Yom Kippur

I was walking the dog this afternoon, and there were two men walking behind me. They were wearing white, no belts, tennis shoes. Skullcaps.

While Ginger was in the drink splashing around, I said to them, "Gut yontiff," which is Yiddish for "happy holidays." They looked surprised, said, "Thanks," and kept walking.

Ginger and I wound up lapping them, and one turned to me and asked, "Are you Jewish?" I said yes, and he asked, "Do you have a shul today?" 

"No, I have my dog today. God is everywhere, right?"

"Yes. Well, gut yontiff to you." Smiles.

Now I almost wish, in the bittersweet way I do every year, that I had spent the day in shul.

Is it too much to ask?

I would like a nightgown that does not look like this:

Or make me do this:

Or this:

On second thought, that looks kind of fun.

Thank you.

Today

There have been better days indeed.

Truth in advertising

This ad ran in Women's Day magazine:

I took their advice, but it didn't work. So I sent an email to the advertiser:



And hey, they responded:


I think about the creation of this ad. It's the result of someone's strategy. I think about the strategist, who may have said something like this:

"Women want more money. And if they have more money, they'll buy more douches, especially if they think it's the douching that got them the money in the first place. But they can't make more money unless they ask for raises, because they're chronically underpaid. So let's make them think that they got a raise because they've used our product, and they'll continue to use our product because they'll think it bumps up their bank balance. Oh, how we'll outsmart those silly ladies!"

Well played, Summer's Eve. Well played.

Inside/Outside

Inside, 195x

Outside, 2010

I'm sorry

Dear Black from Tula tomato plant,

I'm sorry I put you in a pot that's far too small to accommodate your majesty. I'm sure that's why you produced exactly one tomato. One tomato that's been growing and greening for a month now. One tomato that was just about to start turning red, and then black.

And I'm sorry that a deer ate the one fruit you worked so hard to create.

I'm going to put you out of your misery because, frankly, you depress me.

Baya

Today is my grandma Baya's 93rd birthday. I say that like I have other grandmas left, but like most adults my age, I do not. I'm extremely fortunate she's still around and that she can tell a dirty joke, and that up until just a few months ago, she's been sharp as a tack.

I talk to Baya every single day, if only just for a few minutes. We've been doing this for more than a decade; though we were always close, our relationship intensified when my grandfather passed away. In a hospital room, surrounded by his children and grandchildren and after a medium-length illness. When he took his last breath and it became clear he wasn't going to take another one, ever, my grandmother let out a wail the likes of which I hope to never hear again and fell into my arms.

They met when she was 16 years old. She'd recently lost her mother, and though she had plenty of siblings, it didn't seem like she had a friend in the world. He was on a date with a woman named Dirty-Necked Bertha and spied her at a party. Just like that. They were married for almost 60 years.

So, yes, I talk to my grandma every day. She's seen me through some tough times and I like to think I've helped her do the same. But now, when I talk to her, she's half there. She's confused. I think she knows who I am, but I'm not positive, and I don't test her. Sometimes she tells me she's been out shopping (she can't leave the house). Sometimes she asks where my grandfather is (she forgets he's gone). She still calls me Dolly. It's heartbreaking for me. I feel like I've lost my best friend, but she's still here, breathing.

For her, I hope it's not heartbreaking. I hope she continues to think she's going shopping, and going out to restaurants and affairs, and playing poker, and waiting for my Papa to get home from golfing so she can start dinner.

Happy birthday, Grandma. I love you. So much.

Lucky Me

Want

A few years ago, Esalen had a slackline set up on the lawn outside the lodge. It was only a few feet off the ground, and the people who were walking it made it look easy and fun. So I gave it a try:

More humbling than it looks.

Hey! Looks like I'm doing pretty good here! I'm not clutching my cohorts' hands! I'm not off-center! I'm on one foot!

For about a second and a half.

The nylon line really quickly started to vibrate and swing back and forth. I pitched off, propelled and twangy and grassy.

My man just now sent me a link to Phillippe Petit's new classes in NY. Considering the slackline I tried was pretty much two-dimensional and still as hard as hell to stay upright on, I just can't imagine walking a metal rope that vibrates and twists. But damn, do I want to learn.

Just as easy as it looks.

And counting...

One of my favorite things about having my bff here is that we can have conversations that go like this:

"That's like that one dress you had, remember?"
"Totally."
"Is True Blood on yet?"
"Sookie!"

Well, that's kind of a combo convo, but the point is that it's really great to have someone around who remembers that one dress I had 20 years ago that looks kinda like this one awesome dress I have now that just needs a couple of alterations to become perfect.

And now I'm kind of lonely.

What?

Is it the raspberry yogurt color? Is it the dropseat? The calf collars? Whatever it is, I'm not buying it.

Insufficient Lather

I've been pretty sick for almost 10 days now. But in between doctor visits and passing out, I decided to make some bay rum soap for my man, since he ran out of the soap I picked up in Big Sur in June.

I gathered supplies and advice from the super duper Rebecca's Herbal Apothecary in Boulder and followed the instructions. But alas, I have come to discover that my soap has insufficient lather.

Real cold-process soap takes 4-6 weeks to cure, and I didn't think I had that kind of patience, but maybe I do. In the meantime, everyone please enjoy the Old Spice Guy.

Dear A,

Happy birthday!

It's a hell of ride, huh?

Remember back in high school when we got locked out of my mom's house and had to break in through the window, destroying the screen, and left her a note telling her to write it off to the exuberance of youth? Remember how that worked, and she wasn't mad?

I think that even though now we're both past the 40-year mark, we can still do that. We can still write everything off to the exuberance of youth. The trick is to still do stuff that requires writing off. So it's a good thing you're coming to visit, because we need to figure out what that stuff is now that our moms don't really care what kind of trouble we get into.

I know I gave you the life-gets-better-after-40 talk the other night. And it's not bullshit. I mean, some of the wheels fall off, but I think you come to realize that you don't need those wheels to get around anyway. You can turn on the jet propulsion instead and go much faster.

So here's to the wind in your hair. I love you. So much.

xo
Hollie

Two years

It's been two years, almost exactly, since I wrote my last blog post. The truth is, I kind of forgot about this blog. I got wrapped up in starting a company. In dancing even more. Generally living the good, un-bloggy, un-agency-employed life. And then, of course, my marriage went to hell in a great big ball of fire.

Which wound up being really, really for the best. For many reasons, not the least important of which is that I found this guy.

(Don't be alarmed at the rubber glove. It was a sardine can injury. And he really does have hot dogs, almost all the time.)

Anyway, I decided to start writing again for the same reason I began in the first place: considering how much time and effort I spend writing for other people, in tightly circumscribed ways, it's good for my brain and my spirit to venture outside those bounds verbally. Otherwise, I might find myself approaching retirement having forgotten what an adverb is. So there you go. Welcome back me.

Hey Frank! Eat This!

Frank Shorter is a Boulder icon. He has been cast in bronze and plunked at the entrance to Folsom field at the university. A painting of him graces the side of a wall on the corner of Broadway and Pine streets downtown. He's an Olympic champion, blah blah blah. Ooooh, Frank Shorter.

I was at the gym last week, doing my elliptical cardio, kinda watching CNN and kinda watching the women's Olympic track qualifiers, when I hear this loud voice boom, "Thank GOD they look like women again!"

What the fuck? My mouth dropped open. Really, my jaw hit the floor and I looked up in time to see a poor kid arranging the magazines on the rack. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders to his ears and turned red like a beet. He walked up and said, "Do you think he knows he was so loud?" I said yes, I did, and what an asshole.

I'd seen this loudmouth before but couldn't put my finger on where. Then it hit me: it had to be Frank. I googled him, and sure enough, it is. Frank Shorter, venerated Olympian, king of all runners. Who is glad that women athletes look like women again. Because really, appearance is so much more important than how strong, fast, and healthy they are.

To you, Frank, as we head into the summer Olympics, I say only this: please shut the fuck up.