Brown shoes and vests. Mmm, yes. Brown shoes and vests.

Or perhaps a blue dress shirt.

There are just some things that men wear that get me.

Weak in the knees, even.


Speaking of weak in the knees, Adam and Shalisa got married yesterday (and I assume they're pretty weak in the knees for each other.) I had a good time at their reception. A beautiful evening for a wedding reception.

I took some photos for fun (as in, I wasn't the wedding photographer). See them here.


“You seem embarrassed by loneliness … by being alone. It is only a place to start.” —Sabrina

I have come to love the movie "Sabrina" in the past few years. Something about it is calming, and something about it makes me think my dreams aren't that crazy, that Paris is just an ocean away, not a universe, and it's OK to be honest and blunt with people instead of just appeasing and passive. And this line, the one written at the top of the page, it has become more poignant as I've gotten older, seen my friends in and out of relationships, seen my friends get married, and see myself by myself year after year. At times I am embarrassed of being alone, no matter how much I profess to enjoy and even prefer it. But I like to think I'm a step beyond the character Sabrina at that point in the movie: I have become content, happy actually, with where I am and who I am and who I do not have beside me. Yes, sometimes, when people ask me who I'm dating and the answer is always the same, I feel a little silly. But the majority of the time I am proud, yes proud, of my life and who I've become. And more than anything, I'm excited for who I will become in the future. And yes, who that other person will be that will become a part of me in the future. 

It seems that in this Provo, Utah culture — and really, the overarching American culture — people do not talk of love unless they have it or have been spurned by it. That longing for love, it is left on one end of the spectrum to the online dating sites, and on the other end, to poets and writers. Why? Why are we ashamed of expressing that deep, natural and beautiful desire for love? Instead, Provo-ites hide it and Americans in general replace it with one-night flings, satisfying a tiny part of the greater masterpiece. I lean toward the former, being a Provo-ite myself, writing snippets of my hopes on this seldom-read blog, and filling a journal page or two with the rest when the occasion warrants. 

I'm not saying everyone should suddenly express every secret desire of their hearts for the world to examine. But wouldn't it be grand if we weren't so ashamed to do so? How much better we would know each other, perhaps even getting to know ourselves better, and forming deeper relationships through commonalities other than bands, books, sports and movies. 

I'll start it off. That's only fair. So here it is, a honestly expressed desire of mine that I am neither ashamed nor entirely confident in sharing. It is my starting point.

June 19, 2011

I visited Sarah and Mason (Victors) today. ... It wasn't weird at all, thank goodness, but I left with a bit stronger aching for married life. Or rather, just a companion to lean on, to share things with. I so want that. I want to find someone to trust so implicitly that I can smile at him because I know he'll smile back. How simple is that? How, almost juvenile. Yet it's the truth. 

I'm not jealous of others who have that, my aching is not that type. My desire for a connection to another human being is subtle, yet poignant, if that's possible. It doesn't consume my life or take up every spare thought, but it is there, deep in my chest. I can feel it, lumped in between my lungs, above my stomach. It's a lump of desire and love and longing and trust and anticipation and care and concern and a million other things that I want to give away if only the right person would come. 

It's like the weeks before Christmas and you've found the perfect gift for someone, and Christmas can't come fast enough and you're tempted to give it to them early because it's just so amazing, but they're not in town yet anyway, so you wait and you tell people about it, but that just makes you more excited and anxious to give it to them and it's all you can do to keep yourself from exploding! 

That's how I feel. It's by no means bad, yet the term I think to describe it is 'excruciating.' When will relief come? I so want to share these things. Christmas seems like it will never come. 

(But, it always comes, doesn't it? Sometimes, especially as I've gotten older, it even sneaks up on me.)


The lonely unappreciated life of a copy editor

My co-worker showed me this the other day and I nearly died. It is so perfect. Obviously if you're not a copy editor, you probably don't realize just how perfect this is, but take my word for it: It's perfect. Enjoy.

The lonely unappreciated life of a copy editor
By Jamie Kelly

The great thing about being a copy editor, besides all the drunks you get to meet in your after-work socializing, is that the public at large has no clue who you are or what you do. Most don’t even know you exist, sort of like my experience with girls in high school.

If they do have a guess, it’s that a copy editor is some mousy nerd in a fedora who runs spell-check over a story and knows the difference between its and it’s. And I’m trying to think of what that difference is right now, but it’s significance has escaped me, so we shall do as that chicken did in that parable and cross the road into other material.

Indeed, the public doesn’t know that we’re the lowlifes who write the headlines and design the pages in our vainglorious delusion that the public cares about headlines and design.

Of course, the public DOES care about headlines and design. They just don’t really know it.

They’re not picking up the paper every day, thinking, “I wonder who the creative genius is down there at the daily paper who makes the layout so attractive! Just look at that reefer to additional related content inside, for example. Just look at it, Marge! And that headline is poignant and subtle and replete with emo-tional impact, enticing me into further reading of the subject matter above which it rests. I’d sure like to meet that copy editor and give him chocolate and a sack of cash.”


See, we don’t get all the praise and adoration that reporters and Dave Barry-ripoff columnists get. We have no bylines; we don’t mingle with the general public; we don’t bring down empires and quote anony-mous sources and make up stories while sitting on our butts in a bar, downing whiskeys on the company credit card like that esteemed reporter from the New York Times, although that sounds pretty damn sweet, which is exactly why I don’t have access to the company credit card.

In fact, if you approached a member of the public and said, “Hello, person, I’m a copy editor at your daily newspaper,” he’d probably look at you and say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about and get the hell away from me or I will puncture your abdomen with my keys.”

Not that there aren’t little perks to our anonymity. When we screw up a headline, most people assume it’s the reporter who’s responsible. Have you ever noticed that? Isn’t that cool? I always get a good little chuckle out of that. That’s why reporters, who can be such repressive whiners, get so ticked off when you write, “Blah blah blah, some headline about some loser goes here” above their story.

It’s just that we would sure appreciate a little recognition every now and then, wouldn’t we, fellow low-lifes? Just a little. Just a phone call from the mayor, saying “Jamie, I LOVED that headline over the story about my indictment.” Or how about adding a Use of White Space category to the Pulitzer Prizes? Or how about having a chance at that $5,000 Lee Enterprises award, WHOOPS, I better delete that last one.
As it is, the only recognition we get is from each other in the form of “Nice design, dude,” or from our superiors in the form of, “Get your ass in here and let’s talk about that spelling error.”

Such a lonely, unappreciated life it is on the copy desk. I don’t even know why I have a telephone here. Every time it rings, I know it’s my mother.

She’s not entirely clear what I do here.

Jamie Kelly is a columnist and copy editor at the Missoulian in Missoula, Mont. He can be reached at (406) 523-5254 or at jkelly@missoulian.com.


Catherine visited good ol' Utah after our California adventure. (Ugh, that was bad. As in, the use of "California adventure," not the actual trip.)

At Temple Square.

At Bridal Veil Falls.

At Sammy's with Bobby. Ha. 

At Sammy's with Jessica.

And then Catherine left (thanks for booking a 5:50 a.m. flight buddy. I appreciate it.) and we had a bonfire. Not because she left, just coincidentally.

OK, so this is what we did at the bonfire because, well, we didn't have any beer. (Nor do we ever, cuz, you know, we don't need it.) We shake our heads back and forth really fast, relaxing our faces. It was quite the experience. 

P.S. There were more people at the bonfire than just me and Jessica, but their pictures weren't as awesome as me and Jessica's, you don't know them, or I didn't get pictures of them in the first place. There ya go. 

The Vacation: Part IV


Catherine opted to stay at Grandma's, so me and Stevie went to the beach. Which one? Sunset, I think. We wanted to try out Huntington, but, you know, it was getting late. It was hecka windy, too, so we watched the windsurfers and ate cherries and bought a T-shirt and headed back through the wonderful L.A. traffic. 

Me and Cath got silhouettes done at Disneyland, so when we got back to Grandma's we had to put them next to Grandma's that she had done when she was young. 
Left to right: Elizabeth, Grandma Deon, Catherine.

We left Friday morning. I wish we could've stayed longer. 

Yep, it was a good trip.

The Vacation: Part III


We actually got to Disneyland BEFORE it opened, although, not on purpose. I failed to look at the opening time, so we arrived about 30 minutes before it opened.

While everyone else got in line to meet the princesses, we opted for the crazies. The Mad Hatter was pretty funny. 

Cath liked this topiary. (And yes, I totally spelled that right the first time, by myself. Whaaaaaat.) 

We went on Space Mountain first. That was a mistake. So we decided to watch Captain EO in 3-D to ease our stomachs. Oh man, Michael Jackson. As Catherine said, "Who the heck would marry him?"

We got beignets and mint juleps in New Orleans Square. Mmmmm, so good. 

OK, so these signs are everywhere and they crack me up. I don't like to read while on vacation, so I interpreted it as "For your safety, NO DANCING!" True, right?

Stevie got some wicked bad blisters on the first day, so she went to the car to sleep them off (doesn't work, by the way) and me and Cath went on all the kiddy rides to finish out the night. Ah, the Tea Cups. Love 'em.

Day 2 at Disneyland/Calif. Adventure was better than the first, in my opinion. Partly because of this picture. Stevie on Hollywood Tower of Terror.

We also went, on the second day, to the Pinnochio restaurant. Bet you didn't know he had one, huh? It serves German/Austrian food ... I guess. I got a chicken sausage in a pretzel roll. Stevie and Cath got cheese burgers. If they had gotten hamburgers it would've been a little more legitimate. Cuz, you know, Hamburg, Germany? A-Ha. A-Ha.

"It's a Small World After All." Surprisingly I didn't have it stuck in my head for that long afterward.

Things got a little crazy toward the end of the second day. Enjoy the madness. 

Overall, a very fun experience. I will forever remember the agony of pushing a wheelchair up Paradise Pier at California Adventure with the BRAKE ON! And, thanks Catherine for going on California Screamin' not once, but THREE times with us. Or was it four? And Stevie, you're pretty cool in general.

The Vacation: Part II


When we got to Upland we talked with Grandma and ate some good food and went to a thrift store. This is the only picture I got while there, except for the morning we left Upland. Anyway, behold the most amazing pants ever.

Pink. Pockets. Ankle cuffs. Hammer pants. Oh yeah. 


Proof that I'm getting old:

1) I got a financial magazine in the mail from my bank and didn't throw it away immediately. In fact, I put in on my desk with the intention of reading it. Which leads to number 2 ...

2) I forgot about the magazine. I'm forgetting things more and more.

3) I went to Disneyland last week and the beach. I had fun, but it took a lot of convincing myself that it would be more fun at Disneyland than it would be to hang out with my grandma at home and just let the "kids" go to Anaheim. I still have my doubts about if Disneyland was worth it. ;o)

4) I buy mixed nuts, extra-fiber wheat bread, normal colored underwear and I almost bought a bag of dates. DATES! I'll tell you what, I need a different kind of date, although the normal colored underwear might be hurting my chances.

5) I worry more about comfort than looks when picking out clothes in the morning.

6) I went looking for face creme to reduce dark circles and prevent wrinkles. Too expensive. Which is another proof of me getting old: tight-wad. Or maybe that's just a Gosney thing.

All I need now is a Kindle and some orthopedic shoes and I'll be good go to the early-bird dinner special and BINGO night at the community center. Not that those are bad things, oh heavens no. I wish this aging thing would speed up a little.

(And yes, I'm well aware that the majority of you who read my blog own Kindles or something like unto it. And guess what? You're all older than me. HA! So quit taking offense. And, I love you.)

The Vacation: Part I


Stevie flew in on Friday, May 27. We hung out in Salt Lake City for a while, exploring Temple Square and getting Chipotle for lunch before picking up Catherine at the airport and heading back to Provo.

Saturday we made our way over to BYU and they got all excited about the Jimmer cutout. Notice they have to keep even the cutout out of reach, locked away. For good reason.

Then we went to a crepe place. Overpriced, but very good. (Unless you got the buffalo chicken one. No good.) Later we went to get cupcakes. Cupcakes are a girls best friend, you know, because you can't eat diamonds.

Sunday morning we headed out on the open road, making our way to the coast. ("We're winging our way to the coast." "Mmmm, California.") Catherine sang loudly and I drank Diet Coke and Stevie put up with us pretty well. 

We stopped in St. George for In-N-Out and walked around the temple grounds, too. Did I feel out of place and sacrilegious? Why yes, yes I did.

And that concludes Part I of our four-part series. Tune in tomorrow — er, later — for Part II.