On Anniversaries

The truth is, once you make it past your first year of marriage, and your status as newlyweds fades into the past filled with burnt dinners and laundry fights, the second anniversary doesn't seem like such a big deal.

There's far less change to adjust to; far less attention to suffer, and far less firsts to celebrate - as a couple, your first married Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine's Day are all behind you.

It almost seems depressing. The second year of marriage is business-as-usual.

Except for the fact that I loved my second year of marriage even more.

In fact, both the hubs and I agreed that this year was far better than the last.

We loved our first year of marriage, but we adored our second year.

It's been harder, sure. We lived apart for more than four months. We joined the Navy. We moved to a state where we knew no one. We learned, in essence, a whole new way of life.

We both cried more tears than I ever thought possible.

But, frankly, it was awesome.

And refining.

Gone are the thrills of the first year and in is the closeness of living and breathing and loving your best friend - the person that finally knows the very core of you more than any other human being.

It's startling how much difference a year makes.

But I've never felt more comfortable with a person than I do my husband. And I've never felt more deeply in love with a person than I do my husband.

It seems that when all the trappings are gone - when the white dress no longer holds its magic, when the cake top has long since been eaten, and when you've become one of those couples who's been married for "a few years now" - you learn how perfectly matched and mated you and your spouse are.

And you find - in the mundane Tuesday night, Crock pot dinner and the routine folding of your husband's black church socks - that love exists and manifests a whole lot more than you ever thought possible.

Because, as we stand on the edge of a whole new sea of beginnings for the little family we formed two years ago this Sunday, I know that time takes the edge off the rough spots and smooths us both into softer, more settled spouses, content and tickled pink at the kiss good-bye in the morning and the reassuring arms of your soul mate holding you night after blessed night.

So bring on year after boring year of anniversaries and another "few years now" of marriage. I'll take them. Something tells me they'll be good to me. To us.

After all, just look at the last two. We've been totally blessed.

Happy Second Anniversary, baby.

***

For those of you that are new around here, you can find the story of how I met my husband here.

Happy Friday, everyone!

An Unabashed Hug

Before I started graduate school, I took a job working with chronically ill children at a camp.

By far one of the best jobs I've ever had, I learned a lot about myself and others there.

Heck, I even met my husband there.

It was a special place, a place, kids said, that was "filled with love" - a grand idea we all espoused while working there.

But underneath it all, it was a place just for kids. Sick kids, yes. But kids with attitudes. Kids with problems. Kids who were angry, depressed, and socially freaked out. Kids.

While we did our best to make that place all sunshine and rainbows, underneath it all, we knew some kids had issues that we wouldn't be able to fix in our short stints with them.

One such child, with such problems, we'll call Matilda.

She was 14. She had epilepsy. She had cerebral palsy (CP). She had a host of other problems that amounted to a life for this little girl that was nothing if not difficult.

She was severely delayed mentally, socially, and, to some extent, physically.

She struggled to walk, wore braces on her limbs, and limped. She held her right arm in toward her torso, immobile, characteristic of a child with CP, who had had strokes and resulting shunts put in her brain. She had seizures that sometimes caused just her face to twitch and other times wracked her whole body with such violent shakes that it would take her days to recover.

She also had bright red hair, freckles, and huge obsession with Hilary Duff.

Because of the irregular activity in her brain, this adolescent girl acted more along the lines of your typical 7 or 8 year old.

A 7 or 8 year old, mind you, who was largely unaware of how others viewed the world around her.

Because of that, she struggled to communicate, to relate to any of her peers. She stared off at times as if trying to escape from a world where other kids her age didn't understand her garbled speech, where adults didn't tire of repeating things over and over and over again to her because her brain didn't have the capacity to remember them.

She didn't understand boys and why others would see them as any different than girls; she didn't understand clothes, and why running around naked in front of others was not OK. She didn't understand her own size, and how crawling into someone's lap as a young teenager was largely seen as inappropriate.

Sad though it was, her brain just didn't let her understand the social mores, the proper etiquette, and the guarded language and gestures others put up around her to remain "cool" in our society.

Stripped of that ability, her mind just didn't comprehend.

But, because her mind also didn't have the ability to hold a grudge, to join a clique, or to pick on someone younger and weaker, it left room for one other skill - a skill Matilda knew all too well.

The ability to unabashedly and wholeheartedly love somebody.

Matilda has, to this day, the biggest heart I've ever seen.

I spent seven days working with her, and throughout each one, she'd squeeze my hand and smile up at me at during the most random of moments.

She'd express joy when we'd go fishing, when I'd take her swimming, when we'd play dress up, when we'd read books at night, when I'd tuck her into bed.

She'd scramble into my lap, as big as she was, and sing songs, brush my hair, or gently touch my earrings with her finger tips.

And, whenever she felt like it, whenever she thought it needed to be said, she'd reach her arms around my waist and hug me, beaming up at me and saying, "I love you."

Not that I was special. For, really, Matilda loved everybody. She was grateful for any fun experience with anyone. For example, as her parents led her away at the end of our week together, she hugged each one of her peers - all of whom also struggled with epilepsy, though not as severely - good-bye and wept, whispering "I love you."

In that week together, she probably hugged me 18 times a day. Maybe even more. She hugged all of us that much. I was so used to her arms around my waist and her hand squeezing mine that by the time she left, I physically missed them.

She made that camp a place that was really "full of love."

Because that week, I may have taught Matilda a few things: We learned to put on lipstick, and we learned to play hopscotch. We even learned to float on our backs in the pool.

But Matilda, with every single hug, taught me a lot more.

She taught me that humanity is, underneath it all, good.

That, once you strip away the baggage that societal pressure puts on most of us, the human spirit is loving and caring and openly communicative with others.

That love is really and truly our basest emotion.

That, beneath every other motive, caring for others is the most natural thing we do.

And that, when all other means of expression escape you, all you really need to do is reach out your arms in a hug.

Just like Matilda.

***

Thank you, Lisa, for tagging me to tell the story of my most memorable hug with the Blog Hug Award. (Lisa has been such a great friend to me while my husband has been away, as she is dealing with the same thing with her boyfriend, who is currently deployed with the Army. Go check out her blog!)
And now, I'd like to "hug" the following bloggers:

Gina at Namaste by Day
Katie at Loves of Life
Crazy Shenanigans
Lil' Woman at Little Woman, Little Home
Melissa G. at The Missionary Mama

Tell us the story of your most memorable hug, my dear ladies!

And as for the rest of you, play along, as well, if you'd like.

I hear by "hug" you, too! Happy Thursday everyone!

Love called

My phone rang on Wednesday night.

I was just getting out of the car, minding my own business, when I heard the tinkle, tinkle of my cell.

It was husband.

My best friend.

The the man whose voice I haven't heard in three weeks.

The second he said "Hi, baby," his voice cracked.

He cried.

I didn't stand a chance.

Although he had a much easier time pulling it together after someone yelled at him to "Suck it up, men! I don't want to see anyone crying on those phones tonight!"

Still, we got to talk for a full 30 minutes. We chatted about our friends, our families, the dogs, our upcoming move, random stuff.

We both stopped a lot just to hear each other's voices.

We both cried.

Even though I was sitting in my house, talking to him felt like coming home.

Because, though this journey will still be hard, I have learned even more about love over the last three weeks than I ever thought possible.

Like my friend Jenn said just a few days ago, the true love of a spouse doesn't look like we see it in the movies.

It's grittier; it's simpler. It's real-er.

It's the actual realization that even at their worst, they make our lives better.

Because that's the thing: My husband and I are without each other, in tears at the sound of each other's voices. It's definitely not us at our brightest and shiniest. But it's still us, loving each other in a way that only we know how.

My husband really does know how to love me, even from afar, even when I'm scraping the bottom of my barrel, even at my ugliest.

And, no, that love doesn't read like a great romantic novel. It doesn't even read like a good issue of Ladies Home Journal.

It's bills and tears and separation and laundry and moving and fear and longing and pain and jar spaghetti sauce. It's missed LOST episodes and long-distance phone calls. It's bare feet and dreams of babies. It's going to church alone and Navy-forced time away. It's us.

It's our own black-and-blue love story.

One phone call brought that all rushing back.

Truth be told, I love my husband more today than I did yesterday. Even though I haven't seen him in three weeks.

Because it's not pretty, but it's pretty real.

And it's better than any movie I've ever seen.

***

Thanks, Jenn, for inspiring me to write about love when it's hardest!

And thank the Lord for Friday! I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend!

My Unexpected Love Story

I started out teaching college students.

While working on my master's degree, I taught a basic communications course to incoming college freshmen and sophomores.

And just like that, I fell in love with the art of teaching.

I also felt its inadequacies with every step I took.

I worked with college freshmen who didn't know how to use a period. I met 21 year olds who didn't know the difference between "there" and "their." I met students who graduated high school - with honors - and couldn't write a coherent sentence.

And all those students? Communications and English majors.

It was terrifying.

Something was happening in high schools that greatly hurt my grammar-loving heart, and I was bound and determined to stop it.

So, I took my master's degree and headed off to teach high school.

I was filled with ideas that I could "save them all." I thought I could teach everyone of them a "love of the language." I believed I'd instill in them writing and reading skills they'd been missing up until this point.

And then I fell flat on my face.

Because high-schoolers are so much more than poorly educated.

And my job, as a specialized language arts teacher, very often has little to do with teaching the proper usage of a semicolon.

Instead, there are days when I'm a life coach; there are days when I'm mother; there are days when I'm a judge, and there are days when I'm a jury. I've been a police office, a preacher, and their worst enemy. I've also been their best friend and their shoulder to cry on.

Only once in a great while am I their teacher.

And then, we learn about semicolons and commas and non-essential clauses.

Sometimes.

My first year "in the system," as they say, was brutal. The attitudes, the behaviors, the problems, and the reactions the teenagers greeted me with were above and beyond anything I've ever experienced.

And I'd worked with plenty of teenagers before.

But, quite honestly, these teens ate me alive.

Between the lying, the cheating, and the stealing; between the melt-downs, the melodrama, and the mundane misbehaviors; between the unavoidable, the inevitable, and the un-exciting; there was very little room to impart a "love of the language."

So I taught what I could and survived the rest.

I dreaded my job, and by the time summer rolled around, I burned out.

Way out.

I wasn't even a flicker of a flame. I wasn't even an ember.

I was dried-up soot.

Dried-up soot that never wanted to see a child between the ages of 14 to 18 again.

I took solace in the fact that other teachers told me they "cried every day during my first year 'in the system.'"

Well, I cried a lot, but not every day, I told myself.

I took refuge in the fact that I learned the average job expectancy for what I teach, to the age group I teach it to, is two years.

Two years, and everyone else who does what I do had moved on to another job. Any other job, it seemed.

I even took comfort in the fact that I met 20-year-veteran teachers who were struggling with the same students I wanted to, quite honestly, never even think about again, let alone face in my classroom the next year.

I counted down every day of summer until my return. I debated calling up the principal and quitting. I dreamed of returning back to my old job - where I had deadlines, and pressure, and endless late nights of writing. But no teenagers in sight.

Instead, come August, I went back to work.

I went back to school, with the students in tow.

I took a deep, painful breath and faced those adolescent monsters that had made my life a living nightmare for the nine months prior.

Against my better judgment and my intense fight-or-flight response, I went back.

I chose to fight.

I chose to fall back in love with the art of teaching.

Except I didn't.

Because while I re-vamped my lesson plans and changed around my curriculum and mapped out my quarterly assignments, I began to lose sight of my beloved pedagogy.

And, without even knowing it, I began to fall in love with something else.

Because while I was teaching the essentials of good literature, I watched my kids start to adore story-telling. I laughed along with them while they played with bubbles and Play-Doh and a Barrel of Monkeys to create a children's story that contained foreshadowing, setting, and rising action, as well as a good dose of fun.

While I was teaching the importance of non-fiction, I watched my kids stare at images captured by photojournalist James Natchwey. I cried along with them while they viewed photos of major world tragedy and helped them along in frank discussions about AIDS, famine, and war.

While I was teaching editing, I watched my kids tactfully critique their peers' work, while helping those same peers complete a piece that was flawless. I clapped along with them when we finally were able to include every student's edited work in the school newspaper.

And before I knew it, I was beaming when they came bounding into my classroom in the morning, wanting to show me pictures of their new dog, new car, or new and improved math grade.

I was reveling when they knew the right answer to a question I asked, even when I assumed they'd answer incorrectly or snidely.

I was living for the moments when they were all intent on finishing a project, a paper, a yearbook page, a news article, a poem - so much so that completing it well was there reward, and not the good grade they'd receive from me later.

I relished every conversation I had with a student; I cherished every gift they gave me; I enjoyed every tidbit they told me.

Because instead of falling back in love with teaching, I'd fallen head over heels in love with my students.

And it took me until yesterday to realize it.

Because on Monday morning, I was actually excited to see them. I couldn't wait to tell my journalism students how wonderful the yearbook was looking. And I was anticipating all the photos my 10th-graders had to show me from the photo essays they were working on.

Without even realizing it, I'd lost that pit of dread that resided deep-down in my stomach every time I drove to school in the morning.

Instead of the pit, all I felt was love.

And, now, as I write this, I also feel twinges of sadness.

For I only have three months left.

Three months, and then I'm moving away.

Moving away from this school I once hated. Moving away from the students I've worked with for close to three years now. Moving away from people I love.

Luckily, kids are resilient. A few will lament me moving on, but most will bounce back with a buoyancy that is reserved only for 15 year olds.

By next year, I'll be a name in passing, a "Hey, remember Mrs. C?"

I'll be replaced with another teacher, who, in all honesty, will probably do a better job than I did.

And though I won't miss the stress and the craziness and the constant emotional tight rope that working with high-school-ers involves, I will miss the smiles, the hugs, the origami paper cranes, and the frank discussions about college admissions, sex, drugs, and, occasionally, rock 'n roll.

I'll miss watching my teenagers become published authors; though I've done it for a while now, the magic never wears off on me, and I'm never quite sure how my kids manage to publish a student magazine, newspapers and a yearbook in less than nine months.

I dare say, I'll even miss the drama and the heartbreak. The tears of a recent adolescent break-up and the sobs at graduation.

Those joys, just like all the burdens, will be handed off to somebody else.

Somebody else far better, who will teach these kids and guide them and, hopefully, learn from them.

Learn that they are prickly and difficult.

Learn that they are emotional and overbearing.

Learn that they are frustrating and hair-raising.

And learn that they are seemingly impossible to love.

Until, one day, you realize you've fallen for them. All of them.

You learn they've gripped your heart and that letting go will be far more painful than you ever expected.

Just like I did.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone! Come back tomorrow for another edition of Workout Wednesday!

The man who snuck in my bedroom

Early Monday morning - at 4:30 a.m. - a man walked through my bedroom door.

A man I wasn't expecting.

He immediately rushed toward the bed, where I was sleeping in my sweats.

I woke up with just enough time to gasp before he grabbed me.

And kissed me.

My husband was home.

My husband was home two days earlier than he was supposed to be.

Truth be told, I expected him home tonight.

I'd been counting down the days (OK, hours...OK, minutes!) until his return from his two-week vacation to see his family before he leaves for military training in February.

I was openly excited that, by the time I walked in the door from work this evening, he'd be here.

In our home.

Ready to eat dinner with me and take out our trash and kiss me good-night.

Ready to be my typical husband for one more month before he leaves again.

But I got a surprise.

Because instead of staying Sunday night with his friends in Arkansas, and instead of stopping at a hotel in Alabama like he'd planned to Monday night, he left early and drove straight through.

He drove all night to get to me.

To climb into bed with me at 4:30 a.m. and kiss me awake.

And to nestle next to me at 4:45 a.m. and soothe me back to sleep.

My husband came home early.

Something tells me he likes me.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Let's have "The Talk"

It was a normal Wednesday afternoon.

The last bell had rung. I was sitting in my classroom. I was grading papers. And all around me were several of my students, meeting for an hour-long study session for semester exams.

The purpose of my after-school study sessions is for my students to...drum roll please...study. (Shocker. I know.)

Towards the end of the semester/year, if I give my students an hour after school, where they have access to me if questions arise, many will take it. Plus, it keeps them in school, doing something productive, and off the streets, where one can only guess at what unproductive things they might get into.

Now, that being said, they are, in fact, teenagers. So even the most of productive after-school study session tends to go a little something like this:

Ask Mrs. C a question; study for five minutes; talk to the guy next to you about this weekend's plans. Ask Mrs. C another question; study for five minutes; go get a drink from the water fountain. Ask Mrs. C yet another question; study for another five minutes; talk about the big news on campus, as communicated to everyone via lunch-room gossip earlier that day.

It's par for the course. And on the kids' own time, I try not to intervene too much, unless totally necessary. I just sit there, grade papers, and listen.

Because you can learn a whole lot once the kids semi-forget you're there.

A whole lot.

So, on this particular Wednesday, my ears perked up when I heard the words "crazy" and "sex."

Or, more specifically, I began hearing sirens in my ears blaring "WARNING! WARNING!" once that dreaded S-word left their mouths.

I quickly glanced up, then just as quickly returned to my papers, pretending to grade some more, while listening all the while to a group of 17-year-old boys talk about S-E-X.

The convo went as follows:

Student #1: Did you read that editorial in the school paper where the girl said teenagers weren't old enough to have sex?
Me (on the inside): YAY! The students are actually reading the school paper!
Student #2: Yeah. We talked about it in government class even. People are a little ticked off about it, I hear.
Me (on the inside): "Ticked off," huh?
Student #1: That's because she just said out loud what they know is actually, really and truly, right.
Me (on the inside): Hurrah! This kid's got it!
Student #2: Yeah, do you know that at lunch some days, my friends talk about how stressed out they are that they might get their girlfriends' pregnant?
Me (on the inside): WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
Student #1: Can you believe that, Mrs. C?
Me (on the inside): No, I can't....Wait a minute. Are they actually talking to me now? Oh crap.

At this point, I'm pretty sure the room started to spin. Those warning bells in my ears turned to huge siren wails, screaming "ABORT! ABORT! DO NOT PASS GO! DO NOT ENGAGE 17 YEAR OLD MALE STUDENTS IN A CONVERSATION ABOUT S-E-X! GET OUT OF THERE NOW!"

I seriously contemplated using the old, "Did somebody just hear my phone ring?" before pretend-rushing into my attached office and composing myself.

Still, after I got over my shock that they were obviously willing to engage a female teacher in a rather personal conversation about a rather awkward topic, I managed to calm down enough to stammer out:

"Well, gentlemen, do you really think they're making a smart choice?"

They hemmed and hawed for a little while before Student #2 said, "Well, that's why they should be responsible and use protection, so no one gets sick or pregnant, you know? They should be smart enough to do that."

I remained silent; I bit my tongue.

I resisted the urge to run over and grab him by the shoulders and yell, "Honeychild, it's not just about getting pregnant or getting an STD! Think of what you're giving away yourself! Think of what you're taking from that poor girl! You all are babies in the grand spectrum of all of this! You are most likely not going to marry and spend the rest of your life with these girls! And think of how much hurt and pain you all will go through just by the fact that you are not emotionally capable of dealing with sexual intercourse yet??? So tell me, what do you think about that, honeychild? WHAT? HUH?"

Still, I shushed myself. Because if I've learned nothing else as a teacher, I've learned this: Calling teenage boys "babies" and "honeychild" will get you nowhere. And fast.

Plus, scaring the bejeebers out of them was not the way to go; I knew that, too.

So I shut up.

Finally, Student #1 jumped in.

"No way, dude. I'm not having sex now. I get upset when I get a bad grade on a test. How painful will it be to deal with all that stuff? It's just not smart. I'm telling you. It's just not smart. I know we can't handle it."

Bingo.

I resisted the urge to hug him as hard as I could and scream "Good for you!" before rushing into the office to call his mother and exclaim, "Never fear! He's not having sex! He's a good kid, and you have nothing to worry about!"

Student #2 was nodding in acquiescence.

They both returned to studying.

And I went back to grading papers, or pretending to.

But I was smiling down at those papers instead.

Because sometimes, as a teacher, you have to step in. Sometimes, you have to make your mark. Sometimes, you have to tell them what you think and why; you have to tell them what to do.

But other times?

Those other times, you just have to step back. You just have to listen.

You just have to shut up and let them talk it out on their own.

You'd be surprised what kids will say to you when you're quiet, when you're not pontificating at them, as an adult.

Because very often, they'll say it better than you ever could.

***

Quick Note: I'm not attempting to make a political statement here; I'm not attempting to throw an abstinence-only viewpoint in anybody's face.

I'm just coming from a place that many teachers and mothers of boys come from.

I'm coming from a place of working with lots of teenage boys I care about very much.

I'm coming from a place where I truly view my teenage boys (and girls) as my "babies;" they are "my kids."

And I know, after spending many hours with them, that having sex is not a good choice for them. It will, and often does, break there hearts.

I realize that a lot of the world doesn't agree with me on this, but I'm OK with that.

Turns out, some of "my kids" are OK with that, too.

And for that, I'm grateful.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Step back; be blessed

If you're being kind, you'd call me "high-energy," abuzz with the doing of many tasks and willing to take on almost anything.

If you're being honest, you'd call me "anxious," "over-thought," and downright worried, with a huge inability to say "No!", thus leaving me stressed out and ulcerous in my mid-20s.

It's part of my personality I've had since I was birthed into this world, and a part of my personality I've loathed almost since.

I'll be honest with you all: I'm rarely at peace.

Quite simply, I'm never caught up. There's too much to do and not enough time in the day, week, month, year, decade...well, you get the picture.

And being in that space, though it's often self-inflicted, is not a happy place for me to be.

I get a little bitter; I get a little angry. I get snappy and stressed and downright peeved at the world, at the life I was given.

I yell at my husband; I yell at God.

And then I cower away, with my books, or my blog, or whatever it is that lets me be silent and think about anything else but the papers I have to grade, and the phone calls I have to return, and the 18,000 obligations I should have said "No!" to, but instead I smiled and nodded and acquiesced.

It's ugly.

I don't like it.

It makes me whiny; it makes me complain.

When, in reality, I've really got nothing to complain about.

I've got a roof over my head, a husband who loves me, friends who I cherish, food on my plate, the ability to walk and talk and shop and hug and exercise and read and do all the things I hold dear.

Luckily for me, God likes me to meet me right where I'm at - at that place where my whining meets necessary gratitude.

I found myself unexpectedly alone last Saturday afternoon - a rarity.

I had cleaned the house and done some laundry. I'd even done a mini-organization of my closet. I graded a stack of papers and popped open a magazine to read. I had the television on mute, watching my alma mater play a really good game of football. I had a mug of tea in my hand, where I had the perfect steep with the perfect amount of honey infused throughout it. I was bundled in fleece pants and a worn-in sweatshirt, but the windows were open blowing our first truly cold winds throughout the house.

And in that moment, where I'd managed to stop thinking about the 72 hours worth of grading and shopping and cleaning and exercising and phone-calling and e-mailing I had left to do, I felt such a God-given warmth.

Such a peace.

I was moved to tears.

For I am undeniably blessed. Truly happy.

No matter what there is left, what else has to be done in my world, it doesn't change the fact that I was gifted a life that is filled with love, filled with arms that hold me and care for me whether or not I've graded every paper or folded every piece of laundry in my life.

My friend's arms; my family's arms; God's arms.

So here's to a moment with a good breeze; a good cup of tea; a good pair of fleece pants.

Here's to stepping back this weekend and capturing that moment where you feel loved.

Here's to feeling blessed.

***

Thank you, Lucy Marie, for your inspiration on this post.

Hope everyone has a wonderful weekend! "See" you Monday!

A wedding full of yarn and stitches

I love weddings more than I love cake.

Seriously, a good wedding renders me so completely joyful that by the end of it, I don't even remember that there is, traditionally, cake.

This may be why weddings seem to be the only occasions where I skip dessert.

I didn't even eat the cake at my own wedding.

And like then, this past week's wedding proved no different.

Who had time for cake when there were crocheted thongs and flowers to deal with?

Yes, you read that right.

My dear friends Autumn and Adam had a wedding that included crocheted flowers and thongs.

Let me take you back a week ago...

***

We had five days to go until the Big Day.

And the bride's sister-in-law, Chelsea, and I were propped on my couch at 1 a.m. talking about the wedding up ahead.

All while Chelsea crocheted a neon pink thong.

You see, the very next day, we were throwing a lingerie shower for the bride, otherwise known as Autumn's (Slightly Inappropriate) Panty Party.

And so Chelsea, who once knit a doughnut so life-like that her own husband tried to dunk it in his coffee and eat it for breakfast, put her skills to the test and knit a little, ruffly, woolen thong and bikini top for the bride.

You know, for those cold winter months when you still want to be sexy.

It was hysterical.

So the next day, after Autumn opened her honeymoon gifts, she was brave enough to don the sexy thermals over her clothes for a whole gaggle of women to giggle over. (Seriously, I almost peed my pants, I was laughing so hard.)

And then, because we're just wacky like that, we prayed over Autumn, and we all cried. Because it's never a party unless there's laughter over underwear, a good blessing and some tears.

It was wonderful.

The next day, though, there was no more time for fun and games (and thongs.)

We drove out to the wedding destination - the bride's parents' home - and began a day-long task of a different sort.

Chelsea, who legitimately does crochet objects that are tasteful for all ages, had spent the last five months knitting 200+ flowers to use at the reception as decorations.

We were creating arrangements with these pieces of art, and we were stuffing them into pumpkins for table centerpieces. Which we also had decided to inscribe with hearts.

Which would have been all well and good, after we did six or so of them. But when we hit Pumpkin #13, which happened to be petrified, making it hard as a piece of marble, we began to doubt our own sanity.

We also began to doubt we'd ever be clean again, as pumpkin juice, when dried on one's hands and various extremities, makes a paste tackier than anything else I've ever seen. Seriously, we appeared to have impenetrable film all over hands and arms, plus our inner thighs, where we'd taken to wedging the pumpkins while we sliced into them.
But, 22 pumpkin centerpieces and seven hours later, we finished. And then did several happy dances, waving around the leftover pumpkin pieces and stepping on a corncob holder, which, FYI, doubles as an excellent scoring tool for those of you considering a career in pumpkin art. It also hurts like the dickens when shoved through one's foot.

I'm just saying.

Anyways, as soon as stopped dancing, time picked up speed, which was really ironic considering Daylight Savings Time had us all fall back an hour amid all this, actually giving us more time, mathematically speaking. (Except I hate math, so I'm kind of in denial that it actually happened, and I still maintain: Time flew.)

We had a bridesmaid luncheon, where I cried. We had a Friday night dance party. Where I cried. We had a rehearsal and a rehearsal dinner. Where - you guessed it - I cried.

Until, finally, the wedding day - Nov. 1 - was upon us. The bride bounded out of bed at 7 a.m., sleepless from the night before. (I know, because I was sleeping next to her. And when you bump into one of your best friend's behinds in the middle of the night, you know her well enough to know whether she and her butt are sleeping or not. And her bottom wasn't lying: She hadn't slept at all.)

So we were up, placing flowers here, putting plants there, creating a generally warm, crafty, homey wedding that literally took our breathe away by the end of the day.

Then we also had the almost-impossible task of getting eight bridesmaids, six groomsmen and five flower children ready in under two hours.

And I was up first in the hairdresser's chair.

Because I'm (gasp!) not a "hair girl" in the slightest, I told her I liked big, slightly mussy hair, and I preferred to accentuate my natural curl rather than straighten it.

Frankly, I was just trying to pick something cheap and easy. Little did I know...

All the ladies below the Mason-Dixon line will understand me when I say that it was as if my hippie head of hair finally embraced the fact that it was born and raised in the South.

I. Had. Big. Hair.

And I kind of liked it.
Seriously, look at the height on that thing (and note that this was six hours later. It had fallen. Significantly. Let's just say that right after it was done, my husband didn't even recognize me.)

I felt as if I needed a mint julep and a hand fan.

But wait. Enough about me. I wasn't the bride...

So, after my big hair was installed and all the other girls donned their 'dos, we added touches of make-up and a little spit shine.

And the wedding party was ready to go. On time. (Which was its own little miracle, considering the propensity of several members of the wedding party to ignore time cues. Including the bride. Thank heavens, though, things went smoothly. There was no bride left behind.)

So we took pictures, gushed over our big hair, adored the loveliest bride I have ever seen, and waited for our cues.

While waiting, Autumn and I did the whole bride-bridesmaid, dress-holding pee routine minutes before the wedding was about to start, and no joke, I started crying. (I know what you're thinking. But who says I can't have a moment in the bathroom?)

Then, it was time.


We walked down the aisle (I got to walk down with my very own hubs:), watched Autumn and Adam exchange vows, and then had a group prayer, at which point I couldn't pray aloud because I was crying so badly. (The bride actually had to hold my hand amidst it all. I was sobbing that badly. I'm beginning to think I have a problem. Later, one of the groomsmen asked, "Who was it in there that kept gasping for air?" Everyone answered in unison, "Brittany.")

Then there was dinner and dancing and the cake (which I didn't eat) and toasts, which I did partake in, but only long enough to stand up and say "I've never successfully given one of these without crying..." before breaking down in tears. I managed to pull it together, but I had to turn away from the bride and groom to do so, which was awkward, because I appeared to be toasting the whole crowd, not my friends. Still, my voice only cracked 14 times, and I managed to keep the open sobbing to a minimum.

I'm counting it as a success.

Then, we danced some more, mostly the girls and I, as my husband and his compatriots were far too into decorating Autumn and Adam's car with phrases like "Honk to make them kiss" than dancing with their wives.

There was more eating and socializing and cuing from the photographer, who ordered us around with phrases like "Go dance around the bride for a picture," until finally, people started to fizzle out.

And then, we packed up Autumn's bags, threw everything, plus a couple of balloons and a pumpkin cheesecake, in the back of their car, and made our cheering exit tunnel of bodies and handfuls of rice/birdseed. (At this point, I was trying to find the bride's glasses, and I'm not entirely sure what they threw at them.)

And then they left.

And I cried.

Then we packed up our bags, and we left.

And I cried.

And then I said goodnight to my best friend, Blair, who was in the wedding with me but was flying back to New York the next day.

And I cried.

I cried because I was so happy my dear friends got their dream wedding. I cried because I was so honored that Patrick and I could be a part of it.

And I cried because I was so gosh-darn tired from all the crying that I stupidly forgot to see if I could get an additional day away from work because I had no idea how/what I'd teach my teenagers the next day. (Admittedly, my original mistake was thinking I could be in a Sunday night wedding and then turn around and go back to teaching school Monday morning. Not so bright, Britt. Not so bright.)

As Autumn said the day before she got married, "It's totally not fair. I get to go on vacation after this is all over. You all have to go back to work."

Oh, how true.

So I took off my big skirt and took down my big hair and went back to work on Monday. I put weddings out of my mind for a while, and I dried my eyes, no longer needing to cry tears of wedding joy. At least for a little while.

Until yesterday, when I began humming a song we'd heard a lot throughout the previous week.

It was the song Autumn walked down the aisle to, a song one of her dear friends sang to us all in his beautiful voice.

And there, in my non-wedding state and non-emotional school setting, I started crying again.

So, I leave you with the lyrics that may always bring back tears of joy when I remember Autumn and Adam's wedding day.

Because I am just so happy we all lived it.

Build us a house Oh God, it's rooms are filled with praise,
Build us a family Father, sons and daughters of light,
Build us a house Oh God, it's walls will echo your peace,
Build us a family Father, children to run and play,
We sing as people God set free,
You dream the very best, You dream,
And then we know, we know,
A home is what we make in You,
You love Your children, yes You do,
We are Your house, Your home,
Build us a house Oh God, keep it sunny by day,
Build us a family Father, our sons will love Your name,
Build us a house Oh God, keep us safe at night,
Build us a family Father, our daughters Your word will keep,
Build us a family Father, children to run and play,
We sing as people God set free,
You dream the very best, You dream,
And then we know, we know,
A home is what we make in You,
You love Your children, yes You do,
We are Your house, Your home
Congratulations Autumn and Adam!

***

Thanks for reading everyone! And thanks to Christine and Renee, who supplied me with photos for this post! (And pardon my crappy Blackberry photos of Chelsea's flowers. They don't do them justice. And soon, I will post some better ones. And maybe throw a giveaway for some of them. Because seriously, people were sneaking these flowers in their pockets at the reception. They are that beautiful. I have to share them!)

We'll return to our regularly scheduled ramblings around here tomorrow!

Until then, Happy Wednesday everyone!

Love was named Larry

A year ago today, I slept my last night as a single girl.

A year ago today, I swore I wouldn't cry when I walked down the aisle.

A year ago today, I swore he wouldn't, either.

A year ago today, I was prepared to marry the most perfect man for me, the man who is now my husband.

The man who eats anything I cook, no matter how gross it is; the man who calls me in the middle the day just to see how I'm doing, forgetting every time that teacher's can't pick up the phone at school; the man who does silly dances in the living room, when he needs to pull my attention away from blogging; the man who, quite literally, gave up his whole, set-in-place life to marry me.

My husband.

We were married on Oct. 24, 2008, and so, tomorrow, we will celebrate our first anniversary.

We will celebrate a love story we were both so incredibly blessed to be a part of.

We will rejoice in the fact that a year ago, we married our best friends, surrounded by the rest of our best friends.

And we will remember how we met a little more than 3.5 years ago...

***

I was starting graduate school.

And when I say I was starting graduate school, I mean "I was starting a serious, post-graduate program where I intended to hunker down and perform many important acts of research because after all, I was nothing if not a serious, driven, full-of-myself academic." (Little did I know...)

But because I was starting graduate school, I needed a rather short-term job.

At this point in my life, I was working as a journalist. I was going back to school for a master's in journalism, in fact.

So I applied to no less than 10 different short-term, paid positions at a variety of publications.

Ten publications that would let me return to graduate school after less than a year of work.

Slowly, one by one, all 10 of the opportunities lined up.

And then all of them, one by one, promptly fell through.

Seriously, I'd get the job, only to have an editor tell me the position was cut.

Another newspaper said they were turning the job into a non-paid internship.

One publication fired their human resources director, and apparently her parting gift was all the new hires she'd brought to the publication. (As in, they didn't want us, if she'd hired us.)

I mean, weird stuff. Weird stuff got in the way of all 10 short-term opportunities.

So, in the end, I was jobless. And I was kind of desperate.

You see, part of the reason I wanted a new job so badly was that I wanted to escape before graduate school.

At the time, I technically had a boyfriend.

A boyfriend I didn't even like.

We had met in high school and ended up dating as adults for three years. I told myself I'd marry him, mostly because he had me believing he was the best (and only) guy I'd ever get.

It's not really important to belabor that relationship, but it's safe to say it was unhealthy. At least for me.

He was so clearly not the guy for me, and I ignored years of God and all my friends indicating so.

But I didn't know how to get out of it. So, quite literally, I was looking to run. To move away for a little while to a town where he wasn't, and I could be.

So, on a whim, I applied for a job to work at a camp for chronically ill children. I had done volunteer work at this place a couple years before, and I'd fallen in love.

But my graduate-school-driven mind never allowed me time to go back.

So, because again, I was desperate, I saw this as my chance.

And within three days of applying, I was offered the job.

At the time, I didn't know this, but the normal application/interview process for this job takes most people a month or more.

I literally sent in my application, conducted my interviews and was hired by the end of the week. (If I'd only known....)

So I packed my bags, ready to move to a little town in the woods where I had no cell phone service, little to no Internet access, and no solo apartment.

I, quite literally, was going to live in a log cabin with many different roommates.

Still, I left.

I left my not-right-for-me guy; I left my journalistic aspirations.

I just left.

I left scared out of my mind.

***

I got to my new place of work/home at dusk in late spring 2006, and I stopped to check in with the camp's administrative staff.

I met a bunch of people there; some checking in, others greeting new employees.

I eventually got the go-ahead to move on in, and I turned to walk back to my car.

Then somebody spoke to me.

Or, more appropriately, bellowed at me.

I heard a man's voice, a really deep voice with a bit of a drawl, say, "Hey, wait. We haven't had the chance to meet yet."

(This sounds like a come-on, but it wasn't. This was quite common for this camp. We all kind of existed in this little utopia, deep in the woods, of peace and love, united with our desire to work with kids. Everyone was, or became, over-the-top friendly.)

I turned around to see this big guy, holding a walkie-talkie, beaming, and wearing a read, paint-stained plumbing company T-shirt that said, "Hi, My Name is Larry" on the left breast pocket.

I extended my hand and said, "Hi, Larry."

The big guy looked confused.

"What? Um, I'm Patrick. Nice to meet ya," he said.

He finally followed my eyes to his old T-shirt and laughed.

"Oh, this is just an old shirt. I wear it cuz it's comfy," he said.

Then I laughed, exchanged another pleasantry or two, and walked away.

And to this day, I distinctly remember feeling, at the moment, like I'd been hit by a ton of bricks, as if the weight of the importance of the person I had just met was pushing down on me.

I just didn't know why.

***

So, I settled into training for my new job.

And a week later, I found out this Patrick-Larry character had been working at the camp for three years and would end up being my boss.

I was thrilled, because I found him really wonderful. But I didn't think anything else of it.

After all, I in the process of extricating myself from a very painful relationship. (At this point, we both knew it was over, and the other guy started to fight. And he turned out to be downright mean.)

I also was in love with my new job and the children I worked with, and I literally lived and breathed it 24-7.

Frankly, I had no time to think about the fact that I found my boss to be one of the most amazing human beings ever.

I was too busy.

***

I was too busy, in fact, for the entire time I worked at that camp.

It took until my last day on the job for me to realize why meeting Patrick had been so significant.

Both Patrick and I were assigned a housekeeping job, of sorts, moving picnic tables to a centralized location on the camp grounds.

This involved a lot of lifting and sweating, but it also involved me finally spending time with my boss, who I'd never actually had a real conversation with.

So we lifted tables, and we talked about our families.

We organized tables, and we talked about our loves and passions.

We cleaned tables, and we talked about our futures, our goals and our dreams.

The very next day, I was set to drive back to my old home and start graduate school; Patrick was set to move out of Florida, back to his hometown of Arkansas for another job, as well.

We spent our last day with picnic tables and each other, and it was one of the best days of my life.

***

The next morning, I cried when I left that camp. I cried leaving the new friends I'd made. I cried leaving that safe utopia that was filled with love and peace. I cried because the real world was a mean place, and I had to go back into it.

And I cried because I felt, for sure, that I'd never have another conversation like the one I'd had with Patrick the previous day.

Until he called me two days later.

He looked up my number from our job directory, and he called to wish me luck on my first day as a teacher of an intro-college course, a job I'd secured that would help me pay for graduate school.

I missed the call, actually. He left a message.

And then he called the next day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

And left message after message after message.

And pretty soon, every night, we were talking about our families, friends, loves, passions, goals and futures, sometimes till 2 or 3 in the morning, just like the day we'd spent with the picnic tables.

Until one early morning, when he called me one more time. This time at 4 a.m., after we'd already had our nightly conversation.

"I know this is like so ninth-grade of me," he said. "But I just have the need to tell you this. I think you're wonderful. In fact, I think you're perfect. And I think I'm falling in love with you. And by that, I mean I want to spend the rest of my life with you, because I don't want to fall in love with someone who I'm not going to marry. So, I guess I just want to say I love you."

You read about these things happening, you really do.

But until you're in that moment, you don't believe they happen to you.

I don't remember what I said back.

I honestly don't.

But I do remember agreeing that I was in love with a man I'd never even walked down the street with, hand-in-hand.

I do remember being shell-shocked, because when I'd come back to go to graduate school, I'd prepared to, literally, be single for a long, long time, forever maybe, if I never found my husband.

And a few weeks after I'd vowed to God and myself that the next man I dated would be the man I'd marry, Patrick all but proposed at 4 a.m.

So I fell. In love.

Into the beautiful space of knowing that this man was my husband, and that while I still had some years ahead of me, I had met the man whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And who wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

Six months later, and Patrick moved back to Florida to be near me.

Six months after that, he proposed (formally.)

A year after that, we were married.

And a year after that, we're here today, still in love, celebrating our one-year wedding anniversary.

And I'm still terribly glad I met "Larry" 3.5 years ago.

***

Have a wonderful weekend everybody! Happy Friday!

A house divided (and a puppy update)

I'm sad to report that, one week away from our first anniversary, marital bliss has flown right out the window.

Right now, my husband is my worst enemy.

Because he's wearing red.

And white.

And far too much memorabilia bearing a charging, uglier-than-sin pig.

We are a house divided.

For this weekend at least.

Because at 3:30 p.m., this Saturday, at Eastern Standard Time, my alma mater plays his alma mater.

Or, to put it bluntly:

My alma mater kicks his alma mater's red-and-white piggy butts!

Yes, that's right. I'm a University of Florida Gator. He's a University of Arkansas Razorback. This is probably what most couples mean when they file for "irreconcilable differences" on their divorce papers, don't you think?

So, seeing as the hubs and I are officially not on speaking terms for the rest of the weekend, I thought I'd leave him a little love note, a little token of my affection, until Sunday rolls around (and he returns to his senses.)

Dear Hubs,

I don't want you to be terribly worried about this weekend.

I know we don't see eye to eye on this matter (simply because I know how to pick a winner and you're too busy making hog calls around the house to make a rational decision.)

Still, I love you, my dear (my poor, messed-up-in-the-head dear,) and I would never let a little game of pigskin come between us.

So, I'm calling a bit of a truce (because there is no need for pranks when it's obvious my team's already going to win. )

Honey, fear not. I will be the bigger person, and I will not dye your Saturday morning eggs a spirited shade of orange and blue this year. (I am, however, wearing my "Beat Arkansas" button. To bed.)

I will not throw orange and blue streamers all over our house this year. (But I will write "ARKANSAS SUCKS" on the steamed-up bathroom mirror tonight.)

And I will not insist on singing "We Are the Boys Of Old Florida" at the top of my lungs every hour on the hour this weekend. (But I will change my cell phone ring to the Gator Fight Song. As well as yours, too. See how that goes over in your Arkansas-only skybox!)

So, baby, don't worry about us; we'll get through this and be closer than ever, I just know it.

And no, you don't have to thank me.

I mean, yeah, sure, it's not easy loving a man who loves a substandard SEC college football team, but I manage.

And yeah, it's not easy having my house defiled by a guy who has spent the last week yelling "Soooieee!" - which has to be the least civilized pig-themed football cheer ever, by the way - but I'll be OK.

Because I love you.

Because I'm your wife.

Because in the end, when it's all over, the best team will win.

And if that best team isn't mine, you will be sleeping on the couch.

Love,
Your Gator-lovin' wife

***

I want to thank all of you who weighed in and offered help and support for Ruby the Ear-less Stray. It's so good to know that there are other dog lovers out there fighting with us.

That being said, we've notified Animal Services.

Funny thing, actually. My husband works in restaurants, and in a weird answer to prayer, a group of Animal Control employees ventured in for lunch yesterday. Patrick said he took it as a sign and told them all about it. They said they'd make a visit, at the very least.

Many of you were right. She is a pit mix, and most likely, she and the other two pups they still have were being trained to be fight dogs. This is a nasty hobby that far too many North Floridians participate in. It's part of the reason our area is so over-run with pit bull mixes. They've taken to calling them "Florida breeds," they're so common. Most mutts have pit bull in them, according to the Humane Societies around here. Luckily, there are advocates for these dogs. Several organizations rally and support just pit bull strays and their adoptive parents in the North Florida/South Georgia area.

But because of their aggressive tendencies, pit bulls are harder to find adoptive families for, no matter how sweet they are. So, if you live close, and are interested in adopting Ruby, please e-mail me at britr@ufl.edu. I want to make sure she finds a good home.

And please, say a prayer for our safety, too. I didn't really emphasize it in yesterday's post, but I promise I'm not being over-dramatic or just plain chicken. I know the residents of the house are bad news (read: violent and armed. With guns.) I think we'll fine, but just in case...

And as for the children, don't ask how I know this, but they already have a file at our local family services office. (Goes to show you how stretched thin and substandard our government services are, considering how the children are still living there.) Turns out, multiple neighbors have contacted authorities about this issue already, so I'll keep you all posted on what becomes of it all.

***

So, that's it around here, for this week at least! Happy Friday, everyone! Have a wonderful weekend!

Me, my hubs and I

Sometimes, all I can blog about is me, myself, and I.

And before I even know it, I've turned this blog into The Selfish Life and Times of Brittany Ann.

It wasn't supposed to be like that.

This blog was supposed to be about the everyday happenings of my husband and I.

But all too often, the hubs only makes appearances on here as a lovely, clumsy, awkward buffoon.

Frankly, he's a gas. He's downright hilarious.

But that's not entirely fair to him.

So I'm really grateful to Lauren over Thread by Thread, who tagged me to participate in this little game about me, my husband and I.

I hope it will gives you all a chance to know more about Patrick, my husband, who is so much more than a little comic relief.

♥ What are your middle names?
Ann and Spencer. And neither one of us knows how we ended up with those middle names. There's no good reason, or at least not one we've been told.

♥How long have you been together?
We've been married 11 months and 20 days. (Eleven days till our one-year anniversary!) But we met and fell in love almost three-and-a-half years ago. (I'll tell you all that story on our anniversary!)

♥ How long did you know each other before you started dating?
Three-and-a-half months, during which time Patrick was my boss. (I know. For shame!)

♥ Who asked who out?
He called me over the phone at 4 a.m., told me he loved me, and said he felt like he'd found his future wife, all before we'd ever even held hands.

♥ Who made the first move?
Definitely him. I was all prepared to go single into the night, er, I mean graduate school, but he had different ideas, even while he lived a whole time zone away:)

♥ How old are each of you?
A woman never tells, but I'm the same age as him;)

♥ Did you go to the same school?
Oh no. I'm a Gator (University of Florida.) He's a Razorback (University of Arkansas.) This weekend should be interesting...

♥ Are you from the same home town?
Nope. I'm a native Floridian (Orlando.) He's from Ft. Smith, Ark.

♥ Who is the smartest?
He says me. I say me. Wait! No, that just slipped out. I meant him! We're definitely different. His mental strengths are my weaknesses and vice versa. There's hope for our children, at least.

♥ Who majored in what?
I was a double major in history and journalism. He was originally in education then went back to school to pursue a degree in graphic design.

♥ Who is the most sensitive?
Me, me, me! Sniff, sniff.

♥ Where do you eat out most as a couple?
We have a local breakfast diner called 43rd Street Deli and Bakery. We don't eat out a lot, but we love breakfast, and if we have a free weekend morning, we head to this little hometown restaurant any chance we get.

♥ Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Hmmmm...we've flown and driven from Florida to Arkansas. Which, I'm pretty sure, makes us kind of, sort of lame.

♥ Who has the worst temper?
Me. He has the patience of a saint. But we've both had our moments. I'm just louder.

♥ How many children do you want?
Perfect world? Four. But we both (not so secretly) admit we'd be OK with more, whether they're ours by birth or via adoption.

♥ Who does the cooking?
Me. Old-fashioned? Yes. Better for our waistlines? Most definitely. The boy considers a Hardees' sandwich and a milk shake appetizer-worthy.

♥ Who is more social?
Naturally? Me. But I retreat when I get over stimulated. He's more reliable and even-keeled than I can ever hope to be.

♥ Who is the neat-freak?
More so, me. But he's gotten so, so, so much better. And I'm only a little anal. And he cleans a mean bathroom.

♥ Who is the most stubborn?
Well....that's a good question. I don't know. We're both stubborn, which means we can butt heads. A lot. But we've learned each others' triggers, and we've accepted that, over all, we're stubborn about the same values and the same things. We'll fight in the trenches with each other over the important stuff, like our marriage. So, we're learning to make it work for us.

♥ Who wakes up earlier?
Definitely me. He's a great sleeper. I'm part insomniac, and I leave for work before 7 a.m.

♥ Where was your first date?
The Tulsa, Okla. airport then, two hours later, a little bakery in Fayetteville, Ark., which my sister-in-law just told me closed, which makes me sad.

♥ Who has the bigger family?
Me, but that's just dumb luck. Both my parents are one of six, and all their siblings, save one, have pro-created. I've got aunts, uncles and cousins aplenty.

♥ Do you get flowers often?
Not as much anymore (but I can appreciate the practical, economic reason behind this.) Still, I've gotten more than most girls, and he's even had them delivered to my work, as a surprise, before. He doesn't disappoint!

♥ How do you spend the holidays?
Together, with family, eating. We both come from eaters.

♥ Who is more jealous?
Me, but not terribly. Patrick is quite the Southern gentleman; he holds open doors; walks all women, of all ages, to their cars at night; pulls out chairs; calls them "ma'am." Women - of all ages - love him. Luckily, he's all mine:)

♥ How long did it take to get serious?
The amount of time it took him to get up the nerve to call me at 4 a.m. and for me to answer, pretending to be asleep, but knowing that my future husband was calling.

♥ Who eats more?
Him, but I can hold my own.

♥ What do you do for a living?
He's currently a restaurant manager and a freelance graphic designer. But he'll be a member of the U.S. Navy come February. I'm a high-school teacher and a fitness instructor/personal trainer.

♥ Who does the laundry?
If I can help it, me. He manages to ruin my clothes every time he tries to "help." He's now taken to washing towels. Got that, honey? Only towels!

♥ Who’s better with the computer?
Oh, definitely him. He's built his own. Multiple times.

♥ Who drives when you are together?
Mostly him, but I do plenty of back-seat driving, or as I like to call it, "Verbally Making Sure Arkansas Boy Doesn't Turn Us Into Road Kill."

♥ What is "your" song?
We danced to "I Don't Know Much (But I Know I Love You)" by Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt as the first dance at our wedding.

***

So, who wants to play along? Come on! It's fun! (And I'm terribly curious, so I'd love, love, love to read about you and your main squeeze!)

So...I tag you all! Go ahead! You know you want to!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Workout Wednesday welcomes its first guest blogger!

Ladies, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to welcome my first guest blogger to Workout Wednesday.

Allow me to introduce the lovely, talented, blogging aficionado Brittany, from Notes from the Grove.She's recently started a running program, and I knew she'd be the perfect person to talk to you all about setting your fitness goals and achieving them, even when some big obstacles can stand in your way. (Plus, she's like my blogging BFF and my West-Coast counterpart. And I love her.)

When I read Brittany's guest post, I teared up, because in her candid, brave words, I saw so much of myself and so many other women. It's hard to love ourselves and our bodies sometimes, but I hope Brittany's post can show all of us that we're not alone in our thoughts, feelings, and sometimes cruel self-analysis. And that with determination and a little bit more self-love, all of us can learn to appreciate our bodies for what they are: Gorgeous!

So, without further ado, I give you (a completely different) Brittany!

***

First of all, I just have to say how amazing it is that Brittany Ann and I met. Because MY name is Brittany Ann too! She's my NAME TWIN! But it doesn't stop there. Check out this crazy list of similarities:

*Our maids of honor at our weddings are both named Blair.
*We each have two siblings, and we ALL have "B" names.
*Our maiden names both begin with "R".
*Our husbands both have graphic design backgrounds.
*They're also both new to the military.
*We have weird soup obsessions.
*We both LOVE Nickel Creek. A LOT. After I told Brittany that I've met them three times, she proposed marriage. I SAID YES! You should be expecting your invites any day.
*We're both hippie chics at heart. (Although I prefer the term "flower-children.")
*And we're both, like, ridiculously good looking and awesome.

So yes, suffice to say, we were probably separated at birth (even though I think I'm maybe a couple of years older but that is beside the point and ruins my fantasy that I have a long lost twin sister out there who goes by the same name).

Anyway.

Brittany asked me to guest post today after I wrote a quick little post about how I started a 5K running program.

I am one of those people who hates, dreads, loathes (pick a word) working out. It's not enjoyable for me and it never has been. I wish that it was. I've had quite the bumpy road when it comes to my body and my body image, so I thought I'd share my story here, in hopes of maybe encouraging or inspiring other women like me.

All my life, I was the runt. I was always the shortest, tiniest person in class, and pretty athletic. I cheered; I danced; I did gymnastics (in fourth grade. I did 22 back-walkovers in a row on the playground!). In seventh grade, I think I had something ridiculous, like 4-percent body fat. I was tiny, totally in shape, but definitely under-developed for my age.

When I was about 14, my parents took me to get some sort of growth test where they took X-rays of my wrists. Turns out, my head and my body were in two different places. Although I was 14, my body thought I was still about 11. I didn't get my period until I was 16 years old, and I was barely 100 pounds by the time I graduated high school.

Three months after high school, I began college. I went with the assumption that I was safe from the Freshman 15 due to my body's history.

Boy, was I wrong.

I gained it several times over (with no help from my birth control). In three months, I packed on more than 30 pounds, and it took my dad saying, "You look chubby," to get me to even realize it.

Yep, I was one of those people who gained a ton of weight and didn't even notice. Even now I look back and think, "How did that happen?" I had never had to diet or workout to keep weight off in my whole entire life, and I didn't know how to do it. Thus began a six-year battle with my new, unwanted body.

In 2004, when I was 24, I finally graduated college. I began working; I moved in with my boyfriend, and I was just facing the everyday pressures and stresses of life. Within a few months, I dropped 20 pounds. Again, I didn't even notice. People started making comments and when I finally took a moment to look at myself, I saw that they were right.

I fluctuated a lot during my mid-20s. At my highest weight (I'm 5'3"), I was probably just over 150 pounds, and at my lowest (during a break-up), I dropped to 118 pounds.

Over the years I have mentally beat myself to a pulp. I am someone who constantly compares herself to everybody else and suffers from guilt. If a girl is my height and is thinner than me, I feel guilty for being bigger than I "should" be. And if a girl is bigger than me in any way at all, I feel bad for her and guilty for being "luckier." These negative feelings have served me no purpose, and I've spent far too much time hating my body: Hating it for not being better, for not looking good in the latest trends, or for not measuring up to the girl sitting next to me.

And when I DID feel good, it was short-lived. Because there always was (and will always be) someone thinner, in better shape, and just generally prettier than I was. I went through a long period of time where I couldn't even pick up a fashion magazine. The terrible feelings I had about myself would just consume me. I hated every single one of those girls on those pages.

I began to take some control around 2005 by trying to watch what I ate more closely, and I began doing Jazzercise off and on with my mom. I think educating myself has been a big part of things. But it can also be very scary. I enjoyed living ignorantly about what I put into my body because if I didn't know, then I didn't have to care. But ignorance will also make you fat and unhealthy.

I began finding out what kind of foods work best for me. My body has a tendency to take sugar and deposit it directly onto my stomach. Sugar has been a hard thing to let go of. I'm a big drinker, too. (Not in an alcoholic sort of way, just in the "I really enjoy it" sort of way.) So I've had to learn to say "No" to the beer and have a glass of red wine instead a lot of time. As you know, eating is only half of it. And up until recently, that was all I was doing for myself.

With my 30th birthday about seven months away, I've begun to realize I don't have a whole lot of time. What's perky now won't be perky for much longer, so I'd better preserve what I've got.

My husband joined the military and has been gone since June 24 of this year. When I went to visit him in Oklahoma last month (we live in Idaho), I was shocked by what great shape he's in! And he's almost 38 years old! Since January, he's probably dropped about 30 pounds and he has a six-pack to show for it. That really pushed me over the edge in a very positive, productive way.

My husband and I have a very physical relationship in addition to our emotional/mental one. We both find each other very attractive and are always hugging, kissing, and touching. I don't want to lose what we have and the importance of maintaining my health and physical fitness has become a big priority for me (not to mention that this will serve me well when we decide to have a baby.)

I'm pretty new to this fitness stuff. I've never had a routine that I've been able to stick to for more than a week or so. But three weeks ago, I downloaded the Couch to 5K running program onto my iPod. It's free in the Podcast section of iTunes. And I blocked out Tuesday and Thursday nights for yoga at my gym.

I don't expect perfection from myself, and I forgive myself for missing a workout. It's okay to eat something unhealthy. The key is moderation. The key is knowing you're human. The key is never giving up. They key is knowing it's never too late.

And it helps to have a goal. Next Spring, my husband and I want to run a 5K together!

With any luck, we will all be here for a long time. Every day is a chance to begin again or to continue a good streak. I find motivation and encouragement all around me: in my husband who is almost 10 years older than me and who, after years of not doing anything physical, got a six-pack! In my sister who had a baby last August, and as soon as she was able to, got up several times a week at 5 a.m. JUST to squeeze in her workout (and she's a single mom). In myself, who not so very long ago hated the way her body looked and has come a long, long way.

There are days where the last thing I want to do is go to yoga or run. But once I do it, I feel great. It's putting on my workout clothes and getting out the door that is the hardest part for me.

So once I get home from work, I immediately change into my workout clothes. That way, I'm already half way there. I don't measure my progress by a scale. In fact, I don't own one. I measure my progress by the way I feel and by the way my clothes fit. I take time now to look in the mirror to see what my body really looks like. Lately, I've been doing a whole lot of this:

"There's definitely room for improvement. But, damn. I look pretty good."

(And most importantly, I FEEL good.)

Thank you for having me, Name Twin!

The best lessons in life are free...and taught by a dog

I live with two big idiots.

And neither one of them is my husband.

Both are my big, doofy dogs: Fish and Marvin.

While both appear large and in charge, a closer look reveals their large bodies and floppy ears hide one disturbing thing: a sheer lack of brain matter.

Trust me, I've met smart dogs.

These lovely canines aren't them.Lovable? Yes. Adorable? Quite often. But intelligent? Not on your life.

Still, the simplicity of their lives is enviable. I've found myself watching my two dumbos prance around and revel in all the glory it is to be a dog after I come home from work tired, cranky, overworked, and underpaid.

And I've begun to realize that as dimwitted as they are, the mutts seem to have some undeniable joy, some coveted secret that we humans just don't seem to be privy to.

So, I've watched them; I've learned from them, dunces though they be.

And I'm here to tell you that the best lessons in life are free....and taught by a dog.

Don't be too proud to beg.
Sure, we've all got our pride. But if you want something, and I mean really, really want something, sit down on your haunches, afix on your sad-sweet eyes, and work it like it's your job. Play the pity party; do the desperate dance. Even if all you really, really want is a biscuit. Because in the end, it's worth it. Who needs pride when you've got a biscuit?

Even old toys have some fun left in 'em.
Sure, it may be just the mangled-up, popped-and-left-for-dead, dirt-caked half of a basketball but there's probably a few good times left in it still. I mean, you can run with it in your mouth, whip it around in your brother dog's face, and then lay your chin on it during a nap. Who needs shiny new dog toys when the one's you've got already have the perfect teeth marks to dried saliva ratio?

Having someone call you "smudgiewudgiepoopykins" never gets old.
Sure, it's a little embarrassing when mom whips out one of her 87 pet names for you in front of all the other pure-breds at the dog park, but it still gives you that lovin' feeling, no matter how you slice it. You still get all warm and fuzzy inside, causing your tail to wag uncontrollably and your body to shake with all the puppy love only you can muster for the woman who insists on buying you organic dog shampoo, with that disturbing, smelly tea tree oil.

Just because something is off-limits doesn't mean it's unattainable.
Sure, the big, bad world holds fast-moving cars and cruel dog-hating families who call animal control when you casually wander by off a leash. But those instances are few and far between. In all reality, fences are really just a kind suggestion, put in place to provide limits when you need them. But when the other side of that fence holds your next-door neighbor and new best friend Felix the Cat, or better yet, the neighborhood kids playing ball and tag on the sidewalk, that fence is barely an obstacle, an obstacle that can be dug under, leapt over and pushed down (in certain places) if it happens to stand between you and quite possibly the funnest thing you've ever seen.

Bathing really is a drag.
Sure, you're caked in dirt; you've rolled in that eternally muddy spot between the house and the laundry room at least 12 times today, but there is absolutely no way you're letting mom or dad drag you to the side of the house and hose you down with all that shampoo and tea tree oil. Frankly, it's just a waste of good time, and that's before you factor in all the work it takes to shake dry and lick all your crevices. Plus, after it's all said and done, you'll end up dirty again within 12 hours. Or sooner, depending on how tempting that elusive muddy spot becomes.

Forgive and forget, quickly.
Sure, Mom yelled at you for tracking dirt into the kitchen. She then kicked you out on your dumb doggy bottom after you stole that chicken breast right off the counter. She may or may not have even given you the Face of No Fun, which always makes you cower and lay down, ears back, tail between your legs, begging for forgiveness. But 15 minutes later, when she walks into the backyard to hang laundry, you've moved past it. She's still Mom, and you are downright PUMPED to see her again. You do you wiggly dance of puppy love and prance around her in glee, because, "Hello! It's Mom! A person! You love people! They're the best! Especially the ones that pet you and hold you and bear-hug you! What? She just finished yelling at me? Are you sure? I don't remember that! Because look! It's Mom! A person! I love people..."

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Happy Friday everyone! I hope you all have a wonderful weekend! "See" you Monday!