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I've decided to resurrect two of my favorite blog entries from back in 2003 & 2004 when I had a xanga account. Enjoy. :)
November 20, 2003
"The most important quality in a man is whether or not he can carry your suitcases." ~ my grandmother
This was valuable knowledge passed on to me during a phone conversation with my grandmother this afternoon and I have to admit that it is important for a man to be able to carry my suitcases because Lord knows I can't . . .Haha. But I'd like to lay approximately 75% of the blame on suitcases themselves and their deceptive and oftentimes nasty little qualities. They pretend they have your best interests at heart: "oh look at all the roooom we have in here, come on, pack a few more things, we can take it." So, I pack and pack and pack and usually can get the suitcase closed without sitting on it. I then move on to suitcases #2 and #3. We're all getting along fine until it's time for the trip back home. When my back is turned while gathering my stuff for the return trip, the suitcases (with their evil and cruel intentions at heart) decide to shrink on me, therefore requiring me to a. sit, jump, or scream at them, or b. give a bewildered glance to my fellow travelers and insist that the suitcase shrunk and I DID NOT acquire more things on the trip.
These suitcases also make me look bad. They make me look like I CAN'T PACK or I'm one of THOSE PEOPLE. You know, the ones who pack a million things and have no packing skills or strategy. I have strategy. I do. It involves putting the stuff in my suitcase- in a lovingly and carefully arranged manner of course.
Now some people may argue, most of them probably men, that the real issue here is that I don't NEED all of this stuff. HA. My question to you is this: What if on our trip you got attacked by seagulls and were dying and the only way- THE ONLY WAY- to save your life was with a pair of sexy, red strappy sandals? You would be dagon glad that I packed my pair of sexy, red, strappy sandals to go with my red dress that I might wear that one night- maybe. If the necessity of something I pack is not immediately visible to you, just think "preparation." You never know if it will rain, or in this case, if you will be attacked by seagulls.
I hope whatever men come in my life will understand my philosophy on suitcases and packing and realize that truly, I am the victim here. I hope that they will lovingly say, "Let me hold those suitcases for you . . .no, of course they aren't too heavy . . . yes, yes, I understand what a brilliant mind it takes to pack the way you do."
October 20. 2004
Tonight's journal entry is brought to you by Modern Woman Satirical Angst (a term invented by the lovely author of this journal).
Modern women with satirical angst tend to be women who, when drop-kicked by the nuances of reality and trod on by the bastards of society, adopt a witty and piercing world-view as a method coping. They usually record their keen observations with humor in journals, or profess them voraciously over a latte or glass of wine amongst friends. Modern women with satirical angst tend to be culturally proficient, but this quality is not mandatory. Actually, failed attempts at being cultured are often quite handy in the furthering of said angst. Furthermore, most women of this nature were fixing their panty-hose in the bathroom when the "Gorgeous, Succesful, Intelligent, Overall-Perfect-Men" were passed out to the remaining women in the room, a.k.a. the "Overly Successful, Pretentious, That-Kind-Of-Beauty-Is-Unfair-And-Obviously-Fake" women that modern women with satirical angst like to despise. Quite often, due to the sadistic humor of circumstance, modern women with satirical angst end up making idiots of themselves in front of said pretentious and man-stealing women. But all is fodder for previously mentioned journals and diatribes.
~From a current Modern Woman With Satirical Angst in Training,
Kelly
[Luke’s Diner. Luke is taking chairs off the tables when he sees Lorelai sitting outside the diner waiting for him to open.]
LUKE: What are you doing?
LORELAI: I need coffee.
LUKE: It's 5:00 in the morning. Make coffee at your own house.
LORELAI: I did. I drank it all.
LUKE: You drank all the coffee in your house before five in the morning?
LORELAI: Big gulps, lots of sugar.
LUKE: Alright, get up. [Pulls her up and takes her inside.]
LORELAI: And just a little bit of cream 'cause it makes it cold.
LUKE: Keep moving.
LORELAI: [ Sighs ] I can't sleep. I can't turn my mind off. It keeps running and thinking and making lists.
LUKE: Maybe if you drank a little less coffee, you'd make a little less lists.
LORELAI: Oh, I can't stop drinking the coffee. If I stop drinking coffee, I stop doing the standing and the walking and the words putting-into-sentence doing.
LUKE: I'll make you some coffee.
So, I fell into a wall this morning. No, I wasn't pushed, I wasn't intoxicated, I didn't trip . . . I just fell into a wall. It was 4:30 in the morning and I had to use the bathroom. As I was leaving, I fell into the wall. I don't really know what happened, maybe since I was still half asleep I might have fallen asleep for a split second and lost my balance, thereby collapsing into said wall. All I remember is suddenly realizing that "Oh there is a wall here" and thinking "Gee Kelly, you're a winner" and then laughing at myself as I crawled back into bed and proceeded to take forever to fall back asleep.
Honestly, matrimony has not been on my mind lately. The entire world knows that I don't plan on getting engaged before the age of 24 (barring the appearance of Josh Groban at my side, on his knees, proposing . . . ).
Well, last night I had a very real dream where I was marrying The Cyclist. Sorry buddy, I have to share this one. Anyway, so this dream felt so real that I actually remembering feeling like I was going to throw up from nerves. The interesting thing about this wedding was that in my dream, I knew nothing about what it was going to be like until the actual day of the wedding. Yes folks, the wedding was entirely planned by my parents and let me tell you, the invitation colors were horrific . . . blue, red and orange on beige paper . . . *cringe* . . . but anyway, here are other highlights of my wedding dream (not dream wedding):
- The wedding gown chosen by my mother for me was a pinkish/gray/pearl color, strapless . . . ugly.
- The ceremony was to take place in the church that I grew up in (ok, I can live with that) but the reception was to take place at the amphitheater with music by a Celtic band and Celine Dion. (<--- what????) - My parents had decided to invite all of their friends, but none of mine. - I had no bridesmaids (because my mother neglected to organize THAT part of my wedding, so I was frantically trying to call my three best girlfriends to be bridesmaids at the last minute). - I was too nervous to eat, but people kept on telling me to eat or I'd faint at the altar. - I had a massive diamond engagement ring on my ring finger. Kudos to The Cyclist!! ;) - The Cyclist's brothers and parents were there. - At one point I was playing the drums. Yeah . . . I don't know why, either. Hmm, I think that's it besides the constant "Oh **** I'm getting married!" feeling that permeated the entire experience.
In real life, though, here are my current wedding demands:
For a husband: Josh Groban
For flowers: blue & purple lilies
For a dress: white and not a strapless, preferably with an empire waistline, simple and elegant
For bridesmaids dresses: anything sans taffeta and poofy sleeves and rainbow sherbert hues
For a location: Reveille United Methodist Church (for now)
For a honeymoon: Italy or Ireland.
Alrighty, Josh . . . get to it! *waits patiently*
There is something about a beautiful space that makes beautiful music pierce the soul with more passion and more grace. Last night I went to the Cathedral Of The Sacred Heart to hear my uncle perform with the Cathedral Choir and the Richmond Symphony. On the program: Bruckner's Requiem and Mahler's "Resurrection." Honestly, I closed my eyes during much of the performance and thought that I was in heaven. It made me think, if God gave Man the ability to sound like this and to write music like this, how incomprehensible and magnificent must be a choir of angels? And what a perfect venue for such pieces - a cathedral that is almost a hundred years old and that is so breathtaking. The strings just soared and they inspired me to get my grandmother's violin fixed as soon as I can so that I can learn how to play the violin. I know my description of the experience is a bit syrupy, but honestly, my extensive adjective list is failing me. :)
Gustav Mahler's "Resurrection" (Symphony No.2 in C Minor):
Rise again, yes you shall rise again, my dust, after brief rest! Immortal life will be given by Him who called you! You are sown to bloom again. The Lord of the harvest goes and gathers sheaves of us, who have died. O believe, my heart, believe: Nothing is lost to you! All you have desired is yours, yes, yours! Yours, what you have loved and fought for! O believe, you were not born in vain! All that is created must perish. All that has perished rises again. Cease trembling! Prepare to live! O Pain, all-pervading, I have escaped from you! O Death, all-conquering, now you are conquered! With wings which I have won in love's ardent striving, I shall soar upwards to the light which no eye has penetrated! I shall die in order to live! Rise again, yes, you shall rise again, my heart, in an instant! Your beating shall lead you to God!
At some point over the weekend, my bed apparently changed it's name . . . and it's entire identity. Much to my surprise, ( & chagrin, anger, annoyance, etc ) *ahem* the ruler of the apartment, we shall call her Queen Rue, decided that my bed was no longer "Comfy Place To Cuddle Up With My Mom And A Great Stepping Stone Onto The Windowsill" but "Litter Box Number 2."
Now, as much as I love and spoil Her Highness, she does NOT need two litter boxes. And one of them does NOT need to be my bed and the amazing concotion of sheets and blankets that lie therein. My washing and dryer machines are tired, poor things. They have had to wash my sheets three times within the span of two days. I'm tired. I've had to put my sheets in said washer and dryer machines three times within the span of two days. Rue . . . WHY???? I've given you only the best in life . . . I've given you food, water, medicine, a box full of toys, a cat bed, the leftover milk from my cereal, Love and Attention . . . *throws hand dramatically across forehead, cues orchestra, squirts eyedrops into eyes for similarily dramatic tears of anguish*
Through consultation with my friends and my friends with cats, we have determined a list of possible reasons that Rue McRuester (aka "Cat" when I'm angry at her) has decided to paw my sheets like they are litter:
1. My attempt to get her to use a covered litter box on Sunday totally screwed with her mind, as it was like in form to that of a cat carrying case (which she loathes). But, I removed the top to the box and although this new bottom half is deeper, she does use it.
2. She only pees on my bed when I'm in the room because she is mad at me.
3. She only pees on my bed when I'm in the room because she loves being around me so much that she can't bear to be out of my presence for the two minutes it would take to walk down the hallway and use the REAL litter box.
I could put major cat deterrent stuff on my bed . . . but I enjoy cuddling with her on the bed and don't want to scare her away from it completely . . . but I also can't live with constantly changing my sheets.
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