Wisdom and Gratitude

I just wanted to express my appreciation for the great advice I've been getting from my genius friends and family about how to weather sickness. Thanks a bunch, Ben and Brother. I'll start stockpiling the liquor and ammo so I'm prepared for next time. Because what's more effective than guns or alcohol than guns and alcohol?

Match the Injury

Let's play a game! And let's laugh at my brother! Two worthy pasttimes.

I'm not physically brave. Extreme sports are not for me. Most regular sports are not for me. My brother is the brave one. This has led to injuries, scars, and fun stories. I thought it would be nifty to give you all a list of some of the activities my brother has participated in, along with a list of the more painful consequences of said activities, and see if you can match them up. The answers are given in a comment, so you don't have to worry about trying not to peek. The list of activities is longer than the list of damages, for added challenge. Have fun!

1. Broken arm
2. Dislocated finger
3. Stitches in forehead
4. Sprained ankle
5. Permanent scarring on forearm

a. Walking
b. Wrestling
c. Sledding
d. Football
e. Dancing
f. Biking
g. Track and Field (javelin, discus, shotput)
h. Volleyball

And Again Today

I don't remember the last time I had to take two sick days in a row! There were the surgeries, but that's a bit different because they were planned. Today I was totally planning on going to work, until I took a shower and it hurt. I don't think showers are supposed to hurt. So I'm home.

I don't own a thermometer, but I suspect I have a fever. I suspect this because I alternate between sweating and shivering. There's a scene in the Walk Hard movie I just saw where Dewey is in rehab:

Dewey: I'm cold!
Nurse: We need more blankets!

Dewey: I'm hot!
Nurse: We need fewer blankets!

Dewey: I'm hot and cold and the same time!
Nurse: We need more and less blankets!

That's me.

Anya, thanks for cheering me on about staying home. I find myself tempted to be all martyr-y, especially since I feel OK some of the time. And my job doesn't involve much beyond sitting. What really stopped me from going in today, though, was the commute. There is a minimum of three legs each way to my journey, and I didn't really feel up to any of them. I was also scheduled to babysit for a friend after work, and I backed out of that after doing some simple math in my head: My cough + his asthma = a trip to the emergency room.

So I'm at home with messy hair, eating Cream of Rice and blogging. Responsibility takes many forms.

Today I Am Sick

So I've been drugging myself and trying to be unconscious as much as possible. Who wants to be awake if it means having to be aware of your own suffering? And isn't sleep the most recuperative thing you can do for a sick body? Well, then.

Actually, all this sleeping seems to be working quite well, because I'm already feeling much better. Had to cancel this morning's dentist appointment, though, and not just because I felt pretty bad around 7am; it just seemed wrong to force people to work on my mouth while I'm carrying around so many germs.

The impulse to be a baby gets pretty strong when you feel sick, doesn't it? Don't you want to be taken care of -- have somebody bring you food and water in bed, and be sympathetic when you think you might barf? I'm not sure you ever outgrow that.

As with many things, I find it takes a fair bit of discipline to allow myself to relax and recover. It's OK to take a day to sleep, read, and watch Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVDs, if it means being fully functional the next day, instead of dragging the illness out and passing it along to everyone who comes within three yards of me. It's for my fellow man that I force myself to be a bum today. You're welcome.

"True Beauty"

This is a new reality show from Ashton Kutcher. If I remember correctly, one of the contestants said, "There is a lot of hate when you're beautiful." I'm thinking of making this the new tagline on my blog -- to go with the picture of me in the big hat.

What do you think?

You Don't Want an Apology

You want posts. I don't have much of an explanation as to why I haven't posted lately. All I can say is I thought about it sometimes, but I didn't do it.

So to get myself back into the posting groove, here's some random stuff.

I have scratches on my hand and I don't know how they got there. Perhaps I have multiple personalities and am blacking out and I'm living secret lives that even I don't know about. Sometimes the simplest explanation is the most reasonable.

I saw the movie "Walk Hard" with some friends tonight, and we laughed out loud at just about every line for the first fifteen minutes. If you don't mind puerile jokes and nude scenes, you'll probably enjoy it, too. If you rent the DVD, there are also some funny special features. "The Last Word" with John Hodgeman (hey Ben -- John Hodgeman!), had me laughing out loud. Yeah, lots of laughing out loud in general. Even after the wine wore off.

After several weeks off, improv classes have started again. They scare me. But you know, in a good way. I'm now on Level 3, which means I was eligible to audition for their student performing teams. Didn't get in, but at least I gave it a shot. If facing fear is a victory in itself, then I was a victor that day. I do well when you don't measure success by, like, success.

I got another Chinatown haircut! It's all short and bobby and spunky and cute. And most of it is my natural color now, which is blonder than I thought it would be. Especially under florescent lights.

I have become Obnoxious Baby Picture Person. I never thought this would happen to me. It must be deeply ingrained in our DNA, such that resistance is futile. I got a digital camera for my birthday, right before Christmas, and I took pictures of my nephew -- holding a bottle of beer, wearing a cute hat, making faces. And then I forced the roommate who had the misfortune of sitting next to me when I uploaded them to my computer to look at them. (John, I'm sorry. You were a good sport.) I've never been baby-crazy, but them infants sure is funny when they're related to you. The Neph holds his mouth open like a baby bird waiting to be fed, which could have amused me all day. But then, I also like to color.

And now it's 2:30 am. Not good for the sleep schedule. When, oh when, will I find work that allows me to be nocturnal? Saturday Night Live, when will you hire me? I've been right there in my cubicle, waiting to be discovered. Surely it's just a matter of time. Lorne Michaels, call me!

Good Santa, Bad Santas

My brother is Santa every year for the kids of the people in his old squadron (Bro, did I get that right -- squadron?). He's perfect, and not just because he's not elf-sized. He has a deep voice useful for ho-ho-ho-ing, and kids love him. Where a grown-up might see a big, scary, intimidating fellow, kids seem to see a big, friendly, teddy-bear horsey jungle gym. He taxis up in a plane, dressed as Mr. Claus, and the kiddies go nuts.

Good Santa.

My sister-in-law was a self-declared Bad Santa. She went around putting those teeny alcohol bottles in everyone's stocking (baby nephew being the exception). In Boston, those bottles are called "nips." If you're not from Boston, you're welcome to snicker at that like I did.

Bad-but-fun Santa!

Then there's what I did to my nephew. Wicked Aunt Holly should not be so proud of herself. And yet, proud she is. Guess what she got him. Guess guess guess! OK, I'll spill: You know that bunny suit that Ralphie gets from his Aunt Clara in A Christmas Story? Yeah, I did. Commissioned a smaller version of it, so the Neph could wear it before he's old enough to hate me.

Not-yet-hated Santa!

Crowded House

Come Christmas dinner, we had the following countable life forms in my parents' place:

1 me
2 parents
1 brother,
his wife
and my baby nephew
sister-in-law's parents
2 neighbors
3 dogs
1 dead thing in the heat ducts that made our house smell like sauerkraut

Total mammals: 14

Poo Poo on Snow-Haters

When snow falls, I experience a complex and nuanced series of emotions. It's difficult to put into words, but if I were to try, it would go something like this:

SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW SNOW
YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY! YAY!

Good Times, Good Times

Today was a rather awesome extended holiday party at work. Lots of food. Lots of activites. Very little work accomplished. A good day.

There was a bit of a dip for me when the man I was talking to asked if I was joining the Ugly Sweater Competition. I wasn't.

Pretty sure it was supposed to be a joke, and I was supposed to get it. But any comment about a woman's appearance is dangerous territory. Men, I'm trying to help you here. I'm good at laughing at myself (door wide open for friends and family to contradict me here), but I still spent the next hour-and-a-half wondering if I looked like a doofus in my sweater. Best to give only compliments.

The notorious landmine in the Wrong Comment Department, of course, is anything along the lines of, "When's the baby due?" Brian Regan, the comedian, made that mistake once, and concluded that the rule is, "Never guess about that -- ever ever ever ever ever ever ever." Yeah, actually, that is the rule. A year ago, my sister-in-law was pregnant, and was approached by another pregnant woman, and still didn't enjoy the assumption by a stranger that she was having a baby. If that ain't safe, ain't nothin' safe, so just don't go there. Ever ever ever ever ever ever.

Although, there is a bright side for the pregnant women out there, I think: If people recognize you as pregnant and not just heavy, it's probably because the rest of you looks rather thin. I see a compliment in there, if you want it.

But be careful your beautiful baby bump isn't shrouded in Possibly Ugly Sweater.

Good Christian Men, Rejoice!

... for I am available.

I just don't know what I'm doing. How exactly does one convey "godly" and "on the prowl" at the same time? Wear a leopard-print head covering? Quote the naughty passages in the Bible? Do a Bend and Snap to pick up a dropped Communion card?

This is hard.

Wait, I know. I'll ask somebody else to do the heavy lifting. Dad, I'm still your little princess, right? Would you do something kingly for me and maybe stage a tournament in the front yard -- you know, so eligible men could compete for my hand? I'm thinking a test of strength (caber toss?), a test of courage (going down the fire pole -- extra points for doing it head-first), a miscellaneous skill of their choosing (play the lute? exceptional penmanship? surprise me, gentlemen!), and some demonstration of a sense of humor. That'd be awesome, thanks!

Whew! That wasn't so bad. Now to sit back and wait.

[Cricket chirps.]

Um...

[Checking watch.]

Heck.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

'Tis December, and that means lots of songs with my name in them. Yippee! I don't care if I'm not, technically, a plant. I like hearing people sing my name.

And the prettiest sight to see
Is the holly that will be
On your own front door

The fact that I don't live on anyone's front door will not stop me from taking this as a personal compliment.

Maybe I Have a Thyroid Problem

For at least the last ten years, I've been colder than just about everyone else in any given room. I first noticed this in England, where they keep their homes cool and everyone has the temperature tolerance of a polar bear, so I wrote it off to my coming from a country that has mastered insulation. Then I lived with my parents for a bit, but they have plenty of quirks about them, so I still thought I was the normal one. But you can only live so many years, in so many places, before you begin to realize that it's you, not everyone around you, who has the problem.

My company just moved to a newly renovated building. There are finally people in the cubes around me! (How I'm supposed to sing with the radio and take naps now, I don't know. Must work on this.) Thus, I have a gauge to see how warm it is, contrasted with how warm I feel. The verdict: Big, big difference. The folks around me are in two layers at most, and those layers are not heavy. I, on the other hand, was mummified in the following until lunch today: Button-down shirt; light sweater; big cardigan over the sweater; big chunky poncho over the cardigan, which also functioned as a coat in the warmish weather today; outdoor hat; fleece blanket over my lap. I was not uncomfortably warm in this.

Surely I left the realm of Normal about 2 1/2 layers ago. After two years of iron supplements, surely I'm not anemic anymore. I'm gonna look this up on WebMD or something.

Penelope the Destroyer

Dear, sweet Penelope. All teeth, paws, and a blur of fur. A heart of gold. And like adolescents of any species, she hardly knows what to do with herself.

Since I've been doing posts about pets lately, I thought it would be a shame to deprive you all of this photo. Worth a thousand words, yes?

Delila's Bad Weekend

Things have been rather rough for Maria's cat.

Yesterday I walked into the living room where Adam was watching TV and sat down. Delila the Cat quickly jumped up on the couch, looking for company. I smelled something bad. She usually has a slight smell because of the eye gunk common to her breed, but this was worse. Then she crawled onto Adam's lap and he said, "Do you smell that?"

"I didn't say anything, in case it was you."

"No, it's not me."

It really was bad. When Delila jumped back onto my couch, I took a look. There was poop hanging right out of her, and getting all into her fur, of which she has a lot.

Then she sat down.

Yeah.

So Maria and Delila spent some quality time with the shower. We could hear the meows from outside the bathroom door. But that kitty's a trooper, and she didn't seem too traumatized afterward.

Then today her tail caught on fire.

I'll repeat that.

Her tail caught on fire. We had a candle lit on the coffee table. Normally she doesn't jump up there, but the coffee table was closest to John, who was dishing out affection to Jake and Jezebel, and Delila wanted in on the action. She sure got it. Fortunately, the flames went out quickly and she didn't appear hurt at all. But gee whiz.

It's a bad time to be Delila's butt.

High Achievers

You know how NASA has that plane they take astronauts up in, where they can experience weightlessness briefly? I was told last night that they also do science experiements up there, and when they ran out of more serious stuff to experiment with (crystals are very serious), they decided to bring up water balloons.

This was a whopping reminder to me that most of these guys (and gals, yes?) were once military pilots -- frat boys with buzz cuts and a dangerous curiosity tempered (somewhat) by genius IQs and international law. I wonder not that they brought up water balloons, but that it took them so long to do so. Surely, if they could toss pumpkins from the plane with some assurance that no one on the ground would be hurt, they'd be doing that, too.

Counter Dog!

Jake has special powers.

This dog walks with two limps, can't run, and is on a special diet to make sure his joints don't have to carry too much weight. Yet somehow, when no one is looking, he manages to attack food that's way up on the counter -- even 18 inches back on the counter -- pull it down to the floor, and devour it.

How does he get up there? And more on my mind, where the heck does he put the food? I mean, I know he eats it, but how does he fit it in? I understand the instinct to eat until the supply runs out -- for an animal in the wild, not knowing when your next meal will run by means gorging when you have the chance. I'm not judging. But I'm bewildered. Jake probably only weighs about sixty pounds. His stomach can't be all that big. But he managed to eat about five monster cookies in one go last week.

Let me describe the Monster Cookie, so you have an idea. It has oats, peanut butter, chocolate chips and M+Ms -- lots of good cookies in one! Very, very filling. And big. I made them each about nine inches in diameter, and about 3/4 in. thick. (Mmmm, I'm gonna have one for dinner. Gonna make some vanilla cocoa I bought yesterday, and dunk the cookie in it. Oh yeah...) I, a grown-up human, can only eat one of those a day, and my capacity for cookies is great. So how does Jake do it? Is there something canines have going on physiologically that allows them to shove it down like that?

Inquiring minds want to know.

I Razed Myself

If I got a concussion, would it be noticeable?

I'm having my doubts.

I did the Viking thing for the party. Helmet, tunic, boots. I was showing off for my friends, and whipped out the final accessory: A mallet which, for some reason, had come in my tool kit instead of a regular hammer. In my enthusiasm, I accidentally conked myself in the head with it. (Hey, what if life were a cartoon and my helmet had rung like a bell? That would have been cool.)

As the laughter subsided, my friend Sean had me reenact The Conking for the camera, saying it was a "classic Holly moment." I was happy to oblige, but later I thought about his words and wondered, Do the people who know me think this kind of ditzy spazz-out is typical of me?

Well, duh. Of course they do.

If you had called my family to tell them I'd hammered my own head, my dad would have said, "Who let her play with a hammer?" Then they'd all have exchanged looks, silently agreeing that Holly can no longer be trusted with hardware.

And they'd be right.

Viiiiiiii-kiiiiiiiiiiing!

My roommates and I are having a Halloween party. It'll be a day late, unless you're celebrating All Saints Day, in which case it's right on time. I haven't worn a costume in years and years, so I've had lots of time to plan. I want to be a Viking! Braids and a horned helmet, baby. Yeah!

About fourteen years of imagining, and I left myself one night to look for a costume. So pickins were slim. I snagged the last helmet at The Garment District. For the tunic, I had to buy a white thingy that looks more Grecian Goddess-y, so I may need to add a protective layer of tinfoil armor. I plan on being both elegant and invincible when I start razing villages. No cone boobs, though (sorry, boys).

Side note: The Garment District (a single store in Boston) can be a fun place to people-watch. The day before Halloween is like Christmas Eve at the mall, except at the mall you don't get to watch men trying on ugly skirts atop the mountain of Dollar-a-Pound clothes.

Anyway, what I lack in authenticity (because the plastic armor I might have found 3 weeks ago would have totally been authentic), I hope to make up for in theatrics. What do you think of me learning some German lyrics from Wagner's Ring Cycle and belting 'em out like a mad Valkyrie? That ought to scatter some peasants.

I'm baking cookies, too. Pillager meets June Cleaver. Being a melancholy type, I don't often get excited, but I'm rather excited to get my Vike on on Saturday (OK, kinda made that word up). I think it's largely the costume thing. I've always wanted to wear costumes -- one reason why my recently rediscovered acting bug holds so much promise for fun. Costumes, costumes, costumes! Holly wants to play! (Dang, there's Elmo again.)

I Draw the Line at Coin Slots, Too

I'm a fan of low-rise jeans. We've covered this before, but here's a one-sentence refresher: I'm not an immodest dresser, but low-rise pants fit me better than other kinds.

I thought about not writing this because it's Too Much Information, but what is a blog if not TMI? So, here's the thing: You gotta be careful with the undergarments when wearing the low-risers. Otherwise, you get someone standing behind you thinking, I see she wore the Care Bears today.

So, take caution is all I'm saying.

I'll end it there.