Where Do We Go From Here

I'm struggling a lot lately with what I want this blog to be.  When I began it, almost two (two?!) years ago, its purpose was mainly to make sure I was writing weekly and to help me work through a whole world of issues and anger and frustration following my terrible first marriage and subsequent divorce.  It was a place for me to be open and honest about what had happened, to talk about the many and various changes in my life, and to talk about the things that still infuriated me.  I wanted to help others by sharing my story, but I also wanted to help myself.

I don't have those problems anymore.

I mean, I do still get angry.  But it's not like before.  I've moved on as much as I think I'm able to.  I'll probably always be a little bit pissed off over what happened, but I think that's the way it should be.

But I got married again (almost three months ago).  We bought a house.  I'm a stepmother.  I'm (still) ridiculously in love with this man that I've known for fourteen years. I have great friends who (I hope) still love me even though I'm not around very much these days.  I have a wonderful job and am, generally, having a fantastic time.  I'm busy and tired and very much in need of introverting most of the time, but I can't think of very much I'd change.

So that leaves me at a bit of a loss as to what to blog about weekly, now that wedding stress has ended.  General happiness and/or being an introvert isn't that exciting, really.  I don't have a current life goal to keep tabs on (though I probably should).  I have Instagram and Facebook for my daily selfies (and general photo-and-meme sharing).  I don't travel (much).

So what do I do?

I read.

I collect vintage and novelty clothing/accessories (and take selfies).

I knit or crochet or cross-stitch.

I bake and cook (when I can).

I step-parent.

I'm a wannabe 60s housewife.

I'm super nerdy, introverted, and not shy about any of it.

And I know there are blogs about (literally) all of these things.  But it seems impossible to narrow this random little blog into one defined category.  It also seems impractical to blog about everything I enjoy or do.

So I'm at a bit of an impasse.  I don't want to stop blogging, even though each week finds me less and less inspired as to what to write about.  Two years might be the longest amount of time I've managed to actively maintain a blog, after all.  I don't want to break my streak now!  But something needs to change.  I just don't know what.

What would you like to see more of from me?  Less of?  What are you interested in reading about?  What topics and formats do you find most appealing?  I'm clearly at a loss here, so I'm very open to ideas and feedback as to how to keep this blog going and at least fairly interesting.

P.S. Please don't say less selfies.

No Way Out

It's our two-month anniversary today, or, as Mark says, "Day 61 of the hostage situation."

People have asked me how married life is, and, really?

Honestly?

It's great.

I mean, come on.  I've got a mostly-willing hostage!  What could be wrong with that?

But, in all honesty, I love being married to my best friend.  I love it even on the days where everything feels off, or we have fights, or I cry, or everything goes wrong.  Married life is still, overall, really really great.  But our relationship and our life together was already great before we were married, so that helps.

Little known, shocking fact: marriage doesn't fix a relationship.  I should know.  It didn't fix my first relationship.

And, another shocking fact?  Marriage is work.  Really fucking hard work.  It's not all breakfasts in bed and making out in the kitchen and dinner on the table when you get home from work.

And it's even not the same as dating, even if you were already mostly living together.

Marriage requires daily maintenance.  It requires talking (which I'm not always very good at), and trust, and more vulnerability than you knew was possible.  It means someone is almost always there, for the bad days when you hate the world and everything in it, along with the good days.  You have to consider them, and you want to consider them (even when they tell you not to).

Marriage means you're going to get your feelings hurt, and you're going to find out that you unknowingly hurt theirs.

It means there is someone to willingly do the dishes for you, and someone you willingly rotate laundry for.

For me, it means waking up to coffee.  It means a partner-in-crime.  It means playing just one more game of Minion Trouble (or Chutes and Ladders, or Sorry) with Kaylee so that he can have a few minutes of down time.  It means he gives Kaylee a bath so that I can have a few minutes of down time.  It means someone who knows me better than anyone else possibly could.

It means planning a last-minute birthday party for Kaylee, joint-cleaning the whole house, and cooking dinner for 9 people.

It means eating Fazoli's and Imos on a fairly regular basis, even though I hate both.

It means we go see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie, because I have an endless love for Johnny Depp.

So.

Two months into our marriage. (Plus fourteen years total of knowing each other.)  At this point of my first marriage, I'm pretty sure I already knew it was not going to be a good one.  He'd already "stopped trying" (key words for failure if there ever were any).  We were both depressed.  I couldn't see a way out, even though I desperately wanted to find one.

I don't want a way out this time.  I want a way to make it last forever.

And I'm doing my best to make sure that it does.

What's in a Name?

The great debate has been raging: whatever will Ashley do about her last name?

People have asked.  People have told me that they changed my last name in their phones without asking.  People even made out wedding checks to Mark and Ashley Wood, which added an extra step when we deposited them in the bank.  My mom thought I forgot to write "Wood" when I signed the church register this past weekend.  Even my e-mails from Michaels have, over the past few months, gone from "Ashley Jones" to "Ashley Wood" to "Mark Wood" to "Mark Jones" out of either sheer flailing and confused desperation or some strange way of letting me temporarily try out all my available options.

The fact is that I haven't changed it yet.  I couldn't even do so until after we closed on the house (which happened Monday morning, making us officially, terrifyingly, homeowners).

And honestly?  I'm torn.

I changed my name without question the last time around (I don't think my ex would have allowed me to keep my maiden name anyway), and very much regretted it when we eventually divorced and I had to go through the entire process of changing it back to my maiden name (with his "permission," because apparently we still all live in the dark ages of chauvinism where even an ex-husband can continue to dictate a woman's choices).  I changed my driver's license, I changed the name on the car title, I changed my passport, and I changed nearly every single damn thing that had my name on it.  Bank account, apartment lease, e-mails, Facebook account, etc, etc, etc.

It's definitely not that I forsee having to change it back a second time, but the fact remains that I essentially fought to get my maiden name back two years ago when it would have just been easier to keep my married name (as much as I hated it).  Changing it to my new married name feels, strangely, like a betrayal of all that work.  Plus, I like being a Jones.  It took me years to appreciate my incredibly common name, and now I find I'm rather attached to it (and not just literally).

On the other hand, I very much want the acknowledgement that I married the love of my life.  I want to share that extra bit of life that comes from sharing a name.  I want to be a Wood.  It would make most things much easier to simply change my name.  I wouldn't have to be annoyed with the people who assumed I changed my name and address things to "Ashley Wood."  We wouldn't have to explain that yes, we are married even though my last name is different.  Signing cards, etc, would be that much quicker.

But... I still don't want to get rid of Jones.

This would probably be easier if I didn't hate the concept of hyphenated names (for me personally; I don't care what other people choose to do with their names).  Then I could have my name and change it too.

I also wish it didn't matter.  I wish that I didn't feel like keeping my name or changing my name were both somehow a political and/or social statement, in spite of the decision being neither of those things for me.  I wish neither were the "expected" option.  I don't know if that would make my current decision easier, but I might feel less guilty about whatever choice I make.

This also might be the very definition of a first-world problem.

In slightly related news, being referred to as Mark's "wife" remains an incredibly jarring experience.  As does calling him my husband.  It was hard enough getting used to "boyfriend/girlfriend," then "fiance'," but "wife"?  So weird.  It makes me feel instantly old (says the girl who spends most of her free time knitting and crocheting and goes to bed around 9) and very formal.

Names are so strange.  They are deeply personal.  They define, they separate, and they group together.  We attach so much meaning to titles and names and change both according to life changes, how we want to be perceived, and, sometimes, at whim.  I don't know why "wife" sounds so strange to me now, almost ten years after I became a wife for the first time, but it does.  Honestly, it's probably related to the feeling that changing my maiden name again would be a weird betrayal of the work I did to stop being a wife.

In spite of these strange hangups, I love being married.  I love looking at pictures from our wedding day.  I love seeing a ring on Mark's finger, and looking at my own ring.

It's just the words, and the names, that I have a problem with.

It's not even a problem in a bad way.  It's more a problem in that I have to figure out what the words, what the name, means.

What's in a name?  Everything, and nothing, all at once.  In the grand scheme of things, does it matter if I change my name or keep it?  No.  But right now it seems like a bigger decision than buying a house.  In a way, I worked harder for my name and "title" than I did for a house.

What does your name mean to you?  What about your title?

Is the hangup just with me?  This is entirely possible.  But as someone who worked hard to become who I am and to define myself (as well as someone who continually turns over the meaning and intent of words), the threat of any change gives me pause.

The reality is that changing my name, or being a wife, do not change who I essentially am as a person.  They don't change my past.  They don't change my personality.  They don't make me any less of an introvert, or any more of a morning person.  If anything, they add to who I am, never subtracting.  I'm a wife.  I'm a stepmother.  I'm a homeowner.  I'm a project manager.  I'm The Pretty Vintage Girl.  I'm either Jones or Wood or whatever I choose to be.

I'm still me.

The Pretty Vintage Wedding

Well, it happened.

We got married!

It was not an elaborate April Fool's prank.  It was not a joke.  It was 100% real and 110% stressful and even, just maybe, 100% worth it.

It's been a long time coming and a very short time planned for.  Even though we got engaged back in July, we really didn't plan any of the actual wedding until the last three months.  While moving.  And buying a house.

No sweat, right?

But it came off beautifully.

The weather (which I had stressed about for weeks) was perfect.  The decorations were set.  The cupcakes (and slightly crooked cake) were made.  My bouquet (which I crocheted myself, because why not?) was finally finished and arranged rearranged to my perfectionist likings.  I had delegated away all the tasks I couldn't handle myself and scheduled my friends to arrive early to keep me calm.

I lost track of how many times I'd said or wished that we'd just eloped.

And yet, at just about 11:00 on Saturday morning, I stood (in full hair, makeup, and wedding dress) holding hands with Mark, and we walked down the "aisle" in my parents' front yard to "Have You Met Miss Jones?".

Now, I can't quite say that the ceremony went off without a hitch.  Because as soon as we got up to the podium and Terry started the ceremony, I had a terrible realization.

... I had forgotten the rings inside.

But, after a brief pause where Mark ran off to fetch the rings and everyone enjoyed a good laugh, we got back underway and the rest proceeded exactly as planned, up to and including us walking out to the Imperial March.

Really, in a wedding where I had put in the extra effort to be sure it was personalized just for us (the crochet bouquet, my custom "Happily Ever After" book pin, the music, and the readings (Pablo Neruda, Neil Gaiman, and a quote from "Serenity"), the fact that I forgot something so important was actually entirely fitting.  I am horrendously forgetful (usually at all the worst times), so I'm far from shocked that in such a carefully planned-out event I forgot something as important as wedding rings.

And now we're married.

And I'm so very happy.

It's not that anything is different.  Our lives haven't suddenly changed.  We're not different (even though we both find it very strange to use the words "husband" and "wife."  We're still the same people, just a bit more legally bound than before.

But I finally had a wedding that I enjoyed, a wedding that I truly wanted to a man who I truly love and who truly loves me.


And that is very nice indeed.  It even makes all the stress and worry and work worth it.

Because I never, ever have to do this again.

The Final Countdown

There's only two more full days until I get married.

Two days.

I don't even know how that happened or how it's possible that time has gone this quickly.  I swear we just got engaged the other week.

Two days.

One of my friends asked me the other day how many meltdowns I've had.

And honestly?  Not as many as I might have expected, none at all since almost two weeks ago when Mark and I both admitted to each other that we were freaked out that the other person didn't want to get married.

Quite frankly, we don't want to get married.  We don't.  But we do want to be married.  Those of you who have gone through weddings can surely relate, at least in part, and know that there is most definitely a difference between the two.  Getting married is, simply, a pain in the ass, even when you do truly want to be with your future spouse for the rest of your life and all that nonsense.

But the problem is the process.  The problem is that weddings have gotten out of control.  The problem is  that everything costs way too much money for one little portion of one little day.  The problem is that everyone has an opinion about what you should or should do and who should or shouldn't be invited.

(The problem may also be that I'm a ridiculous perfectionist and therefore made my own bouquet and cupcakes, but that's totally besides the point.)

The problem is not with me or Mark, and that is the one thing keeping me going.  Right now I would give almost anything for it to be 11:00 on Saturday and for it all to be almost over, to be on the very brink of being married to the love of my life.

Part of me wondered, during my momentary crisis a couple weeks ago, if I was sure about all this.

I've been down this road before, after all.  It wasn't great.  It was, actually, one of the worst experiences of my life.  And here I was, ten years later, about to do it all over again?  Was I sure, was I really sure, that this was a good idea?  What if I was making the same mistake again?

But I thought about it.  And wasn't scared of being married.  I know, as much as I can know anything, that I want to be with this guy for all of the foreseeable future.  There's never really been anyone else, in spite of all efforts to the contrary.

No, what I was scared of was that Mark didn't want to be with me, that he would change his mind, realize he'd made a huge mistake.  Because, really, I wouldn't blame him.  I'm damaged goods.  I've been divorced.  I still have significant emotional damage and a tendency to stress-meltdowns.  The fact that I don't drink as much means that I cry a lot more instead.  I post selfies every day and have a ridiculous amount of clothes.  And pins.  And books.  And shoes.

Really, I wouldn't blame him if he decided I wasn't the best idea ever.

But that would be awful.

So do I wish we didn't have to go through this whole wedding thing?  Yes.  Do I wish we would have eloped back on Halloween?  Yes.

And do I want to marry him and risk everything all over again, ten years later?

Oh, yes.  Hell yes.

With Friends Like These

I talked only last week about how awesome my friends are.

Well, this past weekend, they one-upped themselves.

The bitches.

This past weekend was my bachelorette party.  Unlike my previous bachelorette party, this one did not take place the night before I got married, and thank God for that!  Admittedly, I drank a lot less at this party, but I'm also ten years older and now get hangovers after a few glasses of champagne, so the recovery time was greatly appreciated.

I'm pretty sure that some of my friends have been planning my bachelorette party since before I was actually engaged.  I know the planning began in earnest as Mark actually asked me, and once we picked a date, so did they.

It was not your typical bachelorette party.  I didn't wear a tiara or a necklace covered in tiny penises.  I didn't wear a blinking "Bride-to-Be" pin or go bar-hopping til the wee hours of the morning.  Instead, I had a lovely day of adventures and new experiences, specifically catered to what they knew I would enjoy.

And I personally had no idea what to expect.  The entire day was a surprise, with the exception of knowing that the final stop would be a co-ed party with a literary theme (everyone was supposed to dress like a book character).  All I was told was to dress like I normally do for the daytime events and to show up at my chauffeur's house at 10:15 am.  Outside of that, I had absolutely no clue what was going to happen!

Our first stop was afternoon tea at the London Tea Room, where the six of us spent quite a while drinking as many different teas as possible and trying (unsuccessfully) to eat all the amazing sandwiches, scones, and tea cakes.

Then they gave me the clue to the next stop.

I read it, read it again, looked up, and asked, "Are we going to Cabaret?!"

And we were.

They had gotten us amazing seats (apparently bought practically as soon as tickets went on sale), and it was an incredible show with an excellent Emcee.

After the show, I was allowed some "introvert time" before the night-time party, which was just as great as the rest of the day!  And I dressed like Pippi Longstocking.

Everyone was wearing literary costumes, there was champagne and a nacho bar, and my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator (who turned out to be nerdy as hell) had been hired!

I was maybe a little excited about that.  Maybe.  And I possibly stole his hat for a little bit.  

All in all, I have some really nerdy friends, guys.  And I'm entirely alright with that.

Photos by Carrie Meyer of Insomniac Studios! You can see all the photos that Carrie took here.

Once again, I find myself telling you how incredible my friends are (like you don't already believe me).  I'm not sure how I ever came to deserve a group of girls who takes it upon themselves to give me a perfect day of low-key adventures, but I'm endlessly glad that they consider me to be worth the effort.

In spite of my introvert anxiety over not knowing what to expect or how much I would need to socialize (and in spite of all the rest of the wedding/house stress I'm dealing with), they made it easy for me to have a good time, eat more than enough, forget about some of my stress, and enjoy myself.  I even stayed at the party til 12:30, which is an incredibly rare event indeed.

As much as I enjoyed myself, I don't intend to do this whole bachelorette party thing a third time.  (Mark is stuck with me, for better and for worse.)  But if I had to do it twice, this was definitely the way to go.

Even the hangover the next day was pretty worth it, if only because I got to lay in bed for a few hours instead of go get married.  I guess you figure these things out a little better the second time around.

Still not going to aim for number three, though.

Squad Goals

So.  It's under a month until we get married.

The countdown is on.  The stress is mounting.  Invitations still haven't gone out.  I have literally no idea where the rings are right now.

What else could possibly go wrong?

Don't ask.

(Also don't ask me how unpacking is going.  Unless you want either a 10-minute rant or spontaneous tears with no guarantees of which it will be.)

Basically, Mark is stuck with me because I am never ever ever going to get married again.

My last wedding was almost exactly 10 years ago (though in August instead of April).  I don't know if I was better at wedding planning back then or what, but this has been hell.  I mean, it doesn't help that we're both working full-time, buying a house, and living mostly out of boxes while digging through other boxes for what we need in the new house.  It also doesn't help that the moving timeline was suddenly thrust upon us two months before the wedding, effectively postponing all wedding planning until what is essentially the last minute.

None of this helps.

What does help is my support system.  Obviously, there is Mark (literally the only person I would go through this for).  He keeps me sane.  He doesn't judge me when I cry or meltdown (that I know of).  He designed our invitations.  Most of all, he's always there for me.

And there are my friends, who have been ever-present with suggestions, ideas, and offers of help.  You've heard the phrase, "It takes a village to raise a child"?  Well, this is going to be the village that planned a wedding.

The importance of International Women's Day is not lost on me at all, particularly this month.  I'm well aware that I wouldn't be the person I am today without all the incredible women in my life, and I love that there is an opportunity to celebrate them more specifically than I already try to do.

I wouldn't be as strong or as self-confident without these friends, and I wouldn't have all the amazing role models that are available to me in the various and overlapping forms of mothers and partners and businesswomen and just general badass ladies.  These are women who know who they are, what they want, and are always striving for their goals (and succeeding, or failing, or both).  They step up to the plate and they admit defeat, they rock bad hair days and they look effortlessly glamorous.  Most importantly, they own their lives.  (Most often they are owning their lives while also being mothers and partners and businesswomen and general badass ladies.)

I like to think that they have influenced me in becoming more and more myself and less of the person I thought I needed to be.  I like to think that I'm a little more badass than I might have been had I never gone to that first burlesque show, or never gotten the nerve to go to my first pole dance class.  I know for a fact that I wouldn't have had so many offers of love and support when I got divorced.  I wouldn't have gone to Mexico, or to House on the Rock.  I wouldn't have had a tornado of women come and pack up my entire kitchen when I moved.  I wouldn't have an entire day of surprise bachelorette party antics coming up this weekend.

Basically, I wouldn't have nearly as many friends to help me out when I so desperately need it.

I deeply love and am eternally grateful for the many wonderful women in my life, both today and every single other day.  You help make my life worthwhile and, without you, I'm not sure that I would be marrying the love of my life in under a month.

So thank you, my loves, for everything.

The Pretty Stressed Girl

As I begin to type this, there are approximately 16 tabs open on my browser.  To be fair, some of those have to do with books I want to read and cakes I want to eat.  And one of them is this blog. But a lot of the rest have to do with things that are seriously stressing me out right now.

And do I even begin to describe how many tabs it feels like I have open in my brain?  Because it's way more than 16.

The ironic thing is that never before in my life have I been so invested in self-care, in methods of relaxation and mindfulness.  I've been doing yoga almost daily since the middle of January.  I've been taking a relaxing bath (complete with wine) every Friday for about a month.  I've been taking care of my skin, drinking a lot of water, and we've even started throwing in some lavender aromatherapy melts into our nightly shower.  I should be blissfully relaxed, floating around on a pleasant-smelling cloud of divine and glowing happiness.

Instead?  My shoulders have ached for days.  I've developed frequent headaches.  My appetite is rapidly deserting me.  Mark's blood pressure is way up.

Why, you ask?  Why on earth are two such usually-happy and fairly content lovebirds so rapidly descending into a state similar to a dangerously frayed wire?

That's an easy one.

A.  We're buying a house.

B.  We're moving.

C.  We're getting married.

Did I mention this is all happening in under 60 days (for the most part in under 30)?

Excuse me while I hyperventilate, laugh a little too loudly and a little too nervously, and then go hide under the covers until people stop asking me questions.

Okay.

I'm breathing.  Really.

...

Totally breathing.

Shockingly, not everything has been going according to plan.  Mainly that while buying a house from a family member certainly has its many perks, it also has a very significant number of downfalls.   A very, very significant number.

Right now, the apartment is in a state of disrepair.  My books (over 20 boxes) are packed and gone, we have a list of furniture we're (hopefully) moving over tomorrow, and I have a LOT to go through, get rid of, organize, and pack.

I am ridiculously looking forward to this all being done, to finally being in a home of our own, married, and living our life together full time.  I'm excited about hanging up pictures, about a new oven and fridge, about having a garage, and about getting to set up a home together in a new and fresh place.  I'm thrilled to no longer have to deal with a rental company and to get to come home to my love every single night.

I'm also panicking about getting it all done in time, worrying if something else is going to go wrong, trying to pick a caterer for the wedding, needing to finish up invitations, and and and...

Right.  Breathing.

Ultimately, I do believe everything is going to work out.  I do.  It's going to be stressful as hell in the meantime, but I believe we'll get there.  We've made it so far, right?  We've made it through almost a a decade and a half of friendship, through my divorce, through losing my job, through my learning how to be a stepmother-in-training, and through over two years of mostly living together.  What's two more months of last-minute major life changes?

(Not coincidentally, everyone has decided that if we can make it through the next two months, we can definitely survive marriage.  Nothing like trial by fire, am I right?)

Mark asked me the other day how we got to this point.  I told him that 13 years ago I showed up at a community theatre audition, that's how.

Okay, it might not have been quite what he was asking, but it's true nonetheless.

I never could have dreamed that we would be at this point.  I never imagined that my completely insane love-at-first-sight reaction at age 18 would lead to a second marriage, a move back to Illinois, to buying a house together.  The most I hoped for at the time was that he thought I was cute and that he wouldn't notice that I was the most awkward girl on the planet.  I'm ridiculously lucky in that I've gotten all that and more.  (Okay, he's probably realized I'm the most awkward girl on the planet by now, but at least he doesn't seem to mind too much.)

Am I more stressed than I've been since my divorce?  Yes.  Have I cried?  Yes.  Am I going to cry more?  Probably.

But is it all going to be worth it?

To quote one of my all-time favorite lines of dialogue, "Abso-fucking-lutely."

And (Another) Happy New Year

So... it's been a while, eh?

What can I say?  It was December.

Not only are there two holidays obnoxiously and uncaringly crowding their way into the end of the month, but I work for a company that took part in 54 events just in December.  I also didn't get a big enough head start on Christmas gifts, so I ended up making at least 7 different handmade gifts in the span of a month.

Just a few things I made.

I made 33 dozen Christmas cookies, a pie, and a tart.  And?  I had my own Christmas parties to go to.

All this is to say... I have reasons why I didn't blog.  Maybe not the best of reasons, but reasons nonetheless.

But.

It's a new year (with the same old me), and I suppose it's time to climb back on the horse.

So.

The year is already off to a bit of a rough start (literally).  I slashed open my own tire on New Year's Day by somehow hitting an incredibly jagged edge to a curb.  It wasn't fair.  The only reason I was pulling over was so I could type an address into my phone safely instead of while I was driving.  See where that got me?

Then last night, my dog tried to eat several of my new pins.  This is after he ate a whole packet of ham and the Reese's trees I got in my stocking the week before.  An attempt was also made on a box of chocolates, but I retrieved it from the dragon's horde inside his crate.  He is, remarkably, not buried in the back yard yet.  But it may only be a matter of time.

Jumping back to Christmas itself.  I was in an astonishingly bad mood for most of the week of Christmas.  I was stressed and frustrated, people were being stupid, Mark was working ridiculous hours, and I had lost whatever Christmas spirit I usually manage to find by the week before Christmas.  All the spirit I had left went into a week's worth of Christmas outfits, with strong showings by what I started referring to as my "officially pin of Christmas," a candy cane pin that came free from La Vidriola when I ordered that amazing Christmas tree/car necklace in the second picture on the top.

But Christmas?  Christmas itself was very good.  I spent Christmas Eve devouring ribs and hanging out with Casey and her family.  I got up early on Christmas and drove to Mark's parents house for what was probably one of the most special Christmas mornings I've had in a while.  We opened presents with the two of us, Kaylee, Mark's parents, and Mark's sister (and her husband and daughter).  I've never had such a big Christmas morning, or seen so many presents all in one place.  There was a stocking for me.  There were presents for me.  And Kaylee was so, so excited about every single thing she got, including the Snoopy scarf I made for her.  I'm not going to lie; that made me so very thrilled.

Later, Mark and I went to my parents and had Christmas dinner with the usual suspects there.  We had a pleasant time occupying our traditional place as the oldest people at the kids' table, giving my parents their gifts, and eating far too many desserts before heading home for an early night and a day off together the next day.

Honestly, I'm not sure I'm recovered from the holidays yet.  I'm definitely not back on my usual schedule, the apartment is still a disaster zone, and I'm a few weeks behind on putting away laundry.  In other words? Holidays as usual.

I have the best of intentions for 2017.  I always do.  So I'm trying to ignore the very little bit of bad that's already happened and count my blessings.

2016 was, in many ways, a rough year.  It started out with my furnace, dryer, and car all breaking down in the same week.  But, I also traveled to Mexico with friends, got a raise at my job, and got engaged to my best friend/love of my life.  I had wonderful holidays, lots of parties and dinners with friends, a better relationship with my parents, weekend trips, and more happiness than I ever thought I would have. 

Evidence of a very good 2016.

I could complain, but why bother?  There's so much good to focus on instead.

A Pretty Vintage (Engagement) Photo Shoot

Obviously, I'm a day late in blogging.  But yesterday was a day for recovering from the election results, and both Ben and I took a day off work.  I did some retail therapy at Goodwill and then got to have lunch with my friend Katie (who I haven't properly hung out with in ages).  So there was no blogging.  Sorry not sorry.

Today?  Today I'm not going to talk about politics.  Enough people are doing enough of that.  I don't need to join in.  Today I'm going to talk about something much better: engagement pictures.

Instead of waking up to discover the new president, like yesterday, I woke up this morning to a text from Casey (my co-worker, friend, and photographer) with a link (and, more importantly, the password) to the rest of our engagement photos that she took a little over a week ago!

It was the first Sunday where I wasn't working, the weather was finally vaguely fall-like, and we were all amazingly free.  We met up at Lafayette Square Park (along with several other groups and their attending photographers), and dived right in.

Obviously, this was not my first time for the whole engagement picture thing.  The last time was, oh... 10 years ago?  I'll admit I tried to find some lingering proof of those pictures to serve as some bizarre time capsule (I had bangs, my natural hair color, and was dressing boho-chic at the time), but I'm pretty sure I very thoroughly destroyed nearly all evidence that I was ever married before.  And that's more than fine with me.

So while it felt vaguely familiar when Casey started posing us, it wasn't exactly as if I'm an old pro at it.  Plus, I still get incredibly self-conscious whenever someone points a camera at me.  (I know, I know.  I'm the queen of selfies and I take pictures of myself, selfies and otherwise, all the time at work.  But that's different.)

It helped that Casey is a good friend and that I feel comfortable with her (and, more importantly, with Mark).  I will admit that there was a brief moment in the bookstore where I flailed around and exclaimed that I "didn't know what to do with my arms!" but otherwise, my posing game has gotten a little bit better over the years.

We may have been a little too comfortable with Casey.  I don't know how many times we cracked up when we were supposed to be looking at each other "lovingly."  Moreover, we had to hold chaste little kisses so repeatedly that the whole concept of kissing just became... odd.  So very odd.

But, I think she got some good photos.  Maybe.

After walking all over Lafayette Square Park, we drug Casey over to one of our favorite bookstores, The Book House, and continued the madness there.  And I bought a few books, of course.  Well... Mark bought them for me, since I had accidentally (Mark: "Sure, accidentally.") left my wallet and keys in my other purse.

Obviously, we had a pretty good time taking pictures.  That in itself is not surprising, seeing as we generally have a good time no matter what.  But it was great having Casey along for the ride to make us look all presentable and photogenic and tell us where to stand (and what to do with my arms), instead of looking like the hot mess we usually are.  Plus, it's nice to not have the only pictures of us be a) selfies or b) Fish Eye Fun photos.

So.  We still have absolutely no plans as far as what we're actually doing for our wedding (besides "as little as possible"), BUT.  We have engagement pictures accomplished!  So, I think that's something.

It's better than nothing, anyway.

Right?

Of course right.

The Biggest Mistake

Nine years ago, I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

I knew it was wrong.  I knew it wouldn't last.  I knew I wasn't really in love.  And I knew the wrong person was going to be waiting for me at the front of the church.

I knew all of this.

What I didn't know was one little thing: how to get out of it.

I was too proud, or too ashamed, or too stubborn to tell my parents I no longer wanted to get married.  Everyone was in town.  Everything had been paid for.  I wasn't Julia Roberts.  I wasn't a runaway bride.  I didn't feel like I could ask for help.

And so I went out the night before the wedding (nine years ago this very day) with some of my best girl friends and got drunk.  I outlasted my three bridesmaids, drank til I threw up, drank some more, and got back to the hotel room at 4 in the morning, 12 hours before the actual wedding.  I had been sick for a few days before, but that night cemented the almost complete loss of my voice.

And so I got married: hungover, sick, terrified, and barely able to talk.

Looking back, it wasn't just the literal loss of my voice.  That day was when I started losing my figurative voice as well.  I lost the ability to be honest and became an increasingly secretive person.  From the moment the wedding was over, my life also felt like it was over.  My new husband was depressed, suicidal, and violently angry by turns, increasingly demanding, and went through money like water.  He hid our debt and secretly ate his way through the money in our account.  He couldn't take care of himself or hold a job, and yet was jealous of my paycheck and authority at work.  We fought in the car, we fought at work (fights which I never won), and yet I was shocked when my boss told me my husband was abusive.

One of the first steps to being to being abused is to believe that the person abusing you isn't capable of doing so.

And now?

I suppose it's valid to say that I can be a little outspoken about my life.  There is the matter of this blog, after all, and the fact that I'm more than willing to tell you what you want to know (and often more than you wanted to know).  It's my story, my voice, and my wonderfully imperfect life.  I've slowly been getting it all back, and I don't want to lose it again.

So now here I am.  Nine years out from my first marriage, a year after wrecking my wedding dress, and engaged again.

The more things change, as they say...

Sometimes I think I must crazy to get married again.

Other times (most times), I think I'm so unbelievably lucky to get married again.  I get a do-over, a second chance, a whatever you want to call it.  I get a man who knows me and all my flaws better than any one else ever has and still wants to marry me.  I get someone who feels more like home than anyone or anything else.  I get the relationship I never believed in.

I get a fiancé who comes home, lifts me up into the world's biggest hug, and then says, "We need to talk."

And then, a few seconds later, he allows my heart to start beating again by finishing, "... we really should narrow down a wedding date."

But that, I believe, is a story for another blog.

In the Beginning

First impressions are funny things.  They're tied up into our memories and emotions and personal preferences and can be very fickle indeed.  While I usually pride myself on being a good judge of first impressions (my first impression of my ex-husband, for example, was a negative one and I obviously should have listened more to myself on that one), I have been known to admit when I'm wrong.  Some of the people who ended up being my closest friends are people I originally didn't like.

Why didn't I like them?  The reasons are usually varied and dependent on my mood, the situation, or both.  They were annoying.  They were kindof a jerk.  We seemingly didn't have enough in common.  They talked too much (see: annoying). Or I was jealous of them.

To be fair, I know people have had negative first impressions of me as well.  My friend Julia originally thought I was a bitch because I didn't talk to her, "always looked perfect," and was always surrounded by my group of friends.  Eventually, she realized that I was just shy and she become a very dear friend and confidante.

While I generally remember my first impressions of people, first memories are an entirely different thing.  First memories usually don't stick around for very long.  I don't remember the first time I saw my ex-husband.  I don't remember the first time I saw most of my friends, or my past crushes.  First memories, for me, need to be something more vivid and important or inspiring in order to last.  For example, I still remember the first time I saw Michelle Mynx perform and knew that I wanted to learn how to pole dance.

Last night, I told Mark my very first memory of him.

Please, don't expect some sort of adorable "meet-cute."  This is not a Hollywood movie.  Also, it in no way qualifies as vivid, important, or inspiring, really.  But it is something I've never forgotten (even if he did).

It was thirteen years ago, when I was that awkward young eighteen-year-old joining the community theatre cast of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.  (I've referenced this in a prior ridiculously sappy blog, for those just joining us.)

I was standing upstairs at the Miner's Theatre for the very first time with my friend Anna, who had drug me along to this thing in the first place, and the director was explaining that we (these two young girls) were going to be playing some of Joseph's brothers since there was a general shortage of male actors.

In the corner of the room were a bunch of large balls that were painted to look like planets.  Upon hearing the announcement that the production had gained some "Undercover Brothers" (as we came to be known), Mark turned around, picked up two of these planets and, holding them in front of him at waist level, announced, "Here, these should help!" before bursting into the uncontrollable laugh that I've come to know so well over the years.

And that was how I met the love of my life.  With a joke about balls.

My first impression, therefore, probably should have been abject horror, or at least embarrassed amusement.  It should definitely not have been the real-life equivalent of the emoji with hearts for eyes.

I don't know if it was the unselfconscious laughter, the terrible humor, or the big... er, planets, but I was instantly smitten.

Mark frequently tells me I'm crazy for being in love with him.  To be honest, after reviewing the above evidence, he may have a point.

But this time?  I'm sticking with my first impression.

The Pretty Vintage Girl Anniversary Blog

I've hit two milestones in blog-dom, all in the same week!

First: last week's engagement blog was the most well-and-widely read to date, topping out at just shy of 420 views!  I am, quite frankly, a little flabbergasted.  And pretty convinced it will be hard to ever reach similar numbers.  It's not every day I get engaged, after all.  (So far, just twice, and I hope to keep it that way.)

Second: I've been blogging for a year! July 10th marked my one-year blog-iversary.  That baby of a blog was written as I was coming off celebrating a year since my ex-husband moved out and as I was still decidedly new at working full-time for Fish Eye Fun.  It was short and hesitant and I obviously had no idea what I was doing.  It was the literary equivalent of me sticking a toe in the water to see how cold it was.  I had no idea what this blog would be.

And really, I still don't.

Because I don't think I ever would have dreamed that I would write about what I have in this past year.  My original vision for my blog was something much more frivolous and superficial because I didn't think I could possibly talk about the truth.  Talking about shopping and clothes and books would be much easier, and surely more accessible.  After all, who would want to hear about my life week after week?  I'm not that exciting.  I'm a divorced introvert who still carries far too much baggage for her own liking.  I work all the time and spend the rest of the time with my boyfriend.  What's readable about that?

I never thought I'd be able to keep up with blogging every week (well, almost every week).  I definitely didn't think my boyfriend (fiancé, whatever) would be going around passing out my blog address to everyone on his route!  I didn't think people I knew in passing would comment or reach out to me after something I wrote.

So.  One year later.

What's changed?

Obviously, I'm engaged.

And obviously I've been gainfully employed for over a year.

But also, it's been two years since my ex moved out.

I've destroyed my wedding dress.

I got a new furnace, bought a washer and dryer, bought a mattress, and fixed my car.

I went to Mexico.

I turned 31.

I've been spending my free weekends playing step-mommy. And enjoying it more than I ever thought I would, to be honest.

I've eaten a lot of nachos.  I've read not-enough books.  I've gained new friends and lost some who were apparently never really friends to begin with.  I've traveled back and forth across the Midwest, both for work and for fun.  I've gone to a few shows, and tried to be as social as I can.  I've been unapologetic about my life and what I want to do or not do.

A lot happens in a year.  I'm not the person I was a year ago, in many ways.  I'm snarkier, happier, friendlier, and more honestly... me.  I'm less willing to put up with bullshit.  I like the person I am, and I like where this year has led.

Where things are going from here?  I have absolutely no idea.

As I said, I'm still not entirely certain where this blog is going.  I rarely know what I'm going to blog about from one week to the next, much less what I'll be talking about in another year.

As for me?  There are obviously a lot of changes on the horizon.  Right now I'm still getting used to this sharp, shiny ring on my finger and we're not even remotely discussing an actual date.  I have absolutely no idea what the next year will hold, but I know that I'm definitely looking forward to whatever it is!

I'll be sure to write about it, naturally.  And you're welcome to read along, if you like!

A Pretty Nautical Engagement

I honestly can't say that I don't have anything to blog about this weekend, because, well...

I got engaged!

If you've been following along, you know that this past weekend was our first "vacation" together to Chicago.  What you didn't know (and neither did I), was that Mark spent much longer getting ready for our trip than I did.

While I was at work last week, he spent two days building a tiny treasure chest to put the ring in and drawing a "map" to ask me to marry him.  During this time, he obviously couldn't tell me what he was working on, so when I'd ask he'd be uncharacteristically vague and evasive.  He was "working on some old projects," or "running an errand."  Usually these statements would be followed by a description of what he was working on or what he needed to run an errand for.  We tell each other pretty much everything that happens during our day.  Not this week.

Luckily, I was too worried with getting everything ready for the weekend to be overly concerned about why my boyfriend was acting abnormally.

He was also overly concerned with what there was to do on Navy Pier and spent a whole night perusing the Pier's website.  And he wanted to make sure we had "time to ourselves" at Navy Pier before my friends joined us.  My friend Anne asked if there was going to be a romantic lakeside engagement.

I was still somehow oblivious.

It's not that I didn't know there would, eventually, be a proposal.  After all, I'd picked out the ring a few months back.  We've talked about wanting to be married since before I was even divorced.  So it wasn't exactly a surprise.

Except that he made certain that it was most definitely a surprise.

We got to Chicago on Friday and found our way to Navy Pier.  We went in a few shops.  In the first one, Mark found something for his daughter, then told me to go outside and see where the bathrooms were.  That was weird, but I didn't question him too much.  I figured he was just stressed from the trip up.

In the next shop, a nautical-themed store I wanted to go in, I found a pirate-themed coffee mug.  He headed for the register and told me to go look at T-shirts in the other part of the store.  If you know anything about me, you know that I'm really not interested at all in many T-shirts, but I thought he just wanted to make sure I didn't try to pay for the coffee mug.  (Unbeknownst to me, he was juggling around the bag with the treasure chest in it.)

We went upstairs to this beautiful Crystal Garden area, which was (of course) set up for a wedding.  Mark suggests we go sit down on a bench.

At this point, it kicks in.  Omg, he's going to propose.

We sit down, he pulls out the bag from the nautical shop, reaches in... and pulls out a little treasure chest that he's clearly bought, because it's wrapped in cellophane and actually has a price tag on it.

Oh.  Okay.  He's not proposing.  He just bought me something else at the store.  That's cool.

So we open the box.  It's wrapped in a chain necklace and bracelet with nautical charms.  He opens the lid.  "Look," he says, "There's a paper in here."  I pick up the folded paper, still completely unaware, and underneath it is the ring.

That sneaky, sneaky bastard.

Of course, I said, "Aye."

(Meanwhile, the wedding band starts warming up by playing, "All You Need Is Love."  Because why wouldn't the band play a song from one of my favorite movies of all time right at the moment I say yes to the love of my life?)

I can say that this was definitely my favorite proposal.  I honestly can't think of anything else more perfect.

It's almost like he knows me. (In fact, he knows me so well that he made sure to make it look like the ring we bought was still wrapped up in the box he was storing it in after getting it cleaned, just in case I went checking for it.  Which, of course, I had thought about doing.)

I'm also enjoying being engaged a lot more this time around!  In spite of the annoying "just got engaged" questions (no, we don't have a date), it's already going so much better than the last time.  My parents are happy, our friends are happy, and I'm sure one day I'll stop admiring my own hand.

Obviously, this isn't my first rodeo.  Some people have even said that they didn't think I'd ever get married again after what I went through the first time around.  And I suppose that's fair.  Because if it weren't for Mark, I don't think I would.  I don't think I'd risk it for anyone else.

But.  Risk it I'm going to.  And I think it's completely worth it.

Besides, how could I say no to the most perfectly nautical proposal ever?

Along with getting unexpectedly engaged, we were total tourists in Chicago.  I saw several old friends, we took lots of public transportation (and got a little lost), ate Chicago food, and went to the Field Museum.  All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good vacation.

And I've got a really, really good souvenir.