Kelsey's not a frequent blogger, but when she does, 'tis worth reading.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Lent-ish Thoughts
Fast from criticism; feast on gratitude.
Fast from worry; feast on joy.
Fast from pressures; feast on prayer.
Fast from fear; feast on faith.
Fast from gossip; feast on praise.
Fast from bitterness; feast on forgiveness.
Fast from doubt; feast on truth.
Fast from self; feast on God.
from a friend's friend from a brochure from a church from Scotland
Fast from worry; feast on joy.
Fast from pressures; feast on prayer.
Fast from fear; feast on faith.
Fast from gossip; feast on praise.
Fast from bitterness; feast on forgiveness.
Fast from doubt; feast on truth.
Fast from self; feast on God.
from a friend's friend from a brochure from a church from Scotland
Monday, February 16, 2009
Wanderlust
The books currently piled next to my bed include, but are not limited to the following:
Suite Francaise Irene Nemirovsky
Gilead Marianne Robinson (close to that?)
Dreams from My Father That New President
The Jesus I Never Knew Philip Yancey
Time's 2008 recap issue
Let Justice Roll Down John Perkins (a la Susie's baby)
Good reading, no? But have I finished any of them? Hmm, no. And did that stop me from buying three more books this weekend? No. Here's to my new copies of Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible and That Jonathan Guy's Everything is Illuminated. Wish me luck.
Suite Francaise Irene Nemirovsky
Gilead Marianne Robinson (close to that?)
Dreams from My Father That New President
The Jesus I Never Knew Philip Yancey
Time's 2008 recap issue
Let Justice Roll Down John Perkins (a la Susie's baby)
Good reading, no? But have I finished any of them? Hmm, no. And did that stop me from buying three more books this weekend? No. Here's to my new copies of Barbara Kingsolver's The Poisonwood Bible and That Jonathan Guy's Everything is Illuminated. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Shhh, it's good news
Well. After approximately 18 months of complaining about my lack of cool job opportunities, I have finally landed my duh-ream job. It's seriously the best thing that has happened to me since finishing college (well, the marriage thing, but I consider this a different category). It's a little familiar to me, as I've volunteered with the program before, but I imagine it will be the most stretching, gratifying, fun job I could have dreamed up. I anticipate small purply pink clouds twinkling above my desk, all day long.
But I'm feeling a bit sheepish, and I feel a little guilty for "getting my way", so to speak, when there are so many people who are getting the pink slip all around me. In fact, when I run into someone who's listened to my plight (WHY GOD, DO ALL THE OTHER ENGLISH MAJORS FIND SUCCESS? WHY NOT ME? WHY???), nobody is as excited to talk about it as I am. Granted, I have felt great support, I don't mean anybody's openly rolling their eyes (though they might when I leave)--I just expected everyone to be as moved as I am.
So I'm realizing... My new job is not as exciting to other people as it is to me. (Probably because there is no elaborate party to follow involving food and happy tears and a white dress. That was way cooler.) Even though I knew this and could occasionally admit it before now, leaving college without having some sort of immediate success threatened my identity in ridiculous ways. I had so much self-doubt--everybody had always showed me The Path I should take. Get good grades? Of course! Behave? I'd love to! Listen to your parents about money and drugs and insurance policies? Obviously! Graduate college with a degree you'll pursue passionately? Check! But, um, what's next?
And it was the first time that the world didn't hand me a shiny blue ribbon. Aaaaaaand it was shocking.
Here on the flip side? It's embarrassing to have been defined by all that. But in the end, could I have known any better? Probably so. Will I spend my entire frickin' life trying to know my true identity, the one that's rooted in the love of Jesus and caring about justice and the gristle of being a survivor? Probably so.
But I'm feeling a bit sheepish, and I feel a little guilty for "getting my way", so to speak, when there are so many people who are getting the pink slip all around me. In fact, when I run into someone who's listened to my plight (WHY GOD, DO ALL THE OTHER ENGLISH MAJORS FIND SUCCESS? WHY NOT ME? WHY???), nobody is as excited to talk about it as I am. Granted, I have felt great support, I don't mean anybody's openly rolling their eyes (though they might when I leave)--I just expected everyone to be as moved as I am.
So I'm realizing... My new job is not as exciting to other people as it is to me. (Probably because there is no elaborate party to follow involving food and happy tears and a white dress. That was way cooler.) Even though I knew this and could occasionally admit it before now, leaving college without having some sort of immediate success threatened my identity in ridiculous ways. I had so much self-doubt--everybody had always showed me The Path I should take. Get good grades? Of course! Behave? I'd love to! Listen to your parents about money and drugs and insurance policies? Obviously! Graduate college with a degree you'll pursue passionately? Check! But, um, what's next?
And it was the first time that the world didn't hand me a shiny blue ribbon. Aaaaaaand it was shocking.
Here on the flip side? It's embarrassing to have been defined by all that. But in the end, could I have known any better? Probably so. Will I spend my entire frickin' life trying to know my true identity, the one that's rooted in the love of Jesus and caring about justice and the gristle of being a survivor? Probably so.
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