Two.

Today is our second anniversary. If time could crawl and travel at the speed of light simultaneously, that is how I would describe the past two years of marriage. 

The first year of marriage was by no means the big bad wolf of matrimony that many forewarned; but I have to say that the second year became increasingly easier as we figured each other out. 

I was a selfish 25-year-old who ate cereal for supper and spent my evenings watching Criminal Minds and staying up half the night thinking someone was going to kill me. I was plucked from this routine and transplanted into a home where I was expected to figure out this "wife" gig. I had moments of utter failure; I had moments where I cheered for myself for completing the most mundane of tasks (Cooking three things at once-- what, what?!)

Here are a few things that have changed for us from Year 1 to Year 2.

Year One: You think your life is over when you receive your first dental bill. 

Year Two: In the span of two weeks, you fork up $3800 for an AC unit and $500 for a new truck part. Your refrigerator conks out the next day, oozing melted strawberries from the freezer. In front of your spouse, you yell at your other appliances, "Just go ahead. Die. Just die. You know you want to!" You laugh, grab the credit card, and head to Tucker's Appliance. 

Year One: You take a picture of your first grocery store loot, proud that you've stayed under budget. 

Year Two: You sign up for a Sam's membership with the enthusiasm of a child at Disney World. A 250-pack of toilet paper ensures that you will never have to deal with a spouse hollering at you mid-squat to run to Walgreen's for them. And don't even get Justin started on the barrel of cheese balls.  

Year One: You run out and get a gym membership so you won't "let yourselves go."

Year Two: One day, when you're lying in bed, you will realize that every area on your body that you poke jiggles. You'll start doing fitness games on your XBOX Kinect and scare your dogs half to death every time your feet leave the ground. 

Year One: You get into at least one fight concerning holiday traditions and dividing time between families. 

Year Two: The Mission Impossible theme song pumps through your brains as you work together to complete as many tasks as possible in one weekend. Victory isn't in winning more time with your respective family anymore; it's in having breakfast, lunch, supper and birthday cake in 6 different locations.

Year One: You will NEVER get a dog. Like ever.

Year Two: You have two dogs and buy them something every time you're at the store. You hang off the side of the bed every night to ensure they are in the exact sleeping spot they desire. 

Year One: You pretend to like things you don't like. 

Year Two: You have to witness the "Has everything this whole time been a lie?" expression that comes when you finally admit that you don't care for Thai food. Sorry, babe. Pad Thai = big fat lie.

What a year this has been. New jobs, lay-offs, appliance revolts, puppies. But through it all, I have felt more like a team this year than two stubborn individuals living together in a house. 

Happy Anniversary, Justin. Here's to puppy love and new refrigerators. 

The Real Housewives of [ ]

So much for blogging more now that I'm staying at home. It's probably a combination of things; partly that my dogs both like to sit on my laptop while I type; partly that Arkansas has barricaded us in our homes this winter. Between the hallucinations and the large amounts of macaroni and cheese consumed, I was afraid of what might translate onto the written page.

I've always been a proponent of hibernation, but even this is a little much for me. I made an outing to Kroger the other night and the cereal aisle was like sensory overload. So.many.colorful.boxes. I hate grocery shopping with a fiery passion, but even I found enjoyment in comparing the prices of different types of almond milk. (Justin is a hippie. Hand me the 2%).

I was also preparing my mind for the women's conference that we had at our church last weekend. I can blog all day; I can rattle off Facebook statuses all day; I can talk all day (no comments from the peanut gallery). But something about being asked to speak to a room full of women is stinkin' scary. It's so easy to hide behind a Facebook profile or a blog site, but to own your words--to stand up on a stage and share your heart-- that's a whole different ballgame. 

I love it when God gets a jackhammer and tears away at my pessimistic exterior. I'm the girl who always thinks something is going to go wrong, that no one is going to show up, that my words will fall flat. 

But I was proven so, so wrong. And I love that.

The whole weekend got me thinking about those "Real Housewives of [insert city here]" shows. (It's not what you think-- the orange tans and Gucci dresses were kept to a minimum during the conference).

You know the shows. Women airing their dirty laundry for the world to see, other women using that knowledge to embarrass and back stab; women who seem to have it all, fading into a pit of despair that money can't pull you out of.  

What if I told you I thought those women had it partially right? (Don't assume I'm on a juice fast and shut your laptop just yet). 

What if I told you that I witnessed lines of women declaring before a crowd that they were once abused, they were once addicts, they had once run from God because of an incredible tragedy in their lives? 

Would you believe me if I said that a room full of women-- with their eyelids brimming with tears-- stood up and clapped in support of what these ladies had overcome? 

I was flooded with encouraging letters from other women, and I know the other speakers were as well. I was overwhelmed with the feedback I received. 

And it hit me: This is what being a real housewife is supposed to feel like. This is what being a woman is supposed to be.

I should be able to hang my laundry on the line (the underwear of jealousy, the t-shirt of greed, the socks of anger-- not as catchy as the fruits of the spirit) and have people use that information-- not to hurt me-- but to help me. To lift me up. To relate to me.

I promise you that it takes less energy to write someone a card than it does to Facebook message your friend fishing for the scoop. I promise you that asking how someone is doing and waiting around for the answer can change someone's world. I promise you that being a loyal friend will turn up a support system you can't even fathom.

I know it's easy to get caught up in the moment during an event, but I encourage us all to continue this pattern of openness and sincerity; not to stop sharing our story just because we don't carry a piece of cardboard around with us every day. 

Whether you're in New Jersey, New York, Beverly Hills (jealous) or the thriving metropolis that is Jonesboro, Arkansas, show your church--show your community what a real housewife is all about. 

Walk This Way.

The dog was whining at my feet while I ate my lunch. This has become her new favorite game (even though I have never fed her from the table). Out of pure desperation, I looked down and I growled at her. Like Grizzly Bear growled. I barely understood the sound that escaped the depths of my lungs. She sulked and walked to the other room.

And I felt proud. Proud. I smiled at myself like I was a freakin' genius. Why have I never thought to talk animal-to-animal before? There was a day when I would publish an article that culminated weeks of work. And now I deserve a Nobel Prize for grasping my primitive nature. 

This is the stay-at-home stage I am at right now. Friends in similar predicaments knew it would come; they watched patiently as I spouted ideas and dreams, promising to write a book, do a book tour, invent something and travel the world within my first month of freedom. 

Now I sometimes convince myself to do push-ups and sit-ups in the living room. It happens when you look down and your stomach seems to audibly say: "Remember when you said if you didn't work, I'd go back to circa 2005?" 

I have gotten 5 push-ups in and Minnie decides to lie underneath me and scratch my stomach every time I go down. In a way, it was quite motivating. I knew one failed plank could smash my beloved puppy child. So I pressed on. 

This is my life now. Sometimes I'm cool with it. And sometimes I'm not. 

Sometimes, lathering my hair in the peppermint-infused salon shampoo I got for Christmas is the most exciting part of my day. I stand there and take several deep inhales. There is something about $20 shampoo that makes you feel extravagant. 

I have had a few new friends reach out to me during this time; who have helped me fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming a mall walker. I soak up their motherly wisdom and watch as they weave these complicated cloth wraps around their bodies like an intricate child-holding spider web. 

And I've realized something. 

Being inspired doesn't always mean you have the perfect blog topic to write; being inspired doesn't always mean a showcase of productivity; being inspired isn't cranking out a novel and backpacking Europe. 

Do I hope that one day some of these things will come true for me? Of course. Hello, Italian Gelato. 

But I've got to focus on what God wants from me now. 

Micah 6:8 may have some insight: 

"He has told you, o man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?"

Asking someone to strap on their tennis shoes with you fits this category. Sending a thoughtful text fits this category. Having the guts to write a letter to someone you don't know fits this category (I got one last week and it MADE my day).

You may, like me, occasionally get the feeling that daily inspiration has left the building with Elvis. (Thanks, thanks a lot). Maybe some of your dreams seem to be flushed down the toilet with your car keys and superhero action figures. 

But I encourage you to dabble in new ways to inspire until the timing is right on the others. 

So buy you some tennis shoes. And start walking humbly (and avoid the food court). 

Girl Fight.

I consider myself a well-traveled person; a well-educated person; a supporter of women. Which is why I am one judgmental post away from calling together a Kotex-sponsored United Nations meeting.

I am here to represent an ignored demographic; the woman who sees value in both having ambition and having family. I will never understand why we have pitted the two against each other as this unavoidable dichotomy rather than encouraging one another to strive for both. 

To imply true purpose ends in a law degree or a medical residency is just as flawed as looking down on women who choose to forego family life.

So here's the truth: 

1. A passport, in itself, does not lead to growth. I have one. Besides the fact that my picture resembles the mugshot of a criminal with a bad haircut, I love that thing. It represents a time in my life where I chose to mature, I chose to see people from all walks of life in a whole new way. If it's the stamped paper document that's on your "before I get married bucket list," it is as meaningless as a McDonald's napkin.

2. You don't have to take time to be selfish; you kind of already are. If you really want to "stick it to the man," learn how to be unselfish; how to coexist with another human being and put their needs before your own. I wrote a 30-page graduate thesis with four international students who didn't speak English. But reaching marital equilibrium has been my greatest feat. 

3. Freedom isn't exclusive to a particular marital status. Yes, I'm sure my sister friends out there with kids aren't singing the National Anthem on a daily basis. The closest thing they have to a jail break is when their kids haven't yet figured out they're sitting on the toilet. But there were days when my single freedom was stinted by my bank account or a less than desirable job. Real freedom isn't standing naked in front of a window (this was in an article); real freedom isn't dating two guys at once; real freedom isn't kissing a random stranger. It's a choice. It's chasing contentment rather than momentary gratification. 

It's time to end the division; the notion that dreams die in a sea of "I do's" and the inclination that naivety surrounds women without the title of wife or mom. 

I have spent ample time on both sides of the fence and have found that my emotional and intellectual development was less dependent on my role at the time-- and more contingent on my desire to continually learn and empathize with other human beings. 

While You Were Working...

When I was stuck at the office every day from 8-5, I would occasionally stare out the window and ponder what life was like in the outside world. These mysterious human creatures that were clogging up traffic at two in the afternoon were an oddity that I wanted to explore.

It had to be magical. It just had to be. The world was their oyster while I was clammed up in a four-story asylum. 

So fast forward to today. I am one of them. This is what my research has shown me.

1. They love to stand in pharmacy lines. You go to Wal-Mart at 3 p.m. and find yourself googling, "Is swine flu back in town?" They wind through the roped maze like they're awaiting Space Mountain, rattling off medications like a rapper in a studio. (Vicodin, Lortab, Hydros too-- fill up my bag or I'll yell at you). If you get too close, your apt to hear someone announce that their sister's "got the diabetes." See Exhibit 1.

Exhibit 1

2. Hobby Lobby is the New Country Club. Being the exciting person I am, I went to the craft store to nab some deliciously real-looking fake fruit for the bowl in my kitchen. I'm walking around the place with a bag of plastic green apples, and I see this parade of beautiful moms. Their children (see exhibit 2) follow closely behind--not touching a single glass vase. I'm in awe. They are decorating for their summer home no doubt.

Exhibit 2

3. They like to file lawsuits. You can't make it through one daytime television show without some commercial on television encouraging you to sue the pants off somebody. I would hope, dear sir, that if a doctor had left MESH in my body and I knew about it that it wouldn't take an ad during "The View" to cause me to spring to action. By the end of "The Price is Right," I've already succumbed to believing I've at one point taken all of those medications. What's that number again? 

4. They like to watch instant streaming. Ok, maybe this is just me. Every day-- for a few hours-- I pretend I'm an attorney. I get so sucked in that I feel like we're all friends. (See Exhibit 3).

Exhibit 3

5. They like to talk more out in public. Post five o'clock shoppers got places to BE, yo. I remember marching into Kroger, my demeanor speaking volumes: Don't talk to me. I just need toilet paper. There's something about mid-day shopping that says, "I have all the time in the world. Please tell me everything." I was making my way to the front with an ironing board (Justin's new job encourages not looking like an upright dorm room floor) and this old man approaches me. "About time you got to work." I figured ironing board manslaughter might come with some hard time so I smiled and went on my merry way.

Most importantly, we:

6. Like to bug you. Hide yo bank, hide yo office, hide yo clinics and pharmacies, hide yo restaurants.

We're coming for you.

The Cupcake

I can't quite put my finger on why government-funded offices are so incredibly irritating. Maybe it's the stark white walls. Maybe it's the cardigan police who are inconvenienced by your very presence. Maybe it's the baby doll chairs they link together to provide as much personal space invasion as possible. Maybe it's the prehistoric computers they make you use, consuming you with the sense that your life is moving at the speed of someone on a Wal-Mart scooter.

But there I was in the unemployment office...again. Dealing with the same issues...again. I waited for about an hour, listening to the laughter and banter of people who could have been calling my name. I knew my next stop was my former employer to sign some unfinished paperwork. It was the makings for a grumpfest. 

I left moody--no surprise--but what I did next is what makes this Hot Mess Friday.

I went to the cupcake store next door. How the taste of disdain doesn't float over and poison the batter I shall never know.

"Let me go find a box for this," said the baker (are they still called this?). She was dusted with flour and had a touch of frosting on her face--but in a cute way. I think I will own a bakery in another life. And Justin (or second life husband) will fall in love with me as I describe my favorite cake. He will reach in and lightly remove the frosting that's on the tip of my nose.

I was this close to saying the truth: I don't need a box, mam. It will only get in my way. But I let her do her thing. She sealed it with a sticker and passed it to me with a smile, probably assuming this was a gift for someone special.

I got in my car and ripped that box apart like it had also denied my claims for no reason and went to TOWN. 

I was an awkward 7th grader with braces and the cupcake was the unfortunate soul who asked me to the school dance and tried to seal the night with a goodbye kiss. It was ugly. I looked like a kid whose parents paid a gazillion dollars for a cake smash photography session.

Feeling like a raptor in Jurassic Park, I took a breath and laughed at myself. Hard. 

Who would be friends with me? Would I be friends with myself?

Yes. Yes, I think I would.

I was going to turn this into a wonderful comparison for something quite deep. But then I decided...no. Sometimes you just gorged a cupcake and it's time to move on. You get back up. You drink a Special K protein shake the next day and ask the god of metabolism to forgive your sins. 

Happy Hot Mess Friday, everyone. You can have your cake and eat it too. 

Full-Time

Before I lost my job, I honestly wondered what I was going to do all day. I pictured a scene out of an insane asylum -- a straight-jacketed me rocking back and forth indistinguishably parroting what I heard on "Live with Kelly and Michael." 

This season of my life (all one month of it) has been--surprisingly--not like that at all. While I do sometimes indistinguishably mutter under my breath during morning television (large-framed, black glasses don't a philosopher make, Jenny McCarthy), this month has brought a vitality and refreshment to my life and marriage that I never predicted. 

I have come to this conclusion: 

Being a woman and a wife is a full-time job; one that most of us double-up with another one. Everything I was pathetically fitting in can now fill the hours of my normal day.

I had to cut out five loaves of bread and two fish (at least it wasn't 5000) for each of my students for last night's Bible class. As I leisurely weaved my scissors around the very curvaceous fish (Come on, Picasso-- they're 4), I flashed back to my previous life; a life where I would balance a spreadsheet and reward myself by cutting out paper disciples and stuffing them in my purse for later. 

I'm sure whoever emptied my trash in the evenings wondered who hired the psychopath with the mangled paper dolls in her trashcan. 

When Justin gets home from work, I am able to sit down with him and talk to him about his day; beforehand, it wasn't uncommon for me to say, "How was work?" and then start the vacuum before he had time to answer. Nothing says, "I care about your day" like scream over this monstrous machine. 

All of this and I'm not even a mother. I honestly don't know how you people do it. I went to shut a closet door today and my dog had already pulled every square of toilet paper off the roll and shredded it into confetti pieces. I'm talking 10 seconds- tops. Word on the street is that toddlers are faster and more destructive. 

It is so taboo now to simply enjoy being a woman; a new wife; a friend; a church member. We feel like these are adjunct jobs to the nucleus of our life; I know I did. And it was because I refused to admit that they are a central piece of the puzzle that I questioned what value I would find when the other was gone. 

Much to my surprise, I have found great fulfillment. Justin came in the other day and I gleefully boasted, "I made a chowder-- and I cut up a bunch of vegetables!" Eating vegetables and cutting vegetables are both very dangerous tasks for me. 

Am I saying quit your job? Absolutely not. Am I saying everyone's personality is conducive to not working? Heck no. I know some of you can only digest a Subway sandwich if you're in front of a full email inbox. And that's perfectly OK. 

What I am saying is give yourself a break, sister. You have 3+ full-time jobs and you're beating yourself up like you only have one. 

You are preparing Sunday School lessons when the last thing you want to think about is someone getting swallowed by a giant fish. Someone on TV makes you wonder if your child is gluten-intolerant but the foul-smelling gook all over your business suit informs you that you only have time to deal with his green pea intolerance. You stare at the pudgy mass that has taken residence on your abs and wonder if the gas station food you grab on your lunch break could be the culprit.

I can tell you--from this perspective--that you are a superhero without a cape; a pioneer without praise. 

Know your worth-- with or without a job; know your value within your family (even if it's Dodge's Fried Chicken for supper); know that your husband still sees his college sweetheart even if you don't. 

Get to life.