upcoming Meeting

Howdy-do, folks. Thanks for all the encouragement regarding public speaking.

I'm about to take another step in that direction. A couple weeks ago, my boss talked to me and a coworker about career opportunities within the company -- not specific job openings, but various paths that people have taken. I mentioned that I have a few ideas about what I'm interested in and might be good at. You all know that what I'm interested in is music, theater, performace, writing, communication, comedy -- stuff like that. My job involves none of these things. Unless you count writing witty little emails. Anyway, I'm scheduled to meet with my boss tomorrow, and I intend to bring up these various interests.

I realize that our company does not have a Vaudeville Department (does it?), but I figure if I need to have a day job (and I do) while I explore all the stuff I really want to do, it might be nice to have a day job that suits me at least a little better than the one I have now. It's not awful, but it's not great. So I think the public speaking might be a nice compromise. That seems like the kind of skill a corporation might need. The writing would be useful, too, but as I work for a publisher populated with English majors, I don't think that really sets me apart. However -- again, being at a publisher populated with English majors -- I may be one of the few people willing to stand in front of a crowd and yak away.

I have some backup on this from the fellow who led our workshops a month ago. I emailed him today, telling him honestly that if he thought I had talent that I'd like to be able to tell my boss that he said so, and he said yes. Okey doke, then.

There was a teeny crash after last week's talk, because every time I take step like that, part of me hopes that my life will finally change, and then I wake up to see the same landscape stretching to the horizon. But the excitement is up again today, both at the encouragement from last month's coach, and at the prospect of taking this initiative with my boss.

I am wary of getting myself into a job where I'm just comfortable enough to stop pursuing my real dreams. But I'm not exactly close to that point.

Nobody Expects the Spanish Inquisition

Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as: fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency...

Fear: My own. Surprise: Other people's. Ruthless efficiency: Getting in under time (hey, as far as I know).

My talk went well! I don't know if I went under time, but I have a pretty good sense for that and I think I was OK. It turns out the biggest reason they wanted us to keep the length under control is so we could get through all the speakers in one night without staying up till midnight. We did go one hour over, but that seemed OK. And I don't think it was my talk that did it. Unless you count the half-hour they spent lavishing praise on me ;-).

OK, probably not that much. But they did seem pretty enthusiastic. We were supposed to start the critiquing bit with Stuff We Liked, followed by Stuff We Would Have Liked to See More Of. But nobody seemed to have anything to put in that second bucket after my talk, even my pastor. Neato torpedo. The closest they came was telling me about stuff they almost had a problem with, but then I answered it later in the talk, so it was all good. Oh, and one guy said he was so busy being entertained that he forgot to listen for ways he could apply the talk to himself. But then he said that wasn't a bad thing, either, and the pastor agreed.

One guy in particular seemed surprised by me. I'm not sure what it was, but this has happened to me before, even as a trombone player. (I remember a guitar player, who had already heard me play in ensembles, was surprised when I pulled off a solo. And I think some folks were cheerfully taken aback when I, a girl, even knew which end of the horn to put up to my face.) I don't know if I still manage to come off as shy and demure in social situations (which, OK, I can be), or if people assume that I'm probably not going to be great at things, or what. Or -- here's the pipe-dream hope -- maybe I'm just so awesome that there's no way anyone could have seen it coming. Let's go with that. Anyway, the sheer shock of me in performance situations seems to really work in my favor, which is OK with me.

As for the praise -- and absence of real criticism -- my pessimistic and fearful brain naturally looked for the faults, or the chinks in others' compliments. But the fact is, I was the only one they didn't have criticism for, and it's not because they thought I was too fragile to take it, because they were happy to throw jokes my way (always a compliment in my book), and there was another girl, far quieter than I, to whom they did give constructive criticism. Their lists of compliments for me were long and effusive, something they weren't so much for each other. And their observations were consistent with what I've heard from other people, and also feel to be true myelf: I have lot of energy when I speak. Also, I've spent so much time analyzing my own thoughts that I'm effective in expressing them, and letting people into my thought process seems to impact them in positive ways (good to hear, because my process can be pretty brutal to my own heart).

It's kind of a big deal for me to dispense with the false humility and come right out and say that I think I'm good at this sort of thing. I do hope I get more opportunities to do it. It's scary, opening my brain for others to see. It's scary even when I do it in my blog. But I've been stockpiling musings for 34 years now, and they've got to go somewhere.

Tonight's the Night

I guess I can't help myself -- lately I'm all about the the suggestive blog titles for posts that are ultimately completely innocent.

Tonight's the night we all give the 10-minute talks we've prapared for the public speaking class I'm taking. I've mostly just gone over it in my head, and I always go over time, but that could be because I get distracted and sidetracked by my own mental meanderings. When I ran through it for my roommate last night, he timed me and I did it in seven minutes. Woo! Of course, I was talking kind of fast, and he said he missed some of what I said because he wanted to pause and think about the last thing I'd said. That's a good sign -- I must have said one or two things worth thinking about, then. I just need to pace it a bit slower instead of trying to squeeze things into a short span of time.

I don't plan on using notes, which wasn't my original intention. But I wasn't sure what to put in those notes, and I might feel pressure to cover everything. I have a few points in my head, and those are memorized, so I'm going to go noteless. That may sounds reckless, but I'm not a reckless person and I'm actually confident about my decision. I've also spent the last two weeks preparing, so it's not like I'm winging it. I have something to say, lessons I've learned by living through them, and I'm OK with each run-through being different.

I was already starting to plan what I wanted to talk about when we were given choices of topics. Fortunately, one of the topic choices was kind of related to what I'd been thinking about, so I made the twain meet. My talk will be called "God Cares about Your Work," a title we were assigned. (The other choices were Psalm 23 or something to do with your job or whatever situation you need public speaking skills for, but my job has nothing to do with public speaking and I was already preoccupied with the idea of careers and dreams, so "Work" it was.)

Because it seems a little mean to tell you about my talk without telling you anything about my talk, here's a skeletal synopsis of my points:

* I've had to let go of the dreams I'd had since I was a girl, and several years later am still in process in the career department.
* For me, work and dreams are inseparable, even when they're miles apart in my day-to-day life. According to Psalm 37:4, God cares about the desires of our hearts. (The verse itself says, "Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.")
* There's substantial biblical precedent for long periods of waiting between having a dream or getting a promise from God, and actually seeing it fulfilled. That waiting is part of the growth process that comes with being human, and though it feels like a detour or even a complete derailment, it's actually getting us where we want to go.
* We can be overwhelmed with questions and uncertainty and fear of making mistakes. But I'm learning that mistakes aren't an unfortunate byproduct of this process; they are the process. God isn't teaching me not to make mistakes, but how to make them.
* I used to torture myself by obsessing over all my questions (e.g. "Are all the things lacking in my life the result of things that are lacking in me?"), because I thought grappling with the questions would get me answers. It's hard to get through a workday this way. Eventually I realized it wasn't getting me those answers, and that I was just torturing myself. It was simply unhelpful, so I gave myself permission to stop. It took practice to stop that circular negative thinking, but, interestingly, torturing myself less has led to my feeling less tortured.
* Looking back over the last 8 1/2 years, I can see purpose in what God has been up to. Having music out of the way has made room for God to dig up dreams I'd shoved aside and forgotten when I made the decision at age 12 to pursue music professionally. And that rediscovery process has been fun. It's like getting a dream upgrade. I'm excited about my future, and that wasn't the case for a long time. I'm getting glimpses of what might be in store for me, and as I allow myself to be jazzed about those possibilities, I find I'm delighting in the God who's making it happen. Hey, was I just finding God delightful? Isn't that what the Bible verse talks about? In the greater context of the Psalm, I think God is basically encouraging us to hang in there with Him, so we can be around as He proves Himself faithful. And I'm looking forward to watching how He does it.

OK, that's not so skeletal.

But hopefully it'll take less than ten minutes. I'd hate to be a diva ;-).

Busy Bee

Hi Everybody,
I know, I'm not posting a ton at the moment. I've been quite busy! Some fun stuff. It's just that it happened to come together in a big clump, at least temporarily. So you can be happy for me with all my neat activities (and perhaps have a good chuckle at the thought of me trying some of them), here's some of what I'm up to:

Public speaking class at church
Singing lessons
Improv (you knew that one already, though)

See? I'm pushing on different doors to see what happens. And there's other stuff in my future. I'm doing a movement/dance/physical theater camp-for-grown-ups kind of thing for a week in July. And I'm thinking some regular, dramatic, non-improv acting classes could be really fun.

So, basically anything that involves an audience is intriguing to me. Well, not everything. I probably won't try pole dancing anytime soon. But it's pretty obvious that that falls into a different category: activities that would actually make me some money.

Lunging Buster

Buster is the pudgiest pug I've ever seen. He's quite the little sausage. You can hear him breathing from the other end of the house. Poor little guy.

My roommate Maria is dogsitting this fellow for the foreseeable future, and she's taking it upon herself to restore him to fitness. As Buster is not a big fan of walking (and you know a dog is out of shape when it doesn't want to walk!), she's applying her equestrian background to getting him some exercise. You know how they'll tie a horse to the end of a long pole and let him trot around in a big circle for a while? Apparently that's called lunging. And Maria's contrived a way to do this with Buster. She attaches his harness to a curtain rod, and holds the rod while sitting in a swivel chair in the middle of the living room. Then she makes Buster walk in circles for 15 min. every day. That's fifteen minutes of serious wheezing, and a few attempts to sit down. But Maria's pretty good at the tough love with Mr. Pudge.

Depending on how much help I can wrangle from my roommates, who are technologically more sophisticated than I (surprise), I might see if I can get some recordings of the Sausage making his various noises and post them here. In spite of all my literary pretensions, I am unable to convey these sounds in words.

Misunderstood

The actual lyric: "Look at the frequencies at which I vibrate."

What my roommate heard: "Look at the freak, she says, "Which end vibrates?"

And Speaking of Monsters (because I'm all about the segues today)...

I went to my first Red Sox game two weeks ago! They lost in a big way to the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, but I ordered a hot dog from one of those guys who sells them among the folks in the bleachers, so the day was a success for me.

Baseball parks are an experience, and I soaked up the smells (ballpark food!), sounds (swearing women and little kids learning to say, "Get that idiot ump some eyeglasses!"), and sights. Fenway has a big wall known as the Green Monster (or "monstah" in Bostonian). This has led to the Sox having a mascot named Wally (ha!) who is himself a green monster.

I thought about the whole mascot thing. It's probably hard being in that suit on a 90-degree day, but as I'm colder than most people, I imagine I could bear the heat more easily than most as well. And what else might be involved -- hugging children? doing goofy dances? hamming it up for a camera?

Fit the skill set of any bloggers you know?

So I decided I want to be Wally. I mean, I want to be the guy in the Wally outfit. I got really excited at the thought, though that could have been the caffeine-filled migraine pill I took hitting my system. One of my coworkers, sitting next to me, said that her roommate used to date the current Wally's brother, and that the job probably pays around $30K a year. Um, not to give y'all more info than you wanted about my finances, but if they give you benefits with that, then that wouldn't necessarily be a step down for me.

I even looked it up online. I'd thought maybe this would be the sort of thing you'd only have to do from Spring Training through the World Series, giving you several months off in between to do other fun stuff and earn more money. But I think Wally makes appearances at a lot of functions and charity events, visiting children's hospitals and such, and that probably goes year-round. Makes sense. Even so, I may check in every once in a while and see if that spot opens up.

I've already begun imagining what kind of dance moves would work in a big round suit.

Monster in the Making

My last post was partially about the joys of being away from one's desk during the workday. Well, last week I got to have that twice! My company brought in a fellow to give some day-long workshops on giving powerful presentations, and I signed up for both Levels 1 and 2.

I don't give presentations at work. I barely even interact with people. It's a wonder I can physically speak at all anymore. But I've always been drawn to public speaking, so I signed up with my boss's blessing.

It surprised me when I first heard that more people fear public speaking than death. But in a perverse way, I find this encouraging. I figure it means that if I think it sounds fun while the rest of the world thinks it sounds scary, then maybe it's one of the things I was born to do. And I don't have as much competition to worry about ;-).

That doesn't mean I don't get nervous. I do. But people say even that is a good sign, because it means you care, and some adrenaline, when well channelled, can keep you on your toes and make you more effective. I experienced this as a musician, so it's not utterly foreign. Always good to be reminded that nerves don't have to be a bad sign.

The guy who led our workshops was nicknamed Meech, and he's had a career impressive in its levels of fun. At least, I was envious. He'd been a radio DJ, and then he interviewed famous musicians on TV in the early days of VH1. He's chatted with BB King, Sting, Eric Clapton and Phil Collins! I wanna do that!

Can I share my excitement with you? Meech was positive with everyone, but I don't think it was all in my head that he was especially effusive in his compliments to me. He said that someday I could be a "monster" and "a force to reckon with" in the public speaking department. Golly, I'd like that.

Furry Holly Monster like public speaking. Rowr.

I Feel Healthier When I'm Away from My Desk

My company is changing health insurance plans. This happens a lot. It's the third or fourth time that, for various reasons, I've had to research and sign up for a plan in the space of about 2 years. While I find this mildly stressful (will I get sick this year? how do I know?), the company did a good job of making things fun by holding a Benefits Fair today. It got me away from my desk, which is as welcome to me now as it was when I was in second grade and we got to go to the gym for an assembly about fire safety. Any change in the routine is happy.

They had nifty goings-on. First, I went to a seminar about how what you eat affects how you feel. A lot of it was obvious: Sugar is bad, unprocessed foods are good. Kinda knew it, but what was helpful was knowing some of the facts behind it. Like, unprocessed (or "whole") foods work better with your body in the breakdown process, whereas processed foods (e.g. refined sugar) actually force your body to hand over the nutrients it got from other foods, like some kind of digestive mugging. I doubt this will stop me from eating chocolate -- OK, who am I kidding? it won't stop me at all -- but depending on my financial situation, I may be willing to spend a few extra bucks here and there for unprocessed items. Any step in the right direction is a little victory, right? I'm all about the positive motivation, having previously driven myself to the unproductive depths that guilt and obligation lead to.

The next thing I went to was a half-hour session on yoga moves you can do at your desk, and even in your chair. Neato! I feel like I'm still way at the beginning of the process of learning to use my body more and my head less (in my journey to become a well-proportioned human being, and not some kind of bobble-head), so even short classes like this feel like a big deal to me.

Then there was the kicker: Chair massages! How can you pass that up? Way to butter up the workforce!

I also stopped by a table set up by one of the local gyms. They were clever, in that they had a device you could hold that would, when given your height and weight, measure your body-fat percentage. Silly, cocky Holly, thinking that being narrow would give her a good number! I should have realized that I'm not necessarily thin because I'm low on fat, but because I'm also low on bone, muscle, and probably the size of my internal organs. So when you go to percentages, my loose clothing the heeled boots don't give me an advantage. The girl at the table, who may have been trying to be nice, said there was an error margin of 5 percentage points in either direction. The device said I was 25.8% body fat, which I thought was good for a woman until I looked at the chart they had. Apparently it's only "fair," which is isn't so great. Less than "good," in fact. Rats. I don't like bad grades, even when they're for fitness. I should probably start drinking raw eggs and pumping lots and lots of iron or something. Except I won't.

But I do like a nice distraction from work. And when you look at the big picture, isn't avoiding work really what it's all about?

Who Lives in a Pineapple?

My nephew's party was the perfect mix of kids and adults -- enough of each for people to be able to hang out with their peers. The kids (except for my nephew, they were all older, like 8-ish) could entertain themselves in the backyard without a ton of entertaining or supervision, and they didn't have to listen to the boring conversations of the big people. My brother had also planned a water balloon toss, which the kids could do with their parents. Wow, are water balloons popular with kids. This was that really hot weekend we had, too, so it was the perfect setting for getting wet.

Now, I knew my brother was pretty good with kids. What I hadn't realized was that he may be the coolest grown-up ever. The kids figured this out pretty quickly, and paid him the compliment of making him the focus of plotting, scheming, and connniving. It started with extra water ballons, which they wanted to focus entirely on him. So he headed outside and made a show of bending over to look for drinks in the cooler: "Hmmm, let me get a beer. Here I am, looking for a beer..." The kids were so well behaved that they didn't pick up on the opportunity and were patiently waiting for him to finish. I waved them in, "Get him in the butt!" Boy, they didn't need to be told twice. But the balloons weren't breaking easily, and as they followed him around the yard throwing, the shots kept bouncing off him like bullets off Superman. Eventually he tried putting them in his back pockets and sitting down, and it still didn't work. Weird. But a valiant effort!

Next, they tried to give him a candy that was sweet and most definitely not sour at all, which he obligingly fell for.

The part that impressed me the most, though (perhaps because it veered into a skill set that I appreciate) was when he sang the complete Sponge Bob theme song, word perfect. In that Sea Captain voice.

It should be noted here, especially as we just passed Mother's Day, that my sister-in-law pulled off impressive feats of her own. She made Martha Stewart cakes! I didn't know people could do that. And the woman has gone without cheese for over a year-and-a-half because my nephew has had a problem with dairy, which I think should qualify her for a medal or something.

Wicked Ink

Whaddup, peeps. I know it's been a while since I've posted. I've been a busy little bee. Oh, the irony: The more I do, the more I might have to blog about, but the less time I have to do the blogging. So I have some catching up to do! Let's start with my nephew's fire-themed first birthday party, which included tattoos! Here's me and my dad looking all tough with ours: I know we're hard to tell apart, so I'll help you out: I'm on the right. My dad wanted me to be sure to tell you all that the picture cuts off part of his arm, and therefore does not fully capture the massiveness of his bicep.

If I Only Had a Brain

I have the song We're Off to See the Wizard running through my head. When I ask myself why, the answer I keep getting is because, because, because, because, becaaaaaause!

He'll Look Adorable in a Hat, if They Can Get Him to Keep It On

The parents and I are heading down to New Jersey this weekend for my nephew's first birthday. It all seems oddly familiar somehow. I think we were down in that area about a year ago this time. Wonder what that was about.

"It's a question of lust, it's a question of trust..."

Actually, it's not a question of lust at all. I just wanted to use that lyric as a title. Here's a more accurate title for you: "Trusting Arvo Part." The a in Part should have an umlaut (those double dots, like in Motley Crue) over it, but I don't know offhand how to insert that kind of character into a blog post. I'm no expert in Estonian (heck, I'm no novice), but if it's at all like German, Part with an umlaut would be pronounced kind of like Pehrt.

Anyway, Arvo Part is an Estonian contemporary classical composer. I love this guy. Hard to explain why I love his music so much, but I think it's because it combines what I love best about ancient and modern classical music. And there truly is something ancient about his sounds. I hear his work and I'm in a great stone church, where the light comes in from windows high overhead, and you get dizzy from looking up and turning around to take it all in. Yet he's not afraid of dissonance, and leans into it and lets it sit, like modern composers do. Love it, love it. It's probably not for everybody, but if you're at all curious, I recommend his work wholeheartedly.

And did I mention that that I find it hauntingly, achingly, dumbfoundingly beautiful?

I first heard his music my second year in England, when the family I lived with had some of his CDs. Maybe I trusted their judgment. But somehow, that trust transferred to the composer himself. While my taste in classical music is more developed than my taste in pretty much everything else, I still reach a point every once in a while where I'll ask, "Was that good or was it cheesy?" I don't know when or how quickly it happened, but I came to the point where I trusted that if Arvo did it, Arvo meant it, and Arvo knows what's what. I might be suspicious of some of these sounds if I thought they were written by another, but I trust Arvo. This positive judgment about the composer fills in a gap left by my judgment about music.

Realizing this gives me some empathy for people who appear to blindly follow a popular artist or performer. Maybe they're not mindless; maybe they simply trust the person. Maybe that's how we all learn and grow: by choosing to trust and follow the expamles of other people, using what little judgment we have to choose whom to trust. Then, as we gain experience, we learn to make artistic and creative judgments for ourselves. But hitching your critical wagon to someone else's brain, while it can go too far, is a natural part of the process.

If I'm going to be hitched to a musical brain, I'm quite happy for it to be Arvo Part's.

Observation and Normalcy

I've been hesitant to talk about my European trip with people because I don't know what to say. I'm not sure I quite expected a heightened experience, as I'm not prone to those, but perhaps I'd hoped for one anyway. Most of you probably hope I have fun stories about what I did and what I saw. I did try to be open to things as they came my way, rather than cling rigidly to plans, and I think I did that passably, though nothing all that big came barrelling my way.

I've posted a list of things that happened, because some things did. But that's not really what my trip was like, because I'm me wherever I go, and my life takes place inside my head. And that means that my ten days abroad were basically normal life in unusual locations. It wasn't surreal. It wasn't completely different from anything else I've ever done. It was more like a birthday that involves a few nice messages from friends and family, but otherwise is like any other day. I spent most of my time working not to analyze or let myself sink into the sadness that I know I'm prone to, and was rather pleased at how successful I was.

I did notice something about myself: I go into Observation Mode when I'm in situations I don't understand. I see this in improv class, where it's not particularly helpful; you need to get in there and DO, and don't have the luxury of just watching the way the audience can. And I see this in social situations. I've always been cautious, and in the past have berated myself for being so cripplingly shy. But when I was in Brighton, around people I'd met before, I realized it wasn't quite shyness that was holding me back. It was awareness that there are thousands of ways, big and small, in which communication and interaction differ from what I'm used to in America, and I wanted to figure it out. So I was quiet a lot. One-on-one conversations were OK, but in groups, I watched and listened.

I can be very snarky (duh), and I didn't want to plunge into trying to make jokes without having some idea of how to get them across effectively. The result was that England didn't really see the sarcastic Holly whom you all know and lo-... well, whom you all know.

But the Observer is me, too. And the sad girl who got philosophical and lonely and teary as she sat on a bench up on the Eiffel Tower. And girl who wandered into town to buy giant Cadbury bars just as she'd done when she lived in England nine years ago.

So, if you want to know how my trip was, the answer is that I was me. And I'm me now that I'm back home. And that's both as hopeful and as disappointing as it was before I left.

Anybody Have an Rule or a Opinion?

Does anybody know what the rule is when it comes to using "a" or "an" before a letter that's spoken or written by itself rather than as part of a word? For example, if I were leading a cheer, would I shout, "Gimme an M!" or, "Gimme a M!" I think I'd use "an," because when you say it aloud, it sounds like "em," and that's the whole point of having two articles to choose from, isn't it?

It seems to me that this should be based on pronunciation instead of spelling. You'd say something is an honor, not a honor, even though honor starts with H, right?

I think this is on my mind because I Can Has Cheezburger: A LOL Cats Collekshun has come out recently, and when I saw the title I wondered if the people behind it were stupid. Not to be an arrogant a-hole about it. But really: Would anybody say that out loud? Even if you were in the habit of intentionally misspelling things for the sake of cuteness? It's just so awkward, "A LOL..."

OK, brainiacs, I know y'all can weigh in on this intelligently.

Lost Marbles = Beer Goggles

I stepped onto the subway the other day and was immediately greeted with, "Damn, you're beautiful! But you probably knew that already."

Of course, the guy turned out to have "psych issues." He proceeded to mention his many millions of dollars and the fact that he likes to drink booze. I have myself a drunk millionaire!

The next group of passengers was greeted more critically: "Crazy-looking mother fuckers." A man next to me observed, "That wasn't nearly as nice as the welcome he gave you. You got off easy."

Indeed I did.

My Big Trip: Stuff We Did, Stuff That Happened (a post in which I have the worst time with carriage returns)

London:

--Fun Fact: Helen's brother lives in an area in the Northern outskirts of London called "Tooting." Hee hee.
-- Was treated rudely by just about everyone who heard my American accent. Helen apologized repeatedly for her people, though some of the rude people were from other European countries. Helen was often mistaken for an American and treated rudely, just because I sounded like a Yank and she was with me. In my experience that's mostly a London thing, though.

-- Watched an old episode of Jonathan Creek, one of my favorite shows from my time in England years ago.


Paris:

-- Climbed to the second level, as high as they'll let you climb up the Eiffel Tower. I was scared. Helen braved the elevator to the top and reported that, while you can go up to a level that's exposed to the air, you can stay behind windows if you like. OK then, I can probably tackle that the next time I visit Paris.

-- Decided I have to visit Paris again so I can make it to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

-- I got honked at by a taxi -- as depicted by trumpets in Gershwin's American in Paris!

-- Helen got pooped on by a French pigeon. Their poop is mustard yellow. Anybody have an idea why this is?

-- Stumbled upon the French version of American Idol on TV. Heard the announcer say "toot suite" more than once.

-- Had a hotel room that was so small, our twin beds were right up against each other. Cozy.

-- Witnessed an entire fight between two young men on the street, and the brave older gentlemen who broke it up.

--Learned there was a real D'Artagnan (of The Three Musketeers). I had no idea! Dude apparently lived right on the Seine. Nice.

-- Learned the hard way that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays. Didn't even get to see the pyramid lit up at night, because that was the week in which they were using it to project poetry onto the surrounding buildings.

-- Touched human bones in the catacombs. Wondered what it means to respect the dead.
-- Walked a lot. Then rode the Metro. Then walked some more. Had feet so sore it took me two days to recover.
-- Saw the cutest little boy entranced by two young guys who were singing and playing guitar. My camera battery died just as I tried to take a picture. Have yet to find out if I got the shot.
-- There's a Metro stop in Paris called Miromesnil. Anybody else think that sounds like Metamucil?

Brighton:
-- Felt really normal. Was not a tourist, but visiting people and places I knew. Hung out, ran errands, took naps.
-- Met cute, tall South African, who seemed to think I was cute as well. (Not sure if he thought I was tall.) This was the closest I got to meeting my flirting goal.
-- Saw huge chasm of potential awfulness open before my host when he dropped his keys -- which included the only existing immobilizer for his car engine -- into a drain grate. Several men, including many of their new neighbors, came out to help/watch as they bucketed out 5 feet of leaves and water and lowered a man in to retrieve the keys. Miraculously, once they were dry, even the electronic devices worked again.
-- They needed some prose to be read over photo stills for part of the Easter service. As of Good Friday evening, they still didn't have anything, so I was asked to take a crack at it, and they used what I wrote. Yay! I was excited to be asked to write, and to do the writing, and to have people like it and use it, and to participate again in my old church -- especially since they'd really only known me as a trombone player before. I was so excited, in fact, that I couldn't fall asleep that Friday night and was up till 2:30. It was written from the point of view of one of Jesus' disciples on the Saturday between the day He died and the day He rose. They wanted a guy to read it (guess my voice is too high and my face too beardless to convince folks that I'm Matthew or Peter), so I didn't get to be a dramatic actress, but it was still a big deal to me.
-- Saw the original High School Musical, and Madagascar 2. Did I mention I was staying in a house with several children? I have this awesome bit of music running through my head, where Moto Moto, the boy hippo, decides to hit on Julia:

I like 'em big
I like 'em chunky
I like 'em round
A little somethin' somethin'

It sounds best when will.i.am does it.

Boston:

-- Work.

Countdown

I fly for London tonight. Yippee! My sister-in-law would be proud that I'm wearing clothes that look good, even though they're not as warm as plenty of other things I own. Several other impractical outfits are in my suitcase, which is ready to do damage to my roommate's back as he lifts it into the trunk of his Honda Civic.

Last night, after packing, I prepared for a week of serious flirting by painting my toenails bright blue. In the past, I would have considered that frivolous. No more! It's an investment. Even if it's chilly and rainy, I'll know my toes are shining brightly beneath my boots.

My travelling companion, Helen, says she's also up for flirting. Excellent. Always helpful to be on the same page for such things.

This Just In

I've been a sporadic Twitterer for several months now, acquiring a whopping total of 9 updates. Guess I'm never doing much "right now," or I'm too busy doing it to tweet about it. But I've posted links to my Twitter posts in the right-hand column, for you to peruse if you're ever as bored as I am.

(Mom, Twitter is a site for posting nothing but "status updates," like one would do on Facebook. Great for those of us with short attention spans!)

Spaghetti Weevil!

Enjoy April Fool's Day, Everybody!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/03/30/the-history-of-april-fool_n_180097.html?alacarte=1

Permission to be a Girl

For most of my life, I've fought my own femininity. I'd get embarrassed if I dared to wear perfume or lotion and someone told me I "stank like a girl." It never occurred to me that I was supposed to stand my ground. Instead, I recoiled and tried to be as tomboyish as possible. I convinced myself that, as a trombone player, I was trying to be accepted for my talent alone, and that I didn't want my scent or appearance to distract the audience or the other musicians. Well, I was successful there, wasn't I?

I spent the '90s shrouded in flannel. Yeah, lots of people were buried in grunge in the '90s, but I was relieved not to have to try. Whenever I ventured to experiment with hair or makeup, I felt like it didn't make any difference. I didn't realize that such things take time and practice for everyone; I thought I was just bad at it.

Just this morning, I realized that I was unconsciously anticipating being embarrassed at the weight of my suitcase for my upcoming European trip. I wanted to look cute on the streets of London and Paris, but I didn't want the men who helped me with my luggage to make cracks about bringing everything but the kitchen sink. Then it occurred to me: This is what you do if you want to be cute! You have to prepare, like a boy scout. Beauty does take effort, and it's OK to bring several outfits and a few hair products and more than one color of lipstick. I'm allowed to bring more than one jacket, too, in case it rains. I love the idea of wearing a bright raincoat with a short skirt and boots, and carrying a bright umbrella, in Paris in the Spring rain. Well, one has to pack a raincoat then! Screw the old, ascetic efficiency.

I may not have mentioned my upcoming trip on this blog. Well, I'm going on a trip, and it's upcoming! My English roommate is going home to visit her family and is making a detour to Paris, and I'm tagging along. Wooo! I haven't been on that side of the pond in six years. I don't get excited about a lot, but I'm excited about this. I've been praying about my capacity to have fun, because I want to really enjoy myself. I'm already prepared to spend money. And after this morning's revelation, I'm prepared to actually pack like a girl who's going vacation.

Look out, Europe! Holly's gettin' dolled up, and she's going to have bright lips even if it takes all day to get the line right (and it might).

I Don't Have His Permission to Post This

But I think it's really funny that, after ordering a gift for his mom, my roommate Adam regularly receives a catalog from The Woman Within.

Cheesy Birthday

We took my roommate John to Chuck E. Cheese last weekend to celebrate his 28th birthday. That place was insane. And can you believe they had no Whack-a-Mole?

Incomplete selection of games aside, there was plenty to enjoy. Seeing the 6'4" birthday boy parading around the room holding Chuck's hand was pretty fun.

And I managed to get to the end of the evening without hating All Children.

All Parents, on the other hand...

My Job is Bread and Water. I am a Ham.

One of the troubles with having a lull in one's workflow is trying to figure out how much to bug people for stuff to do. At what point does it become a burden on someone else to try to find work for you?

I've been going through a really slow period at the office. Which is OK in a way, because I don't love my work. But I care about doing a good job, in principle, so being idle can get a little difficult for that reason.

I've always been painfully aware that I have no interest in what my company does, or my little role in it. Paying attention in meetings, where I hardly understand what people with other jobs are talking about, is very, very hard. Staying awake is very, very hard. I do try, honest.

I had a couple meetings today. The highlight of the first meeting for me? The point where I cracked a little joke and made one of my superiors laugh. She repeated what I'd said more loudly, and others laughed when they heard. (This is exactly the sort of thing that happened at least once a day in fifth grade, when I'd say things to Heather Mills, and she'd repeat them to the class and everyone would crack up). I was a lost cause after that successful performance, basking in the glow.

I spent the rest of the hour daydreaming about getting up on one of the conference tables and singing.

Harumph

Don't think I haven't noticed that after doing two posts about what a big dork I am, no one has bothered to contradict me. Sheesh, people. You're gonna let the self-deprecation stand just because it's true?

Knowing is 1/7 of the Battle

I have a bad habit. My self-control in some areas of my life is so extreme that it comes closer to repression, but not in this one. There is a particular activity in which my will is weak. Very, very weak.

I read over people's shoulders on the subway.

You probably hate people like me, right? I don't blame you. But I can barely help myself. It's a disastrous condition noticed when I first became literate as a child: the drive to read every word within eye-shot. The backs of cereal boxes. Billboards. The stories Mom would read to me and my brother (I couldn't let her turn the page till my eyes had finished reading what she'd just spoken aloud). And other people's Metro papers.

I once had a guy move a seat away from me because I found his book riveting. But not before I learned some interesting tidbits from the Steve Martin biography he was reading.

You can seethe with anger at me if you like. I probably have it coming.

But I'm more likely to get the message if you write it down and sit beside me.

4th of July, Asbury Park (Holly)

Spent last weekend visiting folks who live in Asbury Park, NJ. Bruce Springsteen's hometown, right? I really like the Jersey shore. My Dad's from Jersey, and my grandmother lived down the street from the beach. Pretty awesome for a kid. For two weeks in the summer, it would be the beach every day, mini-golf, and chasing down the ice cream truck after dinner.

Growing up can drain a lot of fun out of the summer. You care more if you get sweaty, you become self-conscious in a bathing suit, and a pail and bucket in the sand can't entertain you for hours anymore. But as our hostess drove us past Tent City, I found myself wanting Summer. I wanted one of those cute little beach houses with the big tent awning. I began imagining how good it must be for the soul to be soaked in the ocean for even a few minutes every day. I imagined myself getting a real tan for the first time in almost twenty-five years. Wearing light cotton clothes and flip-flops, smelling like Coppertone, letting my hair get all sun-damaged. Mmmmm, yeah.

I wonder how much call there is for horn players in the clubs down there. Walking in the sun all day, paying for it by gigging at night. I might be willing to pick the trombone back up for a summer like that.

Angry Idiot

Ever smack face-first into the reality that you can be a real ass? Don't you hate that?

I did it today. So convinced that I was right, furious and indignant, ready to rip somebody a new one. Then I realized I was wrong. Crap. Much prefer it when the facts back up my self-righteousness. Stupid facts.

But I can be thankful for this: No new one was ripped. I learned of my idiocy before I had a chance to inflict it on the world at large. I'm crediting God with snatching me back from the brink of hurting a friendship.

"Just like a rainbow, you know you set me free."

I'd be willing to bet good money that Depeche Mode is embarrassed by this lyric.

And how, precisely, would a rainbow set one free? Does it possess handcuff keys?

Huger Dork

This weekend, I went to New Jersey with two of my roommates to make new friends and play a game called Descent. I'd never encountered it before, but Helen and her friends have been into it for a while. It's one of those long, elaborate, story-based games that involves magicians and trolls and dragons and stuff. I can be afraid to try new things, but I'm working on being open and spontaneous and brave. So I decided to join in. And if one is going to be early-stage brave, it may as well be with fake dragons that one can slay from the comfort of a dining room table.

I quite enjoyed it. Of course, this makes me an even bigger dork when you add it to the karaoke and the trombone and the National Sarcasm Society sweatshirt ("Like we need your support!"). So I think it's time to not care. I is what I is. And I is into the idea of vanquishing a Chaos Beast with the hellhound I killed and then reanimated with my power of necromancy.

Cross-the-Street-to-Avoid-Me Crazy

I'm now in a 3-week break from improv classes before the next level starts. I'm halfway through the levels that the training center offers! It's so good for me. Learning to be freer, to take risks. Finally having a chance to be as nutty as I've always wanted to be.

I don't know how much acting talent I have, but I definitely have a strong inclination to play pretend, to tell stories, to take on characters and give them a voice. Which has led to an interesting and unforeseen problem: I don't know how to keep it to myself. I'll be walking to the subway, imagining accents and voices and mannerisms and quirks, and then I realize that I'm making faces and talking to people who aren't there, like some asylum escapee. Or, even funnier, it'll take me a while to realize that people think I'm a nut job. I'll get looks as I walk down the street, and I'll think, Maybe I look hot! Then it hits me: No, not hot! I'm wearing a giant lavender parka and doing a Popeye impression! That's why people are staring! The upside, I suppose, is that at least I'm enjoying my own crazy company.

And it would seem I know how to draw an audience.

Slurp

Those Cadbury caramel eggs are even better than the creme ones. I almost lost control of my saliva.

Some Lines I Just Won't Cross

Sometimes I'm so bundled up at work that I have a shawl around my head and shoulders. A colleague told me I looked like Osama bin Laden's girlfriend.

I'd like to state, for the record, that I would not be Osama bin Laden's girlfriend. I mean, eeeeewww, he's so old.

Romance and Curly Fries

I don't have strong feelings one way or the other about Valentine's Day. I'm not ragingly bitter about being single. If I were half of a couple, I don't even know how elaborately I'd want to celebrate.

Birthdays are a different ballgame. It's a great chance for each person to have a special day, but you do have to be careful that you respect their wishes -- do they want it to be a big deal, or do they want to be left alone? You can't assume they'd want what you'd want. And you also have to figure out if they're the kind of person who'll be honest about what they want, or if they're hoping you'll just know.

What happens, then, when a person's birthday falls on a day that the rest of the world is already celebrating for its own reasons? This has always been my roommate Helen's problem, because her birthday is on Valentine's Day. At least this year, though, she was in luck, because two of us other roommates were single and free that night, and the other two are dating each other and thus could celebrate b-day stuff without being separated on a romantic holiday.

And that's how we all ended up at Hooters.

Helen had a sociological fascination with it, because apparently they have all kinds of guidelines for hiring waitresses. If I have my facts straight, they're officially "entertainers," which allows Hooters to judge them on looks and measurements. It was Helen and Maria who were rating all the servers; the two guys didn't participate in the judging. A few notes from our evening:

-- The place was crowded, which surprised me. And there were plenty of women eating there, and even some couples. On Valentine's Day. Who knew?

-- The food is quite good, though fries are not an automatic side dish. You have to order them separately.

-- There are TVs all along the walls, playing various sporting events, and the sound is on for one of the stations. It's pretty loud, so perhaps Hooters isn't the place for that intimate conversation you were planning on having.

-- When it's your birthday, in lieu of singing the birthday song, the servers do a cheer, like cheerleaders.

Helen's final verdict on the institution that is the Hooters Server? They're in comfortable footwear.

What Would Meatloaf Not Do for Love?

My friends and I have been trying to figure out what, precisely, Meatloaf is talking about in the song, I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That). I confess, I don't know the words that well. But I'm not sure it helps. Everyone still has a different idea about what the that is.

Blog world, have you any answers?

Me and TV

Have you guys seen the show 30 Rock? I think I'm a cross between Liz Lemon and Kenneth the Page.

Changing shows now.

Office time. This season, they briefly had a character named Holly. Nifty, huh? Michael, the boss, likes her, and she likes him back. Jim, the "normal" guy on the show, is baffled by a woman liking Michael. Then he figures it out. His revelation? "Holly is a HUGE dork."

True, dat.

The thing is, all the stuff that makes Holly dorky -- Yoda impressions, movie quotes, a willingness to beat-box or jump around in a head band to Olivia Newton John -- are things that I would do, poorly but enthusiastically.

So there you have it. I am a huge dork.

Not much of a surprise, though, is it?

Anatomy

I have feet.

That's Sporting of You

I've been viewing sporting events lately.

Last weekend, I watched the end of the National Figure Skating Championships. This was immediately followed by PBR -- Professional Bull Riding. That was new to me. I mean, I knew they did it. I just hadn't really watched it. It's fascinating. The bulls are as famous as the riders. Which makes sense, now that I've seen it. Some bulls are harder to ride than others, and that's factored into the rider's score. From what I gather, if no rider has ever made the full 8 seconds on a particular bull, that animal is considered "unridden." That sounds like it should be the name of a movie to me. The unridden bull who was getting lots of attention that day was named Bones, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn there was a bull named Booger Butt. I'm guessing the owner's children named that one.

I don't know what I'd have in common with a professional bull-rider, but when a guy named Cody puts on a cowboy hat and decides to ride a bucking behemoth, that's pretty hot. Actually, it's also rather hot that the rodeo clowns run toward the bull so the thrown rider can get away.

And here's something interesting: The number one rider was Italian. Not Italian-American, but needed-a-translator Italian. Who knew?

My next event was the Super Bowl. It was indeed super. I'm not sure whether it was a good game, but I had a good time. My roommate, John, and I went to a party hosted by a guy who's organized a network of Boston comedians. I haven't really gotten into stand-up (yet), so I felt out of my element when I went to one of their workshopping sessions, but I thought it would be fun to hang out with a roomful of funny people making snarky remarks about the commercials. And it was. It was perfect for me, because the game was just a springboard for entertaining coversation. John and I had thought we might leave early, but we stayed right through the game, and the subsequent Office episode. I wasn't going to put any pressure on myself to try to be funny, but a couple sips of a strong Pomtini took care of that. Wooooo! Best Super Bowl party I've ever been to.

And then I had my first hockey game. Also fun! My friend Chris ended up with an extra ticket to a Bruins game, so I got a call on Saturday morning asking if I wanted to go. Yes. They make it pretty easy for people like me, who don't have a clue. Hockey doesn't seem all that complicated (even I understand what a goal is, even if I don't always notice when somebody gets one). Things were slightly confusing, though, because normally I clap when the people around me clap, and the arena seemed to have several pockets of fans for the opposing team (the nerve of them!). So I had to pay attention. The Jumbo Tron is very helpful, though. It tells you when to make noise, and when the clock stops, it shows shots of little kids in Bruins garb, dancing. Who doesn't love that?

Chris bought me a Bruins T-shirt, so I could look like I belonged there. They may not want me to come back, though, because the Bruins lost in overtime, and Chris deduced that I was the variable.

Embarrassing moment: I tried to sip my hot chocolate through a straw that turned out to be an X-shaped stirrer that had no hole.

Not the Thyroid, Then

I'm doing some routine maintenance this week -- a dentist's appointment today, a doctor's checkup yesterday. I asked about the whole being-colder-than-everyone-else thing, but apparently I'm not cold to the touch, so don't have hypothyroidism; nor am I Snowella, Queen of the Frozen North. I'm just weird.

And an updated list of places I'd rather be than at work:

The doctor's
The dentist's
The gym
Funerals
Surgery
Commuting