Old and Married

While going to bed at 9:30 on a Saturday night, after a dinner of tomato soup and Greek salad and 30 minutes of flipping back and forth between college football games and a coupon-ing show, it hit me.

We have officially become an old, married couple.

And, today, we celebrate three years of being that old, married - but still in love - twosome.

We've had a baby. We've fine-tuned a budget. And we've written out a will.

Pretty soon, we'll be getting the AARP newsletter for real. And not like the one time I got it on my 21st birthday by accident.

In other words, it's been a crazy, whirlwind of a year. And I couldn't be happier about it.

Watching my husband become a father this year rocked my world. Growing and thriving through the toughest periods in my husband's naval training blew my mind. And now, realizing that we've been married for three whole years, and are currently happier than we've ever been?

Well, that's one for the books.
There is definitely a comfort growing, the longer and longer we're married. It's the kind of comfort that lets you walk around in grungy sweats without a care in the world, knowing your husband won't blink an eye.

But it's also the kind of comfort that intuitively tells you to make certain things a certain way for dinner, just because he likes them like that.

And it's the kind of comfort that lets you watch your friends' marriages and go, "I like her husband, but I could never live with him. I'm glad I married mine. If I wasn't married to him, we'd never make it."

After three years, it's the moment you know that you and your husband make it work; that, in short, you were indeed destined for this person.

And that, because of the God-given marital intuition you've both grown more accustomed to, sweat pants and dinners and other people's marriages don't matter.

It's all about you two, and it has been for quite some time.

My husband wakes up and rolls over when I'm silently lying awake at night, concerned to tears about my daughter's doctor's appointment at the end of the week. Somehow, he just knows.

My husband interrogates the cashier at the nearby cafe about their selection of broth-based soups, trying to find me something dairy-free to eat, and when the cashier still gets it wrong, and gives me a tomato soup filled with cream, he calls the next day to set them straight, telling them to be more careful and that they could have hurt his wife and child by accidentally feeding them dairy.

My husband also dances with our daughter, takes her on his regular jogs, gives me the go-ahead to buy her extra, cute (albeit slightly unnecessary) cloth diapers, and routinely sacrifices his own time and efforts for you and her, without a complaint in the world.

He's by no means a perfect man - and yeah, he can push my buttons and drive me to (nearly) drink sometimes - but he's my husband, and he's my absolute perfect mate, when I step back and look at it.

If anything, three years has taught me that.

Marriages grow and change. That's to be expected.

But am I eternally grateful to get to grow and change and learn with this man, the love of my life, the father of my child, and the man who goes to bat for me when no one else will.

Happy Three Years, Baby. I love you forever.

My (Free) Valentine

There a lot of things about me that make me lame.

The fact that I'd take coffee and cake over alcohol any day.

The fact that I'd rather watch a movie than go dancing.

The fact that I love my dog so much that sometimes I hoist his upper body into my lap and rock him like a baby and kiss his doggy brow till he grunts and feigns sleep.

But the sheer fact that I'm not terribly romantic is probably one of my lamest qualities of all.

Sure, I adore my husband. I tell him that all the time.

And we like to go out to dinner with each other and buy each other the occasional present.

He even brings me home flowers once in a blue moon for no reason whatsoever.

But honestly, we're not the lovey-doviest twosome you'll ever meet.

We're also infinitely practical.

And, so, because money has been particularly tight around these parts recently - and because we have the world's biggest expense, a baby, arriving in just four months - we decided to forgo Valentine's Day all together this year.

Plus, the holiday falls on a Monday - today, in fact. And there's nothing romantic about shelling out for a late-night, romantic date only to get up the next day - a perfectly ordinary Feb. 15 - at 4:30 a.m. to go to work.

So, to put it bluntly, Valentine's Day was just not happening. Not for us, anyways.

Until the health food store I frequent sent me a romantic coupon. A little gift in light of the holidays.

Which is why, yesterday afternoon, you could find me dragging my husband to the health-food store, two coupons in hand, waiting in line for our boxes of free organic chocolate truffles - my husband ducking his head in embarrassment.

Then we came home, ate a chicken dinner I cooked myself, and cuddled up on the couch in our pajamas with our chocolates, thumb-wrestling for the last one, before heading to bed at 9:45 p.m. on Feb. 13.

And that was Valentine's Day.

Hot, isn't it?

***

Now, I know what you're thinking.

Lame, Brittany.

But, you see, I warned you.

So, tell me, how did you celebrate? Any romantic plans for the evening? Am I the only lame-o out there who opted out of the holiday? Or instead chose the budget-conscience, coupon-cutting, free route? Are the rest of you true romantics who are currently scoffing at the lack of romance in my marriage? Tell me, what are you doing for your Valentine today?

***

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Be back tomorrow with the first of my birth-plan posts.

And There's Daddy

I can't tell you how amazing it was to see my husband's face light up when he saw our baby girl at our ultrasound appointment on Tuesday.

He was positively beaming, that man.

He was the first one to exclaim, when he saw her little behind and thighs and nary a bit of boy parts dangling there, that, "It's a girl! We're having a girl!"

It was like, in that moment, he'd finally became a dad. And she's not even here yet.

Which is why, as soon as we were done at the midwives' office, he offered to take me shopping for our new baby girl.

Never you mind that, a mere few days before, he'd scoffed at my suggestion that we go buy something oh-so-not gender neutral once we knew Baby's sex, reminding me he'd have to eat dinner quickly and then return to work later that evening after the ultrasound.

But when he saw his little girl up on that screen, he was hooked. And he promptly escorted me to the amazing second-hand baby store that we have here. (I know it freaks people out, but I will warn you now, I'm a bargain shopper. I buy second-hand. I don't see the need to break the bank on baby clothes when there are plenty of cute things at this shop that I'd previously scouted out.)

So, there we were, wandering the clothing aisles. I was in hog heaven, holding armfuls of little dresses and ruffly onesies - many of which still had tags on them - for bargain-basement prices.

He was laughing at me and humoring me and once in a while suggesting something he thought would be cute on "our little girl," while also scowling and pointing at a rack of bottoms and loudly exclaiming, "No daughter of mine is going to wear short-shorts!"

Still, we ended up putting most of our selections back, buying only two can't-live-without things, and heading out of the store a good 30 minutes later.

At that point, it had been a long day. I was getting tired, and as is common these days, my back had started to ache from being on my feet all day. Plus, all the adrenaline we had pumping through us at the ultrasound appointment had left our bodies. We were fatigued and thrilled.

Which is why I didn't notice myself walking weird.

In fact, though tired, I felt perfectly normal.

Until I looked up at my husband's face and noticed him staring at me.

Oddly.

Not in a "Oh, look at my beautiful wife!" kind of way.

Or not even in a "How wonderful is it that I'm standing next to the gorgeous woman carrying my little girl!"

No, it was more like a "What in the heck are doing, lady?"

And then, he said it:

"Why are you walking all weird like that?"

I didn't know how to respond. I thought I was walking perfectly fine, if not a bit briskly.

But he wasn't done.

"Oh my gosh! You're waddling! You're actually waddling! You shouldn't be doing that already!"

I was flabbergasted. Meanwhile, he looked horrified.

I guess the "But I'm carrying around your baby girl" card can only get me so far.

***

I'm sure, in retrospect, the poor guy was just shocked more than anything. I think the whole day had kind of blown his mind.

Plus, I'm not particularly sensitive to these kinds of things.

A few days prior, I was walking around in my non-maternity pajamas, and my belly was poking out of my shirt.

And my dear, sweet, doting husband?

Well, he laughed at me. Uproariously.

I just shrugged it of and got in bed.

Because after all, it's my pregnancy, and I'll waddle if I want to.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone! And thank you all so much for your sweet congratulations yesterday!

***

Also, another post of mine has been featured on BlogHer! If you have a chance, I'd love for you to check it out.

The Early-Bird Special

My husband and I had wild Friday night plans.

Because he always works at least intermittently on the weekends, and because my OCD seems to be in full effect this second trimester, we decided to re-finish our nursery furniture, clean out our office, and set up the baby's new room.

Yes, you read that right.

We were tackling home improvement on a Friday night. (Woo hoo! It's a party up in here!)

Granted, it was going to be pretty bare bones home improvement.

We already had all the baby furniture we'd need because we're using family heirlooms throughout the room.

My old crib. The rocker my husband was rocked in as a wee one. And a changing table that is at least 20 years old, but is made of solid, gorgeous wood and just needed a fresh coat of paint.

Still, everything had to be cleaned, glossed, and painted. Other things had to be sanded multiple times. The crib itself had to be put together and modified for safety reasons (The cribs from the early 80s have all since been re-called. We knew using my crib would require some carpentry.)

In addition, the only new furniture we'd bought - several shelving units - had to be assembled.

And as of Friday morning, all of that was sitting in a pile in the middle of our office/guest-room, also known, in some circles, as our "dumping room" - where everything extraneous, temporary and/or unknown goes to rest until I get fed up enough to find a place for it or throw it out.

Currently, the "dumping room" housed a whole host of crap, plus all the pieces of our baby's furniture, plus several baskets of baby supplies friends had already gifted us.

Not to mention the fact that my husband's cave - i.e., his man desk - resides in that room. Which basically means that one quarter of the room looks like Office Depot and Hoarders threw up in it.

Because the man ruins a desk like it's his job. And I gave up less than one month into knowing him at trying to get him to keep it reasonably presentable.

The secret to our marriage? Separate desks.

Anyways, so there we were.

Intending to set up the bare bones structure of the nursery, so, for the next 19-20 weeks, I could add in all manner of nice touches and actually make it a presentable place for our baby to live.

And, Friday night had proved to be the most advantageous time to tackle this task.

So when my husband walked in the door at 4 p.m. from work, we threw on sweats and sneakers and headed out to our local Lowe's Home Improvement store.

We bought furniture paint, wood cleaner, L-brackets, industrial-strength sandpaper, and a flood light, as we were already losing the sunlight fast.

We were two parents-to-be on a mission.

And then, we realized we hadn't eaten anything in several hours.

The mission, it seemed, was crumbling before it had even started.

We were hungry, and as my tight Operation Nursery schedule didn't allow for much snacking time, we figured we'd deal with this post-haste.

We ventured into a Chick-fil-A - the only fast-food restaurant I'll eat in - that was close by Lowe's. I ordered a salad; the hubs got a sandwich, and we cozy-ed up in a booth with our to-do lists and foodstuffs and started to map out the plan of attack for the nursery furniture once we got home.

Then, I noticed an old man hobbling by on a cane with his elderly wife.

He was wearing a "U.S. Naval Veteran" hat, which garnered a smile from both my hubs and I, as we always feel a kinship with fellow Navy families.

They were followed by another senior couple, who took precisely 13 minutes to select the perfect table at which to eat their sandwiches and then gather up enough napkins and salt packets to make them palatable.

Sitting behind them was a spry looking man in his 70s, sipping a cup of decaf coffee and reading a paper.

And behind him was a table of several senior-citizen women who appeared to be eating chicken fingers and having a Bible study.

In the next several minutes, even more elderly people - all boasting a limp, a wheelchair, a walker, or a portable oxygen tank - lumbered through the door.

I looked at my husband and said, "I think we're the only people under 65 in here."

He nodded, and then added, "Are we missing something? Is there some senior gathering going on at this Chick-fil-A on a Friday night?"

I began to think that myself, and wondered aloud, "What time is it, exactly, babe?"

My hubs then looked at his watch.

"It's 5:13," he said.

It wasn't even 5:30, and we'd already eaten our supper. In fact, we were almost too early for the early-bird special.

Legally qualified members of the AARP were still walking in the door of Chick-fil-A, and we were already done with dinner.

After a trip to Lowe's.

In our sweats.

Only to return home and spend six-and-a-half hours sanding and painting furniture.

We both looked at each other as we left the fast-food chain, silently laughing.

"I think this means we're officially old," the hubs said.

You're not kidding, honey.

***

Luckily, the evening turned out as planned. We actually did get everything assembled and arranged. And I'm feeling much better about the whole thing, now that our "dumping room" no longer exists.

Once we make it presentable, I promise to share pictures. Trust me when I say, right now, it's not that exciting.

Only I take joy in the fact that my husband's messy desk is no more and has been moved once and for all into storage.

You'll appreciate it more when I actually have curtains on the windows and a mattress in the crib.

Oh, happy day.

***

Have a good Monday, everyone!

Nothing to Steal Here. Move Three Doors Down.

My husband is generally a pretty trusting person.

Heck, he's been known to give a convicted criminal* the keys to his car, after said convicted criminal simply asked to borrow it.

Because the hubs is an honest, nice person himself, he finds it hard to believe that others can be under-handed or devious.

It's admirable, really.

Except when he's been known to hand over every bit of cash we have to any man or woman on the street who asks for it, even when it's all but obvious that they're running a scam.

It's just the way he is.

So you can imagine my surprise when, just last week, we were driving home one evening, following the directions loudly given out by our new GPS system - a Christmas present of my husbands and yet another tech-y toy with which he attempts to make my life a bit more confusing.

As I've mentioned before, I have a problem trusting technology.

Which is why, as we pulled into our neighborhood, I realized that the mileage was off. In fact, when we turned into our drive-away, the little GPS voice-woman and the GPS map had a tizzy, "re-calculating" and telling us we'd made our left turn too soon.

I feebly pointed this out to my husband, determined yet again to prove to him that his beloved technology was not as all-knowing as he claimed it could be.

But he stopped me in my tracks.

"Oh no, the reason it's telling us we're wrong is because I purposely programmed it that way," he said. "In fact, when I saved our address as 'Home' in the GPS, I actually saved the address of the house three doors down from us. So, in case someone steals our car and/or the GPS with it, with intentions to head to our house and steal from our home, they won't actually end up at our house. They'll end up at the neighbor's."

I was shocked.

Stunned.

And kind of weird-ed out that he'd thought of all this.

I mean, it had never occurred to me that a criminal who would have the forethought to steal our GPS would then attempt to then break into our home. And I'm normally the skeptical one in our marriage.

I was almost impressed.

Then, it hit me.

If someone did steal our GPS and make out for our home, they'd instead, unbeknownst to them, end up at the house three doors down from us, thinking it was ours, and thus, committing a crime against our unsuspecting neighbors.

Granted, we don't even know the couple that lives three doors down from us.

But it still seemed woefully unfair.

I almost felt like we should warn them, leave a note on their door or something, reading, "We're terribly sorry, but in an attempt to protect our own possessions, we've entered your address into our GPS as our home address and our own personal anti-theft device. Sorry if this causes any undue break-ins. Sincerely, Your Neighbors Three Doors Down."

But my husband seemed unperturbed. He wasn't at all disturbed about how our GPS' actions may affect our neighbors.

I was shocked.

Mr. Self-less was willing to submit our neighbors to untold amounts of harm.

Just as long as no one steals his XBox.

***

OK, I realize the chances of all this happening are slim to none. And, as my husband later informed me, this is a known anti-theft technique suggested for those who own GPSs. We, in fact, could be the unsuspecting pawns in someone else's GPS protection games.

Who knows what the neighbors eight doors down have programmed into their GPS?

But still, doesn't it seem a little shady? Passing the buck off on our neighbors like that?

Or am I the one who's now being overly sensitive here?

***

*My husband did in fact lend his car to a former employee of his who had been convicted of theft and served time for it. Once out of jail, he needed a truck to move him and his daughter, so my husband lent him ours. It was a bit hairy, but in the end, the truck was returned to us. So it goes to show that sometimes my husband's trusting heart is better than my doubtful one.

Happy Monday, everyone!

Butt Carols

My husband and I shower together.

Which sounds all kinds of sexy.

Except that it's not.

Because the hubs works a lot, we don't have a ton of time together, so we try and spend what few moments we have during the week with each other.

Even if that means he and I hop in the shower together at the same time, spending our bathing time rinsing and repeating, lathering and scrubbing, and - hold onto your hats, ladies! - talking about our days.

It's not at all racy, really.

We've been known to cover the power bill, the grocery list, family disputes, and vacation plans, all while rub-a-dub-ing next to each other.

You'd hardly know we're naked, we're so into the respective self-cleaning and boring, hum-drum talking we do while in there.

It's the most un-thrilling shower scene known to man.

Except for last weekend.

We'd spent several days ready-ing the house for Christmas. We'd put up the tree and festooned the various mantles and all that.

To help get us in the mood, we'd listened to Christmas tunes while doing so. It was pretty standard. Pretty All-American.

And, then, we hit the showers.

We began our squabbles about You-Know-Who hogging all the water spray, and I "accidentally" managed to bean You-Know-Who over the head with my shower gel bottle after he refused to let me warm up the water.

But soon enough, we settled into our peaceful chit-chat and self-cleaning routine.

All the while, in between soap breaks and conversation starts and stops, I began humming Christmas carols.

Songs we'd heard earlier that day. Classic Christmas ditties everyone knows.

But, seeing as I was totally into the Christmas spirit, I didn't just hum them.

Heck, I didn't even just sing them.

Instead, I put on a full-on show, drumming away on the shower curtain, the tile walls, the shampoo dispenser, and, well, my butt.

Yes, my butt.

In the moment, you see, it made sense. I was looking for wet, flat surfaces that gave off a resounding bang.

Enter my behind: The perfect percussive instrument.

In fact, I loved my butt-drum so much that, soon, I forgot the shower walls and curtain all together. I even cast aside the shampoo dispenser.

Instead, I chose to drum solely and exclusively on it, my own rump.

It really did the trick, in fact. So much so that I soon stopped humming and singing the carols all together.

I just drummed them out on my own hiney. Over and over and over again.

It must say something about my marriage that my husband didn't even bat an eye when I went all Blue Man Group on my own rumpus for 10 minutes straight.

In fact, it wasn't until I yelled out exuberantly, "Guess which carol I'm drumming!" that he even said anything at all.

And then, and only then, did he join into my craziness. But not by mocking me.

Oh, no.

Instead, he listened to my drum beat intently, carefully.

Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-da-dumdum-dum! Dum-dum-da-da-da-dummmmm!

Then he yelled out:

"Here Comes Santa Claus!"

And he was dead on. That was, in fact, the song I'd been drumming.

This only encouraged me more.

Which is why I then performed "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "Frosty the Snowman," and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," all in quick succession for my new, genuinely pleased audience of one.

All, still, on my own butt.

He guessed them all correctly, batting four for four, making the game even more fun.

Which is exactly why I then did a rousing round of "Away in a Manger" on not just my butt but on his, as well.

Along with "Silent Night," "The Little Drummer Boy," and "Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire."

He guessed them all correctly.

And then, much to my surprise, he joined in.

Using all four of our cheeks, he put on a grand solo performance of "Jingle Bells" and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."

An actual former drummer himself, his mastery of butt-drums was impressive right off the bat.

His only loss was his poor rendition of "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," which he played only my behind, and which, we both agreed, didn't have the right pitch or surface area to get the desired effect to carry out that particular ditty.

Still, the "caroling" continued.

Until, finally, 20 minutes later, and wrinkled to prunes like toddlers in a tub full of toys, we stopped, mostly because we'd run out of carols.

And just like that, life went back to normal.

I toweled off. He toweled off. We both clambered into pajamas, set up his coffee pot for the following day, and tucked ourselves into bed.

Only 15 minutes later, when we were lying there, in the dark, respectively, did he finally have the nerve to say what we'd both been thinking:

"We just played butt carols for 45 minutes, and they're going to let us have a child next year. Something's wrong with this picture."

***

I wish I was making this up. Really.

But I'm not. I couldn't.

It was too funny. And, my friends, it actually happened.

I had the smack marks on my behind for four days to prove it.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Pillow Fight

I'm a prissy sleeper, I'll admit.

I love to sleep on my stomach, cuddled under several blankets and surrounded by pillows.

I put a pillow under my head and a pillow on each side of me, so if I so choose to roll onto my side in the middle of the night, I can prop myself up on a shoulder and use one of the side pillows for support.

It's like my little own cocoon, really. I love it. It soothes me to sleep quickly.

Unless, of course, my husband has something to say about it.

Because last night, I set up my three pillows and plush blankets, cuddled down, and fell right asleep. Only to find myself wide awake three hours later.

Wide awake and laying atop a cold, hard mattress.

All three of my pillows gone, gone, and gone.

Both on each side of me, and, worst of all, the one under my head, had vanished.

Not that I had to look far to find them.

Because all of them - all of them! - were snugly positioned under my husband's crown, along with his own three pillows, leaving him reclining on bed of six pillows, arms thrown akimbo, as if he was some kind of king.

It seemed, at some point, in his sleep or awake, the man had stolen all three of my precious pillows and stuffed them under his own big head.

At 1 a.m., I was truly in shock. And not strong enough to remove them from underneath his amazingly heavy upper body.

So I lay there, flummoxed.

After all, I've accept that with marriage comes many compromises: Cooking things I don't really like; watching movies I don't really enjoy, and living with the fact that socks will never end up in the hamper where they belong.

But when you're messing with my sleep? By stealing my precious pillows no less?

This was not in the marriage contract.

In fact, I thought we expressly agreed:

To love and remain faithful forever, and never to steal each other's pillows, so help us God.

Sigh.

Now I know why the Cleavers had separate beds.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

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!

Bean-No

This Saturday, the hubs and I were finally alone.

We planned to spend the morning and early afternoon watching our favorite football teams play.

This basically involved me laughing at my husband as he danced around, yelling and shirtless, watching his Arkansas Razorbacks carry out a narrow, last-second win against Georgia, while three hours later, he found me bellowing at my Florida Gators to "KILL HIM!" as Tennessee scored another touchdown.

There is nothing more entertaining than watching your spouse freak out about something as relatively unimportant as college football.

Anyways, because we were watching our games alone this week, I didn't prepare my normal smorgasbord of football dips and nips. I love my husband, but I'm not going to spend 45 minutes rolling pigs into blankets when it's just he and I in our boxer shorts.

Which is why, when 2 p.m. rolled around, we were famished.

Scrounging through our pantry, I bellowed out to the living room, "What do you want to eat for our football lunch, hun?"

Largely ignoring me, he mumbled back, "Whatever you want, babe" - a surefire sign that he's not actually paying attention to what I'm saying.

So I grabbed a can of refried beans, some tomatoes, onions, and cheese, and yelled back, "OK, good. Then I'm making my favorite bean dip!"

I was met with silence.

I took this to be a positive sign, so I started cooking.

I was salivating and moving quickly, not having eaten much all day, which is why I startled when the hubs walked up behind me.

He stopped, sniffed the warming pot of beans, and smacked me on the butt.

"Bean dip?" he said, incredulously. "Really? Bean dip? Like you need to eat anymore beans?"

Then, like man in disgust, he waved his hand in front of his nose - the veritable adult-version of "P-U!" - and left the room as if he'd smelled a dead animal.

I paused, realizing what, exactly, this all meant.

You see, it seems romance is finally dead. After almost two years of marriage, I've apparently killed it with my excessive diet of bean dip.

Not that I even hesitated from eating every last bite of it right after my husband managed to insult me.

Because, when it comes down to it, my marriage will last forever, toxic fumes or no. But football season comes but once a year.

So bring on the bean dip. My husband will live.

Or at least as long as we can keep a window cracked during the game.

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

"The Crack:" A Glimpse into Our Future

My husband has a thing for Cracker Barrel.

And by "thing," I mean he'd run off and marry the Southern breakfast chain without a single glance back if I up and died in a young, untimely fashion.

The boy loves himself a place where you can buy country-fried steak (ick!) for under $6.99.

I, on the other, hand prefer my breakfasts out to be a little bit more of the off-the-beaten path variety.

I like town restaurants, little dives, treasured diners. I like places that specialize in local ingredients and organic options. And I like places that never, ever boast about 18 breakfast items - all deep-fried - for the always-low price of $5.99.

In other words, while I tolerate Cracker Barrel, it's not always my cup of tea.

I appreciate it for what it is - an easily accessible restaurant found off every major interstate exit where you can shop for holiday decor year-round and then eat your breakfast to the sounds of a 1970s fiddle player and screaming children.

But my apparent apathy doesn't stop my husband from suggesting we frequent it every chance we get - road trip or no.

Saturday morning? Sunday morning? A long-weekend's morning? He wants to order their pecan pancakes and country ham and live it up hard-core-style.

He's living the dream, people.

To make matter's worse, here in South Carolina, we live pretty close to "The Crack," as I not-so-affectionately call it, while we also live ages away from any local breakfast joint.

Therefore, my husband now has bearing when he suggests we head to "The Crack" for a weekend breakfast. It's a good 15 to 20 minutes closer than anywhere else that serves pancakes around here.

Which is precisely why we were there this past weekend.

My husband won; I lost.

I'd given into convenience and his pleading looks, figuring I'd console myself with a healthy serving of The Crack's more-fattening-than-actual-lard, hash-brown casserole.

But first, we had to wait our turn and wander the aisles of Cracker Barrel, listening for them to call our name.

I was pondering a bedazzled, autumn-themed demin shirt, while my husband kept close watch on the penny candy section while talking football with various other patrons waiting for a table.

Then, we saw them.

A couple, walking toward us.

A couple who, honestly, were the spitting image of us.

Give or take 60 years.

The man had a cane, a stained shirt, and a limp. He boasted a hat that proudly proclaimed he was a "Navy Veteran."

The woman had a bit more panache. She wore a nautical-themed blazer and capris, pearl earrings, and a jaunty handbag.

Plus, she boasted a sassy, upturned smile.

Oh, and she was berating her husband as they worked their way past the Yankee Candle section.

Walking behind him, she kept repeating, "...And here we are again! At the Cracker Barrel! You never take us anywhere nice! Even for a special occasion!"

I looked on in wonderment.

They were our a senior citizen doppelgangers!

Their friendly bickering kept on.

"And gifts!" the woman exclaimed. "Like it would kill you to buy me something nice for once! I put all this thought into your gifts - the albums, the books, the clothes. And you! You can't remember to get me anything, let alone put thought into it!"

Her husband rolled his eyes at her, smirking.

"Well," he said. "I think I bought you a gift for that thing once."

It was at this point where my hubs and I both started snickering.

Apparently, wisdom does not come with age. This poor 80-year-old man was digging himself a hole so similar to ones my husband has excavated in the past that it wasn't even funny.

Except that it was.

Hysterically funny, in fact.

"Sure, sure, you did!" the women retorted. "Likely story. I'd like to see you name one thing you remember that you actually bought for me with some serious meaning behind it."

At this point, my jaw literally dropped.

Seriously, people, this 80-year-old woman was me. I related to her so much that I actually considered chasing after her and begging her for advice on how to stay happily married to a Navy man who knows how to push all your "Annoyed" buttons simultaneously.

After all, she'd seemed to make it work, all bickering aside.

In fact, the hubs and I both couldn't stop laughing at how much their silly tiff resembled ours'.

Which is why we were thrilled when we were seated directly across from the couple during our meal. We wanted to watch the antics continue.

And watch we did. But, much to our amazement, instead of their good-nature-d quarreling, we watched them hold hands over their meals, laugh, and talk the entire hour we were there.

All arguments about anniversary gifts, Cracker Barrel, and marriage antics aside, they were having a lovely breakfast, just like we were.

Just like we always do.

Truth is, my husband and I rarely fight. Honestly, we never get that mad at each other.

But he does exasperate me. And my quirks puzzle and irritate him to no end.

In turn, we poke fun at each other, tease each other, and roll our eyes jokingly while pacing two steps behind each other where ever we go.

It's our marriage.

It's not always pretty and lovely and filled with embrace after warm embrace.

But it is what it is. It's how we communicate.

And how this other, much-older couple communicates, too, it seems.

But when it comes down to it, I love my husband endlessly. As does my 80-year-old doppelganger, I'm sure.

Because at the end of the day, a healthy marriage means you can be truly you - warts and all - and still enjoy a breakfast out with your husband.

Even if it is just at the Cracker Barrel.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Our Other Woman

A few weeks ago, I felt bad for my husband.

I was about to inundate the house with several girly-girl bloggers on a weekend - the only time he has to relax and spend quality time with me.

So, I told him he could do "It."

I told him to go out and fulfill that desire every man has buried deep-down inside.

Under all those layers of loyalty to one's wife and fiscal responsibility, every man has an itch. An itch they all desperately, hopelessly want to scratch.

So I told him to scratch it.

I told him to go out and buy a flat-screen T.V.

The man had been jones-ing for one for months, heck, years.

His love of technology and gadgets had lain dormant for far too long, all because his wife over here - Mrs. Frugal - wanted a new couch, paid bills, and food on the table.

So, seeing as we had the money, I opened up my normally tight fist and told him to buy himself a flat-screen that evening, while I took the blog girls out and about.

I figured it would give him something to do in his favorite place on Earth - Best Buy - while I was otherwise occupied.

In other words, I fell prey to his pout-y face.

Still, the man works hard, provides for us, and humors my need to buy farmer's market produce. And he knows his way around televisions, computers, and the ever-popular gaming console.

So, I told him to go for it. To get out there and make all his big-screen dreams come true.

We'd already looked at several models, which I'd deemed "reasonable," i.e., decently priced and not bigger than a small country. And I'd come to terms with the fact that my husband and I were going to own one of them before the year was up anyway.

In other words, I was resigned.

Meanwhile, the hubs was positively giddy with joy.

He wrangled up a few friends of his for pizza and flat-screen purchasing and off they went, while the blog girls and I shopped, whipped up platters of tapas and desserts, and settled down in front of our old-school television - may she rest in peace - that I received from my parents way back when I was a freshmen in college.

But no sooner had the girls and I popped in Season 1 of every woman's favorite television series, when my husband came running into the house, fumbling, afraid he was about to be caught red-handed.

He stopped abruptly when he met the wifely gaze of not just yours truly, but that of my newfound posse - two blogger girls who have their own husbands, who happen to know a thing or two about the woman's "Look," as well.

"Babe, the good news is, I got one! I got a T.V!" he yelled, hedging, buying time, before he dropped the other shoe.

"But...it's not exactly what we talked about," he added.

My look deepened, cuing him to speak quickly, lest I begin gesticulating wildly and screaming at him to "Take it out of my sight!" before I'd even seen it.

He spat out, hurriedly, "Before you get mad, just know that I got a really good deal on it, OK?"

By this point, I was positively glowering. Because a "good deal" in man language is not the same as scoring a $10 sundress at the Gap.

But before I could protest, he yelled out behind him, "Bring it in, boys!" and two sailor buddies of him began carting in a flat-screen T.V. so big that I literally stopped breathing.

It was four times the size of the one we'd discussed during prior shopping trips.

Plainly put, it was huge.

And totally out of place in my tiny, shabby chic living room.

I didn't know what to say; I didn't know what to think.

I sat there, silent, while my husband kept rambling on, using words that might as well have been Greek to me:

"Out-of-the-box special."

"Highly rated."

"Four-hundred dollars cheaper than this model normally goes for."

"Great brand."

"No returns possible."

I about passed out from the shock.

I wanted to scream, and, in that moment, realized the genius behind my husband's timing.

He'd carted in a larger-than-I'd-ever-want T.V. while I had guests over and in front of two of his co-workers, who I didn't know that well, either.

I couldn't yell, for fear of looking like The Old Ball and Chain.

And, thus, the new T.V. was ours.

By default, mind you.

But it was ours, nonetheless.

So, as the guys set up the new love of my husband's life, I fumed silently.

And by the time everyone had left or gone to bed, I'd significantly calmed down. (What can I say? I might be quick to anger, but I'm also quick to forgive.)

Two weeks later, I've grown accustomed to the television that resembles a rather large growth protruding off my IKEA shelf in the middle of the living room.

And don't tell my husband, but I've even grown fond of watching A Baby Story on the large growth while I eat my lunch and blog.

But then, my husband comes home.

And, no sooner than I can ask him, "Do you want iced tea with dinner?" does he sit down and grab the flashy new boob tube's remote.

Or the controller to his precious gaming console, which, of course, is linked up to the precious flat-screen, too.

The Other Woman, it seems, is linked in to his entire world: The XBox. ESPN. A DVD collection that lines up all his favorite shows and movies.

And all of it is projected onto a 60-inch screen that always turns on when he wants it to and shuts up promptly when he hits mute.

If she could cook, I'd be threatened.

And if she didn't display my TLC afternoon programming with such a crystal-clear picture, I'd be hate her.

Lucky for her, her screen is spot-on. And all mine for all but a few evening hours.

Which, if I play my cards right (and cook a mean dinner,) I can commandeer for some primo chick-show viewing a few nights a week, too.

We're a perfect little family: Me, my husband, and The Other Woman.

Who knew polygamy could be so fun?

***

I'll admit, the flat-screen television isn't half bad. And I'd rather live with one of those than an actual other woman.

Luckily, I don't have to worry about that.

He's so enamored with the T.V. that he doesn't have time for another woman.

Plus, I think he kinda likes me.

What? I let him buy the T.V., didn't I?

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

The One Where I Blush Profusely

When you teach high school, the topic of sex is never off the table.

Surreptitious as it seems, the teenagers are thinking about it, and the teachers and staff are trying desperately to keep it from happening.

And with good reason.

No one likes a pregnant cheerleader.

When the Debate Club captain comes to school with a baby bump, things get awkward.

And the last thing the track team's relay anchor needs to be is a father at 17.

Still, that being said, occasionally, it comes up.

Much to my chagrin, mind you.

High school is a veritable cess pool of hormones, awkward gender relations, and biology lessons on the reproductive system.

Frankly, it's hard to avoid the topic on any given day.

But I teach English, where I can use the veiled language of Shakespeare to mask what's really going on between so many of literature's "star-crossed lovers."

And, trust me, I do my darnedest.

Because while I often eavesdrop on my students with open ears and disguised glances, I rarely engage them in the topic at all. I didn't sign up to teach sex-ed for a reason. Shakespeare is awkward enough, thank you very much.

I don't even broach the subject with them unless they come to me and ask for advice, etc. That's my modus operandi, and I'm sticking to it.

Until this past Friday, two minutes before the end of the school day, where, apparently, I decided to break all of my own rules.

My kids were shoving things in their backpacks, rustling through papers, lining up at the door, and waiting for the bell to ring.

And then I heard one little 14-year-old talking to another:

"You know what freaks me out? Knowing personal information about teachers. It's just weird. I mean, I don't want to even know if teachers are married, OK? That's just creepy."

I chuckled. After all, marriage seems pretty non-creepy to me. I'd even daresay it's downright normal. Boring, even. Hum-drum, in fact.

Normally, when I tell people I'm married, I'm not met with giddy excitement.

But I'm also not met with horror, either.

So, breaking my very own version of a "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, I asked the student what she meant:

"Wait a minute, S. Why is it not OK for teachers to be married?"

I should have known better, my friends. I should have known then what was about to come out of her mouth. But like any good slow-motion movie montage, I couldn't do anything to stop it:

"Uh, Mrs. C, it's gross. Because if you're married, that means you're having sex. Most married people do. And frankly, I don't want to think about anybody your age having sex."

I didn't say anything. Out loud.

But internally, I was screaming:

"Um, my age? MY AGE? Honey-child, if the thought of married people in their 20s having sex grosses you out, it's only going to get worse! And, wait. Did really just you say MY AGE?"

Finally, the awkward silence got to the girl. She couldn't take it - and the shocked expression on my face had to be stopped:

"Look, Mrs. C, I know you have urges, all right? But I just think it's disgusting."

Again, the silence.

The never-ending silence, broken only by my own internal screaming, yelling:

"Urges? URGES? Is a hormonal, irrational teenager really standing here and telling me that I have urges? I'll tell you what urges I have. I have urges to run and hide and never teach high school again. That's the urges I have right about now."

But I just kept standing here, blushing a profuse shade of red and hoping and praying that the darn school bell would ring already.

But it didn't. Not for another 43 seconds.

And I was left there for what felt like ages, in front of this very matter-of-fact, unapologetic 14-year-old.

Haggard, at my age.

Married, and sexually active.

Repulsive, in my own right, to an entirely new generation.

I've thought up a million retorts since then. I wish I'd told her that the thought of unmarried teens having sex freaks me out; I wish I'd told her that "my age" was still pretty good, and that she should spend more time worried about the senior citizens of the world, throwing out their backs and dislocating their hips with their sex lives; I wish I'd told her to stop talking before she ever got out the word "urges."

But now, it's too late. I guess my husband and I - married at our ripe old ages - are just disgusting. Might as well chalk up those years gone by as my golden era.

Now I'm just an old woman with urges.

And an intense gag reflex brought about by conversations with teenagers.

***

It's official: This little incident has made me realize that the school year cannot end soon enough. What blessed relief it will be to have a summer away from conversations like this. But, for now, I must play on. The week is upon us, isn't it?

I hope you all had a wonderful weekend! Happy Monday!

The day the dirty car died

I walked out my door bright and early Sunday morning.

I was headed to church alone, as is the custom I'm told when you're married to a man in the military.

I didn't even have to step off my front stoop, however, before I saw it.

My car. Covered in brown goop.

It seemed all the birds in all the world had pooped all the bird poop ever pooped on my car Saturday night.

And then those birds apparently shook the yard's overhanging magnolia tree into such a frenzy that it shed approximately 432, 621, 905 seed pods all over my car's surface.

But because they wouldn't be satisfied until my car's royal-blue exterior was no longer visible, those very birds then must have stomped upon their own feces and those magnolia seed pods until everything about my car's body was no longer visible under a layer of brown and white sludge.

My Nissan Rogue had been reinvented into the Poop Mobile.

The Poop Mobile, which - it has to be said - I drove to church.

Because the good Lord knows I needed to pray for guidance about what I had to do next.

You see, the thing is, I don't really wash cars.

I'm serious; I really don't.

Now, I'm not pulling some princess, Southern belle card here: I wash plenty of other things around these parts.

I just don't wash cars.

That's always been one those things only my husband does.

Much like wearing boxer-briefs or retrieving boxes that are above my reach.

My husband is the person in our marriage who washes our cars.

Let me assure you that this was not some traditional gender-role decision; it's just the way the household duties got divided up in our home.

The hubs shrinks, shrivels, or disintegrates most of our clothing, so I do the laundry.

And I wouldn't know paint thinner from wiper fluid, so he maintains the automobiles.

It's a simple life, but it works for us.

Except when he's away, being a good U.S. Navy recruit.

Leaving me all alone on a Sunday, dressed up in my church-goin' finery and staring at a poop-drenched car.

Or, four hours later, a poop-hardened car. Because I'd driven that bad boy to church (and Target) that morning - poop and all - giving my little Nissan at least three hours of prime baking time in the Florida sunshine.

Now, on my morning travels, I did drive by several car washes. But I'm currently on a tight budget, and those things cost way more than they ever should.

So I returned home, changed into an old T-shirt, and stared at the poop-hardened car in thought.

What to do? What to do?

I debated calling my father. As a child, I'd watched him wash the family car many a time. I'd even helped. (If by "help," you mean danced around in a tank suit flinging suds and water everywhere until my father hosed me and the car down together before shooing me back into the house.)

But then I realized my father - a man who once dreamed of owning his very own car wash - would be ashamed his only daughter didn't know how to wash her own automobile. (The only defense I had lined up was that I'd never seen my mother wash a car in her entire life. So, after all, I was only mirroring the marriage roles my parents had acted out for me in my childhood years. How was I supposed to know any different? I'd say. But I figured that wouldn't be well-received by the Car-Washing King.)

So I Google-d it.

And I learned that hand soap will not hurt the paint on your car - which was, really, my ultimate goal. Because I can just imagine my husband returning home from boot camp to find splotching, peeling paint on our car. He'd love that.

So I created my own diluted car wash with hand soap and water, carried it out to the front yard in a bucket, and went looking for the hose.

I then had to face my fears and climb into the bushes to turn said hose on, which basically required me to pray like the dickens that I didn't see, feel or hear any reptiles - my biggest fear ever - in the brush.

When I escaped the foliage snake-free with a spouting hose, I began the official car-washing process, which can be summed up as follows:

Spray car. Drop hose. Create mud around car. Scrub car with hand-soap solution and old washcloth. Stop and worry that washcloth is creating micro-scratches in the car's paint job. Realize I don't care. Keep scrubbing at poop-magnolia-seed mixture. Allow mud puddle to grow near hose next to car. Retrieve hose. Spray car. Slip in mud puddle because I'm wearing foam flip-flops. Get up. Tug at hose. Realize hose only reaches one side of the car. Throw hose and yell "Crap!" at my watching dogs. Go to house and get keys. Drip mud. Get in car. Turn it around and back it into the drive way. Get out of car. Slip in mud puddle again. Get hose. Spray car. Drop hose. Create even more mud around car. Scrub car some more with hand-soap-solution and old washcloth. Mud puddle grows to infinity near hose next to car. Retrieve hose. Spray car. Start to slip in muddle puddle again but manage to do some sort of ungraceful split and remain partially upright. Spray my watching dogs on accident with hose. Chase down dogs who now think they're getting a bath. Catch dogs and put them back on the front porch. Find house in the ever-increasing mud puddle. Say a prayer and head back into the bushes to turn hose off. Drip mud all the way back into the house. Realize I forgot the dogs on the front porch. Go back and get the dogs, who are staring ominously in the direction of the now-still hose. Shake my fist at every chirping bird I hear and run out to the yard to make sure the fowl aren't pooping on my now (kinda sorta) clean car for the entire Sunday afternoon.

Huzzah!

Graceful though it wasn't, 30 minutes and a slightly bruised behind later, I had a poop-free car.

Take that, evil birds.

This chick knows how to clean a car. (Barely.)

I'm sure my husband would be proud. I managed to be both man and woman of the house yesterday, hitting the grocery store, cooking dinner, doing a load of whites, and cleaning the family vehicle.

My father, on the other hand, is probably reading this and shaking his head, wondering where - exactly - he went wrong in my rearing.

And the rest of you are probably thinking, "Dear heavens. Did she just make us read a post about washing her car? She's really reaching, isn't she?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

Unfortunately, my life sans husband is just that thrilling, my friends.

Plus, I totally needed a chance to mention "poop" at least 15 times in a blog post. I had an itch; it needed to be scratched.

Suffice it to say, it was only a matter of time.

Never fear, though. I promise it will get a little bit more exciting around here soon.

Because next week, I'm going to have to do something about the grass in the front of my house formally known as the "lawn."

Now, it's resembling some sort of weedy forest.

So tune in next time for Girl v. Lawnmower: The Series.

Dad's gonna be so proud.

***

Happy Monday everyone! Hope you had a good weekend!

Own it, baby

On Sunday afternoon, I went Christmas shopping and grocery shopping.

And my husband went with me.

And no, hell did not freeze over. Pigs did not fly.

In fact, he even stood next to me in SteinMart while I lamented over what purse to purchase for a friend.

He nodded and considered several items of workout clothing I wanted to buy for his sister.

He even weighed in on a pink pair of polka-dotted pajama pants I considered getting for my mother (which I didn't. Sorry, Mom!)

The man traipsed through the mall, Old Navy, Target, Wal-Mart, TJ Maxx, Toys 'R Us, SteinMart and Sam's Club - all without a peep or complaint.

If I wasn't so fastidiously making my list and checking it twice, I'd have been worried.

Who was this man, and what was he doing following me around from store to store?

Couldn't be my husband.

No way, no how.

So, as we were checking out at our final destination - the grocery store - I thanked him for going with me. I thanked him for his help. And I thanked him for doing it all without whining like a 2 year old.

I was touched; I was impressed.

Until we exited the store, him pushing the cart and me presenting a store employee with our lengthy receipt.

The employee made a joke, which I giggled at.

We went on our merry way.

Then my husband came back to me.

Hubs: You know, if there's one thing I can always imitate about you, it's your laugh.
Me: What laugh?
Hubs: You do this little laugh. You kind of giggle really cutely, trail off, and then do a little sigh.
Me: Oh yeah?
Hubs: Yep. It's like "Hee Hee Hee Heeeeeeee...siiggghhhhh."
Me: Really?
Hubs: Yeah, it's your "thing." Like being stinky is my "thing."
Me: Wait, being "stinky" is your "thing?"
Hubs: Yep. I'm stinky. Sure, it's not a great "thing" to have, but hey, it's mine. Could be worse.

Just like that, the man I married was back. In his purest form.

Because it's true: The man does come home from a hard day at work quite smelly.

And yes, I often have to leave the house when he starts digesting anything that isn't entirely made of applesauce.

And sure, there was one time, when he was dropping me off for a hair appointment, where I refused to let him use the salon's restroom - even though he had to go "really, really bad" - because I didn't want to be embarrased by what I knew he would do to - and in - that bathroom.

But I didn't know that was his "thing."

I didn't know that his "smells," quite literally, characterized him.

I didn't know he owned "stinky" as one of this treasured personality traits.

Because if I had, I totally wouldn't have let him stand next to me in the purse section of SteinMart.

Happy Monday everyone!

For this I give thanks...

...For my husband, whom I laugh with, cry with, fight with and fight for. The man who loves me ceaselessly, even when I fall asleep wearing his XXL sweatshirt, lying the wrong way across the bed, on top of the comforter.

...For my family, who loves me and supports my decisions devotedly. My blood relatives who have invested more care and home-cooked food into me than most receive in a lifetime.

...For my friends, who might as well be family, with all the love they've poured on me in times of need, trial and celebration. These pieces of my heart who pop me a bowl of popcorn and proceed to bring out what is good in me even when there is very little of it left.

...For my blog community, who have shown me that faces, voices and bodies aren't required to make up a sisterhood. You all who give so generously of your unconditional hope, prayer and hilarious comments, without reservation.

...For my job, and for that of my husband, which have helped put food on my table, clothes on back, and a roof over my head. Luxuries which many Americans dream of and indebt themselves to receive.

...for "my kids," who have taught me that children need even more love when they are no longer small and cute. Teenagers who often make me want to jump out a window bring me such joy when I least expect it, simply by allowing me into their world and letting me watch them learn reading, writing, relating, and the impressive art of Super-Speed Texting.

...for my home, which is a respite in an otherwise dark world. The house which holds my new family, my dogs, my friends, my community, my sanity.

...for my body, which gives me the ability to move with abandon, to work and relieve stress through exercise, to experience little pain, and to bend over and pick up the countless amount of socks and undershirts my husband leaves scattered about the house. This body, the only one God gave me, and the one which I pray I will live a long, healthy life in.

...for the gift of life, my life, which is filled with blessings bestowed upon me by God and His community here on Earth. A life which I too often take for granted, but, at least for today, I'm trying to be thankful for.

To see the gifts and not the shortcomings; to see the blessings and not the burdens.

...for all this, I give thanks.

***

After work tonight, the hubs and I are heading out of town to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family.

Let me tell you, I am downright thankful for this break in the normal schedule. I'm very excited to see my family and to log a couple nights sleep, where I hope to get more than five hours.

So, I wanted to take this chance to wish you all a happy, happy Thanksgiving. I am so very thankful to have all of you in my life this holiday season. You all are such a blessing!

Until next week, have a wonderful Turkey Day everyone! See you next Monday!

Who doesn't love a little vomit on their honeymoon?

This girl, that's who.

Which is probably why I got it.

In spades.

But along with it, I got a huge (and humorous) dose of honeymoon humility.

Wanna hear all about it?

Then head on over to the blog of the oh-so-wonderful Mrs. Pott's, Experiments in a Galley Kitchen, where I'm doing my first ever guest post!

Please go check it out, and say hello to Mrs. Potts while you're at it. She's off celebrating her first anniversary, so some of her other blog friends and I are taking care of things while she's gone.

See you over there!

***

I'll be back around here tomorrow with some Tuesday tidbits. Until then, have a wonderful Monday!

Not Me! Monday: The Embarrassing Lingerie Edition

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. Head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have NOT been doing this week.

I've already told you all that during the week before one of my best friend's weddings, we did NOT throw her a lingerie shower.

Now, during said shower, she was NOT given quite a heap of gorgeous negligees, undies, bras, and satin robes. So much so that I did NOT wonder what other "regular clothes" she'd have to give away to make room for her new nighties in her dresser drawers.

And so, after the party was over, several of us old, married (i.e., boring) women did NOT sort through all of it for her, picking out and packing "honeymoon appropriate" items and setting aside her "save for six months later when you need to spice things up" items.

We were NOT all touching the soft silks and feeling the lace detailing so fastidiously and with such concentration that all chatter ceased.

For the first time in history, a group of women did NOT stop talking.

Until, finally, some brave soul did NOT utter what we were all thinking:

"You know, I really need to stock up on this stuff again."

You'd have thought she did NOT utter the secret to eternal youth.

We did NOT all start nodding our heads vigorously and agreeing with phrases like, "Seriously, I don't even know where my old lingerie is," or "I just stopped wearing this a couple months after my wedding," or "It just seems like a waste of money when you can't sleep through the night in it."

Our poor, poor husbands.

So, we did NOT all agree that we had to make a stand.

Lingerie was NOT important, and we'd NOT been neglecting it for far too long.

We were NOT inspired.

And we did NOT leave that night with plans to hit up Victoria's Secret - OK, OK, Target and Kohls (come on, people! We're on a budget!) - soon enough.

Now, being the late bloomer that I am, it did NOT take me till this past Friday to make good on my promise that I'd try and purchase some lingerie.

But I did NOT do it.

I did NOT leave school and head straight for the store, bound and determined to pick out something, anything that was not cotton, jersey, flannel or fleece.

And so, on Friday afternoon, I did NOT find myself wandering through Kohls, picking up this set of undies, holding up that brassiere, and examing that teddy, until I'd finally gotten myself a nice little handful of stuff to try on.

Then, I did NOT head for the dressing room, when the weirdness occurred.

A mother did NOT take one look at me and my handful of lingerie - all of which, I might add, was quite tasteful and not at all trashy - before turning to her teenage daughter and starting in on a stern lecture.

An elderly grandmother type did NOT stop dead in her tracks, stare at me, and shake her head, eyes portraying sadness at whatever poor life path she'd thought I'd fallen down.

And a couple of other shoppers did NOT give me weird looks, as if to wonder what exactly I thought I was doing, heading to the dressing room with a bunch of negligees in tow.

Finally, I did NOT reach the counter of the dressing room attendant, where I bravely said: "I've got six items, please."

The dressing room attendant did NOT then take one look at my "six items" before beginning her interrogation:

"Honey, what you doin' with all that? Do you really think that's necessary? And does your mother know you're buying all this? And I hope you don't think those are regular clothes, because they ain't. And you shouldn't be wearin' them. Out in public or in private, you understand me?"

At this point, I was NOT rendered utterly speechless, a first for me.

Finally, I did NOT manage to stammer out: "Um, I think my mother's OK with it," though I was still not sure what "it" was.

The attendant's voice did NOT then escalate, exclaiming, "Oh yeah, she's OK with her high-school daughter buying that stuff?"

For the second time in my life, I was, again, NOT rendered utterly speechless, until I followed the woman's eyes to my chest.

My chest, which was NOT bedecked with a blue and white T-shirt and some rah-rah slogan for the high school I teach at.

My chest, which was NOT wearing a T-shirt that matched my hoodie and hair ribbons and jewelry, which I was also wearing and had worn to TEACH at a high school all that day.

My chest, which was NOT garbed as such because it was NOT Homecoming Week at the high school I teach at, and it was NOT Spirit Day on Friday, and my outfit did NOT match the 10th-grade classes colors so my homeroom and I could NOT march in the school parade, where I'd NOT wear hair ribbons and jewelry that one of my cheerleader students and her mother had given me for Christmas last year, all in the venerated name of "school spirit."

But apparently, I did NOT look like at all that; I just looked like a high school student.

A high school student who was NOT about to try on and then buy an armful of lingerie to wear and use for who knows what seedy purposes.

Just a guess, but I'm pretty sure that's what the patrons and employees of Kohls were NOT thinking.

I did NOT then start laughing uncontrollably on the spot.

Between giggles and gulps for air, I did NOT explain to the attendant that, indeed, I taught high school, was married and had been for over a year, and was pretty sure my mother knew I wore lingerie because she'd bought me the most scandalous piece of it I own for my bridal shower last August.

I also may or may NOT have promised the attendant that I'd never wear the stuff in a public place.

Ever.

After all, I'm NOT a high school teacher.

What would people think?

***

Happy Not Me! Monday, everyone! Hope you had a wonderful weekend!

Taking off the taffeta skirt and getting back to blogging

I'm taking off my bridesmaids' skirt.

I'm wiping away my tears of joy.

I'm washing my hands, chafed and scratched from carving 22 pumpkins.

And I'm putting down my calla lily bouquet, wiping off my "big girl" make-up, and taking down the biggest hair I've ever worn in my entire life.

Because, believe it or not, it's all over.

I am so happy to announce that my dear friends Autumn and Adam are husband and wife.

And I'm also happy to announce that after prepping, stressing, crying and rejoicing, we've all survived!

We've all lived to tell the tale of a beautiful, fall-themed wedding that honored a monumental love story.

I feel so blessed to have been a part of it.

I also feel dead tired because I was a part of it.

Dead-to-the-world, knock-me-over-with-a-stiff-breeze tired.

Because while I've loved every moment of celebrating with friends and family, I didn't sleep much. I didn't eat much. I didn't clean or launder much.

I'm not entirely sure I showered much.

And I definitely didn't blog much.

So now, I've got some catching up to do.

I'm putting the sweatpants back on, pouring myself a cup of tea, and grabbing my laptop.

I'm back.

I'm reading and writing and catching up with all of you.

The normal everyday happenings have never felt so good.

Today I'm hoping to tackle the rarely tamed, never-broken beast known as My Overly Ambitious Google Reader.

And tomorrow I promise to post a fun recap so you can hear all the hilarious and fabulous stories about my dear friends' wedding.

Then, I should be all caught up and back into the swing of things.

Thanks for hanging in there with me in my absence, and thank you so much, Melissa, for re-posting some archival Living in the Moment moments!

Thank you to my husband, who cleaned the house, did laundry, brought me lunch at school, and made dinner, all while I worked 15-hour day at the school yesterday after we came home from Wedding Week the night before to grab only four hours of sleep before arising to a perfect storm of a week's worth of neglected student issues. (I know. I'm a lucky woman. I'd rent him out, if I wasn't so darn fond of him.)

A special thanks goes out to my littlest brother, who was born 19 years ago yesterday. I love you, kid! Thanks for being born! I wore my Air Force Academy shirt on your birthday in your honor! Just don't tell those Army/Navy family members we all know and love!

And thank you all of you lovely readers for stopping by once again. I missed you all, and I'm so glad to be back! I will return tomorrow with more wedding fun, but until then, I leave you with one beautiful moment I can't resist sharing. A little teaser, if you will...Happy Tuesday everyone!

It's kind of like paper

Being married means I get to fall asleep in the arms of my best friend every night.

Being married means I get to face life's challenges hand in hand with a man who has vowed to protect and love me for the rest of our lives.

And being married means I now have yet another occasion for which I must purchase a gift for the man who likes to moonlight as The Guy It's Impossible to Shop For.

Seriously, Christmas, Valentine's Day and his birthday were hard enough.

But now, we have our wedding anniversary.

So, once again, I'm stuck wandering the aisles of Target and Best Buy, desperately trying to find a gift for the man who has everything and doesn't want anything else but a flat-screen T.V.

But unlike other holidays, our anniversary comes with the added pressure of purchasing or producing a themed gift.

This year, for instance, we are apparently supposed to give Our Beloved Spouse a gift made of paper, because that's what They say is appropriate for One's first anniversary.

And of course, by "They," I mean The Important Hallmark Traditionalists Who Decide These Kinds of Things.

By "One," I mean The Girl Sitting Here Typing This Who Is Nowhere Near Crafty Enough to Produce a Flat Screen T.V. Made Entirely Out of Paper.

And by "Beloved Spouse," I mean My Husband Who Won't Die Happy Until He Owns the Aforementioned Flat Screen Television.

But seeing as how we are in no position to buy the flat-screen of my husband's dreams, I dropped the element of surprise, and I compromised. I suggested that we pool the money we'd use to buy each other anniversary gifts, and instead purchase one item we both wanted:

A flip video camera.

The hubs wants it like he wants all technological advancements. It's just another gadget he can play with.

And I want it because I need a better way to capture the life-affirming spirits of my friends, dogs and future children. (Plus, think of the blogging possibilities!)

So, we did it.

We had a lovely anniversary dinner (which my hubs asked me not to talk about because, as he said, "Please, can we just have one un-bloggable moment?" I started to tell him "No," but I figured that was unfair considering, technically, it's his anniversary, too. At least, that's what They tell me.)

And soon after dinner, we became the proud owners of our very own pocket-sized video camera.

Now, other than the fact that, two hours into owning and using this gift, I was reminded of how annoying my own voice is on film and how dirty my house is when viewed through the camera lens, I'm still proud to say this technology-chicken girl produced one minute of pure husband-featuring entertainment.

It only took me 12 separate takes, 11 of which I deleted because they included brief glimpses of my unbrushed hair and un-made-up face.

Which pretty much means you all may never see video of me, because getting me to brush my hair and put on make-up on a Saturday afternoon would take a true act of God, and I'm pretty sure He's got bigger fish to fry.

Plus, I'm terribly camera shy. (And secretly afraid you all won't find me nearly as entertaining in person. There's a reason I never went into broadcast journalism. The written word is my friend; the camera is not.)

So, until I work up the courage (i.e., finally smack a little translucent powder on my face) I give you The Hubs and My Face-less Voice: An Introduction.

There you have it. I think we're ready for the Sundance Film Festival, don't you?

To be honest, I like this little piece of technology, but I imagine we'll only use it to capture the more important moments in life (at least until we have kids. Then all bets are off.)

I am still a girl who likes to write, more than I like to point and shoot any kind of camera. (If I can even remember to bring a camera with me, that is.)

Call me old-fashioned, but nothing is better than a good story, told by putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

Still, upon occasion, I may pop a video up on the old blog, just to mix things up around here.

At least until I manage to fashion a flat-screen T.V. made entirely out of cotton.

You know, for our second anniversary.

***

Thank you all for your sweet words and anniversary wishes on the post about our love story. I feel so honored that you all took the time to read about one of the biggest blessings I've received. You all are so wonderful!

Happy Monday, 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!