Correction.

If you haven't heard, I am no longer broken up but engaged! James is the best and I feel really calm and good. And it's a long story, which I'll post one day.

And. I know this is a little uncouth, but if you are interested in getting an invitation and haven't sent me your address yet, will you? Email me at kjerstinm at gmail?

Lovely.
ke

The end

Um, breaking up is harder than I remembered/anticipated. I think I was right and it is right but there's a lot of untangling that has to go on.

And I forgot the thing about cars: because he lives in my neighborhood I see his car around. And there's always that couple of months that you're extra sensitive to, like, white Hyundais or whatever, but that CRV was going to be mine once. These camp chairs I need to return were there on the first night I knew he was in and they were going to me mine once too.

Eight months is a long time.

what it feels like

I feel like I'm being smooshed between malignant forces: from the inside, my stomach is turning turning--diet coke and sunflower seeds for lunch. The press is lurching and liquid and smashes unexpected and I think of it carefully as if my thoughts were careful hands and the pressure had spikes.
On the outside, bricks. Rough and square and heavier and heavier. Piled flat both on my shoulders and my lower back, even though I'm sitting up. My jaw resists opening, even, and my neck bending.
I can't I can't I can't.

The solution:

I've come to dread reading/writing this blog. It's soo draggy and terrible. ("If I didn't know you," Annie said last night "I would think you were very dark and sad." Too true.) So I'm moving here. I may occasionally come back to Winterberry because, let's be honest, there's something super therapeutic about venting online, but hopefully those dark and sad posts will be few and far between. If I were you I would unsubscribe right now and save yourself the drama.

Thanks for following, it's been a party.

Loves,

ke

True Story

I think I'm going to take a break from blogging.

Hasta.

ke

Melissa-issa-issa

The part of this post that's about me: I convinced myself last week that I wanted to take up audio editing, and that it was as good a time as any...not like I was having a hard time finding time to sleep, not like I was complaining about how busy I was to anyone who'd listen. I checked out a voice-recorder from the library and recruited my family to put together an audio birthday card for Melissa. My little sister. Whose birthday is today! After collecting anecdotes and well wishes and "I love Melissa because...," I realized that it wasn't latent interest or good will toward my sister that drove me to this project, but a very complicated and subtle mind trying to avoid the business at hand and so I ditched the project. To all of you who helped: thanks. And sorry. To Melissa:

The part of this post that's about Melissa:

Melissa was born during an episode of Heart to Heart in a delivery room that overlooked Biscayne Bay. She spent her babyhood running around blonde and naked and nearly drowning. All day every day. In Kindergarten she would only wear the color purple. In first grade she insisted on wearing her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Halloween costume/pajamas constantly. I'm not sure if Connie was able to get them off her when she went to school. She was the athletic one: swam like a fish (you know, out of necessity), an early Varsity soccer and softball player.

Melissa is softspoken and unselfish and funny. She loves animals (she and Jill just found and adopted a tiny baby kitten which they named Guy Oliver and feed from a bottle) and kids and art. I haven't seen her sit still for years: she's always sketching or carving, and she keeps getting better and better (I, a dabbler, was taken by surprise by this: "You mean, if you spend hours and hours on a thing, you turn master?") She did, she's so great.

And this thing I've realized: Melissa is the baby of a family stocked gills-high in strong personalities. She might be the most stubborn/determined of us all, for all her quiet solitary ways. Melissa knows what's important to her and she does it and keeps doing it. And so she's an amazing friend. And an impressive artist. And a better-than-natural athlete. And an incredible person.

Anyway. Happy Birthday Melis!

Mercy Killing

Today I killed a mouse. I noticed him in the shed at one of my parks (breathing heavily, still, tiny and adorable and nearly perfect, caught only, I saw later on, by the toes on his right foot). I stalled. I questioned my logic (maybe he doesn't feel enough to merit a mercy killing? Why does this bother me so much? What would Tom Guthrie do?). I texted a friend who tried to make me feel better by comparing me, I think, to God. I filled up a bucket of water then went to my other park to grab the garbage picker-upper the better to maneuver with then moved the dewy-eyed beast into a shovel and into the water where I learned mice can swim. Just not for long dragging a trap with them and with a foot all broke to pieces.

Coming to terms

In my head I know that when fellows spout off random (well known) facts in a tone that suggests that they're experts on the subject ("People nowadays use whitewash to paint furniture, then rub it off with a rag or sandpaper to make it look old." Really? Are you referring to a decade-old trend which I may have more access to than you on account of my fulfilling societally imposed gender norms, love loving HGTV, and actually having distressed furniture...) they don't mean harm. They're not, probably, trying to imply that I'm uninformed or unintelligent. They are, probably, trying to be friendly and make conversation. In every nerve and cell and bone, however, I want to punch them in the nose and run the other way.

On the other hand: those of you to whom I've pretended to be expert (and there are a lot of you), gross, and to whom I've condescended (there's no other way to write this! I love apologizing for being a myopic, unfounded, elitist using whom.) I'm so sorry. Thanks for not punching me in the nose? Blech.

Grab-bag

1.
The best part about not being paid for a day of manual labor is the sitting in layers of my favorite clothes (thermals+sweaters) on the floor by my space heater drinking an enormous mug of chai+vanilla soy milk reading Clint Eastwood film synopses and getting my brain/life in order. And great convo over a lunch that includes lime juice. And that the sun is shining shining.

2.
As of right...now, it is official: I'm running my first marathon in September (Logan) or October (somewhere else?). And to celebrate defending my thesis (or something) I will run this.

3.

And in that day seven women shall take hold of one man, saying, We will eat our own bread, and wear our own apparel: only let us be called by thy name, to take away our reproach. Isaiah 4:1

I don't love dating at BYU. The old college try notwithstanding.

The why

I went to Fiddler on the Roof with my family a couple of months ago. It wasn't, like, the most amazing production of anything I'd ever seen (though it was Hale Center Theatre and good, and also my family is so great) but it didn't really matter. I felt myself misting up at the opening number ("The papas! Tradition!") and by "Is this the little girl I carried" and "Do you love me?" I was wasted, weeping openly.

Last night, too, I went to a show. The opening band (Lost in the Trees) opened, I think with this number and it was cooperative musical magic at its best. The french horn/xylophone/accordion player looked like there was nothing she'd rather be doing in the entire world and she kept making eyes at the lead guy--you know, signalling to each other.

That first chord was, and I'm going to overuse this word: magic. I felt all the tension in my brain and back rushing out of me, and I sat back and enjoyed enjoyed myself, let myself be taken up. And band number two (Plants and Animals) was much more raucous--but I danced because I wanted to dance and sort of let go.


And art. I keep trying to undermine the value of this stuff, dedicate myself to more practical matters etc. or convince myself that I don't like shows (loud! hot! mean!) or...whatever. But I need to stop that. The dynamic of people making music and people listening to music, participating together is important and beautiful. For everyone, but for me and my poor worn soul.

Avoiding

I am avoiding things. I am sitting in my dirty work clothes avoiding showering thereby avoiding leaving the house for job #2 thereby avoiding the rush to Dr. Cronin's house for class thereby avoiding my study date which I'll spend avoiding thinking about a thesis that I'm sort of not avoiding since I've sort of started to think about it which is uncharacteristic but, alas, mostly faking.

I am avoiding making an appointment to get my windshield replaced. Thereby avoiding the calling around I should be doing to price check (apparently Techni-Glass price matches so a little calling around could help) thereby avoiding getting my Safety/emissions done, thereby avoiding paying my registration fees. I still have a week to get this done.

I am avoiding doing some apologizing and some pulling of my head out of my nether-orifices and so avoiding some people I love (hi there) and so spending a lot of time by myself trying not to feel like a terrible person. (Ben and Jerry's. Diet Coke. Napping/wishing I could be napping.)

I am, still and always, avoiding poetry, which has just about taken the hint and left town.

Etc.

Two Questions: balance

1. Do you think that conflict/contrast/opposition is a part of God? On the one hand of course obviously not, right, God=unity. On the other hand, a sort of fundamental part of our understanding of our purpose here is that there's opposition in all things, right? Good exists only where evil exists? And God exists but so does evil in some form. And they're co-existent. The more I learn/think about patriarchy, though, and the problems that spring from opposition the more I wonder whether opposition is the driving potentially creative force I thought it was. Or if it's just the way our Judeo-Christian heritage teaches us to see conflict and, ultimately, God.

2. When we first met, did you think I hated you?

:)

I work outside

because it gives me time and quiet to think about things. After a while it would drive me crazy, but for the month, after my first year of grad school, it dulls the jaded edge of things, adds some clarity.

And some things I've been thinking about:

1. I think I'm girlier than I like to admit. I like pink and baking cookies and feeling pretty. Don't hold your breath--I think it's going to take me a minute to figure out how to disinter the princess I buried alive 20 years ago, how to make her a part of me in a way that I'm comfortable with--but maybe things will change some?

This is hard to admit. Because I care a lot about what people think. And on the one hand I've cultivated this intellectual dismissal of tradition and patriarchy and emotion to some extent, and on the other a careful pragmatism that doesn't allow for frivolity or openness of emotion. And that's the other wall I've put up: a measured stoicism, to distance and protect me from any roving betrayal or offense. But. But. I keep falling short of all of these expectations I have for myself and that I imagine everyone has for me. I feel like a fraud all the time and feel like it's better to be hated thank loved for what I'm not (I certainly did)?

And my realization today: I think I tend, naturally, toward the flighty and silly. But I have a life that's done much to stamp that out of me, or, and this I guess is the idea I want to explore, to mold that into something that I can feel really good about and respect. Again, I'm not sure how this is all going to go down, or if I'll change my actions, really, or just my motives, but. It's something.

2. I'm a hopeless, hopeless romantic. I feel like everyone knows this about me but me. But how hard is it to look at my life right now and let myself hope? That those dreams and expectations I've held so near could possibly possibly resemble, in any way, my actual life? And it might turn out that all of those hopes are dashed and crushed or drastically altered or whatever, but it might be dishonest to pretend I don't hold them, that they don't motivate all the things I do.

3. I want to do things. To help people. To travel. In big and important ways (or at least influential ways....or something). This is one of those deeply held desires that I'm not sure how to get done. Another that I've sort of buried.


So. There is my soul for you. Toodles.

Mother's Day

My life was a pretty normal one: divorce+working mom, and that means that I, by necessity, spent more time relying on and being formed by women who weren't my mom. This was wonderful. Looking back at the women and men who stepped in and stepped up I feel sooo lucky and watched after and blessed. I want to thank those part-time, emergency, and adoptive moms a little, as well as Connie of course, for being themselves. For helping me be who I am. Happy happy mother's day!

Mom #1: Connie. An old pic w/grandkids: her favorite people.

My mom-for-real. The thing about Connie is this: she finds beauty everywhere. Where she doesn't find beauty, she makes beauty. She is a talker-to-strangers, a rescuer of strays, a laugher. Our dining room table, when I was a teenager, was staffed with siblings and in-laws and distant relatives, with friends far from home, with people Connie met on the street or at work. And the table was never that big. Connie works hard. She gardens. She taught me to love good (and beautiful) food and nice clothes and just to love too. And lately she's teaching me scary and important things about repentance and forgiveness. From her I inherited a lot of my neuroses, but also my empathy, my hand-talking, my love of feeding people.

Mom #2 (a tie): Rachel.

Rachel is my oldest sister and she, over the years, has gone above and beyond in looking out for me. Rachel is the most responsible person that I know. She gets the stuff done she says she will, but manages to balance her drive with a remarkable sense of compassion and balance. She does everything she does with taste and flair; she loves modern art and architecture, she loves doing things well. The thing that Rachel taught me though, and continues to teach me is that my life is in my own hands. Through her decisions and perseverance and with her lovely family, Rachel has made herself (is still making herself) into the person she wants to be. If only because she hates being bossed around even more than I do, Rachel has taken her fate and personality into her own hands, has come out a kind and responsible and hilarious and lovely person.

Mom #2 (a tie): Anne.

My other older sister. Anne's a kind of remarkable example, too, of becoming the person she wants to be, and she inspires me all the time to become a better girl. She's a ridiculously hard worker, and as creative and competent as anyone I know. (The things she makes! Her beautiful house!) She's devoted to her family and friends and would do anything for anyone of them. She forgives. She sees the best in people. She encourages me to be temperate and kind and the very best me. She is unfailingly thoughtful and generous and just kind of a hard act to follow/the best older sister ever.

Mom #3: Diane.Diane with her real family, also some of my favorite people.

My foods teacher. My FCCLA advisor (I was the state president of FCCLA, nee FHA, did you know?). Cluff's was the place everyone that mattered to me in high school congregated. It was kind of like that neighborhood house where everyone ate cookies after school, except it was at school. And Cluff fed us and yelled at us when we were dumb and laughed with/at us. I visit now and wonder, sort of, at how she knew me better than I knew me back then and at how she had the capacity to mother all the dozens of us she did.

Mom #4: Becca. Becca was a savior-mom. I babysat for her kids (like Anne did before me and Melissa after) and she her house was always home. Because that was her priority: Becca put, always, her family first and made her friends her family. I went and sat and played cards and ate cupcakes the size of my skull and read and was safe and loved and home.

Mom #5: Becky. I've been writing this for years. Because Becky died suddenly when I was just out of high school and she was such an important person in my life and I've never been able to articulate why precisely. The first time we met I was barefoot and nearly feral and she told me she liked my hand-me-down overalls. And yes I was wearing overalls (and my hair was messy and I had a kool-aid mustache) and no I wasn't living in the backwoods. Becky saw in me (and all the frantic broken souls she collected) our talents and she spoke them. And made them true. Becky told me I was a good writer. And complemented me for liking exotic food (spicy tomato couscous!?! Yes please.) And gave me diet coke and played Ella Fitzgerald and showed me what it could mean to be a smart, confident, loving mother. Amazing, miraculous woman.

Mom#6: Janice was my stepmom only for a couple of years. Once when I was living with them she insisted that I come up out of my room, where I was hiding and reading, and sit in the living room, where my dad was hiding and reading, and have a conversation with each other. It didn't last long, by her iconoclastic attitudes toward my dad shape, still, the way I see him. And I'm indebted to her always for Thievery Corporation, Yo La Tengo, and tofu.

And to the rest of you: amazing. Thanks and happy Mother's Day!

ke

(also, I totally pillaged all of these pics: let me know if you want me to take them down? :))

GLITTER!

The moment when I knew that Alea and I were going to be friends (or that he wasn't faking, or whatever) was when he called to report on a glitter sighting: "I was at Joann's. There was a lot of glitter. I thought of you."

It's a thing.

Which might be why I'm in love with this.



Or maybe just because it's awesome. Thanks to Amanda for the link. And to everyone who's already seen this on Facebook. Or Gmail. Or whatever. For your patience.

On Fun

I'm belaboring this. How can I tell? Because having fun is the opposite of sitting in your mom's living room writing about fun. And the opposite of spending all day thinking about what it means to have fun. And spending a good chunk of the evening at the mall trying to think fun. Are those pink+leopard+sequin gladiator sandals fun? Are blisters and accenting my terrible ankles also fun? Do those two things cancel each other out probably?

I, as you may know/be able to tell am not a particularly fun person. (Not asking for validation here. Thanks though. :) ) I've been coming to terms with this for the last couple of years. I'm occasionally funny, occasionally spontaneous (which is the only real way to be spontaneous, right? People who are constantly spontaneous lose something of spontaneity? Anyway), occasionally adventurous, but I'm not the girl people call up when they're looking for a good time (read that how you may).

Today I was talking with a prof about my thesis--informally, waiting for the elevator. He said: Have fun. Have fun have fun have fun. Doing my thesis and this summer and, I think I can extrapolate, just generally. And of course I got all flustered (because that's what serious people do when someone they respect tells them they should be doing something they're not, even if that something is having fun) and set my mind to it.

And then I was on campus and hit with this heavy visceral wave of boredom. I watched five people leave the library wearing khakis and pastel tops. Boring. I bought a book (The Postcolonial Reader. I wish it were more fun.) I said 0 clever things during my class (several smart things, none of them clever).

Attempts at having fun today: Graham Canyon+sugar cone (delicious, but fun?), following a toddler through Zurcher's party supply store. This, actually, was very fun. (Ball! Purple! Yellow!) Dinner with Annie and Simon was fun.

Then I bought mom sandals (Born. Strappy. I am SO boring.) And nothing flairy or fun else. And now I'm here thinking about fun. And what that means. And what it's not. What is fun? What do I think is fun?

Which ties into another thing I've been thinking about which is that my life is now. I keep thinking that at some point my life will start when, in fact, my life is now. I just contributed to NPR because my life is now, and I will probably never be fabulously wealthy. I'm pretending to try and eat right because I'm not going to wake up one day grown up and responsible and healthy. I'm trying to enjoy the things I do (rushing around Utah Valley trying to redecorate my new place) because the things I do are my life. And I'm terrible at this.

Anyway. I'm going to stop writing now because I am soo bored I can hardly keep my eyes open. And if you've stuck with my this long I applaud your endurance. (10 points if you comment with the Joe vs the Volcano quote I'm thinking of. 100,000,000 points if you can find someone to sponsor a makeover complete with steamer trunks and an exotic destination.)

Love, ke.

Dear Moms: (and other fruit snack afficionados)

Go out and buy these:













They are healthy! And delicious! And there are like 25 pieces (tiny, but delicious) per bag instead of 8--so they last forever! And they don't have gluten. And they're made with 66% fruit ingredients.

I got mine at Target. A 24-pack for $4, which I thought was a great deal.

Thanks for the heads-up Annie. :)

Dear Baby Church:

Right now your dad is picking you and your mom up from the hospital (I'm at your house keeping Scout company while she sleeps). You are a little less than a day old and we're not sure what your name is yet (this seems uncharacteristic of your parents--they are nothing if not planners--but Scout didn't have a name till she left the hospital either. So.)

This is a little bit of your story from my point of view.

Your mom told us you were on your way for Omi's birthday. This is your mom's thing (really great birthday presents) and she's great at it. We were sooo excited. Omi screamed and squealed and all of us were glowy and happy. That night when I was praying I said thanks for you particularly: I was so grateful for you and happy for your parents: we'd all been praying for you to come. Scout wanted a little sibling and your mom and dad wanted another baby and you were a long time coming. For months and months I was happy and excited everytime I thought of you and as I watched you growing.

So. About a week ago we started watching in earnest. Omi and Granpa Dave got stuck in Italy (a volcano erupted! And no flights were going through!) and since I was the only one in Provo, I started keeping my phone on vibrate and running out of Sacrament Meeting when your mom called (I sort of loved this). Omi and Dave got home finally and miraculously and we all started pestering your mom non-stop: how are you feeling? How's the baby? What did the doctor say? Thirteen times a day. She was patient with us all even though she was getting tired and uncomfortable (she's not one to lounge around: the day before you were born she was at my place moving furniture. I told her she should be careful. She said "what's going to happen? I have the baby today instead of tomorrow?" This is the kind of woman your mother is).

The week you were born was beautiful. That Sunday was sunny and warm and all of the blossoms were out. I was so glad for Spring to finally be here I could hardly stand it. Your mom went into the hospital at 4:00 and at 10:30 you were born. Your dad told me the doctor was surprised you were only 8 lbs (+13 oz) because you looked so much bigger, and he said that you were very mellow even from the beginning.

I got to come and see you this morning and all of your grandparents came: you were so fat! And so friendly! And we cooed and pinched your toes and told you you looked like your Grandpa Forsey, which is absolutely true. And your mom and dad were so proud and Scout wanted to hold you the entire time she was there (she might have gotten more presents than you did today). And some other people visited and I'm sure everyone fell in love with you on sight (site?). Ask your mom.

And so you were born.

Some things you should know:

1. Your parents are some of the best people I know. They are hard-working and thoughtful and loving. Your dad is one of the nicest men alive, and so patient and funny and soft-spoken. Your mom has an enormous heart and is always thinking of other people and she does everything she sets her mind to.
2. You are a miracle. We're, all of us (parents and cousins and aunts and uncles and granparents and friends--because your parents are loved by a lot of people), so glad to have you and so excited to get to know you.
3. You're probably going to be a fantastic athlete. No pressure, but the earlier you come to grips with this the better. :)

Anyway. You're adorable. We love you. Go team!

Love, your Auntie ke.

On food.

I am writing this right now instead of sleeping. Because I'm a genius.

But I've been thinking a lot about food lately. I've been running again. And trying to be more conscientious. And trying to lose some of the "I'M TOO BUSY TO EAT REAL THINGS!" weight. Powdered donuts. Is all I'm saying.

And a lot of food philosophies are kind of conflicting. I have a friend (hi Cherise) who's doing like 17 calories a day, but eats diet butter. I have other friends who only eat real things, but lots of cream, which is real. I have a mom who I love and respect but who did every crazy food thing ever written.

I want to get to the bottom of what I think about food. So, here goes:

What I Eat:

Rule #1. I believe in fruits and vegetables. I try to eat them for every meal. For snacks. I'd like to get as much variety as possible (not just the apple-baby carrot 1-2 punch that got me through college). I think that vegetables are free: no matter what I'm counting, I can eat as many of them as I want.

Rule #2. I believe in real food. This isn't to say I don't love me some cheetos or Sabor de Soledad chili-lime puffs (these are sold at Crest, and I don't remember what their real name is), but when I have a choice and I want to make that choice I try to choose real. I sort of thing that Cisco ruined America. But I'd rather eat butter than margarine, for instance which brings me to:

Rule #3. I believe in delicious fat. What I want is a sucker that tastes like olive oil or gum so I can just taste olive oil all the time. I love the stuff. Butter will always have a place in my heart. Really fantastic cheese, avocado, almond butter. No matter how serious I get about weight loss, I don't think I'll ever really give up delicious fat. Mmmm.

Rule #4. I believe in social eating. That is to say I try not to eat sugar or meat, but I'm going to try and be less snotty about it. Thanks to everyone who's been so obliging. (Rachel. Connie. Anne. You guys are stars.) I love to delight people with my cooking, and why would I take that from someone?

Rule #5. French women don't get fat. I'm trying to eat better, like, do the process of eating better. Slowing down. Putting my fork down. Savoring the stuff. It makes a huge difference in my attitude and consumption.

Rule #6. I believe in Diet Coke. It's so so bad for me. Maybe one day I'll give it up. But I try so hard to be good. And coke is so good.

Before writing this post it felt like there was something more profound to be gotten at. But. ke

I'd just like to publicly acknowledge...

So you know how I've been complaining about my roommate for the last 8 months (ever since she re-rearranged all the furniture I'd enlisted Anne to help me position precisely)? Particularly since "roommate" became "roommates" when I woke up to a male voice in the next room and he never left? I have been. Complaining. So much.

I'd like to take this opportunity to eat (some of) my words. Yesterday (in the middle of a rainstorm!) I was moving (soo many books!) by myself (by myself!!) and Devon (the bonus roommate) totally jumped in to help. And not grudgingly, and not just a little, and he didn't stop once I'd packed up one carload, or once we'd delivered the books to my new place, nor once I packed up the second carload, nor when--carload 3--I reached the harried "just stuff this in a box somewhere/I'll never buy anything again" stage at 11 or so. He was a rockstar (which his hair suggested the entire time...) and absolutely saved my life.

Anyway. Draw conclusions as you will, I am done with the semester and beeeaattttt.