Sleeping Beauty

Or not.

The problem with being a grown-up is there's no where to take a nap.

We have an indoor plaza with an opaque glass ceiling and lots of tables and chairs where people from work eat lunch and hang out. I was down there just now, writing, and got sleepy. So I put my head down on my folded arms, on the table. I was quite enjoying myself when a guy wearing a suit and carrying a walkie-talkie rapped on the table to make sure I was OK. Naturally, I was composed, and was able to reassure him.

Or not. Perhaps I was a bit startled, had hair in my face and the print of my sweater on my forehead (no drool, though -- high five, Me!), and was only able to convince him I was fine because he really didn't feel like hanging around, anyway.

Either way, it was quite a nice way to spend a lunch hour.

My Chinese Haircut

You can get $20 haircuts in Chinatown! Risky, you ask? Perhaps. You're a lot of things, Holly, you may be thinking, but Chinese is not one of them.

You're right. Just about everything about the shape of my head and face is as far from Asian as you can get. But my stylist was cool, and she didn't steer me wrong. I got tons of compliments on the cut she gave me back in September. That was all I needed to be convinced it was a good idea.

I went back today, to the same woman. She said she liked my hair color. "The real color or the dyed color?" I had to ask. Answer: The real color! And here I was thinking it was mousy. I'm not sure what mousy really means, but my hair has been in this awkward transition between blonde and brown for the last several years, and mousy somehow seems to apply.

Apparently, though, lots of Asian girls try to get their hair dyed my color, and it's pretty difficult to do when the original color is very dark. They're also quite big on light skin in Asia, aren't they? My Chinese roommate once told me that pronounced (rather than flat) noses are seen as a sign of nobility. And she said that there's a disturbing trend where Asian women get creases added to their eyelids to make them appear Western.

Fair hair, pale skin, pronounced noses, Western eyes. You know what all this adds up to, right? Me! All this time, I've been a hot Asian chick and I had no idea. Why didn't I learn all this sooner? I could be on a tour of the Far East right now.

I'm Gonna SUE My Ass!

Several rumors are about to be started about me, by me, as I think of them. Here's what I've got so far:

Holly is not my real name. I can't tell you what my real name is, because it's so secret even I don't know it.

I smell faintly of tuna.

Even my very limited creativity can be directly attributed to absinthe. And literal green fairies who visit my room when I try to sleep. They leave turds.

I'm a quiet, polite neighbor who keeps to herself.
Corollary: Pets and deliverymen have been reported missing after last being seen near my home.

I give raisins on Halloween.

I used freelance musicianship as a front for laundering miniscule amounts of money.

I've been photographed romping on the beach with Owen Wilson and Matthew McConaughey -- and I had cellulite! Tabloids have declared me unforgiveably fat. Although I was labelled a "mystery woman," no one suspected either actor of actually dating me.

The Screaming Burrito

For this momentous occasion, I'm using a font with a fancy name: Lucida Grande.

On Friday, April 25, 2008, at 5:49am, my nephew came into the world. Hi, new nephew! Both baby and mama are doing fine. Dad and grandparents are all happy. Aunt is happy, and kind of relieved that she didn't break anything when she held him. Also relieved he didn't hate me and cry nonstop. Off to a good start.

The Neph looks like Baby. It'll take some time before we start to see what's disctinctive about his appearance. He does have a full head of dark hair, though. I predict he'll be built like his dad, but with his mom's face. You heard it here first, folks.

He didn't cry much while we extended family were around, but apparently he does his share of it at night, when big people are inclined to sleep. When he was first born, he was of course not the happiest of campers. They wrapped him up in a blanket, and there's a picture of the wrapping with a wailing baby head sticking out of it. His dad called him a screaming burrito. And so the nicknaming begins.

Actually, that's not true. This kid's had nicknames for months.

Jokes My Brother Didn't Make for Fear of Being Physically Assaulted/Reported to the Police by Concerned Hospital Workers:
To his wife, between contractions: "You're not handling this very well."
To the social worker who came to see if my sister-in-law might develop post-partum depression:
"My wife has beaten me twice already."
To anybody: "Those soft spots on his head? They're for shock absorption!"

Jokes I Didn't Make for the Same Reasons:
To the women at the nurses' station: "Do you have any white babies for sale?"
Had I been caught while smuggling champagne in for the new parents: "Oh, this? Anesthetic and sterilization in one! You're not going to confiscate my steak knife and drop cloth, are you?"

Do we ooze responsibility or what?

Auntiferous

My nephew is now expected to arrive on Friday. All four grandparents and I are planning on being at the hospital for the Blessed Event.

I was never baby-crazy, but since I received the news that I would be an aunt, I've really been looking forward to having a kid to mess up. I have stupid jokes I want to teach him. And, as I think about it, I realize kids and I like a lot of the same things: Candy, crayons, cartoons. That should occupy some fun days out. And then I can drop him back off with his parents. "OK, so he's had a gallon of ice cream, and then we rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. He could use a good hosing down and probably a trip to the dentist. Bye!"

If I ever become a mom, I'll have to get my act together. But when you're an aunt, you get to be eccentric. I can fly around the world, have exotic pets, wear big hats, buy him noisy presents. This kid's gonna love me.

On a more serious note, though, it's gotta be good for a kid to have a whole ring of (mostly) responsible adults who love him and have his best interests at heart. I'd like to be the kind of aunt he can talk to when he likes a girl or gets into trouble (hopefully not in the same conversation). And if he turns out to be shy and nerdy, he'll have a grown-up to relate to ;-).

Before all that happens, though, his parents will need extra hands to change diapers. So here's to being barfed and pooped on. Stinkiness, here I come!

Dangling a Carrot

My sister-in-law is expecting a baby boy, and we've reached the point where he should show up any day now. We're all waiting for the phone call. She and my brother are concerned about the timing, though, because his flight schedule is erratic and he really, really, really wants to be there for the birth. Thanks to modern medicine, inducing may be an option, but wouldn't it be nice if the little tyke could be coaxed out more gently?

Let's consider the gene pool from which he springs. I bet if you wave around a bottle of Bombay Sapphire and a foot-long roast beef sub, that guy will make his way out in a right hurry. Here, baby baby baby! Come get the pretty drink and gum the yummy sandwich!

All That and a Bag of Chips

There's a cabinet at work on which people place free food. It's a happy place. I left work around 5:40 today, and happened to walk by the cabinet. There were three little bags of chips, and most of the workforce had left already. Ha!

Ben the Serial Killer was standing there, reading. "Do you think it would be bad for me to take two bags?" I asked.

"As long as you don't take both of the barbecue ones," he replied, while taking one himself.

"So as long as my selfishness and your selfishness don't conflict, we're fine."

"You know, that's one theory about the foundation of morality. It's called Enlightened Self-Interest."

"I don't know how enlightened it was of me to take two bags of chips..."

"...but it was definitely self-serving..."

"...so I'm halfway there!"

I served myself well, too. Those chips and a bottle of chocolate milk were my dinner.

Inner Space

I read something last week about how skinny people could be obese without knowing it. It has to do with percentage of body fat. I guess that makes sense -- if you weigh 125 pounds, and have no muscle to speak of and teeny-weeny bones, then you could have 40% body fat and be dangerously unhealthy. And you wouldn't know, because it's all on the inside somewhere.

Obviously, I don't have all the facts on this. And I read it on the Internet, a blurb which was in turn taken from a morning news program, which probably had precious few facts in it anyway. So don't go panicking because of what you read here. Unless you struggle with weight, and you're relishing the idea that those obnoxiously skinny people around you could be fat and not know it. If that's you, go ahead and enjoy this.

This all made me wonder if I'm unhealthy. What if I have secret Inner Body Fat? Around my heart, between my ears, in my toes -- it could be anywhere! There's some test where they send sound waves or something through you, and see where they find resistance. I don't have access to that. You'll just have to drop me in a pool and see if I float. Like a duck, or very small rocks. Or fry me up and see how much I sizzle. Cuz I'm hot, baby ;-).

Cute in Hats

I have an unwritten list of things I want to do when I have disposable income. Near the top: Wear hats. Why would it cost money to wear hats? you may ask. Answer: It doesn't. But it costs money to buy them. And, unlike umbrellas, you can't just pick them up for free at restaurant coat checks. You have to find ones that look good on you and don't have lice.

For many a year, I assumed I wouldn't look good in hats. Boy, was I wrong! I look freaking amazing. It's a bit of a shame we don't live in a hat-wearing society. Sixty years ago, everybody wore one. Now, unless it's a baseball cap and you're moving furniture, you probably don't sport any head gear. It takes some free-spiritedness. But I feel ready! Even if it turns out I can't pull it off as well as I think I can, I'll never find out if I don't try. But I need money. Dagnabbit.

You know what I don't look good in? Lace. Makes me look like a librarian. Not the secretly sexy kind, either. The kind who shushes you all the time, and really, really means it. I think it's because I'm bony. The ironically square look looks unironic on me. Mary Janes? Forget it. I might turn a few heads, but only because people would be checking to see if I had a literal stick coming out of my ass.

Though that would give me something to hang my hat on.

Night of Debauchery

Misten and I went out again on Friday. A run-down:

-- Got dolled up in cute '40s-style dress.
-- Went to pricey but super-yummy Italian restaurant.
-- Ordered way too much super-yummy food, and ended up with massive bag of leftovers for super-yummy lunches throughout the week. Not used to spending so much money on myself.
-- Stayed till restaurant closed at 11:30.
-- Went to bar down the street.
-- Was confused that the stamp on my hand didn't show up.
-- Was introduced to the wonder that is the black light, under which stamp miraculously appeared while others laughed "with" me.
-- Settled in with my drink, when Misten asked me, "Holly, do you notice anything about everybody here?" I looked up for the first time. "All the men appear to be together," I said. "Yeah," she said, laughing. The place had been my idea. I'd managed to take her to a gay bar.
-- Upon realizing that no man in the room would be interested in me, I began slouching comfortably.
-- Was devastated to notice I'd left my bag of glorious leftovers at the now-closed restaurant. Four days later, I'm still mourning this loss.
-- Stayed at gay bar till after 1am. The subway stops running at 1. Oopsy. Misten is unruffled.
-- Misten is stopped twice by men with cameras who want their picture taken with her because she is "beautiful beyond belief." Yay, Misten!
-- Misten has brainstorm and suggests we stay in a hotel instead of taking cabs home. Spend more money on said room. It's pretty swanky, though.
-- Stay up till 3 or 4am talking. In spite of good conversation, my eyes are crossing from alcohol and exhaustion.
-- Woke up. Drank some water and threw it up. Guess I should have hydrated a bit more the night before. Lesson learned.

So, there you go. Had so much fun I didn't go home. Spent more in one night than I usually spend on fun in a week, or even a month. Did something spontaneous. Threw up.

I'm learning, friends. I'm learning.

Stalking Derek Jeter

We'll see if having Mr. Jeter's name in this post causes more Googlers to land on my blog. This isn't just a cheap ploy, however. It's legit. And it's my friend's fault.

Two-and-a-half years ago, I temped with a girl I shall call "Misten." She's a lot younger than I. In fact, I'm closer to her mother's age than to hers. She has an uncle younger than I am! We once had a conversation about how, as a thirty-something woman, in Medieval times I'd probably be a grandmother, and "almost dead."

Misten turned 21 last year, and since then we've gone out drinking a couple times -- she because she can, and I because, frankly, I need to loosen up. Be proud of me, then, that I went out with her Thursday after work -- spontaneously! We split a bottle of wine and discussed one of her favorite topics: Derek Jeter. You'd think, as a Boston girl, that she would hate him. Nope. Somehow she grew up into a Yankees fan, and she's obsessed with the man she calls "Captain Sexy-Pants." I can't really argue. I mean, hot millionaire ball-player!

I don't have her initiative, though. Unless my memory is failing me, I've never staked myself out across the street from someone's hotel. Misten cannot make the same claim. In her defense, Misten says that in order to trail Derek during his stays in Boston, she only skipped work once -- and it doesn't really count, because she was 18 and working for UHaul. That'd hold up in court, right?

And she classifies herself as a shy stalker, keeping her distance, not getting close enough to be "ho-y." (Or, as she's Irish, McHo-y. In the spirit of even-handedness during our conversation, I also gave myself a more Germanic moniker, von Ho.) And she doesn't stalk alone. Her friend Jonathan goes with her, because stalking alone is just creepy. So really, that's not even stalking; it's a fan club. It's fan-clubbing.

Before you decide this sounds like a fun pastime you may wish to pursue yourselves, be warned that there are side-effects. In Misten's own words, "When a man doesn't live up to my imaginary vision of Derek Jeter, it's very off-putting." Ah, there's a lesson there, my friends. These obsessions with celebrities can negatively affect one's more commonplace relationships.

So if you're going to go after a superstar, stick with it and don't settle for anyone else.

American Idle

I was doing so well. For two-and-a-half months, I had largely managed to avoid American Idol. I watched The Biggest Loser or whatever it took to keep myself away from Fox at 8pm on Tuesdays. Until last night. I watched The Simpsons (on the same station as American Idol), and then they started talking about how Dolly Parton was the coach for the week, and I like Dolly Parton, and the next thing I knew I was watching. And then it went further. I began to care. Yargh, I'm a goner!

The auditions are really what I'd been avoiding. There are too many people kidding themselves, or they're so close but not quite, and dreams get dashed, and I get get all philosophical and it all just brings me down. Of course, I got all philosophical last night, too, but that was because of Dolly Parton's lyrics. She's a heck of a songwriter, man. I really like her. And she just seems so nice.

And she sings about Jesus so genuinely. Have you seen the movie Elf, with Will Ferrell? You know that part where he's in the toy store and they talk about how Santa is coming, and he gets super excited, shouting, "I know him! I know him!" That's how I feel when I find out somebody else knows Jesus: You know Him? I know Him, too! You get excited when you hear others talk about somebody you like, and I like Jesus.

Let's Get Physical

This week at work I've been listening to Bach's Cello Suites. It sent me right back to my years as a trombone player, because I would often play the Suites as part of my practice. They're not written for brass instruments, so there were a lot of things I couldn't do, but it was a good workout. It's the kind of thing I'd save for a couple hours in, when I was super-warmed up. You know when you're in shape and you run, and you get to that point when you can go and go and go? That's how I felt when I got to the Cello Suites.

Sometimes I miss the physicality of the trombone. I'm not really the kind of person who works with her hands or plays a lot of sports. But one of the interesting things about playing an instrument is that it's 50% mental and 50% physical. That's a big part of what made practicing hard -- if either your mind or your body is tired, it doesn't get a break. I'm rather spotty with my exercise, so there were long stretches where playing the trombone (and carrying it around) was the most active thing I did.

I actually felt a bit athletic when I played. Brass instruments are all about the air, and that kind of breathing affects the whole body. Even my walk was looser and more relaxed after I'd been practicing. Try it: For a full two minutes, take the deepest breaths you possibly can, one right after the other (without hyperventilating). Feel any warmer? Yeah.

I read in book of trumpet exercises that "you are the instrument." At first I dismissed that as a weak "Be the ball!" kind of concept, but now I see there's a very real way in which it's true. Sound is vibration, and a brass player produces that themselves. It starts with the air, and you buzz your lips (a.k.a. "chops"). The horn just focuses, amplifies and projects the sound. Nearly every note I can play on the trombone, I can buzz without it. The trombone can't make noise. Unless you drop it. Then it's percussion. Or sporting equipment.

Hey, speaking of, here's a joke: What's the range of a trombone? Answer: 20 yards if you've got a good arm. Yuk yuk.

Anyway, it's funny what you miss.

Beansprouts Ruin Everything!

Does anybody really like these things, or are we just supposed to eat them because they're healthful? I mean, how desperate for sustenance do you have to be to start eating beans before they're fully grown?

And they look like sperm. Appetizing.

Who thought to put scoop-fulls of this stuff in a plastic container next to the croutons at the salad bar?

Blech blech blech.

Blech, I say.

Maybe if You Put Me in Some Glasses and a Button-Down T-Shirt, I'd Look Like a Computer Programmer

My brother's wife is reading a book about a particular religion. It includes the story of two brothers who killed their sister-in-law "because God told them to." She told us about it and I said, "I've been thinking that for a while now."
"Thinking what?" she asked.
I grinned at her.
"Oh, thinking that God has told you to kill your sister-in-law?"
I grinned some more. I find that smiling and not speaking after declaring that you've heard the voice of God is the best way to assure people that you're completely sane.

I do hear the voice of God, but I gotta say a good two-thirds of the messages I get don't involve commands to kill.

When I do kill, it's mostly spiders and ants. Not aunts.

I'm thinking of writing a manifesto, though. What do you think of this for a title: "The World's Best-o Manifesto." Pretty catchy, huh? In your face, Ted Kaczynski!

Easy Peasy, Lemon Squeezy

My brother had his first official flight as a commercial airline pilot today. He's had 8 years of training and professional experience as a military pilot, including 3 years as an instructor, so he knew what he was doing. But it was still a milestone, and a test. I asked him a couple days ago whether he was nervous about it, and he said that there are always some nerves when you're dealing with an unknown, but it should be easy.

"Can I quote you on that?" I asked. "Next time I'm flying and there are nervous people on either side of me, can I tell them, 'Hey, no worries! My brother is a pilot and he says it's easy. The only thing easier than flying it is letting it fall out of the sky.' "

I hear he did quite well, which is not a surprise. He was the co-pilot, but the pilot let him do everything, and prove himself. He took off and landed. (For those nervous fliers out there: Please don't worry. These men are capable, and I've placed my life in their hands with confidence. Now back to the exaggeration and humor. Roll with it.) Which brings us to more Undesirable Intercom Announcements:

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. I'll pretty much be doing squat for this flight. My co-pilot, a rookie, wants to have a go. Let's give him a big hand! I'll be turning off the intercom so you can't hear me scream. As far as you know, everything is fine. And if you feel a big thud, that would be the plane hitting the ground, and we're pretty much home-free at that point anyway. We're all about building a young pilot's self-esteem here, so please think of something positive to say upon exiting the aircraft. Even if you have to lie. He might be big, but he's sensitive, and kind of a crier. It's not pretty. Enjoy your flight. I'll be popping my Valium now. Nighty-night!

Lost in a Daydream

The gentleman walked onto the bus. It took him till the next stop to sort through his small change and put it, coin by coin, in the slot. All the while he said to himself, "A daydream, a daydream." He then slowly made his way down the aisle, stopping to look directly at people and say to them, "A daydream, a daydream."

One man got onto the bus, and as he passed the gentleman he was told, "A daydream, a daydream."
"It's all a daydream," he agreed.
The gentleman liked this, laughed, and began saying, "It's all a daydream. Ha ha! It's all a daydream."
This was interspersed with directions that I hoped he'd be able to follow: "She said 'Elm Street.' "

I smiled when it was my turn to be looked at and told it was all a daydream.

As we passed stop after stop, he continued to make his way toward the rear of the bus. Before I got off, I could hear him behind me, adding one last bit of wisdom:

"I'm free, free as a bird. She said I was..."

Granna Gets a Onesie

I have this great zip-up blankety thing, with sleeves and holes in the bottom for my feet. I think the official name for it is "slumber sack," but it's pretty much a grown-up onesie. My dislike for the word onesie aside (it seems lazy to me to call a one-piece item of clothing a onesie, and it doesn't lend itself to phonetic pronunciation; it looks like oh-NEE-see), it's a great item to possess if you're cold all the time, like I am. It's like a blanket that comes with you wherever you go.

Mine is red, and my brother says it makes me look like a deflated Teletubby. I'm not allowed to wear it outside.

But I did wear it to my grandmother's house for Christmas! It don't get much snuggier than curling up in my onesie when the North Dakota temperature is in the single digits outside. Granna thought it was so comfy-looking that she decided to get one for herself. She liked my color, too, so Mom ordered her one just like mine. Now we match. You won't be able to tell us apart.

Unless we start talking. I'm more sarcastic, but she's the one less likely to take crap. And she can tell stories that begin with the words, "Back in the bootlegging days..."

18 Wheels a-Rollin'

Last night I saw Smoky and the Bandit for the first time. That is one classic piece of American cinema! I knew it existed but it hadn't solidly registered in my consciousness until the My Name is Earl episode where Randy wants to go to the Camden County fair and see the Trans Am Bandit drove in the movie. Then the Jerry Reed song, East Bound and Down, played while Earl and Randy messed with some poor guy's golf game (you kind of have to see it). Now that I understand what it's about, I can't get that song out of my head. Which is fine. I like it.

East bound and down
Loaded up and truckin'
We're gonna do what they say can't be done...

I've long thought I had a redneck in me trying to get out, and this movie is bringing it that much closer. Now I want a cool "handle." I want a basset hound named Fred. I want to get messed up in a bar brawl and somehow enjoy it. I want to race some Coors across state lines with Sheriff Buford T. Justice on my tail.

But mostly I want to have witty CB chatter.

After that movie, my life seems so... below the speed limit.

Rowr

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

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

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

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