Gone but Not Forgotten

Hey guys, just wanted you to know that I know that I haven't posted anything in a while. Sometimes it's not easy finding the balance between writing about things and doing things worth writing about. I don't plan on being gone forever. Don't wander too far!
Thanks :-),
Holly

PodCandy: Furball

A depressed guinea pig gets an interview:

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Winter Boots

I bought new winter boots a couple weeks ago, just in time for Spring. They seemed like quality boots that I'd be able to wear for years, but that's not the only reason why I bought them. The salesman was tall, cute, and had red hair and a London accent. I would have bought paper boots from him. Expensive paper boots.

Fortunately, my Spring purchase from a dashing salesman wasn't as stupid as it could have been. They actually appear to be sturdy items, and I got to try them out today because New England got some friendly April slush-rain-snow-stuff. Not enough to really put these suckers to the test, but enough for me to notice the difference between them and, say, sneakers. I walked in straight lines, with a normal stride, without regard for puddles, slush mounds, or anything else. No hopping, dodging, or walking in a big arc to avoid what could be a massive lake in the middle of a parking lot. I was the proud possessor of Podiatric Invulnerability! And when I got to work, I got compliments.

Another questionable purchase, redeemed!

PodCandy: Flakiness

My first rant! Listen to me get angry:

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Bloggeriffic

I just wrote a new post about eBay, and found a typo in the post about perfume and edited it. But Blogger has an aversion to hard returns today, and refuses to acknowledge my request to separate paragraphs, making these posts blank-space-free. I just wanted you to know that this is not my fault and I can write and I can structure what I write and I don't normally jumble it all together in one big blobby mass of words that's visually off-putting and hard to understand like a run-on sentence. Just so you know.

eBay

In my quest for oppotunities to spend money and acquire material possessions in order to get closer to God and grow spiritually, I have joined eBay. Results have been mixed. Good: I've gotten what I think are some pretty good deals. I also look pretty in my new dress. Seriously, rowr, if I do say so myself. Bad: Adding a competitive component (auctions) to an activity that I already find stressful and guilt-inducing (shopping). My new friend: The "Buy It Now" option, which sets a price above the minimum bid and allows you to bypass the evolutionary free-for-all that is bidding and become the fittest before anyone else gets their paws on what I want. Godliness creeps ever closer.

PodCandy: Claustrophilia

Some people's nightmare is this woman's dream.

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This is How We Learn

Through trial and error. As part of my Princess Project, I thought it would be fun to smell nice. Hence, last night's quest for perfume. I've never had real, full-on perfume. I've done body sprays and lotions and such, but never a signature fragrance. So I headed to Macy's perfume counter and got sprayed. I had no idea how to make a choice, so eventually I just took the leap and snagged one that seemed nice enough. I had to ask what the difference between eau de toilette and perfume was. For those who are as ignorant as I was, here it is: Perfume is stronger, and eau de toilette is more diluted. Perhaps I should have gone with dilution, then, because I applied the perfume this morning, and I can smell myself, which I don't think you're supposed to be able to do. Pretty sure other people can smell me when I walk by, or come within fifteen yards. Am also pretty sure that that's bad. I hadn't even meant to spray myself directly. I meant to spray a mist in front of myself and walk into it. But I guess the little nozzle-y thing wasn't pointed where I thought, because I nailed myself. Noted. Also, this scent is reminding me of my first year in England, back in '97-'98. Specifically, it reminds me of the house of a gracious couple from my church who let me type my post-grad dissertation on their computer. They had a very young son, and I'd catch bits of British children's TV shows while I wrote about Mozart bringing trombones in at the end of Don Giovanni. So, instead of feeling sexy, my mind is full of the puppet animals on Dappledown Farm. Side note: I let myself get talked into buying some more expensive boots (this time for snow) by a cute-but-engaged shoe salesman who had a London accent. Other side note: I bought a top last night that is so unusually structured that I'm not 100% sure that I put the right body parts through the right holes.

PodCandy: From Frugal to Regal

I'm not looking to be spoiled. Just ripened a bit...

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The Princess Thus Far

I figured y'all deserved some kind of update on this whole Lenten Princessy deal. So, here's what's up:

I've spent a shitload of money.

I'd list out the stuff I bought were it not for the suspicion that it would be unfathomably boring for you. I will say that my purchases included a pair of $200 rain boots -- yikes! -- and a very, very flattering sweater. Most of the items have been useful, but not necessary. It's felt a bit extravagant, and I did have some of my usual Buyer's Remorse for a day or so, but you know what cures that pretty quickly? Compliments. One or two people saying, "Awesome boots!" or "That looks really hot," and all of a sudden it's worth every penny. All twenty thousand of them.

I'm also hanging out in some Scripture a bit, which I haven't done much of over the last few years. I realized that I had a filter that enabled me to interpret any verse in the Bible in the most legalistic, disheartening way possible. That was bad. So I stopped, to give my filter time to dissolve. I've been able to handle the occasional Psalm, but for the most part I haven't been pressuring myself to delve into the book if I didn't want to. I've gone in a couple times since Ash Wednesday, though, and it's been all right.

So, a little Bible, a lot of cash dropped.

We are pleased.

The Granny Cart

I couldn't do it.

I have a pretty high threshold for some unpleasant things: I can be quite dorky and/or frumpy in public. I can handle a fair amount of ambient noise. Twenty years of playing trombone prepared me well for these things.

But when they all came together in a perfect storm in the form of the Granny Cart, I was defeated.

I tried, honest. After selling my car a few years ago, grocery shopping was one of the few areas in which I had trouble adjusting. A wheelie cart seemed like a fine solution. But these things are so ugly, loud, and flat-out awkward that I gave up after a few tries. I spilled stuff. I huffed and puffed it up a hill. I was almost deafened by the rattling. It was awful.

You win, Granny Cart. You managed to out-dorkify and out-noisify my 30-odd years of built-up tolerance. Well done.

Well done.

One Man's Hell

... is another man's heaven. Example: Do you relish the idea of a flight that lasts 15-22 hours? Sitting in coach, unable to wriggle around or fart freely, with "Big Momma's House 2" as your only entertainment option?

I do.

OK, the not-farting thing gets uncomfortable, but I love the thought of having such a long stretch of time where I'm practically forced to do what I almost always want to do anyway: Nothing. And no one expects me to do any more than that, when I'm on a flight. When I land, no one asks what I accomplished. I'm not expected to do laundry or cook real food or help mankind or improve myself or further my career. I don't need to make up some answer to cover up the fact that I sat and stared at things for the equivalent of two working days.

There will be a podcast related to this next week, so I won't spoil it all by elaborating too much. But know this when you listen to it: I mean it.

PodCandy: The Nice Girl and the Shower

I'm sorry. Or, you're welcome.

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This Year's Lenten Escapade

This year, unless something changes radically, God and I will be focusing on the Princess part of Musician Actress Comedian Writer Princess. It's been rather neglected so far. I'd assumed it was primarily a marriage goal -- not a literal desire to marry royalty (not that I'm saying no); just a desire to find the right guy. It hadn't occurred to me that it might have a lot more to do with how I treat myself, or that it might be a Daughter Thing, allowing God to spoil me.

Spoiling. When this Princess idea began to germinate in my brain a couple weeks ago, that was one of the big internal resistances that popped up immediately: I don't want to be spoiled. I don't want to be frivolous or self-indulgent or shallow. The problem is, I may be on my guard too much. It's one thing to be spoiled; it's another to allow someone else -- God or other people -- the pleasure of treating you well.

I can be way (way way way way way way) too practical. It would do me good to let myself buy things because they're pretty, not just because they're essential to survival. Spend money? On unnecessary items? On expensive, unnecessary items? That's going to take some practice for me.

And I'm not used to giving a lot of effort to being pretty or feminine. I put some effort into it, of course, but there are always reasons to exercise restraint -- I didn't feel pretty enough, I didn't have money, I didn't have a guy to appreciate it, I wanted such things to come naturally instead of painting them on. But I think I'm in a place where it wouldn't be a matter of tacking on externals; it would be an expression of how I'm feeling on the inside.

What does this have to do with Lent, a time before Easter traditionally observed by solemnity and fasting? Well, if you've been paying attention -- and why wouldn't you? I'm fascinating -- I'm pretty good at the self-deprivation, delayed-gratification thing. Too good at it for my own good. It makes sense for me to add something rather than subtract it for Lent, thus learning something about the joy and goodness of God in the process. So, this year, I aim to let myself do whatever feels fun and pretty and princessy for Lent, and explore what it's like to be God's daughter -- a princess who isn't locked away in a tower, but who gets to go to balls and drop her handkerchief before dashing suitors. I don't have a specific outline for what I'll do when, because I need the freedom to be spontaneous; even fun rules quickly become burdensome rules for me. Maybe I'll buy clothes, or items for my room, or anything I can find that smells like sandalwood. Maybe I'll hang out at home and play atmpospheric music and light a candle. Maybe I'll go on dates and let gentlemen wine and dine me in return for my sparkling conversation and dazzling smile.

Maybe I'll do it all.

I Am Bored

I'm thinking of overhauling my LinkedIn profile. It's too nice, too professional. It has my work experience, which is too varied to be impressive and not a great indicator of my ambitions. It has my current job, which is, as far as I'm concerned, a placeholder. I'm not interested in getting job offers based on the face that I present to the world in that profile.

What I really want to do is fill it with snarky, irreverent comments -- about myself, about my work history, about everything. The employer who finds that fun is the one for me. If anyone decides they're not interested because I'd rather talk about pleather and whether corn syrup makes convincing saliva on camera, then congratulations: The lack of interest is mutual.

If you're linked to me, here's your heads-up. You can disavow any association now, should you see fit.

PodCandy on Facebook!

It just occurred to me that I haven't told you that Holly's PodCandy has a Facebook page, and that you can "like" it. I don't know what good that does you, since I also post links to the poscasts here, although it does have some extra little status updates. OK, so yeah, you'd get extra little status updates. That's fun, right?

When I got this podcast onto iTunes (did I tell you you can also find it on iTunes?), I learned that there's another podcast called simply "Podcandy." I haven't listened to it, but it's probably great, since it has a good name. In all locations, though, mine is officially known as Holly's PodCandy. Because it's mine. I'm Holly.

TTFN.

The Burdens Italians Bear

I'm a lot of things. One of the things I am is Italian. I exaggerate, talk with my hands, and find a way to work olive oil into most dinners. All stereotypes. All awesome.

But it ain't all easy. There are a few genetic handicaps that come with these ancient Roman roots. And, like all self-respecting daughters of Italy, I handle it with dignity by talking about them to anyone who will listen, and talking more loudly if that person starts to walk away.

Problem 1: Grease. Not the cooking kind. The skin kind. I've had acne since I was ten. As you can see in the right-hand column of this blog, I'm now 36. That's a long time. And it doesn't look like it's going to let up soon. Medication has been keeping it at bay, but all I have to do is miss one application to realize that the medicinal levy is barely holding back the deluge. Upside: I may never wrinkle, ever. If my experience is anything to go by, this is a fountain of youth, but the price of eternal youth is eternal zits.

Problem 2: I wear my food. I'm like a magnet. Or a Swiffer. Or a black hole into which chocolate, peanut butter, and tomato sauce are irresistibly drawn. That Tom Sauce is a sneaky fellow. I keep trying to keep him away from my pure sweaters, but he finds a way to get at them. And Chocolate Chip always seems to fall onto the couch, waiting to be sat upon so he can melt onto my pants. P. Butter has found his way onto, of all things, my eyelid.

Something to look forward to: Turning into my Nona, who talked about bowel issues at suppertime. "A little shit with your dinner," as she said. What's the Italian word for "classy?" We're that.

From the Top

There's a show on Public Radio called From the Top, which features young (under 18) classical musicians. I couldn't listen to this show when I was trying to make it as a freelancer. Apart from the difficulty of listening to people 10-15 years my junior getting all kinds of attention and applause while I played to my apartment walls and scrounged for $60 gigs, it was a reminder of my own lost musical innocence. Music had become competitive, stressful, frustrating work.

This morning, six years after setting professional music aside, I turned on the radio and found that From the Top was on. And I'm not hating it. It's still not the easiest thing in the world to hear brilliant violin playing coming from a 16-year-old, followed by screams of approval from the audience, but it's kind of nice to hear the interviews with these musicians. They seem like nice, likable kids, and I begrudge them their success less.

This is progress for me: Not hating America's most talented young people.

PodCandy: On Dancing

I do things you can't see and talk about it:

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A New PodCandy is Finally Here!

A guide to fake productivity (because real productivity is for people who don't listen to podcasts).

Listening at Work: A Tutorial

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Things That Are Hard

Work
Staying awake
Doing work
Getting work done
Bein' green (technically, this is "not easy")
Being at work
Not taking a nap at work
Running uphill

The Adventures of Gimpy Girl, Episode 3: Wherein Everything Returns to Blah Normalcy

My knee is mostly better. I won't be running a marathon tomorrow (or ever, ever, ever), but I can now walk up and down stairs and down the hallway without people asking me what on earth I've done to myself.

In other words, I'll need to find some other way to get attention.

Must get that monkey.

I Am THAT Employee

We had a meeting scheduled at 9am, so I left the house early. Then the following happened:

The bus didn't come for 20-30 minutes.
The subway was also delayed, so I waited a further 20-25 minutes.
When I got to work, I wasn't sure where the conference room was, so I ran around the building looking for it. I made a full circle back to my desk, where I asked a coworker for directions.
I got to the conference room and found there was no one there.
I got back to my desk again, to learn that the room had been changed.
I walked into the meeting over an hour late, to learn they had pulled up one of my projects and were talking about how wrong all my data was.
When we pulled up my other project, we were unable to work on it because I had the item locked in the system from my desk. At this point, everyone is just laughing.
While I was supposed to be learning things, I was staring at my boot and discovered that the sole is coming off.

Fact 1: This comedy of errors made this whole morning more fun than most, despite my less-than-stellar job performance.
Fact 2: Meetings are hard.
Fact 3: Boots are interesting.
Fact 4: I originally began this post with an announcement that it is my 500th. Until I realized that 500 does not immediately follow 459.

The Adventures of Gimpy Girl, Episode 2: Wherein I Wonder How I Can Milk This

I could work from home. That would be quite reasonable. Too reasonable, in fact.

I shall work from bed. But in order to stay in bed, I'll require help. I would like this help to come in the form of a trained monkey, because trained monkey! He'll be called Jerry, and he'll have to wear stupid outfits, because I want to be amused. I'll say, "Jerry, fetch me a drink! Make me a sandwich! Now dance, Monkey, dance! With oomph. Really work it."

And then I won't be able to let him go, even after I've recovered, because we'll have formed a bond. I'll take him to work at the office where he can further assist me.

But if he gets promoted first, our friendship is over.

I Just Want to Bang on De Drum All Day

I tried to take a career-development workshop held at my office today. I made it through two hours, during which I took a lot of notes about how unhappy I am here. There are a few other stressors at the moment, too -- mostly the kinds of conflicts that just come from living in a world with other people, but which I hate to my core and make me sick to my stomach. I want to live alone, far away from conflict and ickiness. I was thinking about that and feeling sad, so I carried that feeling into the workshop. Add to that the fact that I'm not interested enough in my own job to talk about it, and that I'm not even remotely interested in the jobs of other people in the room. I didn't see that being a helpful attitude to bring to the round of mutual informational interviews we were about to begin. So I had a chat with the facilitator and decided to just go back to my desk and get some daily work done, because that may be more likely to lower my stress than sitting in a room thinking about how much I don't want anything to do with publishing or normal jobs ever again, and how I'm tired of the way having roommates means always being upset with somebody or wondering if they're upset with you, and wanting to cry.

I'm blogging and crying at my desk instead. Much more productive.

The Adventures of Gimpy Girl, Episode 1: Wherein I Become Asymmetrical

I wiped out spectacularly on the ice on Friday night. Don't for a second think that this means that I no longer love snow with a singular and unreasonable devotion. All it means is that I had an excuse to follow through with the vague plans I already had to do nothing for the entire three-day weekend.

I managed to twist my right knee, ankle, and (only the good Lord knows how) the inside arch of my foot. Any chance it looked like a rockin' dance move and not completely spazzy? Probably not. But since I didn't see myself fall, and, to my knowledge, there is no video footage, we'll go with the idea that it did, in fact, look like I meant to land on my ass in the hurdle pose.

Then I walked for another 15-20 minutes. I was on an errand to exchange some gloves for mittens, and wasn't no little crippled-ness gonna stop me. Not sure if that walking around made it worse or better or neither. All I know is that I did it.

I was on the couch pretty solidly on Saturday, and for impressive chunks of Sunday and Monday. Fortunately, I'm good at watching TV. I learned the word pestilential, thanks to a documentary about Ulysses S. Grant and the Civil War, which is fun (the word itself, not the Civil War or anything that is, in fact, pestilential). Wore heels to my roommate's birthday dinner, which I freely admit was stupid. But I don't care that it was stupid, so there.

Now I'm back at work, learning what it means to have less-than-optimum mobility. It's embarrassing. And slow. But if anyone has the temperament to deal with embarrassing slowness, 'tis I. And on the upside, my left leg is getting all kinds of excercise.

OK, I gotta run and catch a shuttle bus. Or hobble and catch a shuttle bus, rather.

Shark-Fishing with a Spear

Injuries incurred during such an activity would be evidence of awesomeness.

My injuries don't happen during awesome activities. In college, I rolled my ankle during a game of mini-golf. This holiday weekend, I'm on the couch icing my knee because I crossed a street too fast and slipped on the ice. Also not awesome.

I achieve physical lameness through metaphorical lameness.

Which, as a writer, I actually find kind of awesome.

Hello, Readers!

I see the number of folks openly -- nay, brazenly! -- following my blog has risen recently. Hooray, and welcome to you all!

You're joining some fine fellow-followers.

Kudos for Consitency, Little Buddy

"Are you being contrary?"
"No!"

My nephew has hit the Terrible Twos. He's still a good kid, and from my non-parental perspective, he continues to get ever more fun. He can roar like a dinosaur now. And stomp around. So we enjoy the same activities.

But he's also learning to assert himself. And the battles he chooses aren't always ones he'll want repeated to the public when he's older. So I'm going to tell you now.

He needed his diaper changed. He didn't want his diaper changed. He said so. Fair enough. But it was getting changed, whether he wanted it or not. Did he resign himself to his fate? Of course not. That's not how one asserts oneself. One does that by not only declaring that the diaper change is not necessary, but that, once the change is complete, one wants the old, dirty diaper back. One wants it baaaa-haaaa-haaaaaaack.

Like the Israelites in the desert, wanting to go back to Egypt.

Yeah baby, I just compared diaper-changing to a Bible story. Sermon illustration high-five, anyone?

Break Off a Piece of Candy

PodCandy is going on break over Christmas and New Year's and will return in 2011.

The blog has no plans to take a break or not to take a break -- it'll be what it be :-).

Happy Holidays from the PodCandy half of this operation, since it won't see you for a while!

Reversing the Polarity

For about as long as I can remember, I've had a sweet tooth. Several sweet teeth, really. Just a few teeth that weren't sweet teeth, really. I'm known for it. It's kind of my thing.

Over the last few years, I haven't been able to hold my sugar like I used to. Your body starts to let you down as you get older, and mine has been letting me down by getting headachy or otherwise icky when I eat more than three times the amount of dessert a normal person would eat in a day. The injustice!

Now, something even more frightening is happening. A shift in the tectonic plates at the core of my being: I've been craving salt more than sugar.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

It's a change in my identity -- in the way I perceive myself, and my place in the world. Who am I if not the girl who can be counted on to eat her weight in chocolate and peanut butter?

My tenuous grip on reality may be the next thing to go.

Nice Boss

My boss is so nice, it makes me cry. I've had to miss work for some weird-ass reasons this year, and she's been nothing but supportive. It's especially striking when contrasted with the distrustful nature of other people.

That was vague, wasn't it? Let's see if I can get a bit more specific without getting myself or anyone else into trouble...

There were lawsuits. Yeah. I wasn't directly involved, but I had to go to court a couple times to support someone who I thought was being treated unjustly. It meant missing work. And instead of wondering what kind of illegal nonsense I was into, my boss completely understood that it wasn't my fault. She trusts her workers, and she trusted me. Compared to the folks who launched the lawsuits, she was like a shining star.

Then, yesterday, she helped me finagle different kinds of days off in order to use up some time that I'd lose at the end of the year (e.g. sick days) and save some vacation time for later. I was the one who'd entered it wrong in the system; she didn't have to straighten it all out. But she was happy to do it. Nice boss. Teary Holly.

It's usually nice things that make me want to cry. Like, right now, I'm listening to Ella Fitzgerald's Christmas album. Her "Joy to the World" sounded so joyful I almost couldn't handle it. How does a person make their voice sound so joyful? I dunno, but she sure did it. And man, that lady could sing.

I want that kind of joy.

Nice bosses help.

Today I Learned

... that it hurts my feelings when other people complain about snow. I suppose it's because I identify with it. They may as well insult my family, women, America, the trombone, and anything else that makes up my sense of self. When folks start whining about how a few inches ruined their awesome plans, what I hear is, "The things you like are inconvenient and stupid, and I'm not going to shut up and let you enjoy it."

But I'm determined to enjoy it anyway.

Also, consider geography, people. I wouldn't move to Florida and complain about the sun and old people. I live up North and I have a right to snow a few months out of the year.

I'm not telling anyone that they shouldn't feel what they feel. If they're naturally averse to snow, then that's their prerogative. I just ask that they don't act as if their feelings are the only right way to feel.

And I wonder: Do people start out hating snow, or is that something that comes with adulthood? Do you know any kids who dislike snow? I've never met one. And if loving snow is something that we grow out of, then I wonder if it's actually something precious and worth reclaiming.

Adulthood ain't always best.

I'm still praying for some white stuff to fall.

PodCandy: Pro-Snow

Some insights into my psyche:

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PodCandy: The Chuck Song

A pretty ditty that don't need yo' pity:

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The Notes I Pretended to Take in the Meeting I Just Snuck out Of

Uh-oh. This meeting might be for [another department]. Was I invited by mistake? Should I not be here? Any way out now...?

Why do I choose to attend these optional things? I know why. 1) I'm not sure they're optional when I responsd. 2) I want to get away from my desk. 3) Hope of snacks.

I so should not be here. Maybe I can get out at the half hour. Lord, please help with that.

Funny, I instinctively tune out as soon as the speaker starts talking. Please bring better work my way, Lord.

Wow, this is meaningless to me. Hilariously meaningless. Am entertaining myself by noticing the culture in this room, and the boomy quality of this guy's voice. It almost hurts my ears.

I don't know who these people are.

The things they're discussing creep me out. Always clawing forward. "Learning paths" and "learning units?" Five more min. and I'll make a break for it. This makes me glad I'm not even a student!

Get boots repaired. Cut nails.

Here's How Smart I Am

Everyone at work was given an aluminum water bottle upon moving into this office two years ago. I use it every day. Now that it's colder, I've taken to putting hot water in it, since I don't drink coffee or tea, and don't think it would be good for me to drink six cups of cocoa per day just to keep warm. Because metal conducts temperature so well, I burned my fingers twice yesterday alone, just from holding a bottle full of hot water.

Here's the dumb part: I own a mug.

How to Lose Friends

1. Assume the worst about their motives.

2. Tell them what you know their motives to be, and refuse to believe otherwise.

3. Rinse and repeat.

4. Enjoy your isolation.

Inspired Searching

The subtitle of this blog is In Search of Inspiration. In this season of gift-giving, I'm in search of the inspiration to buy gifts. It's helpful, when the shopping centers are crowded and the days fly by, to be excited about what you're going to give each person. So I'm hoping it'll hit me.

Any day now.

Any day now.

I Broke Science

On Thanksgiving, my little nephew and I hung out in my parents' library, by the fire, looking through books. He pulled them off the shelves, crawled onto my lap, and flipped the pages, while I explained what we were looking at.

I didn't actually know what we were looking at, because we mostly went through old Time/Life books about nature, so I had to read the picture captions and do my best to sound authoritative. Because he's used to storybooks where all the characters say things, including the animals, he would look at each picture and ask, "What he's saying?" And I'd quickly skim the caption and translate it into something incredibly clever, like, "I'm a lizard. I sit on rocks."

He liked the reptile book so much that he asked to go through it again a couple days later, and kept asking for the "poop picture." Except there was no poop picture. There had been a picture of a snake laying eggs -- could that be what he was talking about? How had I managed to convey that laying eggs was similar to pooping? If I were asked to clear up the confusion right this minute, the best I could do would be to tell him that eggs are white (mostly).

Better leave the science to his dad. If the kid ever decides he needs a melancholy metaphor for the futility of existence, then he can come to Aunt Holly: Work is like pooping. No matter how much you've done, you'll eventually have to do more.

PodCandy: Cold-Weather Friend

It's getting nippy out there. But I have a plan.

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Fun Size Podcast: Burp II

Keepin' it classy:

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PodCandy: Runs in the Family

My latest podcast is up. This one features the brother who often makes his way into this blog.

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Points for Honesty?

A couple months ago, several members of my family went hiking. There were points where we had to cross a stream, finding the dry and stable rocks to step on. My brother managed to do this not only with ease, but while holding my two-and-a-half-year-old nephew. At the first crossing, The Neph was nervous, but Bro was reassuring: "Don't worry, I won't drop you. Or, at least, there's an eighty-five percent chance I won't drop you."

Hmmm.

I wonder if that was the scientist in him, wanting to be accurate (though how one quantifies the chances of dropping a nephew is beyond my ken). Is it better than promising that nothing bad will happen, only to have Junior bewildered when it inevitably does? Does it not really matter, since it's unlikely that the kid has mastered percentages? Or is Bro just saving up the lies for when he can come up with something awesome?

Example of an Awesome Lie
What do you mean, you don't want to eat the stewed beets on your plate? I don't see any stewed beets. I just see what I got at the park yesterday. Did you know there was a dinosaur walking through the park two nights ago? I know because he pooped on his way, and I shoveled up some of the poop and brought it home and heated it up. That's dinosaur poop on your plate. We can't be sure, but there's a chance that, if you eat it, you'll gain a hundred pounds overnight, and grow green skin and a tail. There's no way to find out whether it will happen unless you eat it and go to sleep right away.

There's an eighty-five percent chance that that would get me to eat stewed beets.

Gary: Landlord of the Flies

I had a chance to read it, because I was at work, and what else was I going to do?

Verdict: Funny.

And cathartic. if you've ever had the pleasure of interacting with someone who's mentally disturbed, and not even in a fun way. Not everyone with psych issues is quirky and adorable. How could the movies be so wrong about this? Often, these folks make their problems yours, and you're left making your way through a lawsuit and blogging about it. Not that I would know anything about that.

Anyway, here's the link, to save you the trouble of Googling it yourself and wearing out your fingers:
http://strangerthaneviction.tumblr.com/

This Chick is Funnier than I

And using "I" instead of "Me" in the title is my feeble attempt to make up for it. Is that a predicate nominative? I don't even know.

Her site is called Hyperbole and a Half: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/. I've added a link in the right-hand column, too.

Jealousy aside, I've only read one post so far, and I'm already willing to recommend it to everyone. I also want to check out one of the blogs she has a link to, because it has the best name ever: Gary, Landlord of the Flies.

Warning: It might make you snort with laughter at work if you read it at work like I read it at work, so you'll want to keep that in mind if you read it at work.

PodCandy: The Big Note

I have more than the one embarrassing moment:

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Super Holly

Like Super Grover, only whiter and less furry. I am defending your eyes from the spammy comments that have been plaguing my blog lately.


And to the machine that's trying to post them: I do not need Levitra, and I'm not sure what Propecia is for. If I one day require them, I'll Google it myself, thanks.

And in the Days to Come...

... I may play a few hands close to the chest. But I'm becoming ever more confident that while I may not know what God is up to, I've got a pretty good idea of what He's up to. Ha ha!

All New PodCandy: Undogly

This is new even for those who listened ahead the first week!

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So, What About Nov. 4?

It came and went. Even if I had the date wrong, and it was really Nov. 6 on which I moved to Maryland, we hit that day today. My circumstances have not changed over the last two days. And the truth is that Nov. 4 is the date that I had set.

The big point of praying a prayer with a date was that I wouldn't be able to let myself or God off the hook. If I'd simply prayed, "Lord, please do this soon," and it didn't happen in six months, or a year, or twenty years, then the fact remained that to God, a thousand years are as a day, so maybe in His eyes we hadn't outrun "soon." But I prayed for changes by Nov. 4. I know when that is.

I also wanted changes that were unquestionable, not open for interpretation. If I continue to take classes and pursue interests outside work, the way I've done for the past 2 1/2 years, does that count as the change? If I've got a guy or two who might like me but hasn't really asked me out yet, does that count as the change? It could, but it wasn't the kind of change I'd asked for. I'm still single and I'm still in the same job. I wanted those things to change.

That's not to say that I don't see God at work, and that I don't believe He's got things going on that I can't see. I do, on both counts. But I wanted to be honest as I blogged this process, whatever happened or didn't happen, and the honest truth is that I didn't see the changes I'd hoped for. Now that I've passed Nov. 4, I don't plan on changing the terms of the prayer retroactively, to try to make things fit. It's entirely possible that I crested some kind of hill on Nov. 4, and that change will happen quickly from here; but that's not what I'd asked for. It's possible that this whole process, with the praying and hoping and blogging, was great for me spiritually and changed me on the inside; but while I did want those internal changes, they are not all I'd asked for.

I'm confident that God can handle His own reputation. He's knows what I prayed. He knows what I blogged. He knows what He's up to. It's not up to me to spin it, or act as His PR rep.

What is up to me is to try to find that balance of honesty and discretion. Being honest is hard, not just because there's a temptation to present a certain kind of story, but because my thoughts and emotions are complicated, and the very act of trying to sort through them, put them into words, and place them in some kind of comprehensible order for people, necessitates some simplification. But I'm trying to simplify honestly :-).

So, the fact is that I didn't see the concrete, undeniable changes in my circumstances that I'd hoped for. But at the same time, the truth is that I'm fine. I'm even fine with the being fine, which had been a point of concern for me. You may remember that I was tired of absorbing disappointment as if it were my lot. I don't feel like I'm doing that here. I feel hopeful for my future, even if I'm back to wanting changes "soon." I do wonder what the whole Nov. 4 thing was about, in God's eyes, and perhaps I'll spend some time asking Him and see what He says. In the meantime, my dreams haven't gone anywhere. I'd still like to go on dates and have fun, and eventually meet the guy who adds so much to my life that I can't not have him. And I still want to spend my days doing work that feels purposeful and enjoyable and suitable to me.

Thanks for sticking with me through the ride.

PodCandy Fun Size: Burp!

Special mid-week bonus podcast!


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PocCandy #3: Awesome Pants

The third weekly installment of PodCandy is here!



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Taste the Rainbow

You know that bit at the beginning of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where Richard Dreyfus is making a mound out of his mashed potatoes and telling his wife, "This means something"?

Stay with me.

My favorite color has changed. Again. First it was green. Then it was red. Now it's a completely different green.

This means something.

I decided in the third grade that my favorite color would be green. Just decided it. Don't know why, although it might have been because everyone else seemed to like blue and purple. Whatever my reasons, it stuck. The kind of green I liked shifted a bit over the years -- kelly green, then throughout the 90s it was hunter green, but I always preferred greens that were closer to blue than to yellow. You know those little tests young people give each other, where they'll say, "What's your favorite color? Your favorite animal? Your favorite body of water? Why do you like them?" and then they'll tell you what it means? Someone did that to me once in college, and they said that the color was how you see yourself. (For the curious: The animal was how you think others see you, and the water was how you thought of sex.)

My reasons for liking green? It goes with everything. It's nice, doesn't put itself forward. Hmmm.

Then, ten years ago, as I was leaving the realm of perpetual student-ness and heading, finally (or so I hoped), into my adult life, I found myself liking red. Deep red. Dangerous red. I may still have been as obscure as ever, but it wasn't because I wanted it that way.

Over the last few weeks, maybe months, I've been drawn to colors that I'd always considered plain ugly: Spring greens, velvety pea soup greens, mossy greens, dusty pale celery greens. Like dense, jungle-like flora.

Hey, I just realized that the font I chose for this post is called Verdana.

This means something.

PodCandy: Stand by Your Moment

Hi, Everybody!
My second podcast is here. It's my Most Embarrassing Moment story.


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Feed Me, Seymour!

That's my ego talking.

As you most likely know, I just starting posting podcasts! That means that I've also started sitting on the edge of my seat, looking for responses to my podcasts. You know how some performers are notoriously insecure? I'm one of those. [See: 30 Rock character Jenna Maroney.]

I heard that Philip Seymour Hoffman is insecure, to the point where his need for reassurance becomes annoying to other performers. And how many accolades has this guy won? This actually scares me a bit. If you can be that good and still not know it, then where is the hope for the rest of us? I don't even have an artsy beard.

It's interesting how much you have to push past in order to put yourself and your creative work out there. I don't want to come off as some kind of tool, saying "Hey, watch me sing I'm a Little Teapot!" but if I don't publicize at all, then anyone who could potentially enjoy my work won't find it. It's hard to toot your own horn. And then when I do, I wonder if the world will want to put its hands over its ears.

I've gotten positive feedback on the podcasts so far. (Thanks for not being jerkwads, guys.) Yet I still feel all weird about it. I wonder if that goes away, or if it's just always going to be there.

This post isn't just a thinly veiled fishing expedition for compliments (at least, not more so than any other post). It's just another attempt at being honest about what's going on in my head and my heart while I put more polished, performance-y stuff out there.

Wouldn't want to be discreet or anything.

PodCandy Is Here!

Hi, Everyone!
The first episode of Holly's PodCandy is up and listen-to-able!


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Picky Facebook Addict

I just read an insight into what makes Facebook addictive: It's the fact that you don't know when you'll get correspondence or a response to a post, but it could happen at any time. I know that, in addition to clawing desperately at distractions from my job, I compulsively check to see if anyone liked what I said. That's my addiction.

At the same time, over the last couple days I've been "hiding" most of my Facebook friends. Partly because I realized that the things a lot of people say are contentious and make me sadder rather than happier, and who needs that? It's also because, with so many posts, I found myself thinking, "Wow. I am SO not interested." It turns out that unless someone has something funny to say or a video to post, I really don't need to know about it. It's interesting to learn that a dude from high school hosts a radio show or that some improv buddies are making it in L.A. But your work hours today? The fact that you hung out last night with a friend I don't know? The fact that the weekend is coming up? Good gosh, I have a calendar for that.

You know what makes me want to put a bullet in my head? Reading about what somebody just cooked and/or ate.

Says the girl who assaults your eyes with blog posts about her own internal minutiae. But at least I put some interesting big words in there.

Siderolite.

Ursa Major

I suspect that I am a bear.

I've suspected this for a while -- that I'm not as tame as I appear to be. That lurking somewhere inside is something big and dangerous, and I've spent the past few decades working hard to be nice because I know I could do some real damage if I wanted to. Not that I'm not genuinely nice. It's just that I'm not as safe or as easily trod upon as one might think, based solely on the goofy exterior.

This bear is not a bad thing. It's good, and it's what I was meant to be. And I'm slowly growing into it.

It's not often that I'm visibly upset. So when I get to the point where it is visible, it's time to take me seriously. It's not time to question me as if I haven't thought through the issue, or as if I don't have good reasons for feeling what I feel. It's not the time to play devil's advocate. I'll just get meta-angry at the fact that my anger is not being respected. And while a person could still probably presume upon my self-control and poke me with sticks, I suspect the day is coming when I'll learn to stop apologizing for being big and having claws and eating meat, and when I rear up and roar they're gonna feel real dumb standing there with that stick in their hand.

A growl begins, deep and low.

Grrrr.

Shithead Is as Shithead Does

Pets and kids are adorable.

Bad behavior is not.

If you are a child or animal, and you act like a shithead, then you are a shithead.

If you are a kid-parent or pet-parent and find bad behavior adorable in your little one, that makes you a shithead, too.

Take note, Philip the Cat. My room is not your Jungle Adventure Playland. You will be sorry when I buy a Supersoaker and a python.

[For the record, Philip's owner isn't a shithead. He's more of a hapless, working, single pet-dad. Philip is still a shithead.]

Columbus Day

We don't officially have this day off at work. What we have are some "floating holidays," which we can use as we choose. So I chose to take today off. And I've realized that this day is not about rest, or about getting things done that I might feel rushed doing on a workday. Today is about avoiding a job I've come to dread.

Since I joined publishing 4 1/2 years ago, I never planned to stay. I wanted something better. But that's the thing -- it had to be better. And I'd had worse, so I knew that my present situation wasn't too bad. Most of the time, it was neutral. It paid my bills and paid for some fun classes that helped me explore my real interests. It required little of me but my time. And my bosses and coworkers have been wonderful.

Most of the time.

Sometimes, it would get stressful, and I would want out. I've hit that point again, and have been there for months. I may get used to these new tasks and settle back into neutral mode. But I don't want to. I want out. I just don't know where I'd go or what I'd do. I don't know what other job I could get that I would hate less. I have no desire to deal with the stress of unemployment. And I'm still thinking of quitting. It's that bad.

I'm actually considering retail.

May the 4th Be With You

Less than a month till I hit November 4th, the tenth anniversary (or thereabouts) of the day I moved to Maryland, and the day by which I prayed God would bring long-awaited changes in both the career and romance departments. So far, I've mostly had lots of roommate drama and upheaval instead.

There were times where I'd get anxious, knowing that the date was drawing nigh. I didn't think that was quite how God meant me to feel, but I didn't want to be complacent, either. One of the big reasons I prayed a prayer with a date on it was so that I couldn't let God or myself off the hook. I wasn't just tired of waiting and disappointment; I was tired of being OK with the disappointment. And being anxious was a way of proving that my heart was still invested.

The other end of the spectrum -- resignation -- didn't seem like the right feeling, either. I wasn't sure how not to feel one or the other, anxiety or resignation. What other option was there?

I'm feeling all right today, though. Hopeful, but not desperate. Like things could still happen, and that even if they don't, there's a way to be OK without simply absorbing disappointment as the norm. God must have gotten me here, this feeling-fine place, because I wouldn't have known where it was or how to find it. And I don't know if it will last. But I'll take it.

I could hit Nov. 4 and feel awful or feel nothing, neither of which is very appealing. But right now there are still 3 1/2 weeks, and because I don't know what will happen, I shouldn't be planning my feelings prematurely. So I'll go with the Feeling OK as long as it lasts. And that side dish of hopefulness ain't bad, either.

Love, Hate, and All That Skate

I saw the better part of a figure skating program on TV this afternoon. I'm never sure whether I like skating or not. I mean, I like it. But these people's dreams sometimes hang on the thinnest of blades. It's easier to watch the showcases, where it's all about fun and showmanship instead of technical perfection and competition. But still, it's hard to watch.

Is it because, like so many other girls, part of me wanted to be a skating princess, and longs for that glittery dream that I'll never have?

Yep. Of course that's part of it. But I think it's more than that. I think there's also a feeling that creeps up whenever I watch a classical performing art form, like ballet -- there's a world of beauty and discipline that I relate to, and while part of me wishes I could do the beautiful things I'm watching, I'm confident that, had dance or skating been my focus instead of music, I would have grown to hate it just as much. Because it wasn't music's fault. It was me. Or rather, all that discipline didn't mesh well with my temperament. Or too well. A perfect storm of legalism.

So I won't be doing any serious skating anytime soon, then.

Serious Comedy

I've been taking a class on writing comedy sketches -- the short bits you see on shows like Saturday Night Live. It's a fair bit of work, and I'm always tense about getting my homework done, until I finally have it ready to email in. But there are upsides. Today's upside is that I got to have the following thought while revising: I kept the sister faking her death and the seeing-eye turtle.

Man, if I ever have a job where creative decisions sound like that, that will be the answer to countless prayers.

Coming Soon... Podcasts!

They're in the works! My friends, Ben and Anya, have been helping me record, edit, and otherwise set up Holly's PodCandy, which will hopefully make its debut in the coming weeks. I'll let you know when they're here, but for now I wanted to give you a heads-up. Soon, you'll be able to hear the dulcet tones of my voice, should you so desire.

Please desire :-).

Things I Am Not Above

Obsessively checking Facebook to see if anyone likes my posts.
Obsessively checking Facebook to avoid issues at work that I don't understand, which happens every five minutes or so.
Feeling like an awkward thirteen-year-old when I'm at weddings and they play a slow dance.
Blogging at work.
Fart jokes.

I Don't Want Advice.

I get asked questions I don't know the answers to.

I go to my boss to get answers that I barely understand.

I try to remember what I'm told well enough to communicate it to other people, but it seems silly to have me as the middleman in these exchanges.

I don't care about this stuff. I don't care whether compositors get their files in Word or PDF format. Apart from being concerned for the trees, I don't care whether an Instructor's Resource Manual is printed or only released electronically.

I don't want to be here.

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

My new niece is on her way into the world as I type this. I've been given an update regarding centimeters. I had to ask for an explanation, though (assuming my brother has the opportunity to do a lot of texting during this process, which, understandably, he may not). Not having had any children myself, nor having had detailed discussions with friends who have, and not having grown up on a farm, there's still a lot that I don't know. I mean, hearing just about any number of centimeters sounds like a lot, considering what it is that's dilated, but does that mean things are coming into home stretch? Does it mean that, after 8 hours, you're finally getting to the hard part? I don't know.

Fortunately, you don't have to know squat to pray things like, "Yes to a healthy mom and baby!" And, also fortunately, I don't think God needs prayers to be hyper-detailed and articulate before He responds. So I think I'm doing OK in that department. But when it comes to the biology, I'm not much better than a 1950s dad pacing around the waiting room with cigars in his pocket.

And I'm several states away from the center of activity. It'll be a week or so before I get to meet Babygirl. So I'm looking ahead to that, and visualizing successful interactions in which I do not break the baby (though my brother reassures me that those soft spots on their heads are for shock absorption).

OK, so there's one tweak to the above prayer: Lord, I pray both mama and baby will be perfectly healthy, and that none of that will be undone when I come on the scene. Amen.

The Customer is Always (Convinced They Are) Right

I meant to take a train to visit family this weekend, but the trip -- and all trains for the rest of the day -- got canceled because of downed trees and lines farther down the the tracks, thanks to Hurricane Earl. Bummer, and I'm sure a major inconvenience for a lot of people. No picnic for Amtrak, either, who must have lost buttloads of money on a high-travel holiday weekend. I can understand being annoyed. I can understand not being thrilled with the long line to get your ticket refunded. What I have trouble with is people abandoning all reason simply because they're a customer, as if "customer service" is a value that can overcome otherwise insurmountable obstacles.

Perhaps I still bear some scars from my years behind the counter, but I will tell you flat-out that I do NOT believe the customer is always right. Sometimes the customer is both a jerk and a moron, and is only free to let loose this lethal personality combo when faced with someone who's paid (not nearly enough) to take their shit.

Example: Dude behind me in line wanted to know if the trains would be running come morning (bear in mind that it had only been determined a half hour before that our train should be canceled). The employee at the train station said it depended on the hurricane. Made sense to me; not being intimately acquainted with hurricanes, I nonetheless understood them to be unpredictable. Yet Dude said, "Hurricane's don't last forever! It passes, you fix the damage, you move on!" Perhaps. But that doesn't mean that the employees on the ground in Boston are supposed to be able to predict exactly how that will play out in advance. They got into a longer discussion which I did not care to hear, and I wondered if this customer really thought, "Amtrak doesn't want my money. They'd rather punish me, personally, than try to fix the train tracks. Therefore I must go on the offensive!" Why else would you treat the representative that way? Did he expect Amtrak to somehow thwart the hurricane? Some things are still beyond human control, Dude.

I have a theory. My brother was a biology major, and he confirms that this theory holds weight: Many customers are able to fit their heads so far up their asses because they themselves are, in fact, gigantic assholes.

And here I thought I wasn't scientific.

An Unset Diamond

If each person is a jewel, then maybe each of us has a setting in which we're meant to shine, a context in which all we have to do is be ourselves, and the light will shine into us and out of us and the effect is brilliant.

Not that we aren't useful outside of that setting. Diamonds are hard, so I bet you could use one to hammer away at nails if you wanted to. The nails will get hammered, the job will get done, and it will be fine. It just won't be brilliant.

That's how I feel. I'm not in my proper setting yet. Maybe the past ten years have been a matter of God cutting me and working on my facets. Good heavens, I hope so. And my current situation isn't bad. I'm getting my job done. It's not killing me.

But it's not brilliant. I'm out of my setting, and I'm useful enough for the work I'm doing now. It just feels like a waste, is all.

Nebulous Music

I've noticed something about my own music-listening habits. You know how you tend to like songs that are familiar, or that are at least catchy so that they become familiar quickly? That's certainly true of me, but I also have the opposite desire, at least in certain genres. I find that sometimes I just want music to be atmospheric, and it's hard to let it settle into the background when you're following the rhythm and the melody closely. I don't want it to become familiar. I want it to remain nebulous sound.

This means that I'll use a different set of criteria for determining how much I like an album, or how many albums I want to buy. For an artist that does a more popular style, like pop, rock, or country, I like it when they mix things up, show some range, and develop from album to album. If every song on every album sounds the same, then you have to really, really like that sound to buy more than one song. But for the atmospheric stuff, that sameness is exactly what I'm looking for. That doesn't mean that there's no substance to be appreciated if one were to listen closely; it's just that I'm not always aiming for a deeply analytical listening experience.

So, for example, I just bought a couple Lisa Gerrard albums off of iTunes. I'm liking them. But I don't necessarily want to become overly familiar with her songs. I want to have them on in my room, when it's clean and the scarves hanging from the ceiling look exotic and not like an extension of the piles of clothes on my bed and floor. I want the sound to go with the low lighting and the scented candle and the deep colors in my rug, without any particular melody jumping out too much.

I don't have more of a point than that. I was just noticing it.

The Price of Fame

My pastor has a blog (Not the Religious Type, found in the right-hand column here). It includes links to some of his readers' own blogs, and yesterday I sent in a link to my own. Because there's now at least a small chance that folks will be wandering over here (even if it's just out of morbid curiosity), I've deleted a number of the posts that had been written because I needed to vent, and might not be that helpful to the population at large.

Just wanted my current readers (both of you) to know what was up, and to declare that I've done more writing and posting than the adjusted numbers would indicate. I still want credit for all that.

Fun Was Had. By Me, No Less.

If I'm going to whine about not enjoying enjoyable things, then it's only right that I should acknowledge the joy when it comes. So, a couple positive things since that last post:

I did my Hamlet piece again for my acting class. Did I tell you I'd done it a couple weeks ago, and was told I sounded way too upbeat? That was (ironically?) a bummer. And an eye-opener, to realize that what I'm thinking and what people hear and see from me doesn't always line up. Good to know, as an actor. So last night I did it again and was told I seemed much more unhappy, which was awesome. It was the last in that round of acting classes, and my teacher told me I was really good. Hooray!

And today I ventured out of the house to meet up with a friend to hang out and discuss the possibility of turning some of these here blog posts into little podcasts. Yep, you folks may be able to hear the dulcet tones of my voice in the not-too-distant future. Won't that be fun, kiddies? I think one of the best things about this whole meeting, apart from the fact that I like my friend (props, Anya!), is that I was able to enjoy the little things surrounding it, instead of worrying. The walks there and back, the timing, the food we ate -- all of that could have been a source of stress if I'd let it, but I woke up feeling pretty good, prepared to accept my own choices, and so far the feeling is sticking. Again, hooray.

I think that's a biggie, that bit about choosing to accept my own choices, instead of worrying that I could somehow have done better -- gotten up earlier, worked harder, allotted more time for transportation, whatever. Big fun-suck. Who needs that? Not I, said the blogger.

I Want to Have Fun

Duh.

Here's the thing: I do fun stuff, but don't necessarily have as much fun doing it as I'd like to. I always want to go back home and do nothing. That's what I look forward to most. A couple weeks ago, I took a couple vacation days to do just that -- or at least, a nice combination of Nothing and at-home chores that I don't always get to on weekends because I'm out doing said "fun" things. I found myself thinking, "I'd like to take some time -- at least two weeks, perhaps a few months -- to just be myself," and I realized that, at least in that moment, my idea of "being myself" was just staring at the wall and letting my mind wander for hours and hours.

So, I guess I want a couple things: I want time to do a lot of Nothing, and variations on Nothing (e.g. read, watch TV, nap, write in my journal, post stupid comments on Facebook), and I want to be able to enjoy all the activities I have on my plate when I'm not doing Nothing. Really, most of these activities, at least on paper, ought to be frigging awesome -- acting classes, going out with friends, stuff I'd probably be sad not to do. But there's something slightly off in my brain, I think, that makes almost any and all activity feel like obligation and work. What's that about? I don't think it was always this way, or at least not to this degree. I think some synapse got out of whack somewhere along the line, and it's messing things up. Stupid synapse.

The statement keeps running through my mind, "I want to have fun." And I don't really mean that I want to do fun things, because that's happening. I mean that I want to have fun doing them. And because that change would have to happen somewhere deep inside my gray matter where I can't see it or take a bread knife to it, it's harder to change.

But the desire is there.

This Supernatural Business

A week ago, I almost bumped (literally) into a guy at my local grocery store. I recognized him as a guy I'd had a crush on in music school, fifteen years ago. He'd changed a fair bit, but I recognized him anyway (a helpful combination of crush-intensified memory and some light Internet stalking done in more recent years). He was busy not crashing into me and moving on, so he probably didn't get a real look at my face, much less recognize me. If any, "Hey, you're that person I knew!" was going to happen, it was going to have to come from me.

It didn't. I saw him twice more, but was all self-conscious -- I have a zit on my lip! I'm wearing frumpy clothes! What on earth would I say beyond, "Hey, I recognize you after fifteen years, but that's not a reason to be scared!"? -- so I watched him leave the store and got teary on my way to the bananas.

This story exemplifies the fears I have surrounding my Nov. 4 prayer: If I can't do things like this for myself, then the things I want may never happen. I spend a fair bit of my life ping-ponging between fear, and beating myself up for that fear. Even at the little amusement park I went to this past weekend, I was afraid. I'm afraid of heights, so roller coasters and some other rides scare me. Sometimes I'll try to be brave and get in line, but I'll spend all that time feeling scared and icky. The ride may be followed by the thrill of accomplishment, but that's quickly chased by more fear as the prospect of another ride looms. Sometimes I just won't go on the ride at all, and I'll be disappointed with myself for not confronting my fear. I did have a mini-revelation this last time, that the whole reason these rides exist is to play on our natural (and worthwhile) instincts, and therefore my fear of them is not some moral failing. But again, the whole experience is an example of how my mind works, and how thoroughly it tends to un-fun activities you might think it impossible to un-fun.

I know not everyone who reads this blog believes in the whole God/prayer thing, so it's embarrassing sometimes to talk about my hopes that God will come in and do things that I can't or don't do for myself. I feel like I should be able to hold up documentation and say, "Look what I've done on my own behalf!" so that you can then respond, "Good for you! Keep it up and things are bound to happen!" And it's not like I don't do anything for myself, ever. I do try. It's just that I see a huge chasm between where my efforts get me and where I want to be. Part of me feels like I have no business asking God to fill in that gap, even if He's God and He likes people and He fills gaps for them. Another part believes He likes it when we include Him in our lives this way. Either way, I'm very conscious of my need for help. Lots of it.

And I still want God Himself. Sometimes I take for granted that an experience of God will come with any gift He gives me. I want that. And that makes sense. Any gift is ultimately about the relationship between the giver and the recipient.

So here I am again, God, asking for big things. Feel free to do some showing off here.

To Improvise or Not to Improvise?

Why is it so hard to quit you, Improv?

I know why. Because you encompass so many of the things I'm drawn to and want very much to be good at -- being funny and witty and quick, performing live. And things that I'm not so great at right now, and want to grow in -- spontaneity, freedom, having fun.

Having fun. Aye, there's the rub. I went to an improv workshop on Monday night, mostly because I thought the guy who was leading it was cool; I was aiming for proximity, and if improv was the price I had to pay, so be it. It turns out the guy is an amazing teacher (and probably gay). During one of the scenes I did with another woman, he said, "You're not having fun, so we're not having having fun watching you. You're just focused on getting it 'right.' " Up until that point, I hadn't even realized I wasn't having fun; fun wasn't on my radar. Trying to "get it right" is just how my mind works. Dude didn't just diagnose my scene; he diagnosed my life.

The question then became: In my quest to learn how to enjoy things that are meant to be enjoyable, do I keep doing improv in the hope that eventually I'll learn not to be uptight, or do I keep letting it go, in spite of its siren's song that so often leaves me on the rocks? I've decided to let it go. Again.

So, what now? How do I find stuff I like to do? How do I enjoy said stuff and not make it all worky in my head? I dunno. It's usually pretty hard for me to determine whether I want to do something or not. You'd think "Do you want to?" would be the easiest of questions to answer, but for me it's one of the hardest. But I might practice saying "no" to things when I'm unsure. That takes a lot of work, because it involves letting other people down, and I tend to let other people's desires figure heavily into my decisions.

So, I'm not going to a dance party tomorrow night. And I didn't join someone else's improv group. And there are a few other things I won't be doing, either.

It's a start.

Healthy Lifestyle Choices, the Holly Way

The key is to realize what you probably won't do.

I worked out pretty hard in 2006, because if I went to the gym at lunch time, I could get my butt kicked by a trainer without paying extra. Free. I can do free. And I could do lunchtime, because if I then ate at my desk, it meant I got to go to the gym without adding any time to my day. And I had someone outside my own head telling me what to do. I'm good at taking orders.

Now, a few years later, in a different office in a different part of town, they've just added a fitness center. I can go there for free, right in my building. Easy. I can do that.

I've learned that if I'm going to get myself to work out regularly, and I don't have anyone else kicking my butt, then I need to enjoy it. And to enjoy it, in addition to liking that it's convenient and free, I don't push myself too hard. I'll work up a sweat and I'll move and I'll lift things and push things and pull things, but I won't kill myself. If I did, it wouldn't be fun and I wouldn't want to do it and I wouldn't do it. You can always say that something isn't good enough by comparing it to something "better" -- e.g. sending someone a text message isn't as good as calling them, or having a leisurely workout isn't as good as really pushing yourself (yes, I have managed to find a way to work out leisurely -- jealous?). But what if, realistically, that's not the choice before you? What if you're not likely to contact that person at all if you can't do it from a safe distance? What if you're more likely to go home and eat brownies than go to the gym if going to the gym means being your own drill sergeant? If that's the case, then a text message and a low-key workout may be better than nothing.

I read that humans can only discipline themselves so much. There may be a handful of all-around, highly disciplined people out there, but I suspect most folks just don't have it in them to sustain discipline in every conceivable arena for a long time. (I believe I mentioned this in a blog several months ago.) For example, you may eat well and exercise, but not have control over your temper. You may be a hard worker both at the office and at home, but you're messy. You may be political but not spiritual, or vice versa. (For the record: I don't always eat that well, I'm messy both at home and at work, and I'm spiritual but not political. But I'm nice.) When we choose to tighten one thing, we allow ourselves to loosen another because there aren't enough brain cells or hours in the day to keep all those plate spinning. So I'm trying to find a reasonable balance to the disciplines, and not to beat myself up for the parts that get loose when I'm busy tightening something else.

I've learned to play my vices off each other, too. If I bring fruit and a V-8 to work, then I have to choose between eating them or getting up, heading to the cafeteria, and spending even more money on something else. Cheapness and laziness get me to eat fruit. Yay me.

Or perhaps you get most of your work done, then allow yourself twenty minutes to blog in your cubicle.

Oh, who am I kidding? What kind of asshole does that?

How to Buy Cigarettes without Gaining ANY Street Cred

Be afraid to make the purchase because it feels like you're being bad.

Ask for "one pack of the absolutely cheapest" brand they have.

Give too much information by explaining that you're buying them to use as a prop in an acting scene.

When the young man behind the counter says he doesn't know what's cheapest, lean over and say, "BASIC sounds cheap. Gimme that."

When asked which variety of BASIC you'd like, say, "I like green. That's pretty."

Ta-da.

Hot Mess

Good golly, is it hot here in Boston. I slept with ice packs last night. It was weird. The combination of hot air and a couple cold spots was like being sick with a fever.

Up till now, I've managed to avoid buying a window fan or trying to lug an air conditioning unit up to my third-floor room and trying to fit it into my small, oddly proportioned window. That would be work. And I didn't want to use even more energy than our house was already using. But the heat is sapping all my energy, so I may cave. I had Monday off, and I could barely stay awake because the heat was so stifling. I can see now why people die in heat waves. Apart from the fact that it's probably slowly cooking us, it saps your will to live. "You know what would be nice right now? Being unconscious and staying that way." "You know what's really hard right now? Sitting upright."

It's that kind of heat where you don't want to lie on your own bed because it's too hot to have that much of yourself in contact with a matress.

As much as I whine about how cold I get in other people's air conditioning, I'm not complaining about it right now.