The Picture My Mom Likes

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

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

OK, here we go...




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




We're baking cookies!

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

Captain Obvious, Part III

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

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

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

Captain Obvious, Part II

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

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

Captain Obvious is a Wise and Insightful Fellow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus I went red.

You'll see.

Guess Where I'm Writing From!

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

Sorry for writing you off so quickly, my Dell.

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

Sweet Dell, You've Been Good to Me

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

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

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

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

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

Kissable Sentences

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

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

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

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

Uh, right?

The Continental

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

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

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

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

Carrying a Tiki Torch

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

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

And he was pretty.

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

And in Winter, It Freezes

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

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

Brilliant When Tipsy

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

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

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

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

Bringing Bloggy Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruh-Roh, Raggy!

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

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

Alas, no Scooby Snacks were involved.

Only slightly fictionalized

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Jungle Peaches

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

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

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

The Difference Between Moms and Dads

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

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

The Scourge of the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority

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

She is I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keeping Expectations Low

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

For anyone wondering about God

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

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

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