Category Archives: engagement

My honeymoon was… fine.

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After six months of planning and one epic and well-deserved tantrum aimed Jake’s way, we had a beautiful wedding. What I had assumed would be a day of stress, which I could barely remember, was wonderful. I cherish every moment and if I could live the day before and the day of my wedding over and over again, I would. If you follow my blog at all, you know that I am not a romantic and it was just that perfect. So naturally, to restore balance in the universe, my honeymoon had to be kind of… meh.

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I’ve put off writing this post, because I keep coming back to the same question: what kind of entitled white girl calls a 10 day Alaskan cruise “meh?” I mean, travel is the ultimate goal for millenials. Facebook has told me 15 times this week that I should abandon all my responsibilities and see the world. Why save for retirement, when I might die in a car crash next year? I should spend that money now and see Uzbekistan. What do you mean “Why Uzbekistian?” Why not Uzbekistan?!?!?!

I’ll tell you why not Uzbekistan. Uzbekistan doesn’t have my cat or my little-old-man beagle. I can’t get good service to call my Gramma or download library books from Uzbekistan. If I’m in Uzbekistan, I can’t make an impromptu girls night or swing by the local dairy store for a cup of my favorite frozen yogurt. My own bed is not in Uzbekistan and neither is my favorite Superman mug or my polka dot blanket. I can’t get my favorite donuts in Uzbekistan. You know where I also can’t do these things? Alaska.

For modern newlyweds, the honeymoon is meant as a chance to recharge and reconnect after the stressful wedding planning months. Jake and I were supposed to go on a 10 day Alaskan adventure and have the time of our lives before settling into a routine in our new hometown. I forgot one thing, though.

I am a hometown girl, who thrives off routine.

If it weren’t for this simple, yet undeniable fact, I’m pretty sure I could’ve overlooked the less than perfect details of the aforementioned adventure… like the fact that the only vessel worse than The Grand Princess was used as the setting of the movie Ghost Ship. 

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Regardless of my lack of adventure lust, there is no scenario in which I wouldn’t have been frustrated that for eight thousand dollars, I had booked a balcony suite on a 20-year-old ship… literally. The Grand Princess was built in 1998 and only a poster of The Backstreet Boys in our room could’ve made that more apparent. We had a dorm refrigerator, empty save for two bottles of water, that management insisted on calling a “mini fridge” when they charged us $15 for drinking said water, despite having an all-inclusive drink pass. There were only two outlets in the room built before personal devices had become the norm and only one of them worked. The decor, right down to the brand emblem on our television, had faded with time.

838-02482326er Jake and I on our honeymoon.

Princess Cruise Lines took full advantage of the fact that, at least on this cruise, their average passenger age was wheelchair bound by refusing to update their ship, amenities, or entertainment in any way, since I was in the fourth grade. If I were a little more Amelia Earhart and a little less Miss Havisham, perhaps I wouldn’t have cared. I’d simply have lived for the days at port, but for me, one of the things I’d most looked forward to, was enjoying the coziness of the ship, with my husband by my side. It’s the entire reason I chose to book the longer cruise. The cozy part of my honeymoon wasn’t cozy, though… and after six months of wedding planning and moving and new jobs, I really needed cozy. As much as I loved my time with Jake, I couldn’t get over the disappointment that, while I’d planned my wedding day perfectly to the last detail, my honeymoon preparations had left so much to be desired. I hadn’t properly researched the cruise line or put enough thought into how I’d feel spending ten days away from the comforts of home and neither ended up being all that great.

When we were at port, Jake and I did have a wonderful time. We went on a rain forest walk and enjoyed a crab feast in Ketchikan, took an impromptu brewery tour and visited the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau, went ziplining for the first time in Skagway, and shopped and saw the sights in Victoria, Canada. The souvenirs we bought were minimal and I took approximately 30,000 pictures, because I did have some wonderful experiences with my new husband. At the end of each one, however, I dreaded boarding what must secretly be the original Titanic, with their terrible, disrespectful management, nonexistent entertainment, blatant overcrowding, and severe lack of kitten and beagle snuggles, quality donuts, and the smell of home.

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I didn’t have a miserable time on my honeymoon. I don’t know if I could have a miserable time with Jake. We had our adventures and saw some amazing sights. Whereas Jake had never been on a cruise, though, I have and I couldn’t ignore the fact that we had been ripped off and it was all my fault. The six days on the ship had been just as important to me as the four days at port and they were… well, pretty crappy and left me longing for home. The one time we tried to watch a Movie Under the Stars, we couldn’t hear Avengers: Age of Ultron, over the sound of a construction crew, who I can only assume was frantically trying to keep us from sinking to the bottom of the North Pacific. The only other entertainment options were the casino and a series of sales pitches about the amazing deals on precious jewels just recently discovered in the Alaskan mountains. We spent more time watching movies I’d downloaded on my Kindle Fire than enjoying the “all inclusive entertainment” and it wasn’t half as comfortable as doing it on my own couch.

I’ll just go ahead and confess something that no millennial is ever allowed to admit: I don’t particularly enjoy travel. I’m too much of a homebody and it’s too much of a chore. I don’t like leaving my pets and my king sized bed and my WiFi and my books. I don’t appreciate any part of air travel, especially getting motion sick, with barely enough room to lay my head in Jake’s lap while he brushes my hair aside as I deep breathe. I hate the fear of forgetting to pack something important, only to realize later that I brought far more than I could have ever needed… but I should’ve included my hair dryer. I work in a library, so I worry about bed bugs always. I don’t like spending large quantities of money in just a few days time. I don’t want to stress about whether or not all of my belongings will get home. I really, really, hate Princess Cruise Lines.

Our honeymoon definitely wasn’t horrible. A couple of times, it was even wonderful. Overall, though, I didn’t really get the recharge I needed and I was just so frustrated with myself for spending so much of our money on something that turned out… just okay. We’ll have better vacations and I’m sure we’ll have worse ones, because if travel doesn’t really appeal to me now, I can only dread attempting it with children. We had a dream wedding and that will just have to make up for the fact that our honeymoon was… fine.

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Wedding Advice From a Reluctant Bride

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If you’ve been keeping up with my blog, you know how ready I was to be a wife and how reluctant I was to be a bride. If I’d had my way, Jake and I would’ve married in the chapel of my church, with only immediate family and friends by our sides, and might have had lunch at a local restaurant afterwards. However, I apparently married Princess Kate, because Jake was adamant that we were going to have a real wedding, with all of his friends and family.

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This, but with a cowboy hat.

Because I love Jake and wanted to make him happy, I agreed to his shenanigans. In hindsight, I’m glad I did (barely), because we had a beautiful and fun-filled wedding. I can look back and remember my real marriage began with a real wedding. Despite all the stress that lead up to it, I do have good memories from my wedding day and I, primarily, attribute them to a few key decisions, which I’ve compiled into far more practical wedding planning advice than anything I ever read.

Keep the Engagement Short and Prepare for a Headache
I was convinced that planning my wedding was going to suck from the start. Jake insisted it wouldn’t be so bad, as did many family members, and several articles I read… and they were all wrong. We got engaged just before Thanksgiving and I didn’t have a moment of peace until a week after the wedding. Granted, I switched jobs and moved and dealt with Jake’s unemployment during this time, but still… it was exhausting from start to finish and only barely worth the effort and I’m glad I wasn’t blindsided by that.

Buy Your Dress on Etsy and Save Big
My dress cost $450 with rush delivery, tailor-made to my measurements, in one week. You will wear it one time. As long as it looks good in the photos, no one cares… because all those dresses look the damned same. Try some on in stores to get a feel for what you want and order online.

Get the Rights to Your Photos
The photographer is probably the only service that mattered to me. If the food was mediocre and the DJ was annoying, whatever, but those pictures are going to sit on my children’s children’s mantle one day… as holograms. That’s only possible if I own the rights, though. Prints get lost. They age. They become damaged in floods and fires. Photographers go out of business and die and even if they don’t, they probably don’t have your wedding photos 15 years later. The rights to my photos were included in my package and I would’ve kept looking if they hadn’t been.

Skip the Videography, Flowers, Live Band, Open Bar, etc.
Only spend money on the important things. No one notices flowers or centerpieces or draperies over your chairs. If they want liquor, they’ll buy it and no one, no one, no one, wants your fucking beer cozy that says Heather and Tim Forever in True Love. Splurge on food, photography, your cake, whatever actually matters to you, even if it is the dress, but not everything, just because everyone says you should. We didn’t even have a videographer or flowers. Our bar was a cash bar and the free food was our favor. I couldn’t be happier about those decisions, because it saved us a lot of money on things we didn’t miss. I remember the awesome food, the beautiful cake my aunt made, how great our DJ was, and how much fun we had. I don’t remember wishing I’d had custom coasters made for everyone.

Don’t Throw a Bouquet
If you’re not 22 years old, your single friends don’t want to dive for your damned bouquet. They’re either single by choice or default and they don’t want to be publicly shamed for it. Furthermore, that bouquet cost a mint. Why would you want to give it away? I bought wooden bouquets on Etsy for my bridesmaids and myself and spent less than the average cost of one bridal arrangement on all four.

Spoil Your Bridesmaids and Groomsmen
One of the biggest troubles I have with the wedding industry, is the understanding that these people are your bitches for the day, or even the months leading up to the day, and you can be an asshole to them and make them pay for everything. I let my bridesmaids choose their dresses, with the condition that it was short, they all agreed on the same one, and they each wore the color I asked (pink for Gail, blue for Catherine, purple for Laura, all to match the flowers in my boots). They found one online, for $50 and ordered it sight unseen.

Other than that, they chose to buy matching jewelry and their optional manicures, but I bought their boots and made their boot bracelets and the t-shirts I expected them to wear the day of the wedding. I bought them brunch and gave them each a monogrammed silver compact as a thank you for being by my side, in addition to the wooden bouquets they each held. I let them do their own hair, instead of insisting they pay someone. Jake’s groomsmen got a fishing trip and engraved shot glasses and we paid for their shirts and vests and ties. These people are supporting you on your day. They least you could do is treat them.

Live in the Moment
You’re not going to care about centerpieces nearly as much as you’re going to care about the fact that you barely remember your first dance, because you were fretting over the centerpieces. Be present. Look him in the eyes. Thank God. Have fun with your new husband and your friends and family, because the time for worrying about the tablecloths has passed. You only get this once… hopefully.

Buy To-Go Boxes
Y’all this is the best piece of advice I found from all those stupid wedding planning articles Facebook has been advertising to me since my relationship status clicked over to “engaged.” After the cake had been cut and served, we put out to-go boxes for our guests with a cute chalkboard sign the venue staff penned. We left with less than a dozen cupcakes and the top of our cake and that was it. We have like two months of meat in our freezer, so really, it would’ve even been wise to put some boxes near the taco bar, but I’m thrilled we didn’t waste any cake.

Don’t Drink Too Much and Don’t Plan on Having Sex
If I could change one thing about my wedding, I’d have drank a little less, toward the end of the night. I wasn’t hungover the next day or anything, but the last of the evening is something of a blur and I’d like to remember my wedding night more clearly. I’d like Jake to remember it at all. Regardless, we would’ve been way too tired to have sex and my expectations of having anything other than a tipsy moment of helping each other undress, were unrealistic.

Write the Damned Thank You Notes Immediately
I had every one of my Thank You notes mailed within a week of our wedding. Yes, yes, I teared up at one point because the wedding stuff was never going to end, but it was so good to have it behind me and it was so much easier to write them with their giver fresh in my mind. I didn’t forget who attended the wedding and who sent one in the mail. The stores still had record of who sent what. For this reason, each note was written with care and personality and I didn’t embarrass my mother-in-law.

Delay Your Honeymoon
Jake and I leave for our Alaskan cruise honeymoon on Sunday and I am so glad we chose the 28th, instead of the 8th, which was two days after our wedding. The gifts have been opened, their trash disposed of, and the kitchen rearranged for their storage. I’ve already received my photos and my dress has been preserved. We’ve settled into our routine and had time to relax and actually get excited for our trip. Had we left on the 8th, we’d have tried so hard to enjoy ourselves, but we’d have been completely drained.

So that’s it. That’s my advice, beyond “this too shall pass.”

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Kicking Off Commitment with Possible Infidelity

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I cannot wait to be Jake’s wife, to officially be Belle Granger, to be tied spiritually and legally to my best friend. Truly, I am so excited about our pending marriage.

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That’s my disclaimer, because I’m about to bitch about the traditions surrounding the wedding industry, some more. Previously, I’ve discussed my resentment of the materialism and expense of $1,500 dresses and $3,000 bar service. I’ve vented about everyone’s absolute obsession with little bitty things that do not matter.

Step-mother: “I know you said people don’t notice centerpieces, but they do.”
Me: “Okay. I’ll rephrase. I don’t care if people notice centerpieces. If they’re at my wedding, eating free food, having a good time, and judging my centerpieces, they can leave.”

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I’ve even ranted about the chauvinistic traditions surrounding weddings, despite the insanely high tolerance for sexism that is required of a small town librarian. Many of these things, I’ve flat out refused to take part in, ordering my dress off Etsy and insisting on a cash bar. It’s not just for my sake, either. There will be no bouquet toss, because at 29 years old, the single friends I do have are recently divorced and don’t want to talk about it, let alone be publicly shamed as they dive for a bouquet like the last chicken leg at the Fourth of July picnic. There will be no garter toss, either, because in addition to Jake’s friends also being married or divorced, it doesn’t seem especially respectful of my new marriage to have my husband pull any kind of undergarment from beneath my dress in a room full of our friends and family and throw it to the crowd. Call me a prude, if you must. You know what else I’m too much of a prude to appreciate, though? Bachelor and bachelorette parties.

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If Facebook and pop culture are anything to go by, this past weekend was to be spent like this:

We would start the evening at my place, eating a penis cake, while I wore a penis crown, in a room full of penis balloons. Next, I’d open multiple vibrators that I’d hope I wouldn’t really need and flavored lubes that I’d know I’d never use. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I feel like a penis that tastes like chocolate goo would be far more unpleasant than one that tastes like clean skin. My twelve closest friends and I would get drunk on drinks named for something slutty, i.e. Slippery Nipple or Sex on the Beach, while I opened trashy underwear bought by said friends, even though they couldn’t possibly know my size. This would all be so uproariously funny that it would be no surprise when the police showed in response to the noise complaint… but wait! They’re not really police!

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You mean, I get to look at a naked man, who’s not my future husband, one last time… even though I’ve only kissed two people?!?!? WHAT FUN!!!!!! We wouldn’t have to stay in for the whole night, though. We could dress up in sleazy makeup, skimpy clothes, and the highest of heels, then grab an Uber for a night on the town!

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We’d start the evening off at a low key place, to pre-drink and grab some food. The food wouldn’t actually happen, of course, because we’re hot chicks on wedding diets. Next, we’d go to a livelier bar and I wouldn’t pay for a single drink of my own. The “Bachelorette” sash would take care of that for me, as I signaled to the single men around me that they should treat me to free liquor one last time, before this gal was officially another man’s property! Next thing I’d know, I’d wake up in my own bed, sick as a dog, unable to remember my giggling bridesmaids paying the Uber driver fifty bucks to carry me inside, as I flashed my sparkly thong to the neighbors and vomited down his back. It’d just be a funny story we recounted for years to come.

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Naturally, though, my evening would pale in comparison to my future husband’s. While I was drinking for free, compliments of men who wanted to see if they could bang the future bride one last time, Jake would be heading out onto the Vegas strip. As I ground my scantily clad ass into the groins of strangers, Jake would be making motorboat noises onto the breasts of strippers, because in true bachelor/bachelorette party fashion, while the Future Mrs. pushes the envelope, the Future Mr. does a line of coke with it. He’d wake up the next morning, with glitter in his beard, not because of an ill-fated Hobby Lobby trip with his Bride-to-be, but because those gals keep glitter in every crevice.

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While I mock the stereotypical bachelorette penis theme for it’s tackiness, I can’t truly hold that one against anyone. I may not have seen a lot of penises, myself, but I certainly know the shape by now and just don’t consider it giggle-worthy. Still, it’s a relatively harmless cliché. What I can’t reconcile is the societal norm that instead of celebrating the commitment we’ve already made through engagement and are about to cement through marriage, Jake and I are supposed to take advantage of our last few nights single… except we’re not single.

I’ve already outlined Jake and my reasons for forgoing pornography, but if we’re in agreement that viewing naked shenanigans on a screen is harmful to our relationship, why would we ever be okay with doing it face-to-face, or face-to-breast and ass-to-crotch as it may be?!?! If I would never dance with a strange man or accept a drink from a strange man before or after my bachelorette party, why do these boundaries cease to exist during? If I’m ready to marry Jake, why would I even want another man’s hands on my hips or face in my neck?!?!?

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At least the bride’s stereotype just pushes the boundaries of commitment. The groom straight up fucking cheats on his future wife… probably. He can’t remember. Jake actually has a friend who’s wedding was nearly canceled the day of, after the bride found out he’d gotten a blow job from a stripper at the bachelor party. Sure, he’s a disgusting human being, who doesn’t respect the sanctity of marriage, but he’s also just fulfilling the male stereotype here. We, as a society, have assigned and humored the role and we should take a little responsibility for how truly fucked up that is.

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I’m proud to say, that despite all of the societal pressure to share our vows and a brand new venereal disease, Jake and I chose to embrace the humdrum married life ahead of the game last weekend. Jake rented a cabin with his oldest buddies, played XBOX One and beer pong, and caught an ancient giant snapping turtle on his fishing trip. Judging by the enthusiasm and photo collection involved, telling that last tale will give him a much better (and far more appropriate) Christmas dinner anecdote than any ol’ stripper blowie would have.

As for me, having no desire to pretend I was 23, I skipped the bachelorette sash and penis crown, in favor of sushi, lingerie shopping, karaoke, and two a.m. fries with Gail, Catherine, and Laura. I didn’t drink enough to need a ride home and woke up hangover free in my own bed the next morning, content in the knowledge that I’d never have to decide between the humiliation of canceling my own wedding and marrying a man who doesn’t respect me.

I gotta say, though, while the aforementioned wedding went on, likely due to the cost, in the same situation, I don’t feel like my primary focus would be saving face or money. Nope. If Jake got a blowie from a stripper and I found out on our wedding day, zetus lapetus, I would make one helluva scene. Where there exists a cheating groom trope, there exists a batshit crazy bride trope and if I found out he was the former, I would have no trouble fulfilling the latter.

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HOW AM I STILL PLANNING THIS WEDDING?!?!

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Y’all, I got engaged in November… of what must have been 1980, because I have been doing wedding crap for approximately 37 years. HOW HAS THIS WEDDING NOT HAPPENED YET?

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Jake and I have had at least 167 spats over him being Princess Kate in both that everything has to be perfect and that it’s someone else’s problem. I’m telling you, that man almost got blood all over our wedding invitations when he told me he hadn’t collected all of his addresses as I began to address his half. This is why I hate weddings. Jake and I rarely argue, but suddenly we can’t get through a single day without some inane squabble over the difference between ivory and white. It’s not just me, either. His mother was pissed that he hadn’t chosen his cousin to be a groomsmen. His sister was pissed that he didn’t have a special job for his nieces. I was pissed that he was digging in his heels over stupid little things like this, when he doesn’t even care.

Me: “You’ve got to learn to choose your battles.”
Jake: “I know. I’m sorry.”
Me: “You do know the answer can’t be ‘all of them,’ right?”

It’s not just time and arguments, though. It’s money. I cut out videography and flowers and centerpieces. I bought wooden bouquets for myself and my bridesmaids on Etsy, to save a few hundred dollars. My invitations came from Mixbook, with a coupon code, and the R.S.V.P’s were printed on cardstock at work. I bought my wedding dress on Etsy and hoped for the best, because every other one I saw looked the exact damned same and cost three times as much. Still, every time I turn around, I have to spend another hundred dollars or so on sparklers, to-go boxes for the cake, a serving set, and a steamer for my dress. The large accounts got settled just it time for all the little odds and ends to start piling up. Sure, the honeymoon’s paid for now, but we’re going on an Alaskan cruise, which means I need a bathing suit and more jeans. You see, only the one pair fits these days, because I haven’t eaten since November.

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Until recently, Jake had been pretty unhappy with his weight, as well. Living out of his truck, between the Granger Ranch, his place in Wellston, and my place in Shetland wasn’t conducive to a healthy diet and exercise regimen. When he’d complain, beer in hand, I’d try to gently suggest that the alcohol might be a contributor, but was assured that this couldn’t be the case. So, after we moved, he vowed to start working out, as did I, since I’d bought an elliptical, just before we moved. While I spend most of my free time on the elliptical, however, Jake has yet to take up P90X as planned, because what better time to play World of Warcraft than when I’m busy working out?  Additionally, even though I never get to eat peanut butter anymore, somehow, whole jars still disappear. Yet…

Jake: “I’ve lost about 13 pounds, since we moved. The scale says I weigh 212.”
Me: “Cool! ME TOO.”

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I jest, of course. I weigh 167. I’ve also lost 13 pounds… since November, not since we moved a month ago. With three weeks until the wedding, though, I’m seven pounds from my goal weight. Whereas Jake could drop that with a walk around the neighborhood, I’m about to just amputate mid-calf and call it good.

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It’s not just the wedding hype that’s motivating me. I turn thirty this year and while I will have accomplished every other thing I want to accomplish by September, I am adamant that I’ll reach my goal weight. An expensive dress accompanied with photos that will be displayed forever is just encouragement… unlike the Easter candy I stocked up on, to eat after the wedding, because I refuse to miss the best candy holiday for a party. That’s what all this is, after all: an elaborate party, that I’ll only remember as a haze of stress, dollar signs, and ridiculous arguments, because Dante forgot to mention the circle of hell that is even minimalist wedding planning.

Years ago, I often joked that I didn’t want a husband. I just wanted a Kitchenaid mixer and I figured that was the only to go about getting one. Today, I’d be willing to buy my own Kitchenaid mixer if it meant Jake could just be my husband. Only 19 days to go, y’all, which is approximately seven more years in wedding planning time. I suppose I’ll do it for Jake to have his big day. After all, he’s already paid for mine, in full: the day when our Alaskan cruise ship sets sail and I can finally enjoy being with my husband.

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Shetland in My Rearview Mirror

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At 10 years old, I was chubby, asthmatic, and uncoordinated, longing to rank amongst my sportier classmates, who played competitive soccer and already had “boyfriends.”

At 13, I was still chubby, asthmatic, and uncoordinated, but also surly and defensive around those “stupid whores” who now bullied or ignored me.

At 16, I was every small town, cliche, misfit, declaring this town was too closed-minded for my creativity and biding my time until I could leave the judgemental assholes behind.

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I used to joke that there was no sight as beautiful as that of the Shetland water tower in my rearview mirror, insisting that once I left, I’d never return. I did leave at 19, to go to college about 45 minutes away. It wasn’t far, but it wasn’t my bizarrely religious and intolerant southern suburban hometown, either. Sadly, however, my college years involved several more moves, a house fire, a miscarriage, and a divorce, as opposed to the more traditional toga parties and slam poetry readings everyone else enjoyed.

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Wait, wait, wait… did Saved By the Bell lie to me?!?!?

Luckily for me, as Robert Frost once said, “home is the place, where when you have to go there, they have to take you in,” because at 23-years-old, newly divorced and a little broken, I returned to Shetland to lick my wounds. Waiting for me was a flexible job substitute teaching and a two bedroom, two bathroom apartment that rented for just $490 a month, with an ironically comforting view of the Shetland water tower from my patio.

After the first year, the fear began to subside when someone knocked on the front door, because I knew the rent was being paid and there was no risk of eviction. After the second year, I realized one morning that I hadn’t slept with my purse right beside me, because there was no risk of anyone stealing from my wallet. After the third year, I was able to put away my .357, in its pink gun sock, because I knew he wouldn’t break in and steal from me again. Surprise of all surprises, when I wasn’t looking, the town I once despised had become a healing place.

Indeed, for six years, my little apartment has been not only my home, but my safe haven. I’ve pulled all-nighters with the patio door open, enjoying the breeze and the cigarette smoke from the neighbors as I worked on my graduate portfolio. I’ve littered the floor with fabric swatches and straight pins in my latest craft project, while marathoning One Tree Hill. I’ve lain by the pool and read romance novels and listened to 50s music. I’ve packed more people than was probably wise onto my patio, to smoke cigars and drink cheap booze. I’ve dramatically cried after bad grades and bad dates and bad days at work.

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In a lot of ways, Shetland now embodies my carefree twenties, more so than my tumultuous teen years. The horse-themed landmarks that once brought forth memories of bullying and boycotted football games now recall nights at the community center playing pickleball with my friends after closing, getting day drunk in my living room floor and giggling over online dating profiles with Gail, decorating my hot pink Christmas tree, sharing my first kiss and makeout sessions with Jake. It’s been a wonderful time in my life and it’s bittersweet to see it end.

Saturday, I bought packing tape and boxes. I threw out my college kid papasan chair. I took down my wall of photos of just my family and friends and consolidated them to one collage frame. In less than eleven weeks time, my life will no longer be just my own and so in just two weeks, Jake and I will move into our first house together. The town of Cherokee is just fifteen minutes from the Jackson library, but forty minutes from Shetland… forty minutes from Gail… forty minutes from my Gramma… forty minutes from home.

I know it’s for the best that Jake and I start on neutral territory, that we have more space than my apartment allows, that my dog finally has a yard, but it’s so hard to pack this stage of life into boxes, knowing I’ll unpack them in another. I’ve hardly begun and I’m having trouble not tearing up looking at my bare walls. Ridiculously, I already get weepy driving through town, knowing that one day I’ll be surprised to see new restaurants and office buildings, that the Shetland I know today will cease to exist.

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I’ve worked so hard over the last six years to carve out the life I wanted, to figure out what that life even was, who I even was. I’m overjoyed that that’s where I’m headed. I’m also beyond grateful, that I cherished my time here in Shetland and the bulk of my twenties. I didn’t spend my days pining for a husband and children and mortgage. I enjoyed my days alone and my nights with friends and even my bad dates with strangers, because each phase of life should be savored, one is no more valuable than another. At one time, I identified so clearly with Steinbeck’s quote that “it’s a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.” But… I loved this one and it’s kind of breaking my heart that it’s just time to put the Shetland water tower in my rearview mirror.

 

 

Seeing Each Other at Our Worst Through Unemployment

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At 19 years old, I married the only boy who’d shown any interest in me, because facing adulthood alone sounded scary and he was there. That’s really the simplest, least dramatic explanation. Of course, since I neither grew up in the 1950s or a Nicholas Sparks novel, at 23 years old and three days after Valentine’s Day, I sat in an office alone, holding back tears, as a judge signed my divorce papers. There were a lot of reasons for said divorce, but the most… well, not notable, but quotable in polite company, was that the man I married refused to work or contribute in any way. In fact, toward the end, I was sleeping with my wallet and keys in my pillow case and driving around with all of my valuables in the car. Ah, young love.

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On an average day, I have few, if any, significant thoughts or feelings about my previous marriage. It, in itself, could barely even be titled as such, equating to many other toxic long term early twenties relationships. It is what it is, though, and if it weren’t, I wouldn’t be here. The last few months, however… really haven’t been made up of average days.

One year ago, Jake and I saw each other twice a month and the future of oil was bleak. That’s when he made a promise to me that if things hadn’t picked up by September, he’d get out. All through August, Jake worked the manual labor side of oil, two weeks on and one week off, 12 hours a day, with an hour commute each way. Though he was staying with me, we were lucky to get a half hour together at the end of the night, before Jake would succumb to exhaustion… and unlike other exhausting oil jobs, this one didn’t even pay well. Since this allowed no time to apply for new positions, let alone interview, Jake kept his promise. Starting in September, he was officially unemployed; and although he was applying for positions in the Metro, they tended to be ideal scenarios, as opposed to ones that would provide immediate income.

You see, Jake comes from rodeo people. That’s not a joke or an exaggeration. His dad ran away at 15, to become a bull rider, where he met his mother, a trick rider (you’ll have to Google that, I’d imagine), and together they built a cattle ranch and traveled the country, with their three children in tow, like the Partridge Family, if Shirley Jones fried more stuff. His brother is a bronc rider, his sister a retired trick rider, his brother-in-law a retired bull rider, and his uncle runs a wildly successful rodeo company. Every one of them run their own cattle. Even his nieces are third generation trick riders. Meanwhile, I’m trying my best to help Jake see that any spawn of mine is unlikely to possess such coordination. It seems athletic country folk tend to marry other athletic country folk, and well… a few weeks ago, I fell over putting on Uggs.

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The thing about country folk, and I mean genuine country folk, not the “country folk” in my family, who board their horses because they live in subdevelopments thirty minutes from Downtown, is that they’re often not beholden to a Monday through Friday, 9-5 schedule. For Jake’s family, in fact, this is a pretty foreign concept. I mean, sure they know that city people lead more regimented lives, but it’s in the same way I know that there are people who live off the grid in travel trailers: because I saw it on TV one time. The Grangers do not define “steady work” in the same way the librarian daughter of a nurse and lineman does… and to an extent, neither does Jake. That’s why, when Jake wasn’t immediately able to find work, he wasn’t especially worried. He had plenty in checking from his last paycheck and plenty more in savings, that he knew he wouldn’t have to touch for months. In the meantime, he could just work cattle on the Granger Ranch, for $100 a day tax free. That’s a financial plan, y’all. I couldn’t argue with that, particularly considering I begged him to quit is job in the first place.

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The trouble is, as much as I’d love to claim otherwise, I can never truly break free of 22-year-old Belle, evading those pesky questions about her partner’s employment and working two jobs, herself… not in my own mind and not in the minds of some of those who witnessed that struggle. So, while Jake’s family and friends considered working the family ranch to be legitimate employment; I knew that, at the very least, the man who opened the door to his daughter to hear “ImgettingadivorceI’msorryIruinedChristmas” was struggling with it… and so was I.

Jake is not my ex-husband. He’s nothing like him, nor is he responsible for any of the damage done. It’s not his problem. That’s what I told myself all through the holidays, as I defended his work ethic and decisions to people who, quite frankly, probably weren’t even worried. I’m no longer an idiot teenager making promises I can’t fathom, because I’m out of ideas. They know that. I know that… but that knowledge didn’t change the turmoil and stress I felt and tried desperately to hide.

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I tried to explain to Jake, that his unemployment was wearing on me. I did. I was also careful not to really draw any obvious parallels to my previous situation… so it sort of canceled itself out. “I really need you to get a job… but I know you’re working hard and I trust you.” I was too rational and it wasn’t the clearest expression of where I stood on the issue.

I couldn’t figure out how to tell Jake what our situation was doing to me, without nagging him or sounding manipulative… or just revealing things about myself and state of mind that I wasn’t comfortable acknowledging. What kind of woman begs her guy to quit his job and then complains that he’s unemployed, when he spends all week doing physical labor on his family’s ranch for pay?!?! A batshit crazy one… one who’s a little bit broken… one who can’t quite let go of the past… and I did my best to hide that part of myself. Jake was under his own stress from working for his family and it was starting to show, as well. We started bickering more and more, as I tried to keep a hold on my feelings and he tried to juggle his familial obligations with the new ones he had to his fiancé… sometimes poorly.

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I spent New Year’s Day furious with Jake for getting drunk and embarrassing me in front of his friends, people I barely knew, the previous night. It’s one thing to hear his crazy college stories, but a completely different one to live through them at 29, as a witness to his complete regression. He was not responsible for how I felt about his technical unemployment. He wasn’t responsible for the flashbacks to my previous marriage. He wasn’t responsible for the nightmares, but he was damn sure responsible for not being a drunken asshole and I told him as much. I’d planned to just save my breakdowns for when he was at his parents’ house and only share just how much his unemployment was getting to me, when he’d found local work, but there was always a new need for him on the ranch. It was always urgent and if he turned his parents down, they’d tell him he was selfish and lazy, even though they made no moves to hire anyone for the long term, knowing Jake was looking for work here. He was becoming more inconsiderate and I was becoming shorter tempered. It was really starting to wear on us… and eventually, I just couldn’t abide by my cardinal rule that feelings are for the inside.

Me: “I know it’s not your fault, but I spent years thinking things would be different in six months, in a year, in five years, and I can’t do it anymore! You’re working and you’re making money and I know it’s not the same and I’m sorry I’m so fucked up, but I didn’t sleep for days after the nightmare where you turned into my ex-husband during sex! You have to get a real job.”

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Jake: “All I wanna do is help my parents and my brother. I want to get a job up here, stop living out of my truck, and find us a house. I’m just trying to help people and everyone I love is pissed off at me.”
Me: “I know you want to be there for them and I’ve supported that for four months, but you asked me to marry you and I can’t do that if you don’t have a job. I don’t mean that as a threat. I love you so much, but this is too hard for me. It’s been too hard for me.”

Ultimately, we compromised. Jake would spend the next week on the ranch, one week looking for work here, and one more week on the ranch, when he’d tell his dad that he couldn’t rely on him for daily help. By the end of that first week, he had a start date for spraying lawns. It’s not his dream job, but it’s income. It’s local. We survived seeing each other at our worst and Jake’s officially moved in with me. He can stop drinking like when he was 22 and I can stop having deeply disturbing sex dreams about my ex-husband, like when I was 22.

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The Apathetic Bride

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As a child, I was not especially girly. This might come as a shock to my frequent readers, considering Jake and I just recently had an argument as to whether or not glitter can be my second favorite color. Spoiler alert: he’s wrong.

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Perhaps I’m simply overcompensating in adulthood, because when I was little, I was bound and determined to be a tomboy. I “hated” baby dolls, Barbies, dresses, and the color pink, because naturally you couldn’t like Disney princesses and climbing trees. Regardless, I loved my Water Baby, because it didn’t feel like a doll, but a real baby and I wanted my play to be as realistic as possible… which is precisely why I stuck my baby in the microwave to heat up the water, after my mother refused to refill it. While my mothering instincts might have left something to be desired, it wasn’t for lack of interest. Just like most other little girls, I felt that biological drive and genuine desire to be a mom.

I suppose my first romantic fantasy had the same lead as that of every other 90s girl: Jack Dawson. Of course, it took me a bit longer to realize that Cal Hockley was the real hero of Titanic, but all the same… at age 10, I began to dream, innocently (put your dress back on, Rose, you just met this man), of falling in love. Despite this, it would be another six years before I even considered my own wedding, and as an assignment in a marriage and family class, at that. Now, before you go mocking my undergraduate degree of family and consumer science education (or home-ec), I’d like to clarify that this was a budgeting and planning exercise. Weddings just happened to be on topic with the course, as we calculated the cost of catering and venues and attire. While I’m sure this was fun (and a little harmful) for the girls who grew up fantasizing about their dream weddings, for me, it was just… illogical.

Teacher: “You have to include boutonnieres for the men.”
Me: “Why? You can have a wedding without those.”

Even when I planned my first wedding, I just couldn’t muster up the energy to care about this entirely unnecessary party. In hindsight, I’ve considered the possibility that this was simply because I was getting married for all the wrong reasons, and there may be some merit to that. On the day of my wedding, I remember trying to picture my life five years later and thinking that I couldn’t see myself married then… that maybe this was the wrong path… that it was too late to do anything about it. Few believe me when I tell them this, since I didn’t actually say it at the time, so they insist that the only reason I don’t care about my pending party is because I’ve already had a wedding. Y’all, I swear on the Deathly Hallows that the next time someone implies that my second marriage counts less than the one I entered before I could legally drink, Imma cut a bitch.

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Weddings have just never been my thing. On our first date, I told Jake as much… and he was baffled as to why. In every other way, this man is a stereotypical country boy. He loves hunting, fishing, drinking, football, and taxidermy. He has such a thick southern accent, that he sounds like a racist cartoon character. The man’s a downright parody of himself… and he loves weddings, so much so, that he’s attended at least fifteen over the years and has been in half of them. Jake thinks it’s absolutely worth it to spend $9,000 on a party. I’m marrying Katherine Heigl from 27 Dresses and I’m… Sheldon Cooper.

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Hate is a really strong word for how I feel about weddings. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I don’t mind the idea of looking back on a big celebration to declare my lifelong commitment to Jake, in front of all of our friends and family. It certainly means a lot more at 29 than it did at 19, to me and to the audience. I’d do it just to make Jake happy. It’s just… I want to be a wife, not a bride. I don’t need or really even want all the fuss, especially when the tradition and industry surrounding weddings… kind of sucks.

Weddings and wedding planning are typically very sexist. It takes a lot to tickle my feminist bone, but I resent that I’m supposed to plan this shindig, just because I brought the vagina to the party. I want to go to the caterer, who Jake told me was shocked that I’d “let” him decide the menu without me there to hold his hand, and remind her that it’s 2017. I love Jake’s mom, but I think it’s completely unfair that she and everyone else think my father should pay for an elaborate party that his adult daughter doesn’t really even want. It’s not because it’s my second wedding, either. It’s because I bring in $50,000 a year and I don’t need my father to inventory his livestock so he can pay some man to take me off his hands, because women are such a burden. If we want a party, we can pay for a party.

To be clear, it’s not any one person being sexist. It’s the wedding industry. Societally, we talk sooooo big about female empowerment and some pretend sisterhood where I owe more to a random woman than a random man, because somehow equality (?), but the second a woman gets engaged, all of that goes out the window. I’m criticized for my own traditional relationship and gender role (my boss once joked that I was “gender conforming”), which effect only me, but now it’s not only okay for me to ask my dad to pay a literal dowry, but mandatory. No longer are the sparkle and the glitz and the bright colors grounds for mockery, but celebrated… by the jewelry and bridal stores, who want my money. If I say I want to maintain a certain body image for Jake, I’m doing a disservice to all womankind, but my wedding is in three months, so it’s just assumed I’m on a diet of laxatives and self-loathing, to look good for everyone else. The idea that I’m not allowed to be traditional and feminine (aside from the language), unless it’s wedding season, is utter bullshit… and a marketing ploy.

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Zetus lapetus, are weddings expensive. After my first and only wedding dress shopping trip, last summer, I’ve refused to go on another. I was thrilled when my bridesmaids chose their own dress online and ordered it sight unseen. As for my dress…. well, I’m getting married in three months and I don’t even know what I’m going to wear. I’m not really that concerned about it, either, because I’ve been shopping online and all the dresses look the same. It’s my first communion all over again. For realz, y’all, the only difference I can even see half the time is price. The same white, A-line, floor length, strapless dress, either runs for $800 or $2,300 and no one is going to remember it, either way. In fact, none of the stores even make anything as low key as the lacey, tea length, sleeved dress I had in mind. They’re so well stocked in taffeta and tulle, I’m never sure if I’m looking at bridal gowns or pageant dresses… and I’m not even going to pretend I’ve ever had that much grace and poise.

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I’m sure I’ll order the dress I’ve had my eye on from Etsy in two weeks, and if I don’t… so what? I can find something on Modcloth in the last month if I must. It’s a dress I’ll wear one time and it’s likely I’ll only vaguely remember doing so, because that’s the thing no one tells brides: they’ll be so stressed and wired the day of their wedding, that when it’s all said and done, it’ll be a fog of memory. They’ll have looked forward to the day their entire lives, shed tears of frustration over ridiculous arguments during the planning, spent thousands of dollars on flowers and centerpieces and videography and all those other things I refuse to purchase… and it’ll still be a haze. The only people who’ve ever truly enjoyed a wedding are guests, and so I maintain my apathetic stance: I don’t care and if it’s my day, why can’t I bring my pets?

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The Bluth-McDucks: Merging Our Finances and Debt

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I got drunk with Jake and ordered a Google Home last weekend.

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I’d been considering the purchase, having decided against the Amazon Echo, after Jake made me listen to some comparison reviews. He considered both products frivolous and excessive, but really didn’t want me to spend $50 more on the one with worse reviews. So, after a few drinks, I finally came to the conclusion that I had to have a Google Home. Fortunately for me, the purchase only went through once, because I do vaguely recall confirming the order three or four times. So, all in all, it was a well-researched decision, but still… I got drunk and ordered a Google Home last weekend.

As a 29-year-old Millennial, I’m constantly reading articles about people my age wailing over an inability to find a job utilizing their degree in feminist dance theory, refusing to show up on time or display any real work ethic when they do, and despairing over the injustice of having to pay back the money they knowingly borrowed to do so. I saw this immaturity firsthand when I was wading through the sea of Lost Boys that was online dating: grown men living with their parents and “still trying to figure it all out.” I even witnessed it in my year as a manager, when I had to explain the importance of not wearing pajamas to work to 25-year-olds.

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My OKCupid search results from 2011 to 2015

So, yeah, I’m familiar with the generalization that anyone born after 1985 is fundamentally irresponsible… and it still kind of pisses me off. Gail’s a mail carrier who graduated high school and entered the workforce, never borrowing a dime to find her place and discover a career she loves. I, myself, took the more stereotypical Millennial route: entered college at 18, borrowed six figures, and got a masters degree in a field everyone assumed would have no career path. Then, I got a great job making about 50k a year in one of the states with the cheapest cost of living in the country. I pay my private and federal student loans on time, am eligible for Public Service Loan Forgiveness in 2024, and carry a small balance on a credit card, which has helped to raise my credit score above 700. For every gum smacking 20-something ironically ignoring you for their phone behind the customer service desk at Wal-Mart, there’s another Millennial working their ass off to make their own way… and I’ve always been the latter.

I had two jobs all through grad school, worked up to 65 hours a week and still found time to write papers and complete my portfolio. When I wanted to splurge a little and buy something I didn’t really need, I never felt bad about doing so, even if I didn’t have the money right then. It would all come together somehow and I would be the one solely responsible for making that happen. No one else was effected by my financial decisions… until I got engaged to Jake; and while I may not consider myself to be bad with money, I’ll admit I’m pretty much Lucille Bluth next to Jake’s Scrooge McDuck.

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At 32 years old, Jake has zero debt and quite the nest egg. Though he’ll spend his money on the things and experiences that are important to him, he’ll neither touch his savings nor take out any credit to do so. He’s determined that we continue to live this way as a married couple and it’s not like I can really argue with that. Over the next year, we plan to live as frugally as possible, so we can buy a house sooner rather than later, but… I think we might have different ideas of what “as frugally as possible” looks like.

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As I mentioned in my last post, I’m finding some truth to the idea that when a couple marries in their late twenties/early thirties, the learning curve for existing with another human being can be a bit longer. We’ve already faced this with home décor tastes and communication styles.

Me: “I love you, but I do want to take premarital counseling, because if you don’t get better at communicating, I’m going to fucking cut you.“

In a few short months, though, Jake and I will have to blend our finances, which means adjusting to the idea of consulting one another on how we spend our hard earned money after making those decisions all by ourselves for our entire adult lives. When my Gramma asked me last fall, what Jake thought of my having taken out an Amazon payment plan to buy a Kindle Fire, I told her it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t his money. While Jake asked why I needed my Kindle Voyage and a Kindle Fire, making no effort to hide that he thought it was a superfluous purchase, he never told me not to buy it. Similarly, when I spent $80 on my Fitbit Alta, he thought it was silly and that I wouldn’t use it, but he also acknowledged that it wasn’t his business… nor was the final cost of redecorating the bedroom… and ultimately buying a Google Home after too much whiskey.

Likewise, when Jake insists on $3000 worth of catering and bar service for what I consider an overly lavish wedding, I keep my mouth shut. That’s his money, which he earned without me and he can spend it as he wishes. At present, we operate on a more or less unspoken agreement that as long neither of us is accruing more debt, the other doesn’t get a say… and on that note, on May 06, 2017, not only do my future financial decisions effect Jake, so do my past ones. While I’ve been careful not to charge up my credit card or get behind on my car and student loan payments, since we’ve met, I still have a lot of debt from my college days… and now so will Jake.

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While I might be able to control any future urge to buy matching Kirk and Spock costumes for the cat and dog… I mean, why would I need to again?… I can’t change the fact that at 18 years old, I began accepting thousands of dollars a year to pay for college and life in general, when my ex-husband wouldn’t work. Honestly, I don’t even think I would. That money fed and clothed me. It put gas in my car and rebuilt my life after my divorce. It got me my dream job of librarian. I am where I am because I took out student loans and I’m not sorry. I’m not bitter that I have to pay them back, either. I’m bitter that Jake has to pay them back, retroactively taking care of miserable and lost 21-year-old Belle, because my debt will become his debt. Any and all interest accrued will no longer be mine, but ours, which is why Jake wants to spend a huge chunk of his nest egg paying off all but my federal loans from day one. Why rack up interest over time, when he can pay it all off now? Well, because it’s mine.

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It’s so tempting to stamp my foot and insist that Jake can’t clear my financial name, because if he pays off my debt, not only does that mean I can’t take care of myself now, but that I never could. When I consolidated my private loans, agreed to a terrible interest rate on my car, signed up for my credit card, I did so with a bit of begrudging pride, knowing that one day I would pay it all back, because I take care of me. Despite all my jokes about how I’d let Christian Grey hang me from the ceiling and gut me like a deer if it meant paying off my student loans, I never thought I’d actually meet someone who saw value in ridding me of that debt. I would happily pay a thousand dollars a month for a couple of years, from my own paycheck, but Jake would rather we spend that money building something than trying to dig me out of a hole, which makes a lot of sense. It’s just… it’s my hole.

So, as a compromise, I’ve insisted on adding this bit to the prenup we’ve already agreed to sign for the sake of the family ranch. If Jake wants to take care of my past self, I insist on taking care of his future self, by legally agreeing that I’ll pay him back if our marriage lasts less than 10 years. I’m too pragmatic and quite frankly, I love him too much, to let romance get in the way, here. If he can protect me from further financial ruin, I can protect him. Still, it wounds my pride far more than being told I don’t need another cat costume… and I always need another cat costume.

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Marrying a Whole Person

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It started with a pillow.

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On Friday, Jake and I had planned to look at a furniture outlet, so we could get an idea of what kind of new couch and bedroom set we’d like to buy in a few months. Unlike our often disastrous Hobby Lobby trips, I wasn’t concerned that this would cause any disputes, as we generally agree on large furniture pieces. It’s soft furnishings and décor that cause meltdowns and declarations that maybe we shouldn’t get married and he can just live alone in his bat cave forever. On the way to the store, however, Jake dented his pickup, so he was in a bad mood when I wanted to make a quick stop at the beauty store, before exchanging a pillow to Hobby Lobby. Eager to find out how much damage he’d done to his truck, he told me to go ahead, which was fine… except for the wording.

Jake: “There’s no reason for me to go to the beauty store with you.”
Me: :: angrily browsing hand lotions :: Well, there was no reason for me to go to the western store, the golf store, the video game store, and more often than not the liquor store, but I didn’t insist that all of your interests are frivolous and stupid and sit in the car.

I was eventually so frustrated that I decided to walk to Hobby Lobby on my own, because there ain’t no way that trip wasn’t going to end in a fight… and I was right. So, I suppose it started with a trip to the beauty store. It escalated with a pillow.

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Me: “You hate everything I like.”
Jake: “That’s not true. I liked the shelf you wanted to get for your coffee mugs. I just didn’t like the pillow. I thought it was a stupid, frilly, single girl pillow.”

Dude. Ouch.

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*Jake insists he did not say “stupid.” I insist he did and that that’s a terrible defense.

I spent the next 10 minutes or so privately crying on the way to the furniture store, messaging a friend about how everything I like is dumb and girly. I told her about the pillow and she agreed that one pillow was not worth any strong opinion, that Jake could handle a single pillow.

Jake: “There’s no point in going in here and looking at furniture if you’re pissed off at me, so what’s wrong?”
Me: “What’s the point of looking, when everything I like is stupid and frivolous?”
Jake: “That’s not what I said. Would you prefer me to just not say anything and you do whatever you want? I don’t even mention the stuff I’d get if it were just me.”
Me: “Neither. Do. I. Every single thing I point out is something I consider a reasonable compromise. It wasn’t sequined or pink. It was a white, furry pillow, to go with several other pillows you do like.”

We argued for a few more minutes, before I told Jake that I really didn’t want to look at furniture with him right now and that I’d like to go spend my gift card money at Bass Pro first… where I’m sure he’d love the furniture. After a good 45 minutes of silence, Jake was the first to speak.

Jake: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “You keep saying that, but we keep having this argument. Aaron hates that ceramic deer head Mindy likes so much. He thinks it’s stupid. She still has it, though, because that’s what marriage is. You know what? I hate your “Manners Maketh Man” sign idea. I think it’s pretentious and dumb… and Buzz is gross. It’s absolutely disgusting that you have a dead animal on your wall. The only reason I named him Buzz was to make it slightly cuter and less morbid, because you like him. I love animals so much that I cried when a goat died on The Walking Dead and I can still get over a dead fucking deer on my wall, for the rest of our lives, but you can’t handle one fuzzy fucking pillow? You just want to smoke cigars on a bear skin rug with the head still attached, while I sit quietly and contain my glitter. You tell me our home will represent me as well as you, but apparently it’s only the parts you like.”

The word glitter has never been spoken with such hurt and tears. Dude’s lucky it didn’t end with a pillow.

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Jake: “I like all the parts of you.”
Me: “Apparently not the ‘stupid, frilly, single girl’ parts.”
Jake: “Okay, that might have been what I said, but-”
Me: “That’s what your sign needs to say.”
Jake: ::laughing:: “I’m sorry.”
Me: “I’m buying that pillow.”

I didn’t actually buy the pillow. I bought a much larger, softer one, with shorter fur, at Target… and Jake loved the overall effect of a gray linen comforter with large beige linen pillows, one red and one brown suede pillow, my fluffy white pillow, and another furry brown oblong one. I draped a soft red throw over the foot of the bed and we’re both happy with the overall appearance and comfort. We found our medium and Jake was only an ass and I was only a drama queen, like half the time… because this is not a Nicholas Sparks movie.

Jake and I are not two teenagers figuring out who we are, what we like, and what we want from the world. While I’m sure we’ll grow together over the years, we’re hardly the blank slates that were Noah and Ally/Jack and Rose/some example where the woman wasn’t a screeching whore. On our first date, Jake and I discussed our views on both religion and politics, in depth, because we’re not college freshman taking a contemporary moral problems class to evaluate theses concepts for the first time. Similarly, on our third date, I made it clear that I wasn’t leaving my library system. I worked hard for my degree and my place in the system. I make damn good money in my field and region and am over the soul searching part of life where I’m up for anything. Not long after, Jake and I talked about our financial philosophies, goals, and personal standings… because these things are not up in the air for us. We were 27 and 30 when we met. We’d had respectively 9 and 12 years to establish ourselves, take a stance on these issues, and realize that they weren’t worth compromising.

The only trouble is, Conservative Christian values are not equal to a fluffy white pillow. The career about which I’m passionate isn’t comparable to a clock that is somehow “too nautical.” A debt free lifestyle is not a deer head on the wall. While it’s benefited us greatly to have spent those 10 years or so making mistakes, conquering our goals, and becoming whole and complete adults, it’s also given us grounds to be quite the stubborn asses. It’s not just him, either. I may not be completely irresponsible with my money, but I also don’t have $50,000 in the bank like Jake… and I do have debt. For years, my Christmas budgeting plan has been to buy what I want for everyone and catch up later. Jake, however, is committed to us being debt free. So where Jake is going to have to let go of the rustic hunting lodge image he has in mind and loosen the purse strings a bit, I’m going to have to learn to hold off on that cat costume, the Amazon Echo, and a new watch, when I don’t have the discretionary income to fund it immediately.

At 29 and 32, we’re well established and developed individuals. Jake is a whole person and so am I, which has only ever been a perk, until recently. While I’d still rather have 200 fights over home decor over the course of our lives than 2000 about how he responds to everything with “I don’t care”, I am realizing that it’s going to be a struggle sometimes, for us to marry such complete people. It’s worth it, of course. Just… maybe we no longer talk about pillows.

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2016 Was NOT the Worst Year Ever

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With only two more days left in 2016, ’tis the season for everyone to bitch about how awful this year has been… and I do mean everyone. Whether you bought your first home, got your dream job, or finally conceived a child after struggling with infertility for years, social media dictates that you must spend the next two days wailing about the cruelty of 2016, usually in conjunction with the death of a long forgotten celebrity.

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I, however, love New Year’s. Like birthdays, New Year’s provides an opportunity for reflection… which is basically receiving a grade, and that’s my favorite.

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A year ago, I had been dating Jake for six months, was excitedly preparing for my first day as a supervisory librarian at the Northside Library and dreaming of getting a cat after  I moved from Shetland to be closer to work. I was struggling financially, having worked as a half time librarian while substitute teaching for so long, and was still relying on the health insurance that is prayer. I was excited about all the major life changes that would come in 2016… and change things did. While I’m not so heartbroken by the death of Debbie Reynolds and Prince as to lament of the despair of this past year, I will admit that the amount of change has been a bit… overwhelming.

It all started with my new job and its surprise levels of management. As I adjusted to the demands of full time supervisory work in a new library with new people, Jake worked two weeks on and two weeks off… and then two weeks on and one week off. We made the best of the time we had together, going skiing and seeing movies… growing closer and beginning to discuss marriage. When I realized moving wouldn’t be worth the time it would save, my commute increased to about 35 minutes each way… but I still got my kitten. Thackery Binx weighed a half pound the day he joined the family and he has brought nothing but joy. Jude loves the company of his brother and even Jake likes him. Though he won’t openly admit it, I’m pretty sure he wants several more.

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By fall, I’d decided to step down from management and Jake had agreed to quit oil. I never saw him. He’d been demoted and his pay had been cut numerous times. I wasn’t game for being the oil wife, enjoying manicures and designer handbags to take her mind off the fact that she’s mostly alone. So, as the holidays neared, I chased a new dream and worked to control my nerves over Jake’s unemployment, reminding myself that he’s hard working and good and not my ex-husband who refused to hold a job for four years. In the meantime, Jake spent his weekdays on the Granger Ranch, working cattle for $100 a day and I spent mine crying in my office over how much I hated my job… simultaneously counting the days until the weekend, when I could see Jake again.

Despite all this upheaval, on November 20th, the Sunday before Thanksgiving, Jake asked me to marry him, just days after I’d accepted a voluntary demotion and transfer to the Jackson Library. We could’ve waited until Jake had the perfect position and we’d relocated to Jackson, but why waste time, when we could move forward with our lives? We enjoyed our first Thanksgiving and Christmas together, since we refused to join our holidays until we were committed.

For me, this was my last Single Girl Christmas. I’ll say goodbye to my pink tree and purple glitter bulbs forever, when I put all my décor away in a few short hours. It’ll be the first of many bittersweet goodbyes as I bind my life to Jake’s on May 6, 2017. I’ll leave my little apartment, the first place I ever felt truly safe as an adult… my hometown of Shetland, where I spent my teenage nights driving around with Gaily… my maiden name and my identity as Just Belle… the time in my life where the only decisions that effected me were my own. While 2016 has been a year of change, 2017 will put it to shame as I become Belle Granger, wife of Jake, and resident of Jackson. I’ll celebrate my 30th birthday, and happily so, having accomplished nearly everything I’d planned by such a big date.

So for me, 2016 was a stepping stone to all the great things 2017 will bring… and I am so excited.

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