Back in the Day

What is it about music that takes us back? It’s like one minute you’re wearing a #1 Mom sweatshirt with your hair in curlers and the next minute you’re driving down the road, picturing your 17-year-old self in a car full of your closest friends rocking out. Case in point: Friday night’s Van Halen concert.

I would be remiss to pretend like I’m some die-hard rock fan. Justin loves their stuff and we got tickets as a wedding gift so I went along just to enjoy getting out of town. Wearing a dress and curled hair, I immediately knew I stuck out like a sore thumb. I grabbed a cheeseburger and tried to fit in. More than the actual concert, I enjoyed people-watching, my all-time favorite sport. There were two women in particular who looked like your typical suburban housewives. They probably have pink tracksuits, yoga memberships, soccer games to attend and PTO meetings. But that night they were young again; they were living in a world free of responsibilities, birthday parties and cellulite.

David Lee Roth appeared on the stage and the housewives became desperate housewives. Though his hair was now short, wrinkles lined his face, and he was way too old to be wearing skintight pants, he hadn’t aged a day in their eyes. They screamed. And jumped. And danced. And shook.

And I couldn’t help but think: If *NSYNC did a tour when I was 40, this would be me. Justin Timberlake’s macaroni and cheese hair could be gray and most of us wouldn’t even care. Because, regardless of how much time has gone by, music sticks us in a time machine and fills our hearts with joy. We nostalgically remember our prom date and basketball run-outs, bonfires and break-ups.

After the concert, we stayed with my brother Ryan and his wife Chelsea. This, more than the concert, was my flashback in time. As they showed us around their cute home and town, it hit me: it seems like a few days ago he was calling me zit face and playing pranks. Now we’re married and holding civilized double date conversations. We met some of his co-workers and he said, “This is my sister and her husband.” Hold up. Aren’t you supposed to be making fart noises with your armpit or something?

The problem with music and nostalgia in general is that it only brings back the good times. You listen to a song from your youth and think, “Why can’t life be like that again?” What Bruce Springsteen doesn’t tell you, however, is that you were awkward. And made fun of. And your crush asked out your best friend instead of you. And you got grounded because you made a D in Trig. And that every little thing that happened to you was the end of the world.

Yeah, working stinks. And paying bills is not fun. But every stage of life brings something new with it and discards something old (I’m still waiting for clear skin). I am excited to try out this adult sibling thing. Who better to become friends with as you get older than the people who know you the best? A musical blast from the past isn’t even needed when you have a built-in memory-repeating parrot. Want to forget about that time that you screamed mid-squat at a camping site because your brother roared at you like a bear? Good luck. Think you’ll forget Pawpaw’s Charlie Chicken bedtime stories? Probably not.

So when I hear a song from my past, I smile and soak it in—but I try to also realize that every stage had its equal share of fun and heartache.

So pick out the melody of every stage, even if it happens to be Lady Gaga.

 

The Couple Club

“Don’t do it.”

“On your honeymoon night, always remember…[this is a family blog. But it made me very uncomfortable.]

“Oh, you just have that glow about you. Wait until it wears off. Mine has.”

“Let me just tell you what to go buy at Wal-Mart [insert TMI].”

What do all of these statements have in common?

They are a tiny star in the universe of stuff married folks say. All of these sentiments were shared with me, mostly by acquaintances. I guess now that I am a member of the elite club, I can now go around and make people feel extremely awkward before they tie the knot. I’m sure I will soon find out, but there is just something about sharing the marriage bond with your fellow man that makes people spout strange sentences to people who barely know them. Oh, they’re getting hitched—guess it’s time to spill the beans about Bill and Thelma’s ‘bedside manner.’ Even my mother (yep, I know you’re reading this) has begun to talk to me like I am in this special society. You’re still my mom. And he’s still my dad. Eww.

This blog is entirely tongue-in-cheek and I in no way want you to analyze and recall everything you said to me prior to my nuptials. It’s just more of this fascination with shared circumstances. I don’t have any kids, but I’m sure it’s a similar experience when you’re about to give birth. People just shower you with unsolicited advice, stories, and moments that make you sheepishly slide down in your chair, secretly hoping the floor will open up so you can fall in.

Because I am a list person, I have divided these people into subgroups:

‘The half-empty glass fell off the shelf and broke’ people — These people are here to keep you grounded. They wish you all the happiness in the world, unlike their nephew who is going through his 2^nd divorce and is trying to get his kids back because their mother is cheating with the guy next door. But good luck to you! And when anything is said about your husband’s good qualities, you are usually met with an “Enjoy it while you can!”

The “If Ya Know What I’m Sayin” People — These individuals live to be vague and throw out innuendos. “You’re really going to enjoy your wedding, if ya know what I’m sayin. Have fun in Jamaica, if you know what I’m sayin. Keep him in line, if you know what I’m sayin. Most of the time you don’t “know what they’re saying,” but you nervously laugh and shake your head.

The Informants — These patriots think it is their duty to make sure you know what you’re getting into. Because all men are exactly the same, numerous anecdotes from their husband’s skeleton closet will surely prepare you to handle yours. Thank you, mam. I will never look at Mr. Henry the same way after knowing he gnaws at his toenails as his nightly ritual.

I don’t think that these people became these people on purpose. I think it all boils down to the fact that we just don’t ever know what to say. Weddings, funerals, graduations, birthday parties. We’re just at a loss for words—so we use a lot of words. Makes sense, right?

When in doubt, take note: newly married couples just need your encouragement and love. We don’t expect ground-breaking marriage advice or an eloquent display of marital perfection. We know it’s going to be hard and that there will be times when we look at each other and go, “Seriously?” But that’s why we have you. You aren’t just some person that ate a cupcake at our reception—you are our lifeboat, our team. We need you to be there, to encourage us and remind us of why we fell in love in the first place.

So when pondering whether to tell us your husband sleep walks naked to eat cheese out of the fridge or that castiron skillets are good weapons, just know that a simple, “Keep plugging, we love you” does the trick just fine.

 

 

 

 

    

Fat Bottom Girls in a Skinny Jean World

If I had the time, money and gumption, I would file a lawsuit against the illustrators of “Lean Cuisine” and “Smart Ones.” Why? Making one of those meals appear to be large, filling and overflowing with cheese is false advertising if I’ve ever seen it. Ashton’s trying to cut down on the food if you can’t tell by the harsh opening line. Instead, you zap it for its initial 2 minutes. Then the pattern commences: scrape, stir, scrape, stir until 1 oz of cheese attempts to cover 11 small noodles (if that). There are usually a few lone noodles huddling naked in the corner after all is said and done.

It’s hard being a girl with a hefty appetite when you live in a skinny jeans world. I’ve always longed to be one of the girls who could say at a restaurant, “I need two to-go boxes please. I can’t believe how much that house salad filled me up before my meal.”Quite the opposite, I’m that person that gets the look and the “Well, I can see that you liked my recommendation.” You bet I did, lady. It was a chicken wrapped in bacon with melted cheese on it. Did you think I would pick at it?

The party is over. My pants are tight. I despise anything that requires a buttoning or zipping motion. When I smile, my cheeks become a shelf to my eyeballs. I used to be the girl who could eat anything and still maintain a flat stomach. Those days are no more. I now can feel the physical travel of a cake to my right thigh.

And I know being vulnerable like this leaves the gates open for mounds of advice that I don’t really want. I know what it takes. I love this one: “Well, you just have to burn more calories than you take in.” You’re kidding. That’s what I’ve been missing all these years? I’m not mourning because I don’t know what to do; I’m mourning because I will have to run on the treadmill for 8 hours in order to equal out my cinnamon roll. “There are several exercises you can do at your desk,” says SELF magazine. Oh really?  Because parents would really appreciate the school secretary doing lunges in a dress while they sign their child out. “There are several easy substitutions you can make. You won’t even notice.” Um, I may be shamelessly oblivious, but you aren’t going to slip in a 100-calorie pack for a Chocolate Chiller Smoothie without me noticing.

As you can tell, this process isn’t going to be easy for me. I’ve never read the book, “Made to Crave,” but I think it poses an interesting concept. We were made to crave and yearn after things—we’ve just decided to focus on the wrong things. What if I longed to read my Bible like I long to eat a hamburger and French fries? Why do I meditate on what my next meal is going to be rather than what I can do to improve my attitude? Why do I turn to a bowl of ice cream instead of prayer when I am sad?

Mission: God Not Gluttony starts now.

And I pity the next child who brings a leftover cupcake to my desk from their in-classroom party.

The Non-Animal Lover With a Heart

We’re sitting on the couch last night and Justin makes this announcement: “I think I want a dog. I really do.”

This is the first time I have ever publically made this announcement. But I’m not really an animal person. It’s not that I dislike them or would mistreat them—they just don’t have the effect on me that they have on most people. I’ve already admitted in this blog that I don’t do crafts and I’m not big on cooking—so my female points are gradually going down I realize.   

I may be blowing their cover, but in college, we had guys that would walk around the Student Center or intramural fields with cute little puppies to lure attention from girls. It didn’t matter if he had his gym shorts pulled up past his bellybutton—if he was holding a little dog, he was the king of the universe for that moment in time.

“Hey Ashton,” they might say as they nonchalantly pull the pup to their other hip. I would usually just smile, pat the dog on the head and continue walking to class.

And it’s not that they aren’t cute. They are. It’s just that when I look at one, I see chewed up rugs, knocked over vases and large amounts of excrement on my kitchen floor and in my favorite shoes. Animal lovers chalk this up to “dogs being dogs” and they sigh and move on. I would have a panic attack if I found my favorite shoes demolished in slobber.

And maybe it’s just because I don’t have a lot of money right now, but it’s so hard to think about forking over the little money I do have for new things post-chewfest.

Earlier this year, I was a kitten parent for one week. I wanted so badly to fall in love with this kitten because Justin loves animals. We were cohabitating (the cat and I, mind you) in this tiny, one-bedroom apartment and I knew night one it wasn’t going to work. I was sleeping peacefully, resting up for a long day at work and out of nowhere I feel this bite on my arm. I wake up and Theo, ironically meaning “gift from God,” is climbing up my headboard, jumping onto my stomach and biting me. I fix him a little pallet and some food and water and put him in the bathroom where his litter box is. I put a pillow over my head to mellow the “Let me out” meows.

I stumble into the bathroom the next morning, half asleep. This wet, mushy sensation begins to take over my bare feet. My little gift from the Lord knocked over both his bowls, had a soccer match to spread the wealth to every crevice of the bathroom and even climbed shelves with a mouthful to put some up there, too.

Every night I prayed, “Lord, please help me to like this kitten. I want to like it.” And for like 10 minutes Theo would calm down and sit in my lap. I would start to reconsider my decision to find a better home. Then he would bite my cheek apple-style.

By Friday, I called Justin in tears, “Please just come get this cat. I can’t take it anymore.” We found a sweet, loving family from church who wanted Theo so I feel like I did the right thing. She sent me pictures of him playing with her kids and I actually got a little teary-eyed because that solidified my decision to put him up for adoption. From what I hear, he is still a fireball of energy.

I figure one of these days we will in fact get a dog. And with Justin being the main parent, I think it will turn out just fine. I may even warm up to the little guy.

I have a new perspective on my situation. I used to beat myself up about the fact that I didn’t get the warm fuzzies in the midst of a cocker spaniel. But now I see myself as a responsible human being. Sometimes the best thing you can do for a pet/and or child is not to have one. I think the folks at PETA would much prefer me openly admit that I’m not an animal person as to buy one on a whim and realize it’s a big mistake. That’s how half of animals get into shelters is because a college girl wanted a Chihuahua because Elle Woods had one in Legally Blonde, only to find out it does more than pop its head out of a purse.

I’ll keep you posted on the puppy fever. If it ends up materializing, I’m sure blog entries will surface as quickly as the mounds of doo-doo. 

The Simple Life

I had an interesting conversation with a co-worker today about “An Affair to Remember.” It all began when I said I couldn’t do something and she busted out with, “Darling, if you can paint, I can walk.” It took me a second and then Cary Grant was in my mind. I shared with her that I loved the movie, but got slightly perturbed when I watched it because I want to be like, “Lady, just tell him you got hit by a car and that’s why you didn’t meet him that day.” If people can say their alarm clock didn’t go off, their homework fell in the fish tank (heard that one this week), and a number of other silly reasons to not keep their commitments, surely getting hit by a car would be an acceptable excuse to make up a date. But alas, it would remove an element of drama and suspense from one of the most beloved classics of all time.

It got me thinking: We love movies and we sometimes say, “I wish life was like a movie.” But do we really? Do we really want to watch the love of our life walk by while we idly sit by in a chair just to add a dramatic ending? I dare say that if scenarios or sayings that occurred in movies happened to us in real life we would be considerably taken aback.

For instance, when I watched “The Wedding Planner” like a million times I always thought it was so witty that Matthew McConaughey’s character threw out all the M&Ms except for the brown ones with the clever line, “I figure there’s less artificial food coloring because chocolate is already brown.” If Justin did that, I would immediately reclaim the missing candy (5 second rule counts on grass too!) and scold him for first, being weird. And second, getting rid of perfectly good chocolate, coloring or not.

And when we watch “The Notebook,” we just can’t get over Noah’s bravery as he climbs on top of the Ferris wheel and hangs off until Allie agrees to go on a date with him. Say I’m at the fair. And Justin decided to do that. First of all, I would scream bloody murder because I can’t stand it if my seat swings. Whoever is with me has to sit like a cement gargoyle or I will go bonkers. My first inclination at this point would be that this guy is either suicidal or a few fries short of a Happy Meal, not the most romantic guy on Earth.

Even one of my favorites, “When Harry Met Sally,” is not immune to the real-life magnifying glass. If Justin and I are at a restaurant and I decide to put on a theatrical performance of a "wonderful experience," he is not going to let me finish and then smile sweetly at me. He’s going to high-tail it out of that restaurant and act like he doesn’t know who I am. It may also be a while before I get chips and queso at Chili’s again.

So sometimes I feel boring. Since Sunday, for example, I have been looking forward to cheese dip and a meal at El Acapulco. We went tonight and you would have thought I was at Disney World. Like that's the highlight of my week. And when people ask me if I want to do something, I always secretly long to watch "Mad Men" on Netflix with Justin and go to bed at 10 p.m. But you know what? That's OK with me. Some people want their life to resemble a movie-- I'd rather watch a movie.  And when I hear their cheesy lines and see how they woo their love interest, I may go "Awww," but it is quickly followed with a deep contentment in the simple life.

I've got to sign off now. "Mad Men" is about to come on. ;)

Girl Next Door

I'm a big magazine reader. Against my better judgment, I like to read poorly written articles with complete untruths about relationships and discover 125 ways to tie a scarf. I think my favorite-- because it is totally predictable-- is the interview with the celebrity. It usually begins a little something like this:

Jennifer Lopez walks into a quaint coffee shop in New York City for our interview. Wearing a t-shirt and jeans, you would never be able to tell this girl is an actress, singer, dancer, philanthropist and entrepreneur. You would think she would order the most expensive espresso on the menu, but instead she pipes up with, "I'll just take plain coffee, no cream or sugar." When we discuss her children she insists she's just your everyday mom. In her defense, the Louis Vuitton diaper bag was on sale for $800...

It's this ploy for us to sympathize. To think that these women are down to earth, your girl next door. We often adjust our thinking likewise and wonder why if having a million dollars, a live-in nanny and a housekeeper is normal, why don't we quite match up?

This doesn't just apply to celebrities. Blogs, Pinterest and other mediums also feed into this misconception that is the "Girl Next Door."

Truth: Contrary to popular belief, 80% of women are not going home every night and making wreaths out of yarn. Your girl next door is doing good to get Hamburger Helper out of the box, not trying out the newest Pioneer Woman recipe. And there was only that one girl in that one place that one time who made her diningroom table out of an old barn door. Honestly, more often than not, people have unfinished bathrooms, projects they were going to complete 8 years ago and a husband with a to-do list a mile long.

I had a battle with this earlier this week. I went to use my store credit at a wedding registry store in Searcy. I was bombarded with questions: "Do you want the corresponding vegetable platter? Large pasta bowl? Serving plate for $60?" I tried to stir up enthusiasm, any emotion really, but none came. The lady, who stood about 4'11" at the most, climbed to the top shelf to show me a sample piece. She was so psyched about this platter. And all I could think was, "It's like a really, really big dinner plate."

And then the question every new bride likes to hear: "Do you entertain often?"

Suddenly images of solo cups, paper plates and Domino's boxes popped up in my mind. "Yes, yes, we do," I offered. Perhaps then, she says, I should consider these pieces.

"Is there pretty easy clean-up? Say if cheese and pepperoni were to lodge permanently into the crevices overnight?"

Needless to say, I walked out without the platters, with a look of female defeat on my face. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't pretend to be someone I'm not and pay enormous amounts for an oversized plate.

And mothers out there, don't get discouraged by what you read on the Internet. You may not be able to tell from the perfect pictures, family crafts and homemade toddler outfits, but their kids poop too. And throw up. And scream. And the parents probably at times lose their cool. But that doesn't make for great literature.

All of these things, in reasonable amounts, are fine. It's when we think they are the rule and not the exception that we find ourselves hanging out in a long-lasting pity party. I can't stand crafts. I'd rather watch a Law and Order: SVU marathon than burn my fingers to nubs with a hot glue gun. Does a picture of me with popcorn dribbling out of my mouth while I watch the 17th episode in a row make for a cute blog? No. But it's me. I dislike cooking. It's a whole bunch of effort that is gobbled up within seconds with nothing left but a burp to remember it by. Does this make me less of a woman?

Here's a little experiment: If you are ever feeling down or not good enough, go next door. Literally. Knock on the door. I dare you. If the woman is spray painting a door mat white to make it a wall decoration, you have every right to cry and feel pathetic. But, chances are, she's doing something quite ordinary.

I'm preaching to myself here when I say, don't compare yourself to others. Don't make your husband feel bad because he didn't find a barn door laying on the side of the road. Don't be ashamed to have guests over because you order pizza and use plastic forks. People don't remember how cool your platters were or if you handmade the rug on the floor out of newspaper scraps. They have your hospitality etched in their minds; your love; your kindness and warmth. So get off the computer every now and then. Shut your magazine. And love your life.

Proverbs 14:30

A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot.

Teachers: The Real American Idols

This morning I participated in Baldwin’s own version of “American Idol.” It was a way to relax and let loose after a treacherous week of benchmark testing. I was the host and discovered my apparent love for a microphone in my hand. I started out feeling like I was going to pass out, but by the end I wanted to burst into a rocking party anthem song. It was fun to get the kids laughing, clapping and having a good time. This 2^nd grader came up to me after the show and said, “That Baldwin Idol was so AWESOME.” My heart melted and I immediately thought, “Watch out Ryan Seacrest, there’s a new emcee in town!”

I introduce today’s festivities to demonstrate how my view of the education profession has changed since working here. I helped one of the 3^rd grade teachers, a good friend of mine, make a Sloppy Joe costume yesterday after school. I also watched her become a jar of olives for the Produce Parade a few months ago. As I tucked brown paper between two hula hoops, it hit me: These women are hardcore. She was going to make a two-minute appearance as a Manwich and she went through all of this extra trouble. I would have grabbed a brown sweatshirt and written, “Sloppy Joe” on it to tell you the truth. But that’s why I wasn’t meant to be a teacher. Watching all these ladies, costumed and made up to make their kids smile, really says a lot about who they are as people and how they view their role as educators.

I don’t know the ins and outs of the outside pressures that are put on teachers, but I have been a witness to quite a few. In all honesty, it’s a wonder they swim to the top of their paperwork with enough energy left to become a giant food item. They are judged by how their kids fill in bubblesheets rather than the preparation and delivery of their message; cookie-cutter seminars enthusiastically tell them how they should be doing things without any insight into the type of students within their classrooms. These teachers aren’t pulling in at 8 and marching out at 3. They are cutting out things while you are eating with your family and they are practicing their dance for the talent show when they could be taking a much-needed nap. They are making costumes for the play, setting up for the art show. And what do we often do for them in return? We call them. And we question them. And we wonder why our kid can’t skip every homework assignment and still come out with a perfect score. We watch them run around playing dodgeball with our kids and in the same minute imply that every move they make must be documented and filed.

I’m not saying that there aren’t teachers who are in the wrong profession, but what I am saying is that we are quickly burning out people who are in the spot they were designed for. They’ve got burdens on them greater than a giant Sloppy Joe costume and are expected to raise their own children and America’s too. We give them a 50-pound bundle of heartache and expect instant results. It takes a lot of patience, love and true compassion to get the kind of results we as a society want printed and presented immediately.

I know a simple blog entry doesn’t provide the monetary compensation and recognition they deserve. But I wanted to, in my own way, honor these special teachers—who should be put up on a pedestal as the real American Idols.

That Thing You Do

I came across an article today while browsing an online magazine that relayed 10 things men don’t particularly understand about their girlfriends/wives. Though it mentioned them in a slideshow, it didn’t really go on to give female input on the matter. So that’s where I come in. For the sake of space, I am only going to expand upon 5 of them.

1. Why we make the bed—I rarely make the bed in the morning because it’s too early to put forth that much effort. But I do make it when I get home in the evening, which Justin thinks is truly bizarre. When everything else is out of control in my life, it’s nice to see all 10 decorative pillows in their rightful place. Crawling into bed isn’t crawling into bed if you are picking up sheets off the floor and pulling your pillow out from the crack between the mattress and the wall. It’s all about peace of mind, boys. And a comment on the throw pillows: The reason some girls (*cough cough* me) have a fascination with numerous pillows on the bed falls in line with the same reasoning guys use to make their truck sound like it’s going to knock all the houses in the neighborhood down. Yes, a bed is a bed and serves a function. But you can’t tell me your Chevy won’t get you to work unless it sounds like an oversized boombox. It’s all about the frills.  

 2. Why we take so long to get ready—I am fairly low maintenance as far as girls are concerned. But still, there are just elements of being female that take forever. We can’t just hop out of the shower, give our hair a good shake and walk out the door. You could point 3 blow-dryers in my direction and I’m still going to come out with wet hair. And when it finally gets dry, it looks like I just stuck my finger into an electrical outlet. So out marches the straightening iron and the ever present statement, “I don’t get it. Your hair is already straight.” My hair is dry and not curly. That does not make it straight. In summation, when guys say, “I like girls to be natural with no make-up on,” I want to laugh out loud. Why? Because you don’t know what natural really implies. What they should replace that sentiment with is: “I like my girl with a thin layer of foundation, powder dusted on and just enough eyeliner to make her look lifelike. Oh, and her eyebrows shouldn’t resemble a caveman. Oh and her legs should be shaved.” That, my friends, isn’t natural. That’s work. And that’s why we take up so much mirror space.

3. Why we take so long to browse—This one immediately cracked me up because Justin can’t STAND going to the mall with me because I have to touch everything. I can’t speak for everyone, but touching things I can’t have somehow soothes me. I will go down each rack and feel the clothes and say, “Oh, I love this.” It’s like somehow, for one minute, I am a part of the garment. We are one in spirit, but not in price. Guys go shopping on a mission. Girls go for the experience. There’s nothing like walking by a kiosk while smelling the sweet aroma of Auntie Anne’s pretzels.

4. Why text message kisses and emoticons are so important—It doesn’t take a genius to realize that conversations are hard to carry over written mediums. Something meant in jest can be taken seriously. A missing “LOL” can have a girl up all night thinking you are mad at her. That being said, the occasional smiley face, kissy face or “XOXO” is our way of getting you to picture how we are saying something. You make fun, but do you really want to go to lunch with the girl who “can’t wait to see you.” Or do you want to hang out with the girl who “can’t wait to see you :).”

5. Why we want to be independent, but still want doors opened for us— For me anyway, it’s not so much about independence as it is about respect. I don’t mind letting guys do something for me or even working hand in hand with each other as long as I know that there is a mutual respect there. Unless your girlfriend stands 3 feet tall or has Tyrannosaurus Rex arms, chances are, she has the physical capability of opening up her own door. But the gesture is thoughtful and kind and is the simplest way of saying, “I put you first.” And if a girl takes that as a strike on her independence, she is mistaken on the definition.

These are only a few of the misunderstandings that occur daily between the genders. God made us different for a reason. I mean, if guys were anything like us, it’d be like being married to our hormonal cubicle at work.

Some things will always remain in a cloud of vagueness and there’s no need to try to get to the bottom of it. It’s just a little bit of this for a little bit of that. A gaseous, scratching man for a crying woman with way too many shoes. It's what leads to laughter. Lots of it. And a mysterious intrigue that keeps us coming back for more quirks.  

 

Hormones

I called Justin today on my break. I was relaying a stressor that happened at work and before I knew it, I was boo-hooing. I was sitting in my car, gripping the steering wheel and crying like a small child who bumped their head on the coffee table. It was ugly.

"Why are you crying?"

I go on to say, "I don't know," while following it with a detailed explanation as to why my life is falling apart before my eyes. The traumatic events in my life probably included my oatmeal getting a little too dry this morning-- should have put more water.

After we got off the phone, my tears stopped and I went on about my business, even throwing in some laughing and smiling. It was like this temporary torrential rain cloud was hovering over my being and then it left, leaving the sun peaking out from behind it after it passed.

This is the only way I know how to explain female hormones to men. I know they don't get it. I know it will never be understood. But Justin knew when he married me that he was stuck with all three of us :) Ha.

By no idea of my own, guests left a typed message for us at our wedding-- "Keys to a happy marriage." We got many nuggets of wisdom, but one came from a younger member of the family and I found it quite interesting: "Don't say 'you always do'." It took me a second to get it, but then I realized how truly significant that is. And how do I know this? The lovely female hormone or as I like to call it "the largest magnifying glass known to man."

The reason, fellas, that your lady will go into a spontaneous fit of rage or cryfest is because at that very moment, every little thing is multiplied by 10,000. A lady glanced at her at work? No, she gave her the stinkeye and is talking about her to everyone in the office. You left your underwear on the floor? No, you threw your entire dirty wardrobe on the carpet. Sonic got her order wrong? No, the universe is out to get her because her tots didn't have extra cheese on them.

Men were instinctively made with a protective, let-me-gather-food complex. I'm convinced that hormones are the women's counterpart to that. It's nature's way of saying, "If you mess with me, Papa Bear or my cubs right now, I am going to growl, chase you through the woods, cry and then become overtly irrational."

Am I saying that being a hormonal crazy person is an excuse for mistreating your husband and those around you? Absolutely not. What I am saying is that it takes teamwork. The opposite of multiplying is dividing. Men, lovingly try to get her to divide. Eventually the number will get so small that it will fade away. It may result in a huff at first, but after a while she should call you back and apologize and tell you that she realizes her "always" needs to change to a "sometimes."

And ladies, me at the top of the list, we need to realize that hormonal shifts are nothing but that-- shifts. They will subside and pass within moments. Don't say things in those moments that you will regret when the cloud is lifted.

The next bridal shower I go to, the gal is getting Kleenex, cookie dough and "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff." The guy is getting headphones and a bulletproof vest.

 

 

 

 

Stop and Smell the Roses

 

Mom and Dad came in for the Easter weekend. Knowing my mom is an avid gardener, I suggested she help me make our yard look nice. So she came with her Nissan loaded down. When you opened up her trunk, you knew she was ready to prune or kill-- one of the two. 

To give you insight on just how clueless I was about what I was getting into-- when she called to say they were twenty minutes away, I said, "Oh, ok-- let me just jump in the shower real quick." She quickly informed me that taking a shower would be counterproductive.

I don't know what I was envisioning-- maybe one of the Desperate Housewives standing in her yard, seductively biting an apple while simultaneously trimming a bush. But what I got was Mom handing me a saw. I began to half-heartedly scrape at the wood, barely making a mark. "You do it like this," she corrected. It was then that Paul Bunyan took the saw from my hand and put me to shame. It hit me: THIS is why gardening was so therapeutic for her all these years. Who couldn't be patient with their teenage daughter after they just sawed down a tree?

I soon got the hang of it and, strangely enough, found it kind of fun. There's no feeling like seeing a giant shrub tumble to the ground because you made it do that. And then when we began to plant roses, there was something calming about digging in the dirt, feeling it between your hands. Mom told me to pick up the grass and shake the dirt off. Being an amateur, I picked up the giant lump and began to shake it like a salt shaker while I shook my tail feathers. Dirt went everywhere but the flower bed, and I got another lesson in Gardening 101.

So now I have ugly shrubs that Mom promises will become pretty with time, and I have premature rose bushes that will one day (hopefully) be a beautiful sight. It got me thinking-- because I am pretty much deep all the time (ha)-- we often speak about "stopping to smell the roses." And while I agree with that, I think we often overlook the fact that roses and beauty are often backed in hard work-- labor that you may sometimes feel will be in vain.

But when you have sweated, trimmed, pruned, sawed, pulled weeds and attained numerous scratches from jumping on large shrubs to get to the bottom of it, you realize that those flowers are going to have the sweetest smell there is. And you will probably be more inclined to stop and soak up their magic. 

So if you have a crappy job, keep planting. If you aren't reaching your goals fast enough, keep pruning. One day roses will bloom for you. 

 

 

Let Yourself Go

Every evening after work I come to a fork in the road. Literally and figuratively. I can turn one way to go to the gym and the opposite way to go home and sit. If we're being completely truthful, most of the time I head home to the crib. Today, by some weird twist of the steering wheel, I headed toward the gym. I don't know if it was my guardian Jillian Michaels angel or what, but I found myself pulling into an overcrowded parking lot that had bulky, tan guys coming out of it left and right. Enter mild anxiety attack. I told you I would be transparent and honest in this blog so here it comes. I don't be-bop it into the gym with my Foot Locker outfit and brand new tennis shoes on. I might as well have a trench coat and sunglasses on. First thought: Why do people wear shirts at all if they are going to rip them to shreds and annihilate the armpits of them? Hello, Mr. Armpit Hair. Secondly, I never know when or what time I'm going to be here, yet there's always that same perfect woman following me wherever I go. It's like she knows my schedule and has shown up to make me feel bad. Does she EVER leave? I usually overhear a conversation in which she tells her neighbor that she has had seven children all by natural childbirth. I give my slight pooch a stare-down and think, "And there's never even been a living human creature in there. Way to go, Ash."

Getting married recently has started me thinking. You always hear of people "letting themselves go" when they get married. The hypothesis is that you find someone who loves you and accepts you for who you are-- so you just don't try anymore. And that may be partially true. But I have another theory: Life, marriage, laundry, bills and work come into the very essence of your being and suck out the desire to do booty curls. I used to be that girl who was ALWAYS at the gym and lived for the next time I could tan. Tonight, I stared at more machines than I did, watched a girl jumprope and fell dead, snoring asleep in the tanning bed afterwards. I didn't just 'let myself go,' sending off my old self in a red balloon. I was robbed. One minute I was doing Pilates on the floor and the next minute I was buying a Tempurpedic pillow.

Oh, and don't even get me started on food. I think there just comes a point when you are burnt out. I ate so many dressing-less salads in college that now if I am anywhere near a salad bar, I just cringe. I rebelliously stare at it while I nab the mac and cheese. Pardon my statistics, but I think it's something like 1 M&M will have you circling around the Earth 10 times to burn it off. I have also realized that when you get older, everything you look forward to revolves around food. Lunch break= food. Breaktime= snack. Home time=supper. Social time = chips, Velveeta, Chex Mix and Tums.

I find myself salivating over a lunchroom cheeseburger, OK? That's when you know someone else has taken residence of your old self. I want 5 minutes of serenity so bad that I have unrealistically linked it to shipped in, boxed meat and processed cheese. And when you're married and you don't have a lot of time or money, what is synonymous with husband? Food. Let's eat. What do you want to eat? What's for supper 3 days from now? And it doesn't help when you start to find out that husbands aren't as mindful of your imperfections as you thought they were. You want soft and fluffy? I can do soft and fluffy like you've never seen. 

This, my friends, is what happens. It's not some conscious choice that you don't want to be attractive for your mate anymore. I think we all know better than that. It's this gradual discouragement that goes too far. And that's kind of where I'm at right now. But I'm determined to, little by little, fight the good fight. It's not going to be easy. Those that say it is are either clinically insane or some sort of superhuman. But it will take eating one (OK, maybe two) brownies instead of 5 and making that other turn to the gym on days I don't want to. But isn't that what life is anyway? A bunch of small, hard decisions that lead to an end result. 

So, until the diet exorcist performs a casting out spell, I suppose it will be an ongoing process. So, scoot over girl on the exercise mat. There's a new girl in town. And she wants one of those big bouncy balls.