Monday, August 29, 2011

dream in my pocket

A few months ago, a friend of mine sent me this. She knows that I have always dreamed of being a writer. And she knows that like most dreams, it gets shoved behind daily tasks and my job and my relationships. It ends up dead last in my priorities, even though at one point in my life it was first.

You have a dream in your back pocket, don’t you? Over the years, that dream has taken on many different names in your mind: Silly. Ridiculous. Hobby. Foolish. Impossible. Waste of time. You have called it that for so long, that you have never actually taken the time to consider how it got there in your pocket in the first place.

We throw trash away; we don’t put trash in our pockets. That dream is there because at one time, you saw that it had value. And so you tucked it away for safe-keeping. But doubt and fear have convinced you to keep it hidden, convinced you to rename that dream Wrong. What would it take for you to pull that dream out again, to stop taunting it with cruel names and to simply listen to what it has to say? No filters. No back talk. No eye rolls.

Dare to handle it, to hold it in your hands and consider it with kindness, with compassion, with (dare I say it?) goals. Are there tiny, itty-bitty baby steps you can take toward pursuing it? Can you at least pull it out of your pocket and hold it in your hand? Place it on the desk, maybe?
(read the rest here)

Sometime in the last few months, I quit writing. I was so overwhelmed with life and work and daily stresses that for some reason I didn't do the one thing that destresses me and makes sense of my emotions. I missed it. I suffered without it. Those months felt worthless. I felt worthless.

Then, about a month ago, I started writing again. Nothing fancy, nothing noteworthy, just writing in general. I'm writing about my childhood and a poem here and there and maybe a couple pages of fiction. Nothing noteworthy, but the dream is out of the pocket and onto the desk. No longer forgotten. My first tiny, itty-bitty baby step toward pursuing it.

Sunday, August 28, 2011


I am like this album cover.

My hobby is that of a 75-year old crotchety woman. It's jigsaw puzzles. Sometimes, I get the urge to do a puzzle the way a heroin addict probably gets the itch for a fix. I have 500 hundred piece puzzles and 1,000 piece puzzles, but it's the 1,000 piece puzzles that I really like. 500 is too short (takes me 45 minutes), but 1,000 is just right. On a Friday night, I want nothing more than to turn my iPod on full blast and sing along with my favorite songs while racing the clock, frantically making piles and putting together pieces.

Sometimes I can hear Steve laughing at me from the other room, but it doesn't bother me. I know how I must look (and sound). I have narrowed down my puzzle selection to a few favorites that I do over and over again. I've become pretty quick, but still haven't met my goal. My goal is to put together 1,000 pieces in two hours. That might sound like a lot of time, considering I can do 500 pieces in 45 minutes, but with double the pieces to sift through, it takes more than twice as long. Yesterday I almost made it. Two hours, four minutes.

People that know the bitchy and outgoing side of me - the girl who drinks two or three bottles of wine at parties and talks trash - those people probably wouldn't believe this puzzle maniac is me. The people who know the pensive side of me - the reader and writer - might believe it. The people I work with, who see me in work mode - busy, frantic, perfectionist - would think it was a bit far-fetched. I am all these things at once, yet at different times. I'm not defined by one word or mood.

That is why my blog entries are all over the map. I admire people who can write in the same voice that appeals to the same readers. But I can't do it. What I write is dictated by how I feel at the time. And it's not always bitchy, it's not always pensive, it's not always angry or happy or sad. It's not always anything. It's always something. I don't have thousands or hundreds of followers. I have a handful of people like me who are different at different times, and maybe aren't always "on" or can't always turn it off. I wish I had more control over myself, but I don't.

I am a puzzle, made up of all these different pieces - all these different moods and hobbies and personas in the album cover - and I'm not complete if even one piece is missing.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Hoes in different area codes

You leave home and you move on and you do the best you can
I got lost in this old world and forgot who I am

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
This brokenness inside me might start healing
Out here it’s like I’m someone else
I thought that maybe I could find myself

If I could walk around I swear I’ll leave
Won’t take nothing but a memory
From the house that built me

~Miranda Lambert

Personally, I'm much more of a Miranda Lambert than a Carrie Underwood.

I went home three weeks ago, and every time I do, I feel like I'm reclaiming a little piece of myself that I had left there. I don't make it home as often as I'd like to, but every time I do, I feel myself, in a different way. The me that lives in Nebraska is responsible with a stable job who drives an air conditioned car and lives within a budget.

But the me in Washington is on vacation. I have no dog, no job, no car, no cable for those few days. I can just chum around with my brothers and chat with my mom and forget about the budget and eat out and don't exercise. The entirety of my life being responsible has been spent here, but Washington holds my childhood, my adolescence, my college party years. It holds my brothers and my parents, my niece and my sister-in-law. It reminds me of who I was.

Sometimes I think I want to move back there. I miss the mountain and the cool breeze and the seafood and the places to shop and my family. Mostly my family. But if I lived there, I couldn't be irresponsible Holly. It's kind of nice, having two of me - one for there, one for here. One who lives within her means, and one who does whatever she wants. Those two can't collide - they're best left in their own zip codes. This way, they can both exist.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Bitchy bakery girl

Yesterday, I was at Olive Garden picking up my to go order, since even at 4:30pm on a Tuesday night, that place is sure to have a one hour wait. In front of me in line at the to go counter was a woman with a fat ass ordering. I was already in a pissy mood, because who the fuck orders to go food from a sit down restaurant at the restaurant? Hasn't she heard of a god damn phone? So she is going to order the food and wait twenty minutes while glaring at the to go lady impatiently. Brilliant.

So the fact that she was a bitch just made me more pissy. I already figured she was based on the way she was standing, hogging the whole aisle rather than standing near the person she was behind in line, but I'm trying to be a gentler person a give people a chance. This woman orders, and says, "and I want a lot of breadsticks," as if she is planning to shove breadsticks in her mouth the way the Guiness record holder did with cigarrettes.

"I can only give you two for free," the to go lady replied tartly. Fat Ass rolled her eyes and shook her head and said, "well I'm not paying for them, so I guess I'll take the two." Then as soon as she said it, she added, "but I know that's bullshit because I work at a bakery." Apparently she thinks working at a bakery makes her an expert at Darden Restaurants policies. Or maybe she was trying to say she knows the value of bread, because she's in the bread industry. Either way, she just sounded like a real idiot and I coughed to cover up my chuckle.

"How long has this policy been in affect?" she asked the to go lady while signing her receipt - she just couldn't let the breadsticks thing go. "Since as long as I've worked here, and I've been here four years," the employee responded. "Well that can't be true," she retorted, "I got more than two breadsticks when I came here in...2008." She was racking her brain in the diary section, trying to see when she last wrote an entry about snorting a six foot line of breadsticks. The to go lady looked at Fat Ass, then looked at me, then snapped, "well, that's the policy."

Finally, Fat Ass stepped aside enough for me to pick up my order which was sitting there getting cold the entire time she was arguing about breadsticks. We all know that there are hundreds of breadsticks behind that door and that thousands of them get thrown away each day, but the point the to go lady was trying to make was that you get back what you put out, as J. Lo would say. If you have a breadstick instead of a small intestine, a bear claw instead of a heart, and angel food cake instead of a brain, maybe you're spending too much time in the bakery and need to start working on your social skills.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

perky tits won't stand up straight

Googled phrases that landed people here:

1. Why are people bitchin about the rain...its 1opm on a wed
Yeah peeps, don't bitch about rain after the sun has gone down on a weeknight.
2. Old people play with poop
I thought it was babies. But infants and the elderly do have a lot in common
3. My tall cactus won't stand up straight
Is this really about a cactus?
4. How do you outsmart a carnie
If you have to ask, you're not up for the challenge.
5. "teenage booty"
Get off my site, perv. Wrong place.
6. Holly Pelesky fucks
This one really bothers me. I mean, really, what are we expecting to find by googling this? A list? Google images? I might have a blog, but there still are some things I don't post on the internet.
7. Aziz Ansari google himself
Him and everyone else. I wonder if he puts "fucks" at the end.
8. Chipotle 401k
Unless aluminum foil counts as currency, I don't think anyone is retiring early on this.
9. Bell Jar tattoo
I just got a great idea for my first tattoo.
10. Perky tits
Wrong place again, perv. My tits haven't been perky since 2004.

Monday, August 8, 2011

the next level

This is where I was this weekend.

My sister has put the last year of her life into planning her wedding. And I must say, it showed. It was beautiful and frantic and emotional and fun, all wrapped into one.

It was supposed to be a dry (no booze, but tears are allowed, if not encouraged) wedding, but my brother and I changed that. I said it was "fun," didn't I? Nothing is fun about dry. Nothing. If you're thinking of something to refute that, you're not thinking of anything dirty.

Speaking of dirty, at breakfast my aunt was talking about some Christian romance author that lives near her and we both agreed that Christian romance sounds like a real drag. "I want to read a book about the Christian girl with the messy hair," she said.

I could write that. That shit is real. No matter how beautiful something looks, is there really such a thing as a fairy tale romance? I don't think so. Relationships take work and compromise and tears and arguments. Anything less than that belongs in the fiction section.