My husband has been a total rock star about this whole "Dad" thing. Before Molly was born, the man had about as much experience with children as I have with nuclear physics. Yet, from the moment she was born, he jumped in with both feet. He carried her down to the nursery; and then, as I lay in bed post-c-section tethered to a catheter and tied to the bed by those weird circulation cuffs, he changed her very first diaper. And the next one. And the one after that. And the next three or four. He hasn't hesitated to feed her or sway with her or dress her. But there is one little thing that he has not been eager to jump on: Bathing her. I think he's deathly afraid that he'll drop her or that she'll fall over into the water or something.
The other night, though, I sort of pressed him into service as I just could not bear the thought of hunching over the edge of the tub myself after having just dragged the vacuum up and down the stairs. He agreed to bathe her...but only if I stood over him and watched to make sure he was doing it right. So I watched, and he washed. He did great! I could tell that he had gained an incredible amount of confidence from the mere fact that he neither drowned nor dropped our baby, so two nights later, I hit him up for "tubby" duty again. This time, he only asked that I be within yelling distance and that I come running if he did yell.
But Molly was sort of fussy, so I followed them upstairs and sort of hovered in the background while he undressed her. I didn't want him to think that I thought he wasn't capable of bathing the baby without a spotter, so I decided to go busy myself in our room. He never yelled for help, and Molly was very good for him right up until he took her out of the tub. Then she went all howler monkey on him. I was afraid that might make him nervous, so I went back into the nursery while he dried her off, but he soon got the situation under control, so I slipped out again.
Once she was dressed in her pajamas, he sat down with her and read her a story (*tear*). Then he put her to bed, and that was that. (Daddy definitely has the magic touch with laying her down for the night.)
Somewhere around 1:30am, Molly woke up on her belly. So I went into the nursery to flip her back over, but when I put my hand on her butt, it was soaking wet. The crib sheet was soaking wet, too. I cursed the new diapers I had bought and pulled her out of bed to change her clothes. As I unzipped her pajamas, I realized that it wasn't the diaper at all...because she wasn't wearing a diaper at all. That's right, Daddy had tubbed her, lathered her up with lotion, and put on her Js; but he hadn't put on a diaper. I called him into the room, and, man, was he hot. He immediately started stripping the crib while I stripped Molly. I know he was disgusted with himself and, honestly, in that moment, I was, too. But I know that he was so focused on, OK, now I need to make sure I dry her off well. Then I need to make sure I get lotion on her because her skin is so dry. Wait...are we putting a onesie on her now that it's summer? Don't let her roll off the changing table! that he simply overlooked the diaper. Really, you can't fault the man for that.
In the light of day, it became funny. He even told on himself to his secretary this morning. And this evening, when I was giving him the daily poop report, he said, "Well, at least she didn't do that last night." Praise Jesus.
Showing posts with label He Who.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label He Who.... Show all posts
Friday, June 01, 2012
Thursday, September 29, 2011
And then my OB moved to Alaska
You think I'm kidding, don't you? I'm not, but more about that in a minute.
So here we are at week 35, and holy nuts...what a clash of emotions! On the one hand, I'm DYING to see her. I want to know what she looks like. I want to feel her little fingers clenched around mine. I want to smell her hair. I want to feel her little head snuggled up in the crook of my neck. I want to see The Boy with her...gazing at her, gently stroking her back, examining her tiny toes.
On the other hand, I feel like I need every minute of these last 5 weeks to finish getting ready for her arrival. And I'm not talking about putting her room together or washing her clothes or stacking up piles of diapers. That's done. I'm talking about getting ready mentally and emotionally for her arrival.
All the questions and the unknowns that come with being a first-time parent have been swirling around in my head, so I signed us up for every parenting class offered at our hospital. I was so eager to go the classes and have all my questions answered and my apprehensions put at ease. And then, finally, the first class: Little Fingers, Little Toes. It was an overview of what happens between delivery and taking your newborn home. Easy stuff, right? I mean, I have 13 nieces and nephews. It's not like I don't know how a baby is born or how to change a diaper. Yet, 20 minutes into the class, I was completely overwhelmed by all the "ifs" and "buts," and I turned to The Boy in tears. I really wanted to leave. I didn't want to hear any more about jaundice or newborn temperature regulation or comforting an inconsolable baby. Two hours later, the class was over, and The Boy was reassuring me that everything would be OK--I just needed to relax. So I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and did relax...eventually...after 12 straight hours of crying.
And then, class two: Great Expectations. Sounds light, fun...great. And maybe it would have been if the nurse who taught the class was less...frank. In between horror stories of 9-pound babies and misplaced epidurals and emergency c-sections, she kept repeating, "I'm not walking on eggshells here, people! This is the real world!" Hey, that's great. I didn't want her to blow rainbows and sunshine up my ass, but did she have to keep saying, "And if that happens, you will die, and your baby will die"? Again, I was overwhelmed. The Boy found her entertaining. I found her less so. I started making mental notes to research options to just be put in a medically-induced coma and only be brought out of it when the baby was born. (Just so you know, that's apparently not an option.)
The third class was the Art of Breastfeeding. Surely, it would be the easiest class. I mean, women have been breastfeeding babies since the beginning of time. It's the most instinctual, natural behavior known to moms and babies, right? You have a baby, you hold that baby, that baby just automatically latches on and starts chowing down...right? Of course, neither my mom nor any of my sisters breastfed their babies, so I didn't really have any frame of reference for breastfeeding. That's why I was taking the class. I just needed to know when my milk would come in, how often I would feed the baby, how often I would have to burp her...you know, all those little details that differ between formula feeding and breastfeeding. What I learned instead is that breastfeeding isn't necessarily the most instinctual, natural behavior known to moms and babies. A lot of times, you have to work at it. The baby has to learn how to latch on correctly. The mom has to learn how to help the baby latch on. And some babies are stubborn about feeding. And some boobies are stubborn about feeding. And that brings up the issue of the breast pump. Have you ever heard the sound that a breast pump makes? Have you ever seen what a breast pump does when placed near a balloon? Suddenly, even breastfeeding seemed stressful. Once again, I left class in tears, scared and unsure of myself.
All those questions and apprehensions? Still there, if not worse. The only thing that I had learned in those first three classes was that I am not emotionally or mentally ready to have this baby. Yet, here she comes, ready or not.
So imagine how upset I was when, at a football tailgate, a friend (who is pregnant with her second child and who sees another doctor in the practice that I go to) said, "I hear your doctor is moving to Alaska." Noooo. Not possible. I hadn't heard that. I mean, surely someone would have mentioned that in one of my 14 million monthly appointments. We decided that it was probably just a rumor. Why on earth would she move to Alaska?
It just so happened that I had an appointment the following Monday morning. So after all the belly measuring and the blood pressure reviews and the "everything looks good," my doctor said, "So, do you have any questions?" I hesitated, and then said, "Just one, I think. Are you moving to Alaska?" She sighed, sat back down, and said, "Yes." Six weeks before my due date, my doctor was telling me that she was leaving...and she was leaving in just two weeks.
I know that the chances of her actually being the one to deliver my baby girl were pretty slim. And I know that even if she was the one to deliver my baby, she wouldn't come in until the last minute. But, oh my gosh...I need her in the coming weeks! She's so relaxed and laid back and calming. And I need calming. Oh, do I need calming.
So now it's all on The Boy...and he's not doing a bad job at it. Whenever he sees the slightest hint of doubt come across my face he says, "I'm sooooo excited to see Molly," or "I'm so happy with my life." And even though that makes me wonder why I can't be that optimistic, it makes me feel a lot better to know that at least one of us isn't a complete basket case. And then I'm back to wanting to see my baby girl...and wanting to smell her hair...and wanting to watch her melt into The Boy's arms...
So here we are at week 35, and holy nuts...what a clash of emotions! On the one hand, I'm DYING to see her. I want to know what she looks like. I want to feel her little fingers clenched around mine. I want to smell her hair. I want to feel her little head snuggled up in the crook of my neck. I want to see The Boy with her...gazing at her, gently stroking her back, examining her tiny toes.
On the other hand, I feel like I need every minute of these last 5 weeks to finish getting ready for her arrival. And I'm not talking about putting her room together or washing her clothes or stacking up piles of diapers. That's done. I'm talking about getting ready mentally and emotionally for her arrival.
All the questions and the unknowns that come with being a first-time parent have been swirling around in my head, so I signed us up for every parenting class offered at our hospital. I was so eager to go the classes and have all my questions answered and my apprehensions put at ease. And then, finally, the first class: Little Fingers, Little Toes. It was an overview of what happens between delivery and taking your newborn home. Easy stuff, right? I mean, I have 13 nieces and nephews. It's not like I don't know how a baby is born or how to change a diaper. Yet, 20 minutes into the class, I was completely overwhelmed by all the "ifs" and "buts," and I turned to The Boy in tears. I really wanted to leave. I didn't want to hear any more about jaundice or newborn temperature regulation or comforting an inconsolable baby. Two hours later, the class was over, and The Boy was reassuring me that everything would be OK--I just needed to relax. So I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and did relax...eventually...after 12 straight hours of crying.
And then, class two: Great Expectations. Sounds light, fun...great. And maybe it would have been if the nurse who taught the class was less...frank. In between horror stories of 9-pound babies and misplaced epidurals and emergency c-sections, she kept repeating, "I'm not walking on eggshells here, people! This is the real world!" Hey, that's great. I didn't want her to blow rainbows and sunshine up my ass, but did she have to keep saying, "And if that happens, you will die, and your baby will die"? Again, I was overwhelmed. The Boy found her entertaining. I found her less so. I started making mental notes to research options to just be put in a medically-induced coma and only be brought out of it when the baby was born. (Just so you know, that's apparently not an option.)
The third class was the Art of Breastfeeding. Surely, it would be the easiest class. I mean, women have been breastfeeding babies since the beginning of time. It's the most instinctual, natural behavior known to moms and babies, right? You have a baby, you hold that baby, that baby just automatically latches on and starts chowing down...right? Of course, neither my mom nor any of my sisters breastfed their babies, so I didn't really have any frame of reference for breastfeeding. That's why I was taking the class. I just needed to know when my milk would come in, how often I would feed the baby, how often I would have to burp her...you know, all those little details that differ between formula feeding and breastfeeding. What I learned instead is that breastfeeding isn't necessarily the most instinctual, natural behavior known to moms and babies. A lot of times, you have to work at it. The baby has to learn how to latch on correctly. The mom has to learn how to help the baby latch on. And some babies are stubborn about feeding. And some boobies are stubborn about feeding. And that brings up the issue of the breast pump. Have you ever heard the sound that a breast pump makes? Have you ever seen what a breast pump does when placed near a balloon? Suddenly, even breastfeeding seemed stressful. Once again, I left class in tears, scared and unsure of myself.
All those questions and apprehensions? Still there, if not worse. The only thing that I had learned in those first three classes was that I am not emotionally or mentally ready to have this baby. Yet, here she comes, ready or not.
So imagine how upset I was when, at a football tailgate, a friend (who is pregnant with her second child and who sees another doctor in the practice that I go to) said, "I hear your doctor is moving to Alaska." Noooo. Not possible. I hadn't heard that. I mean, surely someone would have mentioned that in one of my 14 million monthly appointments. We decided that it was probably just a rumor. Why on earth would she move to Alaska?
It just so happened that I had an appointment the following Monday morning. So after all the belly measuring and the blood pressure reviews and the "everything looks good," my doctor said, "So, do you have any questions?" I hesitated, and then said, "Just one, I think. Are you moving to Alaska?" She sighed, sat back down, and said, "Yes." Six weeks before my due date, my doctor was telling me that she was leaving...and she was leaving in just two weeks.
I know that the chances of her actually being the one to deliver my baby girl were pretty slim. And I know that even if she was the one to deliver my baby, she wouldn't come in until the last minute. But, oh my gosh...I need her in the coming weeks! She's so relaxed and laid back and calming. And I need calming. Oh, do I need calming.
So now it's all on The Boy...and he's not doing a bad job at it. Whenever he sees the slightest hint of doubt come across my face he says, "I'm sooooo excited to see Molly," or "I'm so happy with my life." And even though that makes me wonder why I can't be that optimistic, it makes me feel a lot better to know that at least one of us isn't a complete basket case. And then I'm back to wanting to see my baby girl...and wanting to smell her hair...and wanting to watch her melt into The Boy's arms...
Friday, September 02, 2011
Nine Weeks to Go, Or Why I'm on the Verge of Pooping My Pants
It was February when I discovered that I was pregnant. It would be getting cold again before I had the baby. That seemed like an awfully long time to have to wait. And the first 12 weeks did drag on. As I am wont to do, I worried every day about all the things that could go wrong in those first three months. After all, if you're going to miscarry, it's likely to happen in that first trimester. So every day, every week dragged by.
And then, apparently, I blinked...for, like, 18 weeks...and now I'm down to the last 9 weeks. Single digits. It's just so...wow. And then, at the same time, it's...wow. And then I think about how quickly those 9 weeks will go, and I think...WOW.
And then I wonder if we should have put this whole baby thing off a little longer.
No, I know. I mean, it's a little late now to be thinking about if the timing is right to have a baby. We're having a baby. In 9 weeks. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't starting to freak out a little.
We just celebrated our first anniversary 4 days ago. We just sunk nearly every penny we have into a new house. I just applied for and was offered an interview for a new job. On top of that, we haven't taken that trip to Ireland yet. We're still trying to figure out our own sleeping schedules. And we still eat dinner out 3 nights a week. Are we really ready to add a baby to this equation? Because I'm suddenly thinking that we aren't...but she's coming regardless. IN 9 WEEKS.
Now, I know I'm not the first new mother to ever think, Holy crap! What are we doing here? I'm relatively certain that every expectant mother--be she a first-time mom or a fourth-time mom--has these thoughts at some point in her pregnancy. But that doesn't make me feel any better. At the end of the day, The Boy and I are still on our own here. We still have to figure out how to juggle the mortgage and the sleepless nights and the addition of a very demanding, very vocal, but wholly inarticulate drill sergeant to our lives. We still have to put our lives on hold for the better part of 18 years. And that's pretty scary.
And then I think, Yeah...but we're going to have a baby. How incredible is that? And it is incredible. All those memories of seeing my nieces and nephews wrapping their chubby little arms around a sister's leg? I'm going to have my own memories of a loving toddler hugging my leg. That baby crying for someone to get her out of the crib after her nap? She'll be crying for me. All those first day of school pictures that you see this time of the year? One of them will be of my baby girl. And, God, that's all going to be amazing!
But in the meantime, I'm freaking out a little here...
And then, apparently, I blinked...for, like, 18 weeks...and now I'm down to the last 9 weeks. Single digits. It's just so...wow. And then, at the same time, it's...wow. And then I think about how quickly those 9 weeks will go, and I think...WOW.
And then I wonder if we should have put this whole baby thing off a little longer.
No, I know. I mean, it's a little late now to be thinking about if the timing is right to have a baby. We're having a baby. In 9 weeks. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't starting to freak out a little.
We just celebrated our first anniversary 4 days ago. We just sunk nearly every penny we have into a new house. I just applied for and was offered an interview for a new job. On top of that, we haven't taken that trip to Ireland yet. We're still trying to figure out our own sleeping schedules. And we still eat dinner out 3 nights a week. Are we really ready to add a baby to this equation? Because I'm suddenly thinking that we aren't...but she's coming regardless. IN 9 WEEKS.
Now, I know I'm not the first new mother to ever think, Holy crap! What are we doing here? I'm relatively certain that every expectant mother--be she a first-time mom or a fourth-time mom--has these thoughts at some point in her pregnancy. But that doesn't make me feel any better. At the end of the day, The Boy and I are still on our own here. We still have to figure out how to juggle the mortgage and the sleepless nights and the addition of a very demanding, very vocal, but wholly inarticulate drill sergeant to our lives. We still have to put our lives on hold for the better part of 18 years. And that's pretty scary.
And then I think, Yeah...but we're going to have a baby. How incredible is that? And it is incredible. All those memories of seeing my nieces and nephews wrapping their chubby little arms around a sister's leg? I'm going to have my own memories of a loving toddler hugging my leg. That baby crying for someone to get her out of the crib after her nap? She'll be crying for me. All those first day of school pictures that you see this time of the year? One of them will be of my baby girl. And, God, that's all going to be amazing!
But in the meantime, I'm freaking out a little here...
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Who Knew Khakis Could Be Romantic?
Today is my birthday. I am 36. Yes, that's right, I am finally sucking it up and forgoing my normal practice of insisting that I'm 29, so let me say that again: I am 36. (If this were a therapy session, they would call that a "break through.") Anyway, for my birthday, He Who Spoils Me took me to the Greenbrier. Alright, so HWSM didn't initially book the trip as a birthday gift. He booked the trip because it was a special reduced-price weekend, but it just so happened that the weekend he booked fell on the weekend before my birthday, so we decided to call it a birthday trip and make it my gift. Who am I to argue?
We left Friday morning, driving 5 hours from here to there, criss-crossing south-central West Virginia. When we pulled up to the resort, everything was still decorated for the holidays. On top of that, it turned out that the Greenbrier was hosting a Winterfest for my birthday! Can you believe that? A Winterfest in honor of me! OK, OK...much as the whole "birthday trip" was a happy accident, Winterfest was a happy accident, too. Still, it was exciting. I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat with my hand on the door handle as we pulled up under the portico. I jumped out of the car before the valet even had a chance to round the front bumper. I did manage to contain my excitement enough to let the doorman at the hotel's entrance open the door for me, though. Inside, all the bright colors and the piped music, and the employees greeting you by name at every turn (yes, they are that keen for details!) make you feel special...and fancy...even if you are staying at "sale" prices. I'm telling you, I felt like Princess Grace (who was a visitor to the Greenbrier and whose portrait hangs in the North Parlor).
So we checked in and found our way to our room. When we were at the Greenbrier last year (another "sale" weekend), we were in an updated, more contemporary room. It was beautiful, but it wasn't what I think of when I think of the Greenbrier. There were no large flowers pasted on the walls, no rhododendrons painted on the bathroom tiles, nothing at all that reminded me of Dorothy Draper. This year, though, we were in an updated, but Draper-faithful room: Huge pink bundles of roses papered on the walls and continuing onto the curtains, rhododendrons clustered on the walls and ceiling of the bathroom, a white poster bed, and, of course, green carpet. And as I surveyed the room, my eyes landed on a bouquet of red roses that HWSM had arranged to have delivered to the room before we arrived. Oh. My. Gosh. I died. No, really, I started crying like a baby. He later bought me a new pair of Ugg boots (mine were starting to look a little like I pulled them out of a dumpster) and humored me with a (brief) walk in the freezing cold to look at some of the ice sculptures displayed outside the entrance. He is so sweet to me!
But do you know what really got me? The next day, when we were getting dressed to head downstairs to watch a little basketball (WVU) and football (UK), he agreed to put on khakis and a collared shirt with his UK sweater vest. The man who usually wears a tee shirt and jeans with his sweater vests (sweater vests are de rigueur in his wardrobe)...the man who wears white socks with his sport sandals...the man who loves hooded sweatshirts...indulged my need to kick it up a notch for the weekend and -- without complaint or sigh or eye-roll -- put on khakis. I wanted to marry him all over again right there. To me, it was a gesture as sweet as the roses or the Uggs or the trip itself. And I'm telling you, he looked hot in those khakis.
We left Friday morning, driving 5 hours from here to there, criss-crossing south-central West Virginia. When we pulled up to the resort, everything was still decorated for the holidays. On top of that, it turned out that the Greenbrier was hosting a Winterfest for my birthday! Can you believe that? A Winterfest in honor of me! OK, OK...much as the whole "birthday trip" was a happy accident, Winterfest was a happy accident, too. Still, it was exciting. I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat with my hand on the door handle as we pulled up under the portico. I jumped out of the car before the valet even had a chance to round the front bumper. I did manage to contain my excitement enough to let the doorman at the hotel's entrance open the door for me, though. Inside, all the bright colors and the piped music, and the employees greeting you by name at every turn (yes, they are that keen for details!) make you feel special...and fancy...even if you are staying at "sale" prices. I'm telling you, I felt like Princess Grace (who was a visitor to the Greenbrier and whose portrait hangs in the North Parlor).
So we checked in and found our way to our room. When we were at the Greenbrier last year (another "sale" weekend), we were in an updated, more contemporary room. It was beautiful, but it wasn't what I think of when I think of the Greenbrier. There were no large flowers pasted on the walls, no rhododendrons painted on the bathroom tiles, nothing at all that reminded me of Dorothy Draper. This year, though, we were in an updated, but Draper-faithful room: Huge pink bundles of roses papered on the walls and continuing onto the curtains, rhododendrons clustered on the walls and ceiling of the bathroom, a white poster bed, and, of course, green carpet. And as I surveyed the room, my eyes landed on a bouquet of red roses that HWSM had arranged to have delivered to the room before we arrived. Oh. My. Gosh. I died. No, really, I started crying like a baby. He later bought me a new pair of Ugg boots (mine were starting to look a little like I pulled them out of a dumpster) and humored me with a (brief) walk in the freezing cold to look at some of the ice sculptures displayed outside the entrance. He is so sweet to me!
But do you know what really got me? The next day, when we were getting dressed to head downstairs to watch a little basketball (WVU) and football (UK), he agreed to put on khakis and a collared shirt with his UK sweater vest. The man who usually wears a tee shirt and jeans with his sweater vests (sweater vests are de rigueur in his wardrobe)...the man who wears white socks with his sport sandals...the man who loves hooded sweatshirts...indulged my need to kick it up a notch for the weekend and -- without complaint or sigh or eye-roll -- put on khakis. I wanted to marry him all over again right there. To me, it was a gesture as sweet as the roses or the Uggs or the trip itself. And I'm telling you, he looked hot in those khakis.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Resolved to Just Let It Ride
This time last year, I had no thoughts about where life would lead me. I was about to be 35. I was about to hit the 10-year mark with the Supreme Court. I was about to take down my Christmas tree. And that was all I really knew as I prepared to ring in 2010.
He Who wasn't even thinking about leaving his alma mater. We weren't talking about marriage. I wasn't ready to leave my job. I had no intentions of putting my little house on the market. But within 3 weeks, He Who had accepted a new job. Two weeks later, we found ourselves in Lexington trying to find him an apartment. I was sure that the move would prove the end of us. Just a month later, though, he surprised me with a proposal. We were married 5 months later, but not before I quit my job, put a "for sale" sign in front of my first house, and moved to Kentucky.
When I look back on the last year, it all seems so...surprising. Still. I never dreamed of all that would happen in the course of the year. I just decided to see where life took me, and you know what? It worked out very well. So that's my plan for this year -- just see what happens. (But here's hoping that it turns out equally well!)
He Who wasn't even thinking about leaving his alma mater. We weren't talking about marriage. I wasn't ready to leave my job. I had no intentions of putting my little house on the market. But within 3 weeks, He Who had accepted a new job. Two weeks later, we found ourselves in Lexington trying to find him an apartment. I was sure that the move would prove the end of us. Just a month later, though, he surprised me with a proposal. We were married 5 months later, but not before I quit my job, put a "for sale" sign in front of my first house, and moved to Kentucky.
When I look back on the last year, it all seems so...surprising. Still. I never dreamed of all that would happen in the course of the year. I just decided to see where life took me, and you know what? It worked out very well. So that's my plan for this year -- just see what happens. (But here's hoping that it turns out equally well!)
Sunday, September 19, 2010
My New Favorite Photos
Oh, so much has happened in the last several days. He Who Bleeds Green and I (who bleed Gold and Blue) tested our marriage at the annual WVU-MU match-up. We became de facto Kentucky Wildcats fans. I started a new job. HWBG traveled...a lot. And I officially became a "formerly known as" with a visit to the Social Security Administration. But, honestly, I'm too tired to get into all of that, so, instead, I'm just going to post some of my favorite pictures from the wedding.
The handkerchief is Belgian lace. It was given to me by my mom's best friend, Pat, over 20 years ago. She told me then that I should put it away and save it for my wedding, and I did. The locket on the bouquet is a Limoges box that HWBG bought me in New Orleans while celebrating his bachelor party. We had gone into this little shop that sold Limoges boxes when we were in New Orleans earlier this summer, but I didn't buy anything then because the little porcelain boxes were all pretty expensive. I was so surprised (and touched!) that he went back to buy me one when he was in New Orleans for the bachelor party.
This is the Willow Tree "Big Brother" figurine I put on the altar in memory of Mikey.
Yes, folks, that is my immediate family. Minus Baby Lucy. This is what our holiday table looks like.
The Best Man is HWBG's best friend from high school. My sister, Leslie, was the Matron of Honor (loved the dress she picked from anntaylor.com!), and, of course, Lily was the Flower Girl.
At the rehearsal, Lily said, "I am not very excited about this." But at the wedding, right before she went down the aisle, she said, "Momma, I'm really excited about this!"
HWBG loved the series of shots in the doorway.
I'll post pictures from the reception later, but for now, laundry calls. Being a wife is so very glamorous.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Ten on Tuesday: Life Anew
For a moment there, I toyed with the idea of changing the title of my blog. "This Is Not How I'd Planned My Life" seems almost negative, regretful. I think it goes without saying that I'm anything but regretful these days; however, at the end of the day, this isn't how I'd planned my life. I hadn't planned to be just married at 35; I'd planned to be sending my youngest child off to kindergarten at 35. I hadn't planned to be starting a new life and a new job in a new town all at one time; I'd planned to slip into a new routine little by little...and with the energy and enthusiasm that is only known to a 23-year-old. I hadn't planned to have to decide just 10 days after my wedding whether I should go off the pill and try to have children; I'd planned to take a year or two to enjoy married life first. So, no, this isn't how I'd planned my life. But I'm not regretful about that.
On with the show...
1. I have a new last name, and it's soooooooo weird to me. Not the new name. The new name is perfectly lovely and normal, if not a bit Anglo. It's the concept of having a new name that's so weird because, really, it signifies that I'm a new person. I'm no longer Lara R., single, selfish, and accountable to no one but myself. I'm now Lara B., married, giving of myself, and accountable to a life partner. Eek! I hope that doesn't mean that I have to give up my Marshall's shoe habit...
2. The other day, I updated my Facebook account to reflect this new life. I put in my bio that I am now a Kentuckian. It made my stomach jump into my throat. I've since decided, though, that I'm not a Kentuckian at all. I'm still a West Virginian; I just live in Kentucky now. Does that mean that I don't love my new town? No. But the fact of the matter is that I will always be an outsider here. Lexington and Kentucky will always be a little unfamiliar to me. I will always be a West Virginian.
3. My new Lexington address is a penthouse apartment in the middle of downtown. From the 21st floor, I can see all the way from UK's campus on the left to the home of the Lexington Legends on the right. Actually, I can see farther than that, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing just yet. I need to get my bearings.
4. I have to admit that it's kind of hard transitioning from weekend-visit-girlfriend to live-in-wife. I mean, I know that I live here now. All my clothes and worldly possessions are crammed into the closets here. But after 6 months of driving back and forth, back and forth, I still feel like at any second now, the weekend is going to end, and I'm going to have to go back to my home in Huntington and wait out the week for the next Friday. It's kind of like how when you first get off of a treadmill, the floor feels like it's moving under your feet. Eventually, you walk it off, but it takes a couple of strides.
5. I walked around my new neighborhood today looking at some of the Horse Mania 2010 horses on my block. If there's one thing I already love about this town (besides the dining and pubs within spitting distance of my balcony), it's that Lexington celebrates anything and everything. There is always some parade down Main Street (including a massive Halloween "Thriller" dance) or some festival on the courthouse square or some farmers' market to keep you entertained, but Horse Mania is just so different and fun because around every corner is a new horse. LewHorse Carroll is probably my favorite so far, but I also love Bourbon Barrell.
6. It's a little hard to think that I am now 6 hours away from home, but as my mom is quick to point out, I'm still 4 hours closer to home than my younger sister is. Isn't it funny, though, that just 2 extra hours on the end of a trip can make it seem like you're driving to the other side of the earth? And make no mistake: That 6-hour trip includes 2 of the most boring hours of landscape in Kentucky and 3 of the most boring hours of radio time in West Virginia.
7. He Who Is My New Husband had to go back to work today, and (clearly) I don't know what to do with myself. I moved in the week before the wedding and immediately unpacked 96.7% of everything that needed to be unpacked. (I'm not a girl who can live out of boxes for more than 12 hours.) The things that remain to be put away simply have no space at this point. Of course, there are plenty of thank-yous to be written, and dinner begs to be cooked, but I can't seem to find my motivation. I think I'm still on Vegas time, only with no one to sit next to me at the pool and read me random quotes from Rolling Stone magazine.
8. Next week, I go back to work myself. It will be my first day at a new job in 10 years. How scary is that? No, no, let me tell you just how scary that is: I am beginning a new job in a whole new profession in a new town. I feel like the only English-speaking kid on the doorstep of a kindergarten classroom in Beijing (if they even have kindergarten in China -- I think their 5-year-olds just go straight to a university chem lab.) I'm starting to have major jitters and longing for my old job that I thought I had grown tired of before I knew I had to quit it and find a new job. What have I gotten myself into?
9. HWIMNH is doing just fine, by the way. He's having to contend with my homesickness and fears and moodiness and the fact that I prefer to sleep with the closet door closed so as to keep the evil sock monster from spying on me in my sleep. I sometimes wonder if he ever wonders what he got himself into, but then I hear genuine emotion in his words when he tells me that he loves me and is happy that I'm here. I guess he's one of those strange people who is drawn to homesick, moody, scaredy-cats with weird closet phobias.
10. Despite all the life-altering changes and the craziness of the last several weeks, I am very, very happy and ready to take it all one day at a time. Or maybe one chore at a time. Like those thank-yous. And dinner. It won't cook itself.
On with the show...
1. I have a new last name, and it's soooooooo weird to me. Not the new name. The new name is perfectly lovely and normal, if not a bit Anglo. It's the concept of having a new name that's so weird because, really, it signifies that I'm a new person. I'm no longer Lara R., single, selfish, and accountable to no one but myself. I'm now Lara B., married, giving of myself, and accountable to a life partner. Eek! I hope that doesn't mean that I have to give up my Marshall's shoe habit...
2. The other day, I updated my Facebook account to reflect this new life. I put in my bio that I am now a Kentuckian. It made my stomach jump into my throat. I've since decided, though, that I'm not a Kentuckian at all. I'm still a West Virginian; I just live in Kentucky now. Does that mean that I don't love my new town? No. But the fact of the matter is that I will always be an outsider here. Lexington and Kentucky will always be a little unfamiliar to me. I will always be a West Virginian.
3. My new Lexington address is a penthouse apartment in the middle of downtown. From the 21st floor, I can see all the way from UK's campus on the left to the home of the Lexington Legends on the right. Actually, I can see farther than that, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing just yet. I need to get my bearings.
4. I have to admit that it's kind of hard transitioning from weekend-visit-girlfriend to live-in-wife. I mean, I know that I live here now. All my clothes and worldly possessions are crammed into the closets here. But after 6 months of driving back and forth, back and forth, I still feel like at any second now, the weekend is going to end, and I'm going to have to go back to my home in Huntington and wait out the week for the next Friday. It's kind of like how when you first get off of a treadmill, the floor feels like it's moving under your feet. Eventually, you walk it off, but it takes a couple of strides.
5. I walked around my new neighborhood today looking at some of the Horse Mania 2010 horses on my block. If there's one thing I already love about this town (besides the dining and pubs within spitting distance of my balcony), it's that Lexington celebrates anything and everything. There is always some parade down Main Street (including a massive Halloween "Thriller" dance) or some festival on the courthouse square or some farmers' market to keep you entertained, but Horse Mania is just so different and fun because around every corner is a new horse. LewHorse Carroll is probably my favorite so far, but I also love Bourbon Barrell.
6. It's a little hard to think that I am now 6 hours away from home, but as my mom is quick to point out, I'm still 4 hours closer to home than my younger sister is. Isn't it funny, though, that just 2 extra hours on the end of a trip can make it seem like you're driving to the other side of the earth? And make no mistake: That 6-hour trip includes 2 of the most boring hours of landscape in Kentucky and 3 of the most boring hours of radio time in West Virginia.
7. He Who Is My New Husband had to go back to work today, and (clearly) I don't know what to do with myself. I moved in the week before the wedding and immediately unpacked 96.7% of everything that needed to be unpacked. (I'm not a girl who can live out of boxes for more than 12 hours.) The things that remain to be put away simply have no space at this point. Of course, there are plenty of thank-yous to be written, and dinner begs to be cooked, but I can't seem to find my motivation. I think I'm still on Vegas time, only with no one to sit next to me at the pool and read me random quotes from Rolling Stone magazine.
8. Next week, I go back to work myself. It will be my first day at a new job in 10 years. How scary is that? No, no, let me tell you just how scary that is: I am beginning a new job in a whole new profession in a new town. I feel like the only English-speaking kid on the doorstep of a kindergarten classroom in Beijing (if they even have kindergarten in China -- I think their 5-year-olds just go straight to a university chem lab.) I'm starting to have major jitters and longing for my old job that I thought I had grown tired of before I knew I had to quit it and find a new job. What have I gotten myself into?
9. HWIMNH is doing just fine, by the way. He's having to contend with my homesickness and fears and moodiness and the fact that I prefer to sleep with the closet door closed so as to keep the evil sock monster from spying on me in my sleep. I sometimes wonder if he ever wonders what he got himself into, but then I hear genuine emotion in his words when he tells me that he loves me and is happy that I'm here. I guess he's one of those strange people who is drawn to homesick, moody, scaredy-cats with weird closet phobias.
10. Despite all the life-altering changes and the craziness of the last several weeks, I am very, very happy and ready to take it all one day at a time. Or maybe one chore at a time. Like those thank-yous. And dinner. It won't cook itself.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Free and Clear to Marry in the Catholic Church
There were two major hurdles to clear before He Who Is My Fiance and I could be married in the Catholic church. First, there was the matter of HWIMF's previous marriage...s. Marriages. That's right, there were two. What of it? One was an impetuous, youthful, immature decision; and the other was...well, it just didn't work. (People really do just grow apart sometimes.) Luckily, neither marriage occurred in the Catholic church, nor was either marriage blessed by the Catholic church (because, at the time, HWIMF was a non-practicing Catholic), so there was no need for HWIMF to seek an annulment of either marriage. Rather, he simply had to verify that the marriages fell under "lack of form." Well, Friday afternoon, two letters arrived from the Diocese congratulating HWIMF that his prior marriages had been declared a nullity for lack of form. Is it really all just a game of semantics and pandering to the Catholic church? Yes, but...here's me pandering and talking in circles with a little YIPPEE-KI-AY, MOTHERTRUCKERS! to boot.
The second hurdle we had to clear was the required Marriage Encounter Weekend, wherein we would beforced to expected to attend a 3-day retreat at the local pastoral center to open up to each other and a dozen strangers about our relationship, while at the same time being taught to find our "language of love" and how to fold a towel so as not to start World War III in our little homes. Of course, these weekends are only scheduled about 6 times a year, and by the time we got engaged, there were only 2 dates remaining before our wedding date: One in June and the other the weekend before our wedding. Well, the June date didn't work. We were to be in Alabama that weekend. So I double-checked to make sure that it was OK that we didn't do this ridiculous exercise complete the retreat weekend until the very week before our wedding, and I was assured by the Monsignor that he didn't "care when you do it, just do it!"
So right after we returned from our vacation, I went online to sign-up for the August Marriage Encounter Weekend. To my horror, I discovered that the weekend had been moved from the weekend before our wedding to the weekend of our wedding. My stomach lurched up into my throat. I scanned the website for a phone number to call, but there was none, so I Googled the pastoral center and found a number there. The woman who answered was very sweet, but not at all helpful. "Well, it's not really our fault that we had to reschedule the weekend," she offered. Practically in tears, I squeaked, "Well, it certainly isn't my fault. What am I going to do now?" "Hmmm," she said, "I don't know what to tell you. Maybe call the Diocese?" So I did. Only they were of no help either, suggesting that I call my local priest. So I called my church. The secretary there suggested I call the pastoral center. At wit's end, I cried, "But I already did! And they couldn't help me!" She said, "Now, just calm down. You'll figure this out. Call again, and ask for Gary Lane."
Gary, who is a deacon and the director of the pastoral center, was out for the week on vacation, so I left a long, rambling, tearful message on his voicemail. He called the very next day, to which I expressed my surprise given my understanding that he was out on vacation. "I am on vacation," he said, "but you sounded pretty...desperate." (There really was no more delicate way of putting it.) He assured me that he would work with HWIMF and me on an individual basis, and that we could do that prior to our wedding date. Within the next week or so, we had picked our dates and made arrangements to meet with Gary over an evening and a day. And let me tell you, we kicked that Marriage Encounter's ass and made it our bitch!
Before we met with Gary, we each (separately) took an online survey dealing with everything from communication to our feelings about the church to disciplining our children. It was 173 detailed and prodding questions-worth of information that was designed to pick us apart and see if, in fact, we could be put together. According to Gary, if a couple scores in the 60%-70% range of compatible answers, they are considered a "pretty good" match. Well, folks, HWIMF and I scored 90%. How d'ya like them apples? On top of that, when we took our "language of love" quiz, not only did we fall into the same language category, but we got the same score! As Gary pointed out, the good news is that we are perfectly ready and well-matched to marry one another. The bad news...if we ever want to get an annulment from the church, Gary will have to testify against us to the tribunal because we are so perfectly ready and well-matched to be married. Meh. I don't think we'll have need for an annulment anyway.
So now we are free and clear to marry in the Catholic church, and it didn't come a moment too soon...we're down to just a little over a month to go! Of course, we couldn't have done it without Gary's help. He was so very kind to us, and, truth be told, he made it an enjoyable experience. And though it shouldn't matter what some stranger thinks about our relationship, he really did reinforce for HWIMF and me that we have what it takes to make a long and happy life together. Hey, the dude's been married for 35 years -- I think he knows whereof he speaks!
The second hurdle we had to clear was the required Marriage Encounter Weekend, wherein we would be
So right after we returned from our vacation, I went online to sign-up for the August Marriage Encounter Weekend. To my horror, I discovered that the weekend had been moved from the weekend before our wedding to the weekend of our wedding. My stomach lurched up into my throat. I scanned the website for a phone number to call, but there was none, so I Googled the pastoral center and found a number there. The woman who answered was very sweet, but not at all helpful. "Well, it's not really our fault that we had to reschedule the weekend," she offered. Practically in tears, I squeaked, "Well, it certainly isn't my fault. What am I going to do now?" "Hmmm," she said, "I don't know what to tell you. Maybe call the Diocese?" So I did. Only they were of no help either, suggesting that I call my local priest. So I called my church. The secretary there suggested I call the pastoral center. At wit's end, I cried, "But I already did! And they couldn't help me!" She said, "Now, just calm down. You'll figure this out. Call again, and ask for Gary Lane."
Gary, who is a deacon and the director of the pastoral center, was out for the week on vacation, so I left a long, rambling, tearful message on his voicemail. He called the very next day, to which I expressed my surprise given my understanding that he was out on vacation. "I am on vacation," he said, "but you sounded pretty...desperate." (There really was no more delicate way of putting it.) He assured me that he would work with HWIMF and me on an individual basis, and that we could do that prior to our wedding date. Within the next week or so, we had picked our dates and made arrangements to meet with Gary over an evening and a day. And let me tell you, we kicked that Marriage Encounter's ass and made it our bitch!
Before we met with Gary, we each (separately) took an online survey dealing with everything from communication to our feelings about the church to disciplining our children. It was 173 detailed and prodding questions-worth of information that was designed to pick us apart and see if, in fact, we could be put together. According to Gary, if a couple scores in the 60%-70% range of compatible answers, they are considered a "pretty good" match. Well, folks, HWIMF and I scored 90%. How d'ya like them apples? On top of that, when we took our "language of love" quiz, not only did we fall into the same language category, but we got the same score! As Gary pointed out, the good news is that we are perfectly ready and well-matched to marry one another. The bad news...if we ever want to get an annulment from the church, Gary will have to testify against us to the tribunal because we are so perfectly ready and well-matched to be married. Meh. I don't think we'll have need for an annulment anyway.
So now we are free and clear to marry in the Catholic church, and it didn't come a moment too soon...we're down to just a little over a month to go! Of course, we couldn't have done it without Gary's help. He was so very kind to us, and, truth be told, he made it an enjoyable experience. And though it shouldn't matter what some stranger thinks about our relationship, he really did reinforce for HWIMF and me that we have what it takes to make a long and happy life together. Hey, the dude's been married for 35 years -- I think he knows whereof he speaks!
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Fashion Sense
Me: It's a good thing you aren't going with me to this graduation ceremony. I'm going to wear that dress you hate.
He: *scrunched up face* It really is awful. It looks like something a 3rd grader would wear.
Me: Huh?
He: It has absolutely no sex appeal whatsoever. It's plain and unflattering.
Me: Um, I'm going to be in the same room as Bill Clinton. Do you really want me to wear something with sex appeal?
He: Good point.
[Aside: Bill Clinton is speaking at my niece's graduation from the Eberly College of Arts and Sciences at WVU today. Not too shabby, WVU! Not too shabby! And Erica is graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa!]
He: *scrunched up face* It really is awful. It looks like something a 3rd grader would wear.
Me: Huh?
He: It has absolutely no sex appeal whatsoever. It's plain and unflattering.
Me: Um, I'm going to be in the same room as Bill Clinton. Do you really want me to wear something with sex appeal?
He: Good point.
[Aside: Bill Clinton is speaking at my niece's graduation from the Eberly College of Arts and Sciences at WVU today. Not too shabby, WVU! Not too shabby! And Erica is graduating summa cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa!]
Friday, April 23, 2010
"One Ring to Bring Them All and in the Darkness Bind Them"
That, my friends, is the inscription on the One Ring in "The Lord of the Rings." When He Who Can Recite That Line From Memory first moved to Lexington, we decided to take a little stroll over to Molly Brooke's, an Irish pub we spotted from the balcony of HWCRTLFM's new apartment. And there along the way, just a few doors down from Molly Brooke's, was a little jewelry store called Mithril. While I'm not yet an official "nerd," I did love "The Lord of the Rings" movies, so I immediately recognized Mithril as the magical chain mail that saved Frodo from the sword of an Orc. I pointed the store out to HWCRTLM and then immediately regretted it. Ohmigawd,I thought, why did I do that? What if he asks me to marry him some day and he buys me a replica of the One Ring from Mithril to propose to me?! I needn't have worried, though. When he proposed, he bought me the most beautiful ring, and it doesn't have any creepy inscription about binding us in darkness at all.
Now that old lady hand, it's pretty creepy. But the ring is beautiful, and I love it almost as much as I love the man who gave it to me.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Eep!
I guess it's officially official. My house is for sale. Oh, my little house. When I bought it four years ago (in June), I had no idea how long I would be here; but I didn't think I would only be here for four years. I loved it so. I woke up every morning with a smile, happy as a lark and enamored with the charm of this little house. And then one day the sewer backed up into my basement. That wasn't happy or charming. But then just two months later, it was Christmas; and who doesn't love their first Christmas in a new house?
And then the summer rolled back around...and brought a bat into my house. My bedroom. Four months later, I was missing the bat because bats eat bugs, and I had termites. $1200 termites. And two weeks later, the water company broke my gas line. That was another $1200. Things were pretty quiet, though, for the next year. Of course, that quiet was shattered by a giant limb from the giant tree in my front yard. Holy. Crap. If I thought the termites and the gas line were expensive...
At that point, the shine was off the apple. I've spent the last year wondering why I ever took on the responsibility of a house. Renters don't have to worry about backed up sewer lines or termites or gas lines or dying trees.
But then tonight, a realtor came over to talk about putting my house on the market in preparation for my new life in Kentucky with He Who I'm Going to Marry. I was prepared to hear that it could take months. I was prepared to hear that I would need to do a little work over the next few weeks before my house would be ready to list. I was prepared to hear that I should be patient. I was not prepared to hear that the market in Huntington is pretty hot right now. I was not prepared to hear that my house could be under contract sooner than later. I was not prepared to hear that I needed to have my house ready to show by Monday. I started to wonder if I was ready to leave my little house after just four years. But I have to say, that moment of wonder was fleeting. I am so ready to get moved into HWIGM's apartment. I have no flutters of doubt, no regrets, no second thoughts. It's time to turn the page.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Ten on Tuesday...Because It's Been a While
1. I hate to be "that girl" who can't stop talking about love and rainbows and hearts now that I'm engaged, but all I can think about now is heart-shaped rainbow love. I mean, do I love He Who Loves Me any more today than I did this time 2 weeks ago? No, and I couldn't have loved him any more than I already did. But it's so exciting to think about melding my life into his and having our own little family somewhere.
2. "Somewhere" is Kentucky, of course. For now anyway. I am so excited to make the move. I didn't realize how itchy I was to get out of this place until HWLM moved last month. Except for my hometown, I have never lived anyplace for 10 whole years. Even typing that made me itchy...
3. As for the impending nuptials, they won't be short (we're Catholic, after all), but the wedding party will be. It will just be my sister, HWLM's oldest friend, an usher, and a Lily. (When your flower girl is named after a flower, you can just identify her by name.)
4. The roses are finally starting to fade. A few are just as beautiful as when I received them, but a few others are completely lost to time. So I carefully cut off the bloom of one of the still-beautiful roses and pressed it in my Bible.
5. You would think that I would be sad about the prospect of selling my sweet little house, but, for now anyway, I'm more anxious about it than anything else. Will it sell? And if it does, will I be able to get the price I want (enough to repay the bank and my parents, who generously gave me a down payment)? And what if it doesn't sell? Should I rent it out?
6. And while I'll freely admit the virtues of owning as opposed to renting, I have to be honest: I will not miss worrying about why the tub drains so slowly or whether the mail man is going to slip and fall on my icy walk or about how many more years I can get out of the roof. It'll be nice for those to be someone else's problems for a while.
7. The weekend thing is working out well for HWLM and I, but I have to say that it gets harder and harder to say goodbye on Sundays knowing that I will, at some point, be moving there to live with him. It feels like I should just say, Screw it! Let's call Watts Brothers and pack up my stuff right now! Of course, I can't really go until I either find a job or sell my house (and preferably both). So for now, I just have to remind myself that 5 days isn't so long.
8. Besides, for the last two weeks, I have had the pleasure of a mid-week visit from HWLM because he has had business back here in West Virginia!
9. Shit. I've totally turned into "that girl," haven't I? OK. Refocus.
10. I am using my alone time to hone my attention on WVU basketball and what I hope will be a run at the Final Four or even -- dare I say it? -- a national title. Will I ever love another team more than this team? I can't imagine it; but then again, I never I thought I'd love any team more than Beilein's Elite Eight team...or Darris Nichols and the NIT champion team.
2. "Somewhere" is Kentucky, of course. For now anyway. I am so excited to make the move. I didn't realize how itchy I was to get out of this place until HWLM moved last month. Except for my hometown, I have never lived anyplace for 10 whole years. Even typing that made me itchy...
3. As for the impending nuptials, they won't be short (we're Catholic, after all), but the wedding party will be. It will just be my sister, HWLM's oldest friend, an usher, and a Lily. (When your flower girl is named after a flower, you can just identify her by name.)
4. The roses are finally starting to fade. A few are just as beautiful as when I received them, but a few others are completely lost to time. So I carefully cut off the bloom of one of the still-beautiful roses and pressed it in my Bible.
5. You would think that I would be sad about the prospect of selling my sweet little house, but, for now anyway, I'm more anxious about it than anything else. Will it sell? And if it does, will I be able to get the price I want (enough to repay the bank and my parents, who generously gave me a down payment)? And what if it doesn't sell? Should I rent it out?
6. And while I'll freely admit the virtues of owning as opposed to renting, I have to be honest: I will not miss worrying about why the tub drains so slowly or whether the mail man is going to slip and fall on my icy walk or about how many more years I can get out of the roof. It'll be nice for those to be someone else's problems for a while.
7. The weekend thing is working out well for HWLM and I, but I have to say that it gets harder and harder to say goodbye on Sundays knowing that I will, at some point, be moving there to live with him. It feels like I should just say, Screw it! Let's call Watts Brothers and pack up my stuff right now! Of course, I can't really go until I either find a job or sell my house (and preferably both). So for now, I just have to remind myself that 5 days isn't so long.
8. Besides, for the last two weeks, I have had the pleasure of a mid-week visit from HWLM because he has had business back here in West Virginia!
9. Shit. I've totally turned into "that girl," haven't I? OK. Refocus.
10. I am using my alone time to hone my attention on WVU basketball and what I hope will be a run at the Final Four or even -- dare I say it? -- a national title. Will I ever love another team more than this team? I can't imagine it; but then again, I never I thought I'd love any team more than Beilein's Elite Eight team...or Darris Nichols and the NIT champion team.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Just to Tide You Over...
Today, I went to look at some diamonds for my engagement ring. I may have found a winner, but the jeweler is going to have a few more sent to the store for me to look at, just to be sure. After all, this diamond is forever! In the meantime, here's a shot from Saturday, right after He Who Proposed made me the happiest girl in the world!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
March 13, 2010...The Best Day EVER!
When I told He Who Never Ceases to Amaze Me that I had lost my bracelet, he suggested that we go to the jewelry store to buy a replacement. I felt terribly about that and did not want him to buy me another bracelet, but he insisted that we at least go and look to see if they had another one. So yesterday afternoon, we drove over to the jewelry store to take a look. Unfortunately, they did not have another bracelet like the one I had lost. The ladies in the store offered to look for the bracelet in their catalogs. Again, though, we came up with nothing. While they looked for a copy of HWNCAM's receipt to pull an item number for the original bracelet, I spotted a bouquet of roses on the counter. "These roses are beautiful," I said. "Aren't they?" the store's owner said, "And they smell wonderful, too." The next thing I knew, HWNCAM was plucking the card off of the bouquet. I. Was. Mortified. I thought, What are you doing? It is none of your business whose flowers those are! And then he said, "Hey, look at that...this card is addressed to you!"
I opened the card and read its simple message: I love you. I turned around, and HWNCAM said, "I thought while we were here, we could pick out a ring. I want to marry you." I told him that I wanted to marry him, too. And then, after a very long hug, I said, "Did you steal my bracelet to set this whole thing up?" He didn't. Dang it. So we picked out a beautiful ring, which, of course, we don't have at the moment because it is being custom made. But the flowers are beautiful!
And more importantly, I am terribly, blissfully happy!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The True Story of St. Anthony's Big Save
Anyway, on the way out of the church, my mom told me that St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost things. She said that when she was a child, her grandmother taught her to say a little "prayer" whenever she lost something: "St. Anthony, St. Anthony, have a look around. Something has been lost, and it must be found." As simple as it was, I committed it to memory immediately, but I never used it.
Then a few years ago, my nephew, Ryan, had gotten a new WVU jacket for Christmas, and just a few weeks later, it came up missing. Thinking that Ryan had probably left the jacket on the bus or on the playground or some place like that, his mom was frustrated and said, "You better hope you find that jacket! I can't believe you've already lost it!" The two of them combed through every closet in the house, pulling hangers off of racks and turning everything upside down. Ryan's mom finally gave up and went off to finish getting ready for work while Ryan sulked over his lost jacket. And then Cherie heard him recite the St. Anthony "prayer." A few minutes later, Ryan bounded into the bedroom with the jacket in hand. "Mom, it worked," he said, "I prayed to St. Anthony like Grandma taught me, and when I went back and looked again, the jacket was in the coat closet!" Cherie was utterly amazed because she had scoured that closet, too, and had not seen the jacket. Certain that the "prayer" had worked, Ryan immediately called my mom and told her about St. Anthony's big save.
I thought of that story this morning as I combed the capitol grounds, looking for the bracelet I lost yesterday. It was a Christmas gift from He Who Is Remembered By Me Whenever I See That Bracelet on My Arm, and I loved it. I distinctly remember putting it on yesterday morning before leaving for work, but when I got home last evening, it was gone. I searched my house and my car last night and then my carpooler's car this morning. I retraced all of my steps from yesterday and e-mailed and called anyone and everyone who might have a collection of lost items in the capitol. No one has seen it. So as I made my last desperate inquiries at lunch time, I stopped and said the St. Anthony "prayer." I'm hopeful that my bracelet might turn up at any minute...
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Ten on Tuesday
1. So I survived my first week as a long-distance girlfriend, and if I'm honest, it really wasn't so bad. He Who Was Swamped All Week and I talked on the phone at least three times every day. We were both busy enough that the week passed by very quickly...and then it was Friday!
2. I hosted a going away party for HWWSAW on Saturday, and it turned out perfectly. The food was great. The friends were great. The suprise gifts (I had said no gifts) were great. HWWSAW was really, really happy.
3. One of the local movie theaters downtown is showing classic movies on the big screen every Monday night for the next several weeks. I have marked my calendar to see Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Breakfast Club, The Godfather, Citizen Kane, Gone With the Wind (which is actually showing on a Sunday since it's so long), and The Shining...but only if I can find someone to go with me and hold my hand.
4. I posted yesterday on Facebook that I knew HWWSAW was "serious" because he listed me as his emergency contact when he bought a plane ticket the other day. The next thing you know, HWWSAW and I were bombarded with inquiries as to whether we are getting married. It was meant to be tongue in cheek, people! No, we are not getting married!
5. I finally got my tax refund, so I went ahead and paid off a small loan I had to the tune of $125 a month. I'm going to roll that money into my car loan now and get it paid off in 4 months or so. Then I'll have $525 a month that I can use to pay off other things. Sometimes this "responsible adult" thing is pretty sweet. (But most of the time, it blows.)
6. Just in case you were wondering, Lipton Rice & Sauce mixes do go bad. I fixed one for dinner last night that said, "Best if used by April 9, 2009." I figured it was just rice and powdered sauce mix, what could be bad about it? Um, the taste, that's what can be bad about it. It tasted like cardboard, which is really disconcerting considering Lipton Rice & Sauce mixes are packed in a foil-lined pouch, not a cardboard box.
7. The Big East Tournament starts soon, and my stomach is already getting twisty and nervous...
8. In the spirit of Lent (i.e., since I haven't done a very good job of keeping my Lenten promises), I downloaded 4 new Catholic apps to my iPhone last night. One of them is a Stations of the Cross app, which is pretty cool.
9. My dimpled butt is so out of shape that I thought I was going to have a heart attack from climbing the 4 flights of stairs to my office this morning. I need to do something about that.
10. Only 2 more days until I get to see HWWSAW again! I'm going over there this weekend to help him unpack and get settled into his apartment.
2. I hosted a going away party for HWWSAW on Saturday, and it turned out perfectly. The food was great. The friends were great. The suprise gifts (I had said no gifts) were great. HWWSAW was really, really happy.
3. One of the local movie theaters downtown is showing classic movies on the big screen every Monday night for the next several weeks. I have marked my calendar to see Breakfast at Tiffany's, The Breakfast Club, The Godfather, Citizen Kane, Gone With the Wind (which is actually showing on a Sunday since it's so long), and The Shining...but only if I can find someone to go with me and hold my hand.
4. I posted yesterday on Facebook that I knew HWWSAW was "serious" because he listed me as his emergency contact when he bought a plane ticket the other day. The next thing you know, HWWSAW and I were bombarded with inquiries as to whether we are getting married. It was meant to be tongue in cheek, people! No, we are not getting married!
5. I finally got my tax refund, so I went ahead and paid off a small loan I had to the tune of $125 a month. I'm going to roll that money into my car loan now and get it paid off in 4 months or so. Then I'll have $525 a month that I can use to pay off other things. Sometimes this "responsible adult" thing is pretty sweet. (But most of the time, it blows.)
6. Just in case you were wondering, Lipton Rice & Sauce mixes do go bad. I fixed one for dinner last night that said, "Best if used by April 9, 2009." I figured it was just rice and powdered sauce mix, what could be bad about it? Um, the taste, that's what can be bad about it. It tasted like cardboard, which is really disconcerting considering Lipton Rice & Sauce mixes are packed in a foil-lined pouch, not a cardboard box.
7. The Big East Tournament starts soon, and my stomach is already getting twisty and nervous...
8. In the spirit of Lent (i.e., since I haven't done a very good job of keeping my Lenten promises), I downloaded 4 new Catholic apps to my iPhone last night. One of them is a Stations of the Cross app, which is pretty cool.
9. My dimpled butt is so out of shape that I thought I was going to have a heart attack from climbing the 4 flights of stairs to my office this morning. I need to do something about that.
10. Only 2 more days until I get to see HWWSAW again! I'm going over there this weekend to help him unpack and get settled into his apartment.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Where's All That Money I Could Be Saving By Switching to Geico?
I always feel like somebody's watchin' me...
OK, so I know I said I was removing all the pictures of He Who's face from my blog, but then I took this picture at work today, and it kind of cracked me up, so I'm posting it.
OK, so I know I said I was removing all the pictures of He Who's face from my blog, but then I took this picture at work today, and it kind of cracked me up, so I'm posting it.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Ten on Tuesday
1. My computer at work was infected by a virus today (XP Antispyware 2010), and it took FORE. EVER. to get it fixed by IT. I had to break out the bitch to finally get someone to take care of it. The first solution offered to me when I called the IT help desk? "Just shut down your computer." No, really.
2. He Who Slept on an Air Mattress for Two Nights had all of his worldly possessions delivered to Lexington today. I guess that makes it officially official.
3. I had a good hair day today, even though it started out looking like it was going to be a very bad I-wish-I-hadn't-slept-that-extra-20-minutes day.
4. On our way to work this morning, one of my carpoolers and I got squeezed out by a car drifting into our lane. When my carpooler looked over to see what the problem was, the man was wearing a bear suit. A bear suit!
5. I am down to my last roll of toilet paper, but, ohmigosh, I do not have the energy to face a Wal-Mart run.
6. HWSAMTN just called. I really miss him.
7. After two straight weeks of snow days, my nieces are finally back in school. Can you believe that?
8. Pitt is evil. It's all carefully documented right here.
9. I have absolutely, positively no interest in the Olympics. I think it stems from the fact that every time I saw an Olympian on TV prior to the opening ceremonies, they were hawking some product or another. Seriously, they were all talking about this sponsor or that sponsor. Here, I thought the Olympics were about fulfilling life-long dreams, not endorsement contracts.
10. It would be stupid to drive over to Lexington tonight, right?
2. He Who Slept on an Air Mattress for Two Nights had all of his worldly possessions delivered to Lexington today. I guess that makes it officially official.
3. I had a good hair day today, even though it started out looking like it was going to be a very bad I-wish-I-hadn't-slept-that-extra-20-minutes day.
4. On our way to work this morning, one of my carpoolers and I got squeezed out by a car drifting into our lane. When my carpooler looked over to see what the problem was, the man was wearing a bear suit. A bear suit!
5. I am down to my last roll of toilet paper, but, ohmigosh, I do not have the energy to face a Wal-Mart run.
6. HWSAMTN just called. I really miss him.
7. After two straight weeks of snow days, my nieces are finally back in school. Can you believe that?
8. Pitt is evil. It's all carefully documented right here.
9. I have absolutely, positively no interest in the Olympics. I think it stems from the fact that every time I saw an Olympian on TV prior to the opening ceremonies, they were hawking some product or another. Seriously, they were all talking about this sponsor or that sponsor. Here, I thought the Olympics were about fulfilling life-long dreams, not endorsement contracts.
10. It would be stupid to drive over to Lexington tonight, right?
The Rest of the Story
For Valentine's Day, He Who Never Fails to Amaze Me announced that he had procured us 2 box seat tickets to see Harry Connick, Jr., at the Clay Center in Charleston on February 17th. Frankly, Harry isn't really HWNFAM's style, but he gladly went as my date for the evening; and we both loved it! I literally smiled through the entire show, it was that good.
Of course, as is par for the course in West Virginia, there just had to be a jackass who derailed the show for a few minutes. Here, read this, and then I'll tell you the rest of the story...
Connick Fan Sheepish After Crooner Confiscates Phone
I read this article, and I thought, Really, dude? Are you really that arrogant, or are you just that stupid? I mean, the guy acts like he had no idea that we weren't supposed to take photographs at this show, but it was announced very loudly over the sound system right before the show started that no photography, video recording, or audio recording of any kind was allowed during the performance. Actually, I'm told that announcement was made several times before the show started. I only heard the announcement made once because the ushers got lost taking us to our seats, and we sat down mere moments before the show began; but a friend of mine who sat down earlier said the announcement was made several times. I know that Mr. Callaghan had to have heard at least that last announcement because he and his girlfriend were already seated in their front row (center) seats when he finally found our way to the box (overlooking their seats).
Now, I will grant Mr. Callaghan that when the show first started, I did see several people snapping pictures on their phones, and I even saw a few flashes. However, after Harry made such a big (although gracious) deal out of the woman "with the brightest flash I have ever seen on a camera" (in the words of Harry), everyone else put their cameras away. They all seemed to get that, while jocular about the whole thing, Harry was annoyed by all the picture-taking. I will also grant Mr. Callaghan that he didn't really start taking pictures with his iPhone until Lucien Barbarin came down to sit on the edge of the stage and sing directly to Mr. Callaghan's girlfriend. But after that little ditty was over, Mr. Callaghan should have put the camera away. He didn't.
And while Mr. Callaghan claims that he did not take 50 pictures or any video, insisting that he only took a half a dozen pictures, from my perch above Mr. Callaghan, I personally saw him take at least several dozen pictures. And when Harry stopped the show to ask, "Dude, are you videoing my performance on your iPhone now?" Mr. Callaghan seemed to acknowledge that, yes, he was recording the performance. Disgusted, yet still gracious, Harry explained, "You know, I like to think that my performances are special. I like to think that the fans who come here and buy a ticket to hear us perform are seeing a one-time performance. I don't want to think that just anybody in the world will be able to see it on YouTube later." See, this wasn't about Harry Connick, Jr., being a prick. This was about Mike Callaghan being a prick.
Don't you think I wanted to take pictures of Harry? Don't you think I wanted to make a voice note on my iPhone of Harry's lovely voice? Don't you think I wanted to jump from my box seat on top of Harry and molest him? Wait...I think I got a little off track there for a second. The point is, everyone in that theater would have loved to take a little piece of Harry home with us that night. But the vast majority of us restrained ourselves and respected the request of Harry, his orchestra, and the Clay Center. To think that Mr. Callaghan -- a lawyer, former head of the Democratic party in West Virginia, and former Congressional candidate -- would play dumb and act like he didn't know he had done wrong is just insulting, almost as insulting as that stupid Crocodile Dundee hat Mr. Callaghan wore to the show.
Of course, what's most likely at play here is that Mr. Callaghan is an attention whore who wants to get a little attention for himself by playing dumb and shoving a finger in his dimple while insisting, "Golly, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to take pictures." Either that, or he's arrogant enough to believe that the rules just don't apply to him. After all, he's Mike Callaghan: Lawyer, former leader of the Democratic party, and former Congressional candidate.
Of course, as is par for the course in West Virginia, there just had to be a jackass who derailed the show for a few minutes. Here, read this, and then I'll tell you the rest of the story...
Connick Fan Sheepish After Crooner Confiscates Phone
I read this article, and I thought, Really, dude? Are you really that arrogant, or are you just that stupid? I mean, the guy acts like he had no idea that we weren't supposed to take photographs at this show, but it was announced very loudly over the sound system right before the show started that no photography, video recording, or audio recording of any kind was allowed during the performance. Actually, I'm told that announcement was made several times before the show started. I only heard the announcement made once because the ushers got lost taking us to our seats, and we sat down mere moments before the show began; but a friend of mine who sat down earlier said the announcement was made several times. I know that Mr. Callaghan had to have heard at least that last announcement because he and his girlfriend were already seated in their front row (center) seats when he finally found our way to the box (overlooking their seats).
Now, I will grant Mr. Callaghan that when the show first started, I did see several people snapping pictures on their phones, and I even saw a few flashes. However, after Harry made such a big (although gracious) deal out of the woman "with the brightest flash I have ever seen on a camera" (in the words of Harry), everyone else put their cameras away. They all seemed to get that, while jocular about the whole thing, Harry was annoyed by all the picture-taking. I will also grant Mr. Callaghan that he didn't really start taking pictures with his iPhone until Lucien Barbarin came down to sit on the edge of the stage and sing directly to Mr. Callaghan's girlfriend. But after that little ditty was over, Mr. Callaghan should have put the camera away. He didn't.
And while Mr. Callaghan claims that he did not take 50 pictures or any video, insisting that he only took a half a dozen pictures, from my perch above Mr. Callaghan, I personally saw him take at least several dozen pictures. And when Harry stopped the show to ask, "Dude, are you videoing my performance on your iPhone now?" Mr. Callaghan seemed to acknowledge that, yes, he was recording the performance. Disgusted, yet still gracious, Harry explained, "You know, I like to think that my performances are special. I like to think that the fans who come here and buy a ticket to hear us perform are seeing a one-time performance. I don't want to think that just anybody in the world will be able to see it on YouTube later." See, this wasn't about Harry Connick, Jr., being a prick. This was about Mike Callaghan being a prick.
Don't you think I wanted to take pictures of Harry? Don't you think I wanted to make a voice note on my iPhone of Harry's lovely voice? Don't you think I wanted to jump from my box seat on top of Harry and molest him? Wait...I think I got a little off track there for a second. The point is, everyone in that theater would have loved to take a little piece of Harry home with us that night. But the vast majority of us restrained ourselves and respected the request of Harry, his orchestra, and the Clay Center. To think that Mr. Callaghan -- a lawyer, former head of the Democratic party in West Virginia, and former Congressional candidate -- would play dumb and act like he didn't know he had done wrong is just insulting, almost as insulting as that stupid Crocodile Dundee hat Mr. Callaghan wore to the show.
Of course, what's most likely at play here is that Mr. Callaghan is an attention whore who wants to get a little attention for himself by playing dumb and shoving a finger in his dimple while insisting, "Golly, I didn't know I wasn't supposed to take pictures." Either that, or he's arrogant enough to believe that the rules just don't apply to him. After all, he's Mike Callaghan: Lawyer, former leader of the Democratic party, and former Congressional candidate.
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