:: Monday, December 30 ::

Congratulations to Brooke and Ben and Happy Birthday to Lilly, my new neice! 9 lbs, 14 oz. Big baby! (Very proud Aunt Rebecca.)

:: Saturday, December 28 ::

"I'd like to lose interest in myself," I told Murray. "Is there any chance of that happening?"

"None. Better men have tried."

"I guess you're right."

"It's obvious."

From White Noise, by Don DeLillo

:: Tuesday, December 24 ::

I had originally intended to refrain from mentioning the holiday season, blog-wise, but I already slipped up a couple of times. Now, now I feel compelled to wish those who celebrate it a Merry Christmas.

If you've finished all your shopping, I highly recommend going to the mall today to heckle those who haven't. But in a nice, spirited way -- it's Christmas, after all.

:: Saturday, December 21 ::

I've just discovered 'tis the season. And I quote (from Dec. 1):

Christmas is always with us. It's like the poor.

No, not like the poor. More like a virus that hides inside you and resurfaces just when you want it least.

In many ways, Christmas is a lot like Herpes.

:: Friday, December 20 ::

Last night, some co-workers hosted an office Christmas party, which was very fun. The best part was when their four-year-old son was playing with the nativity set. He had the baby Jesus on top of the manger and there was one figurine hanging off the roof, like he was climbing up there and his ladder fell.

"Who is that hanging off the roof?" we asked.

"That's Jesus's fake dad," he replied.

It took us a moment to figure out he meant Joseph.

:: Thursday, December 19 ::

Remember all those dumb things you used to believe when you were a kid? Check out iusedtobelieve.com. It's super neat. (Link via foxinthesnow)

Here's my contribution: I used to think "The Girl Is Mine", sung by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney was about a child custody battle. I thought the Michael Jackson voice was a woman and it was two parents who were going through a divorce arguing over who got to keep their daughter.

:: Wednesday, December 18 ::

For all you Brimley lovers out there, I will post your messages, I promise. I just haven't had time. (That goes for the other surveys, too.) There has been a spate of Brimley love lately -- someone who claims to know Wilford sent me an anonymous message saying I'm a terrible person and that Wilford Brimley doesn't care what people say about him on my web site. I would be very surprised indeed if The Brimley ever landed on nerdygirl.com. If he did, for some reason, I'd be even more surprised if he based any part of his self-worth on the comments of my readers.

In other news, I had a dollar in my wallet that had a "please enter this on wheresgeorge.com" message on it. I did, and found out that the dollar originated in Sparta, NJ a year ago. Nobody else been to the site to track the dollar. I bet the person in Sparta who registered it thought he or she would never hear from that dollar again. I, personally, would give up after a few weeks, but then patience has never been my strong point.

:: Monday, December 16 ::

Last week, I got to wear a heart monitor for a day. After the nurse hooked me up, an older, grandmotherly woman had to check her work. She came over and said, "Okay," looking at me expectantly. Feeling pretty awkward, I opened up the hospital gown, which tied in the front, and showed her the wires that were attached all over my torso. "I bet you didn't think you'd be flashing anybody today, did you?" she winked.

"I didn't. I might have to take it up as a full-time hobby, though," I replied, in a meagre attempt to be witty.

"Make sure you get paid for it, dear," she said. With that, she nodded her approval at the nurse, turned around, and left.

:: Sunday, December 15 ::

There is, my mom tells me, a man in Idaho who has very, very bad luck. His name is Dave, she says, and she wonders if maybe I can ask people who visit my web site to think good thoughts for Dave. She sounds so hopeful: maybe we can turn his luck around, she thinks. Let's work a little Christmas miracle, the tone in her voice says, although she doesn't say this out loud. And who am I to say? Maybe we can.

The flag stickers on bumpers and in rear windows are fading. Some are yellowing, cracking. Most of the little flags mounted on car doors are gone, or are in pretty sorry shape, all tattered and torn. Who knew patriotism required so much maintenance?

:: Friday, December 13 ::

Oh, Michael Jackson, what have you done?

:: Wednesday, December 11 ::

My Christmas Memory, by Rebecca

When I was a kid, I didn't believe in Santa. My parents had this ideal that they would never lie to us, and that meant no mythical holiday creatures. There is no Santa Claus, they told us, no Easter Bunny. The Tooth Fairy? That's Dad. The point, they said, is in the idea. We should believe in the qualities that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny represent; that's where the real magic is.

As a three-year-old, I got the gist of it, but still heard an awful lot about the man in the red suit with the flying reindeer. It was a firmly held belief that my parents knew everything, though, so I sort of went with their story. That is, I went with it until Christmas morning, 1978 when there arose such a clatter on our rooftop. No joke. There were bells jingling and footsteps and who knows what else? Possibly even a Ho Ho Ho, but I was only three, so the memory is faint.

My sister and I peered out the window of our second-story bedroom, literally rubbing the sleep from our eyes like kids in a Norman Rockwell painting. And there, in the snow that covered the first-story roof that extended below our window, were big boot footsteps and sleigh tracks and other, smaller footsteps, that might have been left by reindeer. My sister, being older, was a bit more quick on the uptake than I was. "Santa Claus," she either whispered or shouted. I'm not really sure, but I do remember the tone of awe in her voice. Santa Claus. It was impossible, yet obvious that Santa Claus had just exited our roof, and we missed him! Oh, how agony mixed with excitement as we raced downstairs to look under the tree, where we discovered that Santa Claus had, indeed, been to our house and down our chimney (even though he didn't exist, because our parents could never be wrong). The two ideas floated in my head simultaneously without seeming at all mutually exclusive because who has time for that when Santa Claus has been to your house? It was just so exciting!

We found out later that it wasn't Santa Claus. It was Jim Brumley, a friend of ours (well, our parents, but I always felt that he was my friend, too). Jim Brumley was a hundred feet tall, and I liked him because he was nice to kids, too; not just grown ups. I was intimidated by his size, even as I giggled while he stooped through doorways so he wouldn't hit his head. I didn't like onions for twenty years because my parents told me if I ate onions, I'd grow up big and tall like Jim Brumley. My nickname was "Short Stuff" back then, and I wanted to be tall, but I didn't want to be THAT tall. Still, I loved it that HE was that tall. He was like a superhero.

Jim Brumley was the only Santa I ever believed in.

:: Monday, December 9 ::

I want you to buy this Hovercraft and let me drive it.

On second thought, any Hovercraft will do.

:: Friday, December 6 ::

If you live in or near Portland (Oregon) or are going to be in the area before December 23, there's something you should do. Yes, the big tree in Pioneer Courthouse Square is pretty and all, but I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the latest Portland Center Stage offering: Santaland Diaries and A Christmas Memory.

Authored by David Sedaris and Truman Capote, respectively, and told by Steve Wilkerson (it's a one-man show), these Christmas stories couldn't be more different. The first, Santaland Diaries, is hilarious and hard to believe because you know it's mostly true. Just reading the text of Santaland Diaries doesn't do it justice -- it's a story much better told out loud. In contrast, A Christmas Memory is a much more quiet tale, but it's beautifully done and wonderfully told and I really can't say enough good things about it. The set design was perfect, the performance was flawless, and I'll confess to getting a little emotional and even shedding a few tears. It was that good. As we left, I said to my friend, "I want someone to tell me stories like that all the time."

:: Wednesday, December 4 ::

I have yet to take any stunning photos with my new digital camera. I have, nonetheless, been having some fun with it.

Also, does anybody know what kind of plant this is?

Theft isn't usually something I go in for, but I get cold easily. My blood is lazy and sometimes completely ineffective when it comes to keeping my extremities warm, so when I was on my way to Europe for four months and I forgot to pack a blanket, I panicked a little bit and stole one from the airplane. It's a fabulous blanket, and I've found many uses for it over the past five years. I keep it at work now because the heater in my office doesn't work. We have space heaters, but they don't feel like they're doing much.

Allegedly, they're going to fix the heating problem, but I don't know who "they" are, and I'm doubtful. In the meantime, my hands are like popsicles, and it's hard to type. Still, I'm happy to have my airline blanket to keep me from totally freezing. As far as misdemeanors go, the payoff has definitely been worth the risk.

:: Tuesday, December 3 ::

Over the past few days, I have thought of several things that, in turn, made me think, "Hey, I should write about that on my blog." Then I didn't think of them again. So, instead of providing you with anything resembling actual insight, here's a link I got from Tracy's web site: blackpeopleloveus.com. If you don't get that it's a joke, something is probably wrong with you.

Also, I highly recommend the song Mahna Mahna, by The Muppets. Mad props to Howdy for sending it to me. It's delightful.

where's my rocket car?

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