Ayayay

If the world would stop abusing children, I'd be okay with that.

If people would drive less aggressively, I'd be okay with that. 

If we could all be given one hour a day to appreciate art without interruption, I'd be okay with that.

If I could overcome my aversion to classic literature, I'd be okay with that. 

If blogging meant I was a real live writer and I was eligible to camp out at the Hugo House and smoke cigars, I'd be really okay with that.

If I didn't make mistakes in friendship, I'd be okay with that.

If cancer didn't eat up families and plans and dreams, I'd be okay with that.

If schizophrenia didn't paralyze people with untapped potential, I'd be okay with that, too.

If I could refrain from crying during Oprah, or refrain from admitting I like Oprah, I'd be okay with that.

If I could have a limitless shopping spree at Costco, I'd be extremely okay with that.

If I made an appearance on Jay Leno as a very popular guest, I'd be okay with that.

If I understood all the literary allusions I came across in NYTimes Op-Eds, I'd be okay with that.

If I could have my mom's strawberry cake and eat it, too, I'd be okay with that.

If I could have a wee babe right now and not be at all interrupted, I'd be okay with that.

If I could make sure that all the people I love are within walking distance from my house, I'd be okay with that.

See? I'm not hard to please. I'm okay with a LOT of stuff.

Run! Quick-like!

Kelsey's not a frequent blogger, but when she does, 'tis worth reading.

I Blame My Mother

Today, in approximately one hour, I will be heading to work with a large hole in my pants.

You might think that (FINALLY) being a post-college employee of a decently respectable establishment, I'd have motivation to fix said hole (which, to complicate matters, resides right below my buns). But strangely, I do not. In fact, I just took a seat on my bed and looked at the pant options before me. And I spent ten whole minutes thinking about whether or not I could potentially walk up stairs in front of someone important enough to get me fired for wearing holey pants. And then I decided that if the risk were too great, I would simply use a different set of stairs. And I imagined how I would have to walk in order to disguise this hole.

Holly, you're saying, GET A GRIP. Go fix your pants. But what you don't know is that I have at least five other items I wear frequently, very frequently, that also need some sort of repair. My friends know a creamy little cardigan that has missed his fourth button since before I got engaged (looooong ago), and every time I wear it, I think, Whelp! Guess that button's still missing! Let's pretend that happened on the way to ________. Tallyho!

So there is nothing left to do but blame my mother. Most children of obsessed quilters (that's flattering, believe me) manage to inherit some crafty skills, or at least learn how to SEW A BUTTON. My mom was a short-order seamstress. Mom, can you make me new curtains? Mom, can you sew me a purse? Mom, can you make thirty-five custom makeup bags for my bridesmaids? And thus, I never learned. Not for her lack of trying, but why cook when the chef's already in the kitchen?

So today I am going to grow up and get my raggedy old wardrobe to the tailor. Mom, the USPS says it's coming by Friday.

Recently Asked Questions (aka Finslippy Junior)

How is your new job going so far?
Well, I really love it. That's the short answer. The long answer is that I love it so much I am compelled to be very insecure about things like my WPM rates and whether or not I remember how to find the meaning of the universe using Excel formulas. In Vista. Even though we don't even use Vista. Basically, I always doubt myself when I'm learning something new--I somehow expect perfection of myself from Day One, and I incessantly obsess over things like, "If I don't figure out how to format this letterhead by the time my lunch break rolls around, I AM GOING TO GET SACKED! Eek!" I know this is ludicrous, but it's just one many areas that I'm realizing, "Holly, go ahead and feel okay about yourself. It's alright. You paid your dues in junior high. MOVE ON."

What's marriage like for you, you young, naive thing?
I hate to use words like this, because I somehow think people might misunderstand me as an unloving, not-that-into-her-husband kind of wife, but I'd say being married is mysterious. And complicated. And very, very rich. All words that can carry lots of subtext, but in this case, it's good subtext. We have some sweet mentors who always remind us that conflict, and the subsequent gobs of conversation we tend to have, is a sign of excellent health. According to Those Two, it's a sign that we're already wrestling with the stuff that's going to root us in the habit of Marriage Maintenance. Don't be jealous of that crafty label, I already submitted in to Les and Leslie's "Naming Our Inimitable Marriage Conferences Contest". And don't think we have lost all our youthful spark--just tonight Dustin tried to put Girl Scout Cookies down my shirt.

Do you remember any grammar rules whatsoever? Is Grammar Girl ashamed she ever let you interview her?
Obviously I remember nothing. I am a failed subject. Because I write cliches constantly. And I nearly stumbled on some SUBJECT-VERB agreement last week. And I couldn't remember the term I needed...ah...blech...what's is caaaaaalled? Oh. A modifier. Thank goodness for Carly, who saved me from an embarrassing 80 invitation error. And thanks for mentioning that interview with Grammar Girl, I something forget about that, THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY LIFE!

What did you eat for dinner tonight?
Mmmm, this, I can confidently say, was a smashing success. Homemade tortillas, roasted tomatoes and sweet corn, marbley steak in an orange and chili marinade, and Crystal Light. (It can't ALL be from the farmer's market, okay?) It was great. We used cloth napkins and lit candles. Cheaper than Canlis.

How was that trip you took to Mexico? Are you like, addicted to cheesy mission trips or something? You're practically a...nevermind.
I'm not sure why I keep signing up for those thingamabobs, except every time I come home I feel like I've tasted an experience that smacks of humanity--the good, the bad, and the ugly. And somehow, in the midst of connecting with good folk in another language, in another world entirely, I feel small enough to let God be God again. And I need to remind myself of that more often.

Are you willing to continue talking about yourself, for the sake of us, your readers?
Duh. How else will I figure life out?