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.

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.

There's No Place Like Home

Yesterday, I left the apartment I've lived in since 2009.

I moved there with my ex-husband after he was asked to leave the seminary when they decided that he wasn't fit to be a pastor (and when he apparently hadn't been paying any of our bills).  It was a refuge, an "us-against-the-world" kindof place.  It was the happiest I'd been in the two years since I'd gotten married.

Obviously, that didn't last long.  Us-against-the-world situations rarely do.

I thought I had fallen back in love in that apartment, but it was just an illusion.  Eventually, I fell completely out of love and lost track of who I was in the process.  I lived, or I existed, in a mostly alcohol-induced numbness, surrounded by books and foster dogs, until I fell in love with my soulmate.

That apartment has seen a lot.  It's seen pole parties with my half-naked friends.  It's seen dinner parties.  It's seen me coming home drunk on multiple occasions (or just getting drunk in the living room by myself).  It's seen a divorce-aversary party.  It's seen fights and tears and many rather unmentionable things.  It's been the home to 13 dogs.  I've snuck out of the house (and snuck into it).

I have memories in every single room.  There were love notes on my bathroom mirror and there was dog hair in every nook and cranny.  My ex grabbed me by my hair and pinned me to the wall in the dining room and there was a hole in the bedroom where he punched it.  I spent afternoons reading in my office.  I wrote stories and heart-broken poems there.  Mark and I danced in the kitchen.  We spent hours entwined together talking on the couch.  We kissed at the front door for ages rather than say goodnight.

I grew up there, in a way.  I stopped being an immature and naive little girl who was hiding from the world and became a woman, a divorcee, and, ultimately more honestly myself.

It was my first real apartment, and hopefully my last.  It was home, even during those long months of my separation when I tried to avoid it as best I could.  It held my entire life (and after packing everything up, or throwing it away, I can tell you that that is no small statement).

And yesterday, it was empty and practically sparkling from about two weeks of deep cleaning and painting, with the amazing help of so many of our friends.  I've cleaned things I never cleaned before (and never want to clean again).   I never want to look at mini-blinds again.

Was I sad to leave it?

I'm not sure I have time or energy to be sad about moving.  There's too much else to do.  We're getting married in literally one month and we've barely done anything towards that because we were so focused on the move.

It's the end of an era, that's for sure.  But it's mostly an era I'm glad to be done with.  I'm thrilled that we're going to be living in a place where my ex has never set foot, a place that can be exclusively ours.  And as much as I hate and am stressed out by change, it's well past time to move on.

I'm fairly confident that I will be worth it.

Also?  I'd better get my damn deposit back.

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.

My Best Friend's Wedding

I have a confession.  Maybe more of a disclaimer.

I've never actually seen My Best Friend's Wedding.

I started to watch it ages ago.  I was at some sleepover, possibly for Girl Scouts, and I can just vaguely remember the opening sequence.  But that's it.  I don't remember who gets the guy or who gets married or doesn't get married or anything.  My strongest memory from the night is dancing around with the other girls there and being told that I "spin too much" when I dance.  (Well, years later, my nickname in pole dance class was The Spin Queen, so take that, bitches.)

Obviously, this post is not going to be about that movie.  Or about spinning.

It is, however, kindof about pole dancing.

Or at least it's about one of my best friends, who I would never have known if it weren't for pole dancing.

I've known Jessica for around seven years now.  I've been friends with her and Sandi since I impulsively decided to take a pole dancing class after seeing Michelle Mynx perform at a burlesque show (which I also went to rather impulsively).  You can read more about pole dancing in this previous post.

We've traveled together, partied together, performed together, and supported each other like friends are supposed to do.

And, last Friday, Jessica got married.

I'm not going to lie, it was the best wedding I've ever been to.

This is not to say that all the other weddings I've been to have sucked.  They haven't.  But this one managed to surpass them all, in spite of the two reception venue changes and all the regularly scheduled wedding stress.

What made it so great?  Well, it wasn't just because I got to hear one of my poems actually read aloud to an actual audience (even though that was truly incredible and I didn't once tackle the officiant to read it myself).  And it wasn't just because I got to go on a tour of The Fox Theatre and be a complete theatre geek and fangirl about being allowed both onstage and backstage. 

And it wasn't just because the bride wore black and a lesbian burlesque performer married them in the lobby of The Fox (though that probably helped some).

Gorgeous photo courtesy of Carrie Meyer at Insomniac Studios.

It wasn't even because she had two photobooths at her reception (or that I ran one).

Instead, it might be because I've rarely seen two people so well-suited to each other.

And it might be because I'm finally coming more fully around again to the idea of love and marriage, particularly of love and marriage between two best friends.  And that's exactly what Chris and Jessica are.  They are best friends as well as lovers.  They cosplay together.  They're crazy cat people together.  They enjoy each other's company, while fully realizing that neither one of them is perfect.  They are geeks and nerds of the highest and most excellent level.  And they have the creepiest bathroom I've ever been in.

(And they let me come over and watch Game of Thrones.)

I may be cynical and judgmental about many things, but I can't be about Chris and Jessica.  They are one of the most genuine couples I know, and I'm so very glad that I got to be a part of their amazing day.

And that I got to be able to make a zombie wedding cross-stitch.  You know, priorities.

 

To be honest, it's been a long time since I've been able to actually enjoy other people's weddings.  Back when I was unhappily married, I always felt a strange sense of loss when my friends would get married.  I think I subconsciously knew that they were about to experience something I never had, and I was jealous of how happy they looked.  I didn't know how to be a part of that, even though, in theory, we were all part of the same "club."

But Friday?  Friday was different.  I'm not the cynical, unhappy person I once was.  Or, at the very least, not as cynical.  I'm not jealous anymore, not looking for anything missing.  It's a nice feeling, really, to be more fully part of someone else's happiness instead of envious of it.

Mark and I have decided that there's little point in anyone else ever getting married after Chris and Jessica.  There's no real way to top it, in my opinion.  Mark has declared that he's not even bothering to wear a suit for our wedding, just a T-shirt with a tux printed on the front.  (I think we all know that's not actually happening, but I can understand his sentiments.)

So, our wedding won't be like Chris and Jessica's.  And that's fine.  Because it's not a contest for me anymore.  And for that I'm so incredibly grateful.

When Pizza Isn't Enough: Making a Love that Lasts

I love pizza.  (Okay, most food.  Practically all food.  Whatever.)  But pizza is up there.  I like it in nearly all its many and various forms.  I'll even tolerate Imo's if I'm in the right mood for really shitty pizza.  And yes, I know those are fighting words for some people.  I make no apologies.

Mark and I have practically made a study in local pizzas over the past few years, both together and separately.  We haven't hit every pizza joint in town, but we've done some damage.  We've bounced around here and there, been obsessed with some places, and been disappointed one too many times by others.  We've tried to find good bad pizza.  We've eaten pizza out of desperation.  We've compromised on toppings.  We've both made our own pizzas, experimenting with crust and sauces and toppings.  I've deemed him the resident pizza expert, due to his past work experience at Pizza Hut.

I've even eaten pizza while drinking champagne with my divorce-maids after wrecking my wedding dress.

Last week, Mark made what is (for now) my new favorite pizza: sausage and cashew.  It's certainly not a combination I would have come up with on my own, but as soon as he told me about it I was intrigued.

And now it's love.

Like most love, it was unexpected.  I can't guarantee it will last, but it definitely seems to be something to build on.

Now obviously, pizza isn't love.  If you love me, you might make me pizza or bring me pizza, but pizza can't be the entire basis for a relationship.

... or can it?

Probably not.

So if pizza isn't enough, what is?

What makes for a strong relationship?  What sets apart that one pizza, er, person from all the others?

And what right do I have to talk about relationships, anyway?  There are plenty of jokes to be made about the divorced woman or man sitting around and giving marital advice.  After all, I'm divorced, which automatically means I failed at being married.  Right?  What would I know about a good relationship?

Well, I don't profess to be an expert, but I at least know what a good relationship isn't.  I know the warning signs.  I know the regret.  I know the unhappiness that comes from staying in something that is, at its very core, so incredibly wrong.  I know that I should have listened to the little voice inside me that kept whispering that I should cut my losses and run before it cost me ten thousand dollars and seven years of of my life.  I know what it's like to struggle almost daily to have a good relationship, to do everything in my power to not fail at being married.

But what about what it takes to have a good relationship is?  How do you build a love that will last longer than my first marriage, or at least longer than a good pizza?

There's so much that goes into it, and much of it subject to personal taste.  For me, a good relationship is being with a man who cares enough about me to consider my needs and to try to make our lives better, who believes in me, and who I believe in.  It's knowing that he has a good heart (in spite of what he sometimes thinks about himself).  It's the fact that everything in my life is better with him than without him.  It's the fact that I want to build a life and a home with him instead of trying to find my fulfillment outside of the relationship.

Mainly, I think it comes down to trust.  No, not crust.  Trust.  You have to trust that person.  And not just trust that they won't cheat or lie or steal (though those are all very important as well), but trust them with your whole self, with your secrets and desires and hopes.  You have to let someone else know you like no one else ever has.  The past three years have been a whole new experience in what intimacy really means.  It's not just sex.  It's emotional, it's mental, it's the whole vulnerable package.

It's a terrifying risk, the ultimate trust fall.  Because if they drop you, what then?

That's simple enough.  You pick yourself up and try again.  Or don't.  Be your own perfect relationship.  Order a delivery pizza and eat it all by yourself.

If there's one thing being divorced does make me an authority on, it's the fact that the end of a relationship is not the end of the world.

We all deserve good relationships, good sex, and good pizza.  While it doesn't hurt to have some bad every now and then, it shouldn't ever be something we settle for because we're hoping it will get better with time.  The good is out there.

Go out and try a little of everything until you find just the right one.

I'm No Expert, But...

Back in college, I once wrote an entire 20-page final paper on Jane Austen in three nights.  This was, not uncoincidentally, also the first time I ever drank coffee.

I was supposed to be working on the paper throughout the entire semester, turning in a section at a time for critique.  Well.  I turned in my first two sections, got miserable feedback, and promptly stopped turning in sections.  I continued reading the books, making notes, and doing research, but as for actual writing?  I didn't do it.

Suddenly, the deadline was looming and panic (naturally) set in.  So I and three other girls in my class spent three nights sitting at Starbucks till two and three in the morning, drinking coffee and writing our hearts out.

I finished the paper (just in time), turned it in, and waited with none-too-high hopes.

The professor, the regrettably late Dr. Lila Kurth, was always a hard grader.  She gave me my only C and often wrote "trite" in the margins of my papers.  But, when I went to go pick up my Jane Austen paper, she handed it to me and then told me she needed to give me a hug, because my paper was "beautiful."

I'll never forget that moment.

It was also the start of my realization that I truly do function best under a deadline.

This has not changed.  Most of my blog entries are finished just under the wire.  And months ago, my friend Jessica asked me to write something for her upcoming wedding.

Why she did this is mostly beyond me.  It seems unusual to ask the (more-than-slightly cynical) divorcee to write something about love for a wedding.  I didn't write anything for my own wedding, much less love poetry about my ex-husband.

And, to be honest, I didn't exactly write much for her wedding until very recently.

(Please, Jessica, don't think I didn't work on this over the intervening months since you asked me.  I did, honestly I did.  I have scraps of poems and ideas all over the place, from notebooks to my phone to the bathroom mirror.  But nothing solid and certainly nothing finished.)

But, thankfully, deadline panic strikes once again (with the help of my now long-time friend, coffee), and I have a not-quite-love poem ready for a not-quite-conventional wedding.

I do wonder if I could have written a love poem while I was still married.  My last marriage was where my writing went to die, after all.  When I did write, it was dark and lonesome words which I still uncover from time to time and which always remind me of how secretly miserable I was.

Divorce, as brutal as it was, gave me something I hadn't had in a long time: the freedom to have my own voice.  I know I talk about this a lot, but as a writer, it's still important to me.  Without my voice, what am I?  Certainly not a great writer.

Not that I'm that confident in what I am at the moment anyway.

The other week, Mark intercepted a text from Jessica asking me if I were a published author so she could put it in the wedding program.  If it were up to me, I would have hemmed and hawed about the answer.  I honestly don't feel that simply being published in my college magazine a few times and once in a local literary magazine really count as my being a "published author," but Mark disagreed and told her so.

And so the decision was made: I'm a published author.

Maybe they're right.  I might not feel that I'm a properly published author, or that I'm the best choice to turn to for a wedding poem, but I've always been my own worst critic.

So while I'm certainly no expert, I'm also no longer mute.

Give me a deadline, some coffee, and a blank page, and eventually?

I'll come up with something to say.

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.

We're Having a Heat Wave

It's hot.

It's really, really hot.

St. Louis is in the middle of a heat advisory, and I've used that as a excuse to not feel so bad when I don't take Thunder on a walk in the mornings.

It's not just the heat.  Being St. Louis, it's the humidity.  It makes for a disgusting, oppressive stew that sucks the will to live from you in the time it takes to walk from the parking lot into a building.  My hair doesn't stand a chance unless I wear it up, which I have been for probably a week straight, in a variety of experimental updos.  

In spite of the heat, I haven't stayed home nearly as much as I imagined I would.  Usually, my summers are spent daydreaming about lounging in front of a fan with the air conditioning turned up.  But this summer?  This summer I've barely been home long enough to do much lounging at all.

Obviously, I have to leave the house for work.  During the week, this means a short drive to and from the office and day spent in blissful air conditioning.  But when I work on the weekends, manual labor and sweating outside is involved, at least to load and unload a vehicle. 

But I've also ventured out in the heat to sweat on my own free will and for, allegedly, enjoyment.

On Saturday, I was up and suggesting brunch to Alexis by 9:30.  That night, Mark and I went to the Muny to see Young Frankenstein from the free seats with his daughter and niece.

On Monday (my day off), I invited myself along to the Science Center to hang out with Casey and her two kids (after Audrey, my biggest fan, expressed her disappointment that I wouldn't see her pigtails), and still managed to go grocery shopping and make dinner.

Tonight we're going out to eat with Mark's sister.

And, somehow, we still might go to the Muny this upcoming weekend, if the heat breaks enough.  And are having dinner at my parents' on Monday.

I feel like ever since I started getting divorced, my life went into overdrive.  Before, time seemed to drag out into the all-too-certain future.  I knew what to expect from each day, each week.  And now, when I have no idea what will happen next?  Time flies.  I'm still trying to figure out what to make for dinner three Mondays ago and, for all I know, tomorrow is Christmas.  

I don't know how it got to be July.  I don't even know how it's already 5:00 on a Wednesday again. 

All I know is that time spent with Mark goes far too quickly.  We never seem to have enough time together, even when we spend three solid weeks in each other's company.  We've been together for three years now, and yet it can't possibly have been that long.  Or that short.  Something strange happens to time with us, something as hazy as heat coming off asphalt.  

And something strange has happened to me, in that I've become something resembling "good with kids."  For being the girl who never wanted kids and was never comfortable around them, I spend an awful lot of time hanging around them lately, and all of it by choice.

As I mentioned, it's been a very kid-centric weekend, and it doesn't feel uncomfortable or strange to be the one waiting for a five year old to go to the bathroom so I can help her wash her hands, or to put her shoes on, or to carry a toddler to the car when she's sad about leaving the Science Center.  What's strange is that it all feels... normal.  

It could be the heat wave, but I don't really mind being a stepmom-in-training, or spending my days off with little kids.  In fact, I usually end up enjoying it.

Definitely the heat wave.

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.

2 AM Crisis: A Comprehensive Guide

How do you act in a crisis?

Most people respond differently to sudden threats or perceived threats.  There's that "fight or flight" instinct.  There are the people who run towards the danger, and those that run away.

Luckily for me, I don't face a lot of imminent threat anymore.  My ex lives in a different state, I'm a compulsive door-locker, I know a decent amount of self-defense, and if all else fails?  I'm really, really good at running in heels.

Sometimes, though, there are unexpected bumps in the night.  Or, as the case was two nights ago, a loud crash at 2 AM.

There were three of us home: me, Mark, and the dog.  And each of us responded in very drastically different ways.

First, there was Thunder, the ever-cowardly dog, who could be heard immediately after the crash running away.  (Excellent in a crisis, that one.)

Second, there was me.  I jerked awake immediately, senses on automatic alert for potential murderers breaking in.   In my half-asleep state, I realized that the dog had most likely knocked something over.  But, being me, I also knew full well that I wouldn't be going back to sleep until I made sure Mark and I weren't about to be murdered.  Did I have a plan for what I would do if we were about to be murdered?  No, but I'd at least like to know it was coming.  I am, and always have been, a "I have to check it out" girl.  I had childhood (and, okay, some adulthood) compulsions for looking in the basement and behind the shower curtain after getting home to make sure no one was hiding in there.

Then there was Mark.  He didn't move when I jerked awake.  I wasn't even certain he'd woken up.  He had, apparently, already done the mental calculations of time elapsed during crash-vs-skittering dog toenails and come to the (admittedly correct) conclusion that Thunder had knocked something over and then run from the scene of the crime.

Well.  I wasn't having any of that, and I obviously needed a backup noise investigator, so I made him come check it out with me.  Sure enough, Thunder had caught his harness on a drawer in the bathroom, panicked, and yanked the entire drawer out, spilling the contents.  With the 2 AM crisis averted, we went back to sleep, and I was ready to let that be the end of it.

Mark, however, was not.

Yesterday, I came home to find he had bought and set up a system so that we can turn the lights on and off through our phones.  The previous night's experience with bumps in the night made him realize that there is currently at least one night a week where I'm home by myself with only a giant cowardly dog for backup.

With this new setup, I can make sure there are lights on when I come home alone from working late, and I can also turn all the lights on from the bedroom the next time there's a 2 AM crisis and my noise investigator isn't around.  So far?  I'm a pretty big fan.  We've already been enjoying turning the lights on and off (particularly on each other) and setting different "scenes" for which lights come on when.

Even if my boyfriend isn't always the first out of bed to check out a noise, he's the first to care about me enough to make the life we have better, even if it takes time, effort, and money on his part.  He's the first to think of a way to improve on a situation I was content to just deal with.  And he's the first to worry about me and my safety and do all he can to look out for me even when he's not around.

I know that he has my back always, even in the middle of the night, and even when he's 100% certain that the bump in the night is the dog and definitely not a murderer.

Personally, that's the best response to a crisis that I could ever hope for.

Hazards of Love

As it turns out, love isn't always all it's cracked up to be.

Wait a minute.  Are you reading the right blog?  Me? Saying love isn't always amazing and wonderful and hearts and rainbows and puppy dogs?  What?

That's right, ladies and gentlemen.  I said it.  Why?  Because I've realized that there are unforeseen consequences to not being single.  Sure, it's wonderful to have someone around to spend time with, to share your day with, blah, blah blah.  But sometimes?  Sometimes, it's fairly inconvenient, for entirely unexpected reasons.

This past Sunday was a kindof a Bring Your Boyfriend to Work Day.  The wedding I worked had an onsite scrapbook, which requires an additional assistant.  Mark had worked with me on New Year's Eve for another wedding with a scrapbook, so I brought him along again and thought nothing of it.

Some background first. In the almost two years I've worked for Fish Eye Fun, I've become very accustomed to loading into venues and being offered help of one kind or another.  Furthermore, I fully realize that this help is usually offered because I'm a girl.  Valets offer to help me load or unload my car, or to push the cart, or to even take the cart from me entirely.  I usually decline the offer, since I have a particular order for loading and unloading my car, and am stubborn enough that I'm used to doing things myself.

While I've blogged before about the bad things that have happened or been said to me because I'm a woman, there are a lot of upsides to my gender.  These offers of help are one benefit, in spite of how many times I say, "No, thanks."  I appreciate that someone is more likely to hold the door for me or try to help, even if it's just because I'm a girl.  I really do.  Being nice and helpful is something I will almost always appreciate, regardless of the reason.  And rarely have I appreciated past so-called chivalry more so than this last weekend.

I was loading into a venue that I've loaded into several times before, always with absolutely no issue.  I've always been met at the entrance, accompanied to where I'm setting up, and escorted back at the end of the night.  I even told Mark that this was one of my favorite places to load into.

Well.

That night, nothing much went right in general (outside of having a fantastic picture night).  I wasn't helpfully accompanied to where I needed to go, and I definitely wasn't escorted back out at the end of the night like usual.  Which lead to several increasingly ridiculous elevator issues and just being frustrated in general.

I didn't understand.  What had happened?  Where was my usual lovely experience?  Where were the usually helpful people?  I told Mark I just didn't know why everything was so different, and he gave me a look and stated the obvious reason: I had a man with me.

And he was right.

I had brought my boyfriend, essentially bringing along my own help in the eyes of everyone else.  Men don't usually offer to help women who already have a man with them.  Even though I recognize that I get offers of help because I'm a girl, I never stopped to consider what would happen if and when I wasn't just a girl by myself.

Well, now I know.

It wasn't malicious treatment by any means.  I'm sure it wasn't even a conscious decision.  I don't need to complain to a manager, and, honestly, I can't really say I'm that shocked.  To a girl who prefers doing it all herself if possible, it's just all the more reason to continue doing it all myself and not to fall into the ease of being a damsel in distress.

So it's not like I'll never bring my boyfriend along to an event ever again.  But at least next time I'll know what to expect.  (Or, as the case may be, what not to expect.)

If these are the consequences of not being single, well... I guess I can handle it if I have to.

Holidazed

Well, I survived a slightly whirlwind Easter weekend out of town with Mark and a large portion of his family (most of whom I'd never met before).

We went out to Hopkins, MO (go to Kansas City and turn right) on Friday after Mark got off work.  His parents had already gone with his sister and daughter earlier in the day, so we made the 6-hour drive by ourselves.  I brought along books and knitting.  Mark brought audiobooks.  We didn't need any of it, because, instead, we talked.  For the entire trip.  Non-stop.  We had to stop and get throat lozenges.  Because we're ridiculous.

The rest of the weekend went well, I believe.  I met tons of his family members and helped wrangle/entertain Kaylee (by which I mean playing catch with my shoes, playing hide-and-seek, looking at my old View Master, and coloring).  I know I was under scrutiny for being the "new girlfriend," and to see how well I fit into the future stepmom role.  But, with my newly earned title of Child Whisperer, I like to think I passed.  At the very least, she didn't drown on my watch while we were trying to teach her to swim in the hotel pool.  So there's that.  And she chose to sleep snuggled up to me instead of her dad, which was nice for my ego but pretty terrible for my sleep.

We drove back Sunday (Well, Mark drove. I watched movies in the backseat with Kaylee until we both fell asleep.), dropped her off, and went to my parents' house for Easter.

Well, I thought we went there for Easter.

What we apparently went there for was my mom telling Mark everything she always hated about my ex, his family, and the fact that I married him.

This went on for what felt like five hours, but that could have been because I was so embarrassed I was nauseous.

She detailed how she and my dad contemplated bribing me with a trip to England or downright kidnapping me before the wedding (until they saw an actual news story where parents were arrested for doing that exact thing).  She told him how they hoped that my ex would have gone to seminary when he was supposed to so that I would come to my senses, instead of him delaying his entry to seminary for a year so I wouldn't be on my own without him to keep an eye on me.

She talked about how she had contingency plans for everything, including me turning around in the middle of the ceremony and telling her I didn't want to get married.  About how his mom turned to her the day after we got married and triumphantly told her that Alec was my problem now.  How my mom was depressed and cried herself to sleep most nights before I got married.  How they didn't think I would make it more than five years.

(Well, ha.  I made it seven.  So take that.)

I'm choosing to believe that this giant pile-on took place because she actually likes Mark and not because she's subtly warning him that she's not about to let me make the same mistake twice.

I'm also choosing to believe that one day she won't feel the need to bring my wreck of a marriage up as often as she does.

But what I've learned over the past two years is that the inevitable thing about being in a relationship with someone after a prior long-term relationship ends is the comparison factor.  This is only compounded by the fact that we both ended long-term relationships.

Everyone is comparing him to your ex.  Everyone is comparing you to his ex.  You're comparing yourselves to your respective exes.

It can be a bit much.

I know I'm guilty of interpreting things my parents (and his parents, and our friends) say and do to determine how they compare our current relationship to our past ones.  And I know I'm guilty of seeking the validation that our relationship now is better than our past ones.

But why?  It's not like I need the validation.  I don't.  I may want it (who doesn't?), but I don't need it.  I'm better when I'm not worrying what people think of me, and I'm sure Mark is too.  I know I don't want him to worry about if he's doing something that my ex used to do.  And I don't want to worry about if one day my mom will be regaling someone else with the next rendition of "why did Ashley do that?" I want us to just be us.

On the other hand, it's all but impossible for a relationship of any kind to stand on its own.  We are all always building off our past experiences, off our past friends and lovers.  The past shapes us, whether we want it to or not, for better or for worse.  And I like to believe that even the worst of the past has made for a better present.

But that's just me.  You are, of course, free to make your own judgements.  And I'm free to (try to) not care about them.

Pretty Vintage Selfies

I have a clothing problem.

This is something you probably already all knew.

To be fair, it hasn't always been the same clothing problem.

Ever since I realized that what I wore could effectively set me apart from the rest of the unpopular crowd in high school, I've been a bit of a clothes horse.  I went from wearing oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans (sorry not sorry, there is very little photographic documentation from this period) to... shall we say, experimenting with fashion.  There's very little other way of putting it.  My style was eclectic at best, confusing at worst.  I wore what was commonly referred to as "Ashley pants," which were basically the most unique jeans I could get my hands on.  I had jeans splattered with paint, covered with sequins, inset with wide flares of contrasting patterns.  I wore socks with heels.

I had a perm (maybe two).

It was a dark (yet colorful) time.

In college, I refined my style (somewhat).  I grew up a little, and you can see the beginnings of my love of the more classic look.  Then again, you can also see where I wore legwarmers and heels.

Needless to say, I've been getting attention for what I wear for quite some time.

I started leaning more and more towards the vintage style around 2009.  I had gone through a few hair styles by then: chopping my hair off in an attempt at Sarah Jessica Parker's curly short hair, followed quickly by the Katie Holmes bob.

By then, I was bored with the mixture of eclectic/boho-chic I had established.  I was looking for a new style, and found it on Project: Runway when one of the contestants had a distinctly pin-up style.

I latched on, and the rest is history.

Well, there were a few hair colors in between.

I've been settled into my style (and my red hair) for a while now, and don't see any signs of change.  Quite the contrary: I just seem to be accumulating more and more clothes.  And, now that I've actually organized all my accessories and clothes, my outfit options are even more unlimited.

My boyfriend doesn't help.  He is, in fact, nothing but an enabler.  He combs through resale shops with me.  He fixes accessories I break so that I can keep using them instead of throwing them away. He helps me decide what shoes to wear.  And, to make maters worse, he says incredibly unhelpful things like, "You have a lot of earrings that would match that shirt," and "You'd rock that, babe."  

We were at Goodwill two weeks ago (his idea, not mine).  We went in looking for a women's skirt suit he'd seen the last time we were there (to turn into speaker covers, because the man couldn't stop coming up with projects if you put a gun to his head).  The suit was gone, but I walked out with two pairs of shoes, a dress, a shirt, and a jumpsuit.

Whoops.

But what am I supposed to do when I try a dress on, open the door, and get two thumbs up from the love of my life?  Put it back on the rack?  I think not.

Mark is probably my biggest fashion fan, and has been the constant recipient of my selfies for years now.  He is my partner in crime and in clothing, and he is one of the reasons I don't just live in leggings through most of winter.  I wouldn't be the pretty (vain) vintage girl I am today without him.

And, as if my vanity weren't bad enough, my job just makes matters worse.

There are currently two Fish Eye Fun rigs set up in the office, and, well...

Not Quite Raindrops on Roses

So.  Last week was a rough blog, huh?

Let's talk about something cheerier, shall we?

... Except I've been struggling the past two days with being entirely too grumpy for anyone's good.  It's a shame, really, because I'm coming off of at least one really excellent week of being more social than normal and having very few negative experiences at all.  Even coming home last night to a meal cooked by my boyfriend wasn't enough to drag me out of my mood.

But, all things in moderation and all that.  The most perfectly wonderful Monday off with Mark is balanced by a not-so-great Tuesday.  And that's the way it goes.  As I've said before, not every day is fantastic.  And that's ok.  I just have to remind myself of that.

And I can remind myself of all the things that do make me happy lately.  So I will.

1. Everything about this new dress.

2. Day date adventures.  Mark and I went to Meramec Caverns on Monday and ended up with a private tour.  And a pound of fudge.  Along the way, we ate a giant burrito, got free sopapillas, did some antique shopping and rescued a midcentury lamp that someone woefully decided to paint.  And we also ate at The Shaved Duck.  Which was, quite simply, incredible and perfect.  Like the rest of the day.

3. Finishing a book, which I just did (Egg and Spoon, by Gregory Maguire).  And re-reading a favorite book, which I'm beginning to do (The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger). Or just looking at books.  I'm not that picky.

4. Being with someone who I'm so completely comfortable with, who lets me pout on the couch next to him, who encourages me in everything I do, and who writes the best love letters. 

5.  My friends, both old and new and everything in between.  

6. Margaritas.  Tacos.  Alright, food and drinks in general. Let's be honest here.

7. Having freshly red hair.

8. Routines. I'm an introvert, remember?  I like knowing what to expect.  This is not to say that I don't enjoy spontaneous adventures and spur-of-the-moment decisions, because that's not true.  But there's a definite reassurance for me in having several daily routines.  This is particularly reinforced by having a dog that also thrives on routine and knowing what to expect and a boyfriend who enjoys ending our evenings with a seldom-altered shared routine of getting ready for bed. 

9. My paperback book perfume.  Mark gave it to me a while ago when I was having a terrible day.  I've never before had a perfume that I really loved.  I'm highly sensitive to smells and never used to wear perfume, but this stuff is wonderful.  It's subtle and slightly sweet and I love wearing it and smelling faintly of great literature.

10. Puns and alliteration and nerdy jokes.

11. Comments on my blog or my Facebook blog posts.  I'm entirely shameless that way.  So please continue to cheer me up by telling me something that makes you happy.  

I'm feeling a bit better already.