I know, Thanksgiving is over. A girl can still be thankful, though, can't she?
My future husband and I left Sunday afternoon for a friends-and-family-visiting road trip. We made a stop to visit some family friends in another Georgian city Sunday evening, got up the next morning and left to visit my friend of friends and her family in their nice new house in an Alabamian city, and then left Tuesday afternoon to spend the rest of the week with my family in my Alabamian not-quite hometown. We've had a lovely time so far. Some highlights yet to come: Tomorrow afternoon I try on my wedding dress and tomorrow night the whole family is going to see the play A Christmas Carol at the theater!
I just want to take a few minutes to reflect on what I'm truly thankful for this year. So much has happened. So much has changed. God has been very good to me and now is as good a time as any to express my gratitude. I'm thankful for:
1. My family. I have been very blessed to have such a supportive, loving family. My mom, dad and two brothers have been there for me my entire life.
2. My soon-to-be husband. I love this man so much. God brought him into my life and orchestrated things in both of our lives in a way that only He could. Finding a life partner is the fulfillment of something I have desired for a very long time. What a wonderful thing to see it come to pass in such a beautiful, unexpected way.
3. My church/church family. It's such a relief and a joy to be a part of an assembly that works for us. We've been able to grow spiritually, we've been able to get involved and we've been able to minister to others.
4. My education. I complain about this stage in my program a lot, but I want to see it as a blessing. It's a wonderful opportunity and privilege to reach this level of education, and I thank God for giving me the strength to finish.
5. My friends. I have friends that are like family to me, and I don't know where I would be without them. I just thank God for allowing me to form positive, healthy relationships with people who love and care about me and who want the best for me.
6. My health. It's something that has been very easy for me to take for granted, but I know that it is a gift. It's a blessing to be able to wake up every day with my health and strength and a sound mind.
7. My talents. I'm thankful for the ability to speak several languages and to play instruments like the piano and guitar. They are things I value and things that I can and do use to minister to others.
8. Nutella. Does this really need any explanation?
9. Sunflowers. They're beautiful and bright and having them in my presence makes me happy.
10. My rainbow maker. It makes my mornings dance with color and light.
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
On Productivity
I wish I could be this unfettered while writing my dissertation.
One thing I can say, though, is that I think I've conquered my Facebook compulsion. I used to let it distract me in a terrible way. Like, if I started writing and I hit a thought block, instead of digging down a little deeper into my gray matter and pulling out a plug to reopen the thought flow, I would unhesistatingly skip over to Facebook. Suddenly, my brother's Herculean workout sessions or retellings of adorable children's antics or academic outrage at the oppression-du-jour or Scandal previews became more important than the most important work I have staring me in the face with every breath I take. Write. Write. Write. Write. I would especially get suckered into reading those "numbered" articles (you know the kind. 5 Things that Every...., 10 Tips for...., 17 Ideas to Make Your...., 22 Habits that Every....). Particularly the kind that had to do with relationships and marriage and making it work and what the predictors of success are and how to know you're with the right one and yadda, yadda, yadda.
I deactivated it for a few weeks. I'm technically back on, but now I've limited myself to one checking a day. And no posting. No posting unless I win the lottery or something. Which I wouldn't because I'm not a gambling kinda gal. No interaction of any sort until I make some significant strides toward finishing the seemingly unfinishable.
If you stare at the word 'write' too long, it starts to look strange. It starts to look like it describes some type of extraterrestrian bodily function rather than what it is. And what it is is my ticket out of this extended adolescence. It's the key to escape this transitory state. It's the last step out of this chronically broke student state and into the productive, money-making citizen of society state.
Productive. If you are this, you are the best possible you you could ever be, and if you're not this, you're the worst possible you you could ever be. In our society, productivity is doing. Productivity is producing. Productivity is working. Productivity is progressing. Productivity is validation for existing. And if you aren't doing, producing, working or progressing, you are taking up unearned space. You are breathing in air of which productive people have priority to breathe. I don't really believe that, but that's how I feel as an oft-unproducing person. If you aren't productive, you are a sad, lazy sack of bones.
The fear of existing as a sad, lazy sack of bones prompts me to do something. Eke out a few words. Read a few post-colonial theory-riddled paragraphs. But then the slow going prompts me to have some pretty interesting conversations with myself:
Me: Hey, self, wassup?
Myself: Yo.
Me: So, how's that writing thing going?
Myself: (gives Me major side eye) Really?
Me: (snickering) I know, I know. Makes you want to put it on the "Do not ask" list along with "Where are you going on your honeymoon?" right? Heh, heh.
Myself: Um, can I help you with something? You're distracting me from writing.
Me: C'mon. You call that "writing"? Do you really want to be doing this from here on out? Writing about the hegemony of the patriarchal, racist, sexist nation? Talking about unsettling dominant ideologies and resisting oppression? Girl, stop.
Myself: Um, do you have a problem with what I've chosen to write about? This is my topic. No one's forcing me to write about this. And stop trying to make it sound like overblown academic claptrap. You're so annoying. I know that I have a very relevant, interesting project, and when I'm finished, it's going to be something I'm proud of.
Me: (sighs) Please. We all know what you really want to do.
Myself: Okay, know-it-all. What do I really want to do?
Me: (rolls eyes) Don't act like you don't know. You know good and well you wanna be knocked up and sedentary somewhere with a big fat jar of Nutella at your disposal and a big fat spoon with which to shove it into your mouth. You know you wanna be employing whatever vegetable grater you managed to snag from your little fantasy Williams-Sonoma registry grating up some zucchini to bake loaf after loaf of zucchini bread. You want to join a knitting circle so you can finally learn to knit and decide that your first project will be some ill-made booties for the baby. You want to --
Myself: Shut. Up. You are the worst, you know that? You are like, the incarnation of the phrase "You are your own worst enemy." Geez. So what if I'd like to do some version of those things you so snidely characterized my wanting to do? Wanting to learn to knit or have a baby one day does not preclude my finishing a dissertation. Good Lord. Working in academia as well as having a family and baking zucchini bread and learning to knit are not mutually exclusive. Sit yo' ol' limited mindset, negative, snide, sarcastic, jaded behind down somewhere. Here you are talking all this smack about what I "really want to do" when you're actually preventing me from getting into the position of being able to do anything I actually "really want to do" because I'm sitting here listening to you when I should be writing. Finishing my dissertation and graduating are also things I "really want to do." So, please. You need to go somewhere with all that.
Me: (trying to act unfazed) Yeah, okay.
So...productivity. Yeah. It eludes me at times. And it makes me question my goals, motivations and desires. But here we are. I'd venture to say that "productive" is relative. If productivity were measured by sheer words which translate into sheer page numbers...I'm not the most productive gal on the block. But if productivity were judged by the quality of what I have produced thus far...maybe I'd be a little higher up on the productivity totem pole. At least according to my adviser. My goal is to have a complete chapter submitted before I leave for Christmas break. I'm already halfway there. ¡Sí, se puede!
One thing I can say, though, is that I think I've conquered my Facebook compulsion. I used to let it distract me in a terrible way. Like, if I started writing and I hit a thought block, instead of digging down a little deeper into my gray matter and pulling out a plug to reopen the thought flow, I would unhesistatingly skip over to Facebook. Suddenly, my brother's Herculean workout sessions or retellings of adorable children's antics or academic outrage at the oppression-du-jour or Scandal previews became more important than the most important work I have staring me in the face with every breath I take. Write. Write. Write. Write. I would especially get suckered into reading those "numbered" articles (you know the kind. 5 Things that Every...., 10 Tips for...., 17 Ideas to Make Your...., 22 Habits that Every....). Particularly the kind that had to do with relationships and marriage and making it work and what the predictors of success are and how to know you're with the right one and yadda, yadda, yadda.
I deactivated it for a few weeks. I'm technically back on, but now I've limited myself to one checking a day. And no posting. No posting unless I win the lottery or something. Which I wouldn't because I'm not a gambling kinda gal. No interaction of any sort until I make some significant strides toward finishing the seemingly unfinishable.
If you stare at the word 'write' too long, it starts to look strange. It starts to look like it describes some type of extraterrestrian bodily function rather than what it is. And what it is is my ticket out of this extended adolescence. It's the key to escape this transitory state. It's the last step out of this chronically broke student state and into the productive, money-making citizen of society state.
Productive. If you are this, you are the best possible you you could ever be, and if you're not this, you're the worst possible you you could ever be. In our society, productivity is doing. Productivity is producing. Productivity is working. Productivity is progressing. Productivity is validation for existing. And if you aren't doing, producing, working or progressing, you are taking up unearned space. You are breathing in air of which productive people have priority to breathe. I don't really believe that, but that's how I feel as an oft-unproducing person. If you aren't productive, you are a sad, lazy sack of bones.
The fear of existing as a sad, lazy sack of bones prompts me to do something. Eke out a few words. Read a few post-colonial theory-riddled paragraphs. But then the slow going prompts me to have some pretty interesting conversations with myself:
Me: Hey, self, wassup?
Myself: Yo.
Me: So, how's that writing thing going?
Myself: (gives Me major side eye) Really?
Me: (snickering) I know, I know. Makes you want to put it on the "Do not ask" list along with "Where are you going on your honeymoon?" right? Heh, heh.
Myself: Um, can I help you with something? You're distracting me from writing.
Me: C'mon. You call that "writing"? Do you really want to be doing this from here on out? Writing about the hegemony of the patriarchal, racist, sexist nation? Talking about unsettling dominant ideologies and resisting oppression? Girl, stop.
Myself: Um, do you have a problem with what I've chosen to write about? This is my topic. No one's forcing me to write about this. And stop trying to make it sound like overblown academic claptrap. You're so annoying. I know that I have a very relevant, interesting project, and when I'm finished, it's going to be something I'm proud of.
Me: (sighs) Please. We all know what you really want to do.
Myself: Okay, know-it-all. What do I really want to do?
Me: (rolls eyes) Don't act like you don't know. You know good and well you wanna be knocked up and sedentary somewhere with a big fat jar of Nutella at your disposal and a big fat spoon with which to shove it into your mouth. You know you wanna be employing whatever vegetable grater you managed to snag from your little fantasy Williams-Sonoma registry grating up some zucchini to bake loaf after loaf of zucchini bread. You want to join a knitting circle so you can finally learn to knit and decide that your first project will be some ill-made booties for the baby. You want to --
Myself: Shut. Up. You are the worst, you know that? You are like, the incarnation of the phrase "You are your own worst enemy." Geez. So what if I'd like to do some version of those things you so snidely characterized my wanting to do? Wanting to learn to knit or have a baby one day does not preclude my finishing a dissertation. Good Lord. Working in academia as well as having a family and baking zucchini bread and learning to knit are not mutually exclusive. Sit yo' ol' limited mindset, negative, snide, sarcastic, jaded behind down somewhere. Here you are talking all this smack about what I "really want to do" when you're actually preventing me from getting into the position of being able to do anything I actually "really want to do" because I'm sitting here listening to you when I should be writing. Finishing my dissertation and graduating are also things I "really want to do." So, please. You need to go somewhere with all that.
Me: (trying to act unfazed) Yeah, okay.
So...productivity. Yeah. It eludes me at times. And it makes me question my goals, motivations and desires. But here we are. I'd venture to say that "productive" is relative. If productivity were measured by sheer words which translate into sheer page numbers...I'm not the most productive gal on the block. But if productivity were judged by the quality of what I have produced thus far...maybe I'd be a little higher up on the productivity totem pole. At least according to my adviser. My goal is to have a complete chapter submitted before I leave for Christmas break. I'm already halfway there. ¡Sí, se puede!
Saturday, November 08, 2014
The Struggle Is Part of the Story
This semester, I'm teaching two classes I'd never taught before. One is the second semester of elementary Spanish, which I wasn't too freaked out about, but the other, Latino Literature and Culture, represents the first time I've taught a literature, content-based class at the university level. When I first realized I would be teaching it, I was freaking out.
Now, it has turned out to be my favorite class. My students are a diverse group of amazing kids and teaching this course reminds me that I'm doing what I've always wanted to do...teach literature.
A student in my class had problems with anxiety and depression and began missing a lot of days. I became concerned about her and reached out to her and she was upfront with me about what she had been experiencing and let me know that she'd taken steps to get help. She asked if she could stay enrolled in my class and asked if she could make up the work she missed and I let her know I was willing to work with her.
Yesterday, she totally surprised me with a beautiful, hand-decorated thank you card telling me how grateful she is that I gave her a second chance and a drawing featuring the quotation "The struggle is part of the story." It took everything in me not to just well up with tears right then and there.
Sometimes, many times, I question myself. What am I even doing? Why did I decide to start this PhD program? Hard work, very little pay, no guarantees...but I have to stop and realize that I was placed here for a reason. That this difficult time has a purpose, I have a goal in sight, and it will pay off. At the same time, I have to realize that neither is this time a mere means to an end. This is a season in my life, but I'm still living my life. This time is a part of my story.
My student said, "Miss Smith, you have no idea how much you've helped me and how much your understanding means to me." In reality, she has no idea how much she's reminded me of my purpose.
Writing a dissertation is one of the most difficult things I've ever undertaken. It can get very discouraging at times. But I have to remember that starting this program was the best decision I've ever made. Moving to Athens gave me a chance to start over, get grounded, further my education. I have supportive mentors in my committee. I found a loving church community to be a part of. I met the love of my life. All of these things are a part of my story, too, and I am grateful.
Now, it has turned out to be my favorite class. My students are a diverse group of amazing kids and teaching this course reminds me that I'm doing what I've always wanted to do...teach literature.
A student in my class had problems with anxiety and depression and began missing a lot of days. I became concerned about her and reached out to her and she was upfront with me about what she had been experiencing and let me know that she'd taken steps to get help. She asked if she could stay enrolled in my class and asked if she could make up the work she missed and I let her know I was willing to work with her.
Yesterday, she totally surprised me with a beautiful, hand-decorated thank you card telling me how grateful she is that I gave her a second chance and a drawing featuring the quotation "The struggle is part of the story." It took everything in me not to just well up with tears right then and there.
Sometimes, many times, I question myself. What am I even doing? Why did I decide to start this PhD program? Hard work, very little pay, no guarantees...but I have to stop and realize that I was placed here for a reason. That this difficult time has a purpose, I have a goal in sight, and it will pay off. At the same time, I have to realize that neither is this time a mere means to an end. This is a season in my life, but I'm still living my life. This time is a part of my story.
My student said, "Miss Smith, you have no idea how much you've helped me and how much your understanding means to me." In reality, she has no idea how much she's reminded me of my purpose.
Writing a dissertation is one of the most difficult things I've ever undertaken. It can get very discouraging at times. But I have to remember that starting this program was the best decision I've ever made. Moving to Athens gave me a chance to start over, get grounded, further my education. I have supportive mentors in my committee. I found a loving church community to be a part of. I met the love of my life. All of these things are a part of my story, too, and I am grateful.
Thursday, November 06, 2014
"It's going to be hard work." Nawl, really?
So, we opened up little registries at Bed Bath and Beyond and Target. (I might do a little Williams-Sonoma som'n som'n on the side, doe.)
There's just something about deciding upon vacuum cleaners and toasters and towels that make this thing more real. Like, this is actually going down. I'm seriously going to marry this guy.
I don't know why the idea of myself, this me that I've always been, getting married is still hard for me to completely grasp.
Like, there is this person, this completely separate entity, a grown man, who is going to be my husband. A person who, just a year ago, I was still getting to know. Just a year ago, he was just beginning to enter my world and I, just beginning to enter his. This same person is now going to be the one I wake up next to every morning. He's going to be a father to our children. There's still something about the whole thing that's amazing and unbelievable to me.
I was having a conversation with someone today, and they were like,"Enjoy this time now, because there's hard work ahead to keep it a happy marriage." I mean, I get that we're still in the so-called "honeymoon phase" or whatever. I get it. I'm trying to be realistic about things and keep in mind that we're going to have disagreements, that money is going to be tight, and that things are going to come up that neither of us are prepared for that we're just going to have to roll with. But can I be honest and say there's something about this "it's going to be hard work" reminder that slightly annoys me?
There's something about this need for "experienced" people to remind me that "it's not going to be all roses all the time" that is kind of patronizing. I think I'm mature enough to recognize that things aren't always going to be giddily exciting. Of course it's going to be hard work. Good Lord, anything that's worth anything usually is.
I realize that many people who say this are usually doing so with good intentions, but part of me is kind of like, okay, just because your honeymoon phase was short-lived doesn't mean that ours has to be. Just because you got jaded in your marriage because you or your partner stopped putting in the effort doesn't mean the same thing is going to happen to us. Some people make "reality setting in" out to be something negative, when it really doesn't have to be.
I get that we're less experienced in the institution of marriage compared to those who've been married 10+ years. But it's not like we're 18-year-olds without a clue to who we are as people, what matters the most to us, or what our goals are in life.
Speaking of the honeymoon phase...we just made reservations at a quaint little inn in a charming Southern town.
There's just something about deciding upon vacuum cleaners and toasters and towels that make this thing more real. Like, this is actually going down. I'm seriously going to marry this guy.
I don't know why the idea of myself, this me that I've always been, getting married is still hard for me to completely grasp.
Like, there is this person, this completely separate entity, a grown man, who is going to be my husband. A person who, just a year ago, I was still getting to know. Just a year ago, he was just beginning to enter my world and I, just beginning to enter his. This same person is now going to be the one I wake up next to every morning. He's going to be a father to our children. There's still something about the whole thing that's amazing and unbelievable to me.
I was having a conversation with someone today, and they were like,"Enjoy this time now, because there's hard work ahead to keep it a happy marriage." I mean, I get that we're still in the so-called "honeymoon phase" or whatever. I get it. I'm trying to be realistic about things and keep in mind that we're going to have disagreements, that money is going to be tight, and that things are going to come up that neither of us are prepared for that we're just going to have to roll with. But can I be honest and say there's something about this "it's going to be hard work" reminder that slightly annoys me?
There's something about this need for "experienced" people to remind me that "it's not going to be all roses all the time" that is kind of patronizing. I think I'm mature enough to recognize that things aren't always going to be giddily exciting. Of course it's going to be hard work. Good Lord, anything that's worth anything usually is.
I realize that many people who say this are usually doing so with good intentions, but part of me is kind of like, okay, just because your honeymoon phase was short-lived doesn't mean that ours has to be. Just because you got jaded in your marriage because you or your partner stopped putting in the effort doesn't mean the same thing is going to happen to us. Some people make "reality setting in" out to be something negative, when it really doesn't have to be.
I get that we're less experienced in the institution of marriage compared to those who've been married 10+ years. But it's not like we're 18-year-olds without a clue to who we are as people, what matters the most to us, or what our goals are in life.
Speaking of the honeymoon phase...we just made reservations at a quaint little inn in a charming Southern town.
Friday, October 31, 2014
Cherished
Yes, another one of those posts where I'm supposed to be working on my chapter, but I'm blogging instead. Yes, another one of those posts that's about him.
One of the reasons I am super in love and super excited about this guy is that I feel absolutely, positively cherished by him. Not a day goes by that he doesn't tell me he loves me. Not a day goes by that he doesn't tell me I'm beautiful. He loves my hair: straight, wavy, curly, with braids on the side, afroed out, pinned up. He's always grateful when I make dinner and he washes the dishes afterward. He tells me all the time how lucky he is to have me. He tells me all the time how happy I make him. He tells me that I'm perfect for him. He's written songs for me. Poetry for me. He's affectionate. His gestures are simple and sweet. A kiss on the hand, on the forehead. Sunflowers just because. He is expressive. He is creative. He is honest and forthright and consistent. He whispers, "I'm going to take care of you and keep you safe and warm." Stroking my cheek, he says, "I just keep falling more and more in love with you." With his fingers intertwined with mine, "I love to see you smile." This is not fanciful. This is real. This is flesh and blood.
I've always wanted this kind of love. It's a love that is sure, unafraid, unconditional. It's a love that isn't going anywhere. It's a love that makes itself known, no guessing, no wondering. It's honest and bare. No pretense. No need to maintain an image to hide insecurities. It's all in. It's as if I went out, frantically searching for something, and then, exhausted by my own efforts, realizing they were futile, I went back home. And that's when I found it. As if it had always been there, waiting for me.
One of the reasons I am super in love and super excited about this guy is that I feel absolutely, positively cherished by him. Not a day goes by that he doesn't tell me he loves me. Not a day goes by that he doesn't tell me I'm beautiful. He loves my hair: straight, wavy, curly, with braids on the side, afroed out, pinned up. He's always grateful when I make dinner and he washes the dishes afterward. He tells me all the time how lucky he is to have me. He tells me all the time how happy I make him. He tells me that I'm perfect for him. He's written songs for me. Poetry for me. He's affectionate. His gestures are simple and sweet. A kiss on the hand, on the forehead. Sunflowers just because. He is expressive. He is creative. He is honest and forthright and consistent. He whispers, "I'm going to take care of you and keep you safe and warm." Stroking my cheek, he says, "I just keep falling more and more in love with you." With his fingers intertwined with mine, "I love to see you smile." This is not fanciful. This is real. This is flesh and blood.
I've always wanted this kind of love. It's a love that is sure, unafraid, unconditional. It's a love that isn't going anywhere. It's a love that makes itself known, no guessing, no wondering. It's honest and bare. No pretense. No need to maintain an image to hide insecurities. It's all in. It's as if I went out, frantically searching for something, and then, exhausted by my own efforts, realizing they were futile, I went back home. And that's when I found it. As if it had always been there, waiting for me.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
The Evolution of a Wanna-Be Homemaker, Recipe List Addendum
Here's a slight continuation of this post a little earlier today. I wanted to think about and make a list of some of the things I've made for my guy that have gone over well. Some have become more or less regulars or favorites. Some of them are also my go-to's if I have people over for dinner.
Entrees (Word nerd side note: although we borrowed this word from the French and use it to mean the main meal, or main part of the meal, in France, it's actually what we would refer to as an appetizer or starter course.)
1. Chicken florentine over bowtie pasta
2. Chicken poppyseed casserole
3. Eggplant parmesan
4. Spinach/bacon/tomato quiche
5. Zucchini/squash quiche
6. Italian sausage/spinach quiche
7. Broccoli/cheddar quiche
8. Pasta carbonara
9. Red wine pot roast
10. Fajitas
11. Quesadillas
12. Yellow curry
13. Stir fry
14. Meatball stroganoff
15. Baked dijon salmon
16. Roast pork tenderloin
17. Chili
Sides
1. Roasted parmesan green beans
2. Garlic mashed potatoes
3. Stuffed tomatoes
4. Roasted rosemary red potatoes
5. Roasted asparagus
6. Spinach/goat cheese/cranberry/walnut salad
7. Spinach/pork tenderloin/pear/cranberry salad
8. Leftover mashed potato puffs
9. Cheddar cornbread muffins
10. Glazed carrots
11. Sauteed zucchini/squash
(Note to self: I still haven't made squash casserole or corn pudding for him...that should happen soon.)
Desserts
1. Pineapple cherry cobbler
2. Pound cake
3. Homemade vanilla ice cream
4. Pumpkin spice muffins
5. Zucchini bread
(I still need to bake some banana bread. It's been a while.)
When I look back on these culinary achievements, I'm kind of proud of myself. I mean, considering that I used to not know how to make anything. I still haven't made a homemade pizza for him or these little mozzarella-stuffed mini-meatloaves I made once upon a time...
Entrees (Word nerd side note: although we borrowed this word from the French and use it to mean the main meal, or main part of the meal, in France, it's actually what we would refer to as an appetizer or starter course.)
1. Chicken florentine over bowtie pasta
2. Chicken poppyseed casserole
3. Eggplant parmesan
4. Spinach/bacon/tomato quiche
5. Zucchini/squash quiche
6. Italian sausage/spinach quiche
7. Broccoli/cheddar quiche
8. Pasta carbonara
9. Red wine pot roast
10. Fajitas
11. Quesadillas
12. Yellow curry
13. Stir fry
14. Meatball stroganoff
15. Baked dijon salmon
16. Roast pork tenderloin
17. Chili
Sides
1. Roasted parmesan green beans
2. Garlic mashed potatoes
3. Stuffed tomatoes
4. Roasted rosemary red potatoes
5. Roasted asparagus
6. Spinach/goat cheese/cranberry/walnut salad
7. Spinach/pork tenderloin/pear/cranberry salad
8. Leftover mashed potato puffs
9. Cheddar cornbread muffins
10. Glazed carrots
11. Sauteed zucchini/squash
(Note to self: I still haven't made squash casserole or corn pudding for him...that should happen soon.)
Desserts
1. Pineapple cherry cobbler
2. Pound cake
3. Homemade vanilla ice cream
4. Pumpkin spice muffins
5. Zucchini bread
(I still need to bake some banana bread. It's been a while.)
When I look back on these culinary achievements, I'm kind of proud of myself. I mean, considering that I used to not know how to make anything. I still haven't made a homemade pizza for him or these little mozzarella-stuffed mini-meatloaves I made once upon a time...
The Evolution of a Wanna-Be Homemaker
If you would have told my high school/undergrad self that I would ever one day make Italian sausage and spinach quiches and bake zucchini bread (with cranberries) for some dude, I would have laughed at you.
Like, if he's a grown man, he can make his own food. Ugh.
I used to get slightly annoyed with my mom when she would act all accommodating with my dad regarding food. "Honey, are you hungry? Honey, do you want me to fix you x? I can make you a y. Are you sure you don't want z?" Woman, if the man really wanted something, he would get it. And he's an able-bodied human who doesn't need you to be hovering over him like he's a helpless baby bird. Please.
I ask myself, how did I go from that, totally turned off by the very idea of cooking for an able-bodied grown man, and not knowing how to make squat even if I wanted to, to salivating and having housewife fantasies in Williams-Sonoma?
I guess it started when I got my own place. I finally graduated, finally had a real job, finally had my own place, finally had bills to pay, etc. None of this eating out every night. That junk gets expensive. So I guess, it started out of financial expediency. And from getting a Crock Pot for Christmas. I started experimenting, and, Imma be for real, not all the experiments were good.
When my experiments started turning out a little better, I would have people over for dinner here and there. Nothing grand. The years went by and I slowly went accumulating casserole recipes and would eat whatever casserole for days since it was just little old me.
Stuff got real, though, when I had my little garden a couple of summers ago. I had mad veggies and I had to do something with those guys. Zucchini and squash and tomatoes. This time is known as the Era of the Quiche. In addition to quiche, I cooked casseroles and pizzas and soups and roasted and sauteed and stuffed and did anything you can do to vegetables. Oh, and I perfected the art of zucchini bread. I began to like cooking and baking for myself and other people. Sometimes I would bake bread and muffins or whatever to give away to people to help me beat the blues.
Ever since my special guy made his appearance, though, I've been 10 times worse than my mom. I'm always up in that poor guy's face trying to get him to eat stuff. He likes everything I make, though. He's always like, "Oh, this is wonderful." And I get a big fat toothy goofy smile across my face that won't go away.
I don't make stuff for my special guy because he expects me to. I don't do it because I feel obligated to. I don't do it because he's not an able-bodied grown man who can make his own food. (Although, if left to his own devices, "making his own food" amounts to sticking a Lean Cuisine in the microwave or taking a trip to Wendy's.) I do it because it's one of the ways I say "I love you."
Now, here I am, anticipating the return of my sweet fiancé (And, oh, I could nauseate you with the terms of endearment we have for each other. "Sweet fiancé" is nothing. But I'll spare you.) tonight with his favorite kind of quiche and a loaf of zucchini bread. Because I love him.
Like, if he's a grown man, he can make his own food. Ugh.
I used to get slightly annoyed with my mom when she would act all accommodating with my dad regarding food. "Honey, are you hungry? Honey, do you want me to fix you x? I can make you a y. Are you sure you don't want z?" Woman, if the man really wanted something, he would get it. And he's an able-bodied human who doesn't need you to be hovering over him like he's a helpless baby bird. Please.
I ask myself, how did I go from that, totally turned off by the very idea of cooking for an able-bodied grown man, and not knowing how to make squat even if I wanted to, to salivating and having housewife fantasies in Williams-Sonoma?
I guess it started when I got my own place. I finally graduated, finally had a real job, finally had my own place, finally had bills to pay, etc. None of this eating out every night. That junk gets expensive. So I guess, it started out of financial expediency. And from getting a Crock Pot for Christmas. I started experimenting, and, Imma be for real, not all the experiments were good.
When my experiments started turning out a little better, I would have people over for dinner here and there. Nothing grand. The years went by and I slowly went accumulating casserole recipes and would eat whatever casserole for days since it was just little old me.
Stuff got real, though, when I had my little garden a couple of summers ago. I had mad veggies and I had to do something with those guys. Zucchini and squash and tomatoes. This time is known as the Era of the Quiche. In addition to quiche, I cooked casseroles and pizzas and soups and roasted and sauteed and stuffed and did anything you can do to vegetables. Oh, and I perfected the art of zucchini bread. I began to like cooking and baking for myself and other people. Sometimes I would bake bread and muffins or whatever to give away to people to help me beat the blues.
Ever since my special guy made his appearance, though, I've been 10 times worse than my mom. I'm always up in that poor guy's face trying to get him to eat stuff. He likes everything I make, though. He's always like, "Oh, this is wonderful." And I get a big fat toothy goofy smile across my face that won't go away.
I don't make stuff for my special guy because he expects me to. I don't do it because I feel obligated to. I don't do it because he's not an able-bodied grown man who can make his own food. (Although, if left to his own devices, "making his own food" amounts to sticking a Lean Cuisine in the microwave or taking a trip to Wendy's.) I do it because it's one of the ways I say "I love you."
Now, here I am, anticipating the return of my sweet fiancé (And, oh, I could nauseate you with the terms of endearment we have for each other. "Sweet fiancé" is nothing. But I'll spare you.) tonight with his favorite kind of quiche and a loaf of zucchini bread. Because I love him.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Gone Guy
So...my guy left today to present at a conference in Chicago and will be there for the rest of the weekend.
Sad face.
I guess that means I have no excuse for not being extra productive, right?
What I really want to do is get a greasy Popeye's chicken dinner combo and catch up on Scandal. I don't watch Scandal with him because the one-and-a-half times we tried to watch it together, he was like, "This is ridiculous." And you know what? I ain't even mad at him. Because it is. It totally is.
The show we do watch together is Chopped. When the host is going over the rules as he always does at the beginning of the show, fiancé always says this with him: "...also available to you, our pantry and fridge." I laugh every single time. I have a crush on one of the judges, Scott Conant. It's not that he's so overwhelmingly handsome (although he is, in a slightly rugged way), it's that he has this swagger that's super attractive. And he has dark hair but red facial hair. Just like my fiancé.
I think our little girl has the possibility of having red hair, but he doesn't believe me. He's like, "Two dark-haired people are unlikely to have a red-haired child." But see, I'm trying to tell him that even though neither of us actually has red hair, we both have red-hair potential. Like, the gene exists in us. Him, with the red facial hair, and me with the oh-so-slightly reddish tint of the hair on my head. I'm not talking about straight up fire-engine Irish red. I'm talking about coppery brownish-red. Like this little girl's hair. He won't believe me. I'm telling him that if he doesn't believe it, it will be even less likely to happen. He has to believe it.
Aaargh! I'm not getting anything done! I have to get something done so that when he gets back I will be able to honestly say that I got stuff done. That I was industrious while he was away. Not that I devolved into a greasy food-eating, trashy show-watching leech. I want him to come back to a new me, a me who has transformed into a noble, hard-working, confident scholar. Who has completed a chapter draft so profound that it would move my entire committee to tears. A draft so inviolate that my major professor would have no choice other than to quote Marc Antony's elegy of Brutus in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar to describe my academic prowess.
Double click on "Chapter 2 A Mercy." Look at it for a few minutes. Type out a few words. Feel like they're the most inane thoughts ever conceived of. Stare at it a little more. Try to scrape together a few more brain cells to squeeze out maybe two or three more words. Lather, rinse, repeat. Meanwhile, my guy, if he were here, would be sitting inches away from me, ensconced in a linguistically inspired academic force field, impenetrable by every iota of distraction. He's a machine. An academic work horse. Focused as laser light.
I'm standing on the tracks, waiting for an inspiration train to hit me. In the meantime, I will eke out 3 words an hour as I fight the urge to hit up Popeye's and drown my uninspired dissertation-writing existence in grease and the lives of fictional Washington fixers as I miss my bespectacled, freckled, dimpled, wonderful, hard-working, conference-presenting guy.
Sad face.
I guess that means I have no excuse for not being extra productive, right?
What I really want to do is get a greasy Popeye's chicken dinner combo and catch up on Scandal. I don't watch Scandal with him because the one-and-a-half times we tried to watch it together, he was like, "This is ridiculous." And you know what? I ain't even mad at him. Because it is. It totally is.
The show we do watch together is Chopped. When the host is going over the rules as he always does at the beginning of the show, fiancé always says this with him: "...also available to you, our pantry and fridge." I laugh every single time. I have a crush on one of the judges, Scott Conant. It's not that he's so overwhelmingly handsome (although he is, in a slightly rugged way), it's that he has this swagger that's super attractive. And he has dark hair but red facial hair. Just like my fiancé.
I think our little girl has the possibility of having red hair, but he doesn't believe me. He's like, "Two dark-haired people are unlikely to have a red-haired child." But see, I'm trying to tell him that even though neither of us actually has red hair, we both have red-hair potential. Like, the gene exists in us. Him, with the red facial hair, and me with the oh-so-slightly reddish tint of the hair on my head. I'm not talking about straight up fire-engine Irish red. I'm talking about coppery brownish-red. Like this little girl's hair. He won't believe me. I'm telling him that if he doesn't believe it, it will be even less likely to happen. He has to believe it.
Aaargh! I'm not getting anything done! I have to get something done so that when he gets back I will be able to honestly say that I got stuff done. That I was industrious while he was away. Not that I devolved into a greasy food-eating, trashy show-watching leech. I want him to come back to a new me, a me who has transformed into a noble, hard-working, confident scholar. Who has completed a chapter draft so profound that it would move my entire committee to tears. A draft so inviolate that my major professor would have no choice other than to quote Marc Antony's elegy of Brutus in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar to describe my academic prowess.
Double click on "Chapter 2 A Mercy." Look at it for a few minutes. Type out a few words. Feel like they're the most inane thoughts ever conceived of. Stare at it a little more. Try to scrape together a few more brain cells to squeeze out maybe two or three more words. Lather, rinse, repeat. Meanwhile, my guy, if he were here, would be sitting inches away from me, ensconced in a linguistically inspired academic force field, impenetrable by every iota of distraction. He's a machine. An academic work horse. Focused as laser light.
I'm standing on the tracks, waiting for an inspiration train to hit me. In the meantime, I will eke out 3 words an hour as I fight the urge to hit up Popeye's and drown my uninspired dissertation-writing existence in grease and the lives of fictional Washington fixers as I miss my bespectacled, freckled, dimpled, wonderful, hard-working, conference-presenting guy.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
I need to be grading midterms and working on my chapter,
but instead, I'm letting my mind wander.
I'm sitting across from my fiancé at a coffee shop we frequent quite often and am taking furtive looks at him as he works consistently, steadily. He's reading an article called "The Syllable in Phonological Theory." I have a stack of Latino Literature and Culture midterms looking up at me expectantly. I tried to start grading them, but the first one I attempted to grade is by a student who obviously didn't study and attempts to compensate for that fact by providing vague, poorly-contextualized answers. A total de-motivator. I use a blue pen. It's much more calming. Red ones make me feel like I'm bleeding out my rage upon answers like this.
We're starting marriage counseling soon. In preparation for it, we've been reading a book given to us by our pastor. Like, taking turns reading the (very short) chapters out loud and then discussing them. All I can say is that we've had some much-needed conversations and it's been good for us. Both of us are kind of non-confrontational people, and we both have a tendency to sort of let things go and not address them if nothing manifests as an obvious problem. Reading the book together has pushed us to talk about things that maybe we haven't had occasion to before. It's brought us together in ways I didn't expect and makes me feel that we're establishing a precedent for how we should and will communicate with each other in our marriage.
Things are slowly coming together for the wedding...my fiancé has taken care of the tux situations; what he's wearing, what the groomsmen will wear, and I've finally gotten things together for the bridesmaids. Fun fact: there are twice as many groomsmen as bridesmaids. We had a tasting with the caterer. We've secured a photographer and baker for the cake(s). We've since sent out our save-the-dates and we've designed our invitations. Things are starting to look like this is actually happening.
Our "anniversary" is coming up. October 21, 2013 is the day we first went to coffee together. (See the "Intra-departmental coffee chats" section in a post that very day.) I could never have fathomed that in less than a year from that day we'd be in love, involved in ministry together, engaged, planning our wedding. When I stop to think about it, it truly seems unbelievable. We're going to celebrate by going back to that same coffee shop this coming Tuesday.
Sigh. I can't believe we're already smack in the middle of October. I need to be further along on my dissertation. I really do. But there are only 210 days left until we get married. 'Only' is relative, I suppose.
I'm sitting across from my fiancé at a coffee shop we frequent quite often and am taking furtive looks at him as he works consistently, steadily. He's reading an article called "The Syllable in Phonological Theory." I have a stack of Latino Literature and Culture midterms looking up at me expectantly. I tried to start grading them, but the first one I attempted to grade is by a student who obviously didn't study and attempts to compensate for that fact by providing vague, poorly-contextualized answers. A total de-motivator. I use a blue pen. It's much more calming. Red ones make me feel like I'm bleeding out my rage upon answers like this.
We're starting marriage counseling soon. In preparation for it, we've been reading a book given to us by our pastor. Like, taking turns reading the (very short) chapters out loud and then discussing them. All I can say is that we've had some much-needed conversations and it's been good for us. Both of us are kind of non-confrontational people, and we both have a tendency to sort of let things go and not address them if nothing manifests as an obvious problem. Reading the book together has pushed us to talk about things that maybe we haven't had occasion to before. It's brought us together in ways I didn't expect and makes me feel that we're establishing a precedent for how we should and will communicate with each other in our marriage.
Things are slowly coming together for the wedding...my fiancé has taken care of the tux situations; what he's wearing, what the groomsmen will wear, and I've finally gotten things together for the bridesmaids. Fun fact: there are twice as many groomsmen as bridesmaids. We had a tasting with the caterer. We've secured a photographer and baker for the cake(s). We've since sent out our save-the-dates and we've designed our invitations. Things are starting to look like this is actually happening.
Our "anniversary" is coming up. October 21, 2013 is the day we first went to coffee together. (See the "Intra-departmental coffee chats" section in a post that very day.) I could never have fathomed that in less than a year from that day we'd be in love, involved in ministry together, engaged, planning our wedding. When I stop to think about it, it truly seems unbelievable. We're going to celebrate by going back to that same coffee shop this coming Tuesday.
Sigh. I can't believe we're already smack in the middle of October. I need to be further along on my dissertation. I really do. But there are only 210 days left until we get married. 'Only' is relative, I suppose.
Tuesday, October 07, 2014
It's Really Not My Day, But That's Okay
It's YOUR day. Things should be the way YOU want them to be. You only get married once!
The last statement is usually followed by a qualifier (cuz in these last and evil days...), but these are common things said to the bride-to-be. It's about YOU. What matters is that YOU'RE happy, that you get what YOU want.
But let's be real, shall we? It's so not about me. It just isn't.
There's something slightly meta about my complaint that "my day" is really not about me, and it's this: The very idea of my wedding day being "mine" and the idea that "my happiness" with everything is paramount being foisted onto me is itself what I don't want.
Do you see what I'm saying? People wanting me to "be happy" with all the choices that are made concerning my wedding and wanting me to own "my big day" and wanting me to want "what I want" is itself a type of pressure that masks itself as not-pressure because it's supposedly simply about my desires for something I've always dreamed of.
Rather, something I'm supposed to have always dreamed of.
I'm not saying that I haven't always wanted to get married. There were times in my life that it wasn't a frantic priority, but I'll be honest enough to say that as I got older, it did become more of a priority. It is something that I've always wanted—to be a wife and, one day, a mother. And I am thrilled that I'm marrying a man who has a relationship with God, who absolutely adores me and who also wants to have a family. Marriage and family are things I've always dreamed of, for sure.
But THE DAY. The fanfare of THE DAY is not something I've always dreamed of. Sure, there are things that I've wanted when and if THE DAY ever came for me. I wanted a medieval/Renaissance-style dress with draping Queen Guinevere sleeves. I wanted sunflowers to be involved. I wanted the color lavender to be involved. I wanted it to be outside. These are the specific things I've wanted and, so far, all of those things are going to be a part of THE DAY. Give me my sleeves, my sunflowers and my lavender outside. That is all I ask.
But I haven't had little pink princess cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles dreams of my wedding ever since I was a little girl. I haven't had this rapturous vision of how everything must be for my happiness to be ensured. And sometimes, because I don't have this rapturous vision, because I don't insist on creating this rapturous vision, I feel not-pressured into wanting what I'm not even sure I want.
To be fair, I am a person who is reluctant to speak up about something if I don't really want it or like it. Most people who say these things to me truly want me to be happy and not be afraid to voice what I want. But even the most benign, "Aren't you excited?" or reminder that "it's only one day, so make it count" can make me feel slightly pressured and paranoid. Like, of course I'm excited, but if I'm not the kind of excited people expect to see (after having been single for sooooooo long, oh, Lord I thought you'd never find someone, you should be screaming from the rooftops and flashing your engagement ring in everyone's face because the Lord finally had mercy on your poor single soul), have I exhibited bride-to-be excitement failure? If my one day doesn't blind you with exquisiteness, have I failed to make it count?
My mom said, "If you really don't want to have a ceremony, you don't have to have one." Yeah, right. So many people would call for my public guillotining if I said that for real. But it's not even about my not wanting to have a ceremony. I think it would be nice to have one. There are so many people who have loved and cared for and supported me and who are important to me and I think celebrating this day with them is a nice idea. It's also probably the only day that our families will all be together. It's a day that I'll want to remember. But all of the reasons that I want to have a ceremony have nothing to do with my wedding as MY day. If I have a ceremony (which I will), it will be precisely because it isn't my day. It's also everyone else's day because I'm choosing to share it with them by having a ceremony in the first place. And that's okay.
The last statement is usually followed by a qualifier (cuz in these last and evil days...), but these are common things said to the bride-to-be. It's about YOU. What matters is that YOU'RE happy, that you get what YOU want.
But let's be real, shall we? It's so not about me. It just isn't.
There's something slightly meta about my complaint that "my day" is really not about me, and it's this: The very idea of my wedding day being "mine" and the idea that "my happiness" with everything is paramount being foisted onto me is itself what I don't want.
Do you see what I'm saying? People wanting me to "be happy" with all the choices that are made concerning my wedding and wanting me to own "my big day" and wanting me to want "what I want" is itself a type of pressure that masks itself as not-pressure because it's supposedly simply about my desires for something I've always dreamed of.
Rather, something I'm supposed to have always dreamed of.
I'm not saying that I haven't always wanted to get married. There were times in my life that it wasn't a frantic priority, but I'll be honest enough to say that as I got older, it did become more of a priority. It is something that I've always wanted—to be a wife and, one day, a mother. And I am thrilled that I'm marrying a man who has a relationship with God, who absolutely adores me and who also wants to have a family. Marriage and family are things I've always dreamed of, for sure.
But THE DAY. The fanfare of THE DAY is not something I've always dreamed of. Sure, there are things that I've wanted when and if THE DAY ever came for me. I wanted a medieval/Renaissance-style dress with draping Queen Guinevere sleeves. I wanted sunflowers to be involved. I wanted the color lavender to be involved. I wanted it to be outside. These are the specific things I've wanted and, so far, all of those things are going to be a part of THE DAY. Give me my sleeves, my sunflowers and my lavender outside. That is all I ask.
But I haven't had little pink princess cupcakes with frosting and sprinkles dreams of my wedding ever since I was a little girl. I haven't had this rapturous vision of how everything must be for my happiness to be ensured. And sometimes, because I don't have this rapturous vision, because I don't insist on creating this rapturous vision, I feel not-pressured into wanting what I'm not even sure I want.
To be fair, I am a person who is reluctant to speak up about something if I don't really want it or like it. Most people who say these things to me truly want me to be happy and not be afraid to voice what I want. But even the most benign, "Aren't you excited?" or reminder that "it's only one day, so make it count" can make me feel slightly pressured and paranoid. Like, of course I'm excited, but if I'm not the kind of excited people expect to see (after having been single for sooooooo long, oh, Lord I thought you'd never find someone, you should be screaming from the rooftops and flashing your engagement ring in everyone's face because the Lord finally had mercy on your poor single soul), have I exhibited bride-to-be excitement failure? If my one day doesn't blind you with exquisiteness, have I failed to make it count?
My mom said, "If you really don't want to have a ceremony, you don't have to have one." Yeah, right. So many people would call for my public guillotining if I said that for real. But it's not even about my not wanting to have a ceremony. I think it would be nice to have one. There are so many people who have loved and cared for and supported me and who are important to me and I think celebrating this day with them is a nice idea. It's also probably the only day that our families will all be together. It's a day that I'll want to remember. But all of the reasons that I want to have a ceremony have nothing to do with my wedding as MY day. If I have a ceremony (which I will), it will be precisely because it isn't my day. It's also everyone else's day because I'm choosing to share it with them by having a ceremony in the first place. And that's okay.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
You Aren't Invited
I'm learning that one of the awkwardest things to deal with as an almost-wed is not inviting people to your wedding.
I mean, we'd like to invite a lot of people, but we just can't invite everyone. (Even though we practically have. Good Lord. I'm hoping like 40% of the people we're sending save-the-dates to don't show so we don't have to fork out more dough for extra food from the caterer and extra tables and chairs.)
I guess I'm particularly thinking about people we interact with regularly: departmental people and church folks.
I was putting a couple of save-the-dates in the boxes of some invited colleagues when an uninvited colleague walked in and checked his box. I immediately went into awkward mode. Mind you, he had no idea what I had in my hand, what I was doing and probably wouldn't have cared even if he did, but one overwhelming thought alarm went off in my head: You didn't invite him! You didn't invite him!
I don't know why I'm so worried about it. Most reasonable people realize that two broke grad students aren't going to have lavish nuptials and can't invite the world. But I have had church folk text me informing me that they were coming whether or not they were invited (in a "joking" way, but still) and certain other people have established a precedent of saying bold things to my fiancé and me, so I guess I'm not exactly paranoid.
In order to cut down on church awkwardness, we're just sending save-the-dates to the people closest to us by mail and will decide whether we want to have a "general invite" situation later. I'm not terribly concerned about awkwardness with my home church folks. Though I am sending them to particular families, what will probably end up happening is a bulletin board post of the save-the-date or later invitation and since the wedding will be a nice 3 1/2 hour drive away (actually longer, since the property where we're marrying is nearly 30 minutes from the city where my fiancé and I live) from my hometown, only the diehard will make it.
But departmental awkwardness is another story to me. I don't think anyone will say anything. It's not like people who've gotten save-the-dates are going to be waving them around asking everybody else if they've gotten one too, as if they're free plane tickets to Hawaii or something. But it would be much easier to decipher who got one and who didn't, if someone were into finding out that kind of thing.
There's a part of me that is extremely non-confrontational, but there's another part of me that would dare someone to have the audacity to ask why they weren't invited. Like, part of me feels like, if someone would be audacious enough to ask that, I should be audacious to enough to tell them why, straight up. We can't invite everyone and we didn't consider you to be close enough to us to want to invite you. Or Since when did exes get invited to weddings? You're practically an ex and you know it. Nawl, son. Or Hell would have to freeze over before I'd consider having your drama-laden presence at one of the most important events of my life. No ma'am. Or You wanna be a weirdo towards me for weirdo reasons and then be like, "Girl, I better get an invite," Um, naaa.
Ahem.
I guess invitation awkwardness is one of those soon-to-be-married folks' rites of passage. That and fielding questions about where we're going to live. Um, are you going to be shifting around an academic's collection of heavy books? Are you going to be de-cluttering my hoarder's walk-in closet? Are you going to be lifting and transporting any furniture? No? Oh, okay.
I mean, we'd like to invite a lot of people, but we just can't invite everyone. (Even though we practically have. Good Lord. I'm hoping like 40% of the people we're sending save-the-dates to don't show so we don't have to fork out more dough for extra food from the caterer and extra tables and chairs.)
I guess I'm particularly thinking about people we interact with regularly: departmental people and church folks.
I was putting a couple of save-the-dates in the boxes of some invited colleagues when an uninvited colleague walked in and checked his box. I immediately went into awkward mode. Mind you, he had no idea what I had in my hand, what I was doing and probably wouldn't have cared even if he did, but one overwhelming thought alarm went off in my head: You didn't invite him! You didn't invite him!
I don't know why I'm so worried about it. Most reasonable people realize that two broke grad students aren't going to have lavish nuptials and can't invite the world. But I have had church folk text me informing me that they were coming whether or not they were invited (in a "joking" way, but still) and certain other people have established a precedent of saying bold things to my fiancé and me, so I guess I'm not exactly paranoid.
In order to cut down on church awkwardness, we're just sending save-the-dates to the people closest to us by mail and will decide whether we want to have a "general invite" situation later. I'm not terribly concerned about awkwardness with my home church folks. Though I am sending them to particular families, what will probably end up happening is a bulletin board post of the save-the-date or later invitation and since the wedding will be a nice 3 1/2 hour drive away (actually longer, since the property where we're marrying is nearly 30 minutes from the city where my fiancé and I live) from my hometown, only the diehard will make it.
But departmental awkwardness is another story to me. I don't think anyone will say anything. It's not like people who've gotten save-the-dates are going to be waving them around asking everybody else if they've gotten one too, as if they're free plane tickets to Hawaii or something. But it would be much easier to decipher who got one and who didn't, if someone were into finding out that kind of thing.
There's a part of me that is extremely non-confrontational, but there's another part of me that would dare someone to have the audacity to ask why they weren't invited. Like, part of me feels like, if someone would be audacious enough to ask that, I should be audacious to enough to tell them why, straight up. We can't invite everyone and we didn't consider you to be close enough to us to want to invite you. Or Since when did exes get invited to weddings? You're practically an ex and you know it. Nawl, son. Or Hell would have to freeze over before I'd consider having your drama-laden presence at one of the most important events of my life. No ma'am. Or You wanna be a weirdo towards me for weirdo reasons and then be like, "Girl, I better get an invite," Um, naaa.
Ahem.
I guess invitation awkwardness is one of those soon-to-be-married folks' rites of passage. That and fielding questions about where we're going to live. Um, are you going to be shifting around an academic's collection of heavy books? Are you going to be de-cluttering my hoarder's walk-in closet? Are you going to be lifting and transporting any furniture? No? Oh, okay.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Did I Think I'd Ever...?
I always pester my fiancé with questions which begin with "did you think you'd ever" which have something to do with me and/or his life after having met me.
Did you think anyone would ever refer to you as "my baby daddy"? Did you think you'd ever sing gospel music in a church choir? Did you think you'd ever marry a girl whose hair could transform into an afro?
There's a certain way I say "mmhmm." Like it's a faux disbelieving "mmhmm" that supposedly suspects something. For example, if I'm with my fiancé and he waves at some girl I don't know and he turns to me and says, "She's in my class," I might playfully say, "Mmhmm." Today he did it to me. We were at the library and I saw this Brazilian guy who's been accompanying one of my students to class and I saw him and waved and said, "I keep seeing that guy everywhere." And he was like, "Mmhmm." It was SO funny. (He still can't say it like me, though.)
But that was just an aside.
There are things I never thought I'd ever be or do. That's for sure. Did I think I'd ever...
1. Get married in grad school? No, I seriously never thought I would. I hoped I would eventually get married at some point, but still, I was a hard core cynic. I figured maybe I'd meet someone after I finished this program and got a job somewhere and started paying back my student loans. I didn't think I'd meet anyone at my church (I ain't gonna say nothin, but I really didn't) and I definitely didn't think I'd meet anyone in my department. Who knew that I'd meet someone in the department and bring him to church?
2. Become one of those people who let other relationships suffer because of a significant other? Definitely not. I never meant to be that person and I hope I'm not being that person now, but I know that I have been at certain points since I started spending time with my fiancé. I used to think people who would allow long standing friendships and family relationships to fall by the wayside because of a hot new guy were the epitome of shallow and selfish. How could someone do that? How could friends and family who have always been there for you be so easily cast off? I saw first hand how. I experienced how easy it was to slide into a singular special world that consists of only you and that other person at the expense of others. I try to be more aware of not doing that and make an effort to stay connected to other people I truly care about and who care about me.
3. Get picky and emotional over wedding stuff? Nope. I totally envisioned myself as being go-with-the-flow. I've always been horrified at bridezilla stories of women being off the chain over ridiculous stuff. I like to think of myself as easy going, not having strong preferences for things one way or the other. But now I'm seeing myself devolve into a picky little whiner over certain things. Ugh. Girl, stop.
4. Become less motivated in school? Nawl. I have always prided myself on being a driven ubernerd who made academic things happen. Yeah, I've always been a procrastinator of sorts, but I never thought I would languish in laziness as I feel like I have been doing concerning this dissertation. I can't say I'm not making ANY progress, but I need to be making a lot more progress than I'm making now if I plan to graduate and get a job when I say I'm going to. When I need to. I never thought finally getting a man would suck the drive out of me. And frankly, it's kind of embarrassing. Even if it is "normal."
I have a feeling I'm going to be having a whole lot more of these "did I think I'd ever" moments...
Did you think anyone would ever refer to you as "my baby daddy"? Did you think you'd ever sing gospel music in a church choir? Did you think you'd ever marry a girl whose hair could transform into an afro?
There's a certain way I say "mmhmm." Like it's a faux disbelieving "mmhmm" that supposedly suspects something. For example, if I'm with my fiancé and he waves at some girl I don't know and he turns to me and says, "She's in my class," I might playfully say, "Mmhmm." Today he did it to me. We were at the library and I saw this Brazilian guy who's been accompanying one of my students to class and I saw him and waved and said, "I keep seeing that guy everywhere." And he was like, "Mmhmm." It was SO funny. (He still can't say it like me, though.)
But that was just an aside.
There are things I never thought I'd ever be or do. That's for sure. Did I think I'd ever...
1. Get married in grad school? No, I seriously never thought I would. I hoped I would eventually get married at some point, but still, I was a hard core cynic. I figured maybe I'd meet someone after I finished this program and got a job somewhere and started paying back my student loans. I didn't think I'd meet anyone at my church (I ain't gonna say nothin, but I really didn't) and I definitely didn't think I'd meet anyone in my department. Who knew that I'd meet someone in the department and bring him to church?
2. Become one of those people who let other relationships suffer because of a significant other? Definitely not. I never meant to be that person and I hope I'm not being that person now, but I know that I have been at certain points since I started spending time with my fiancé. I used to think people who would allow long standing friendships and family relationships to fall by the wayside because of a hot new guy were the epitome of shallow and selfish. How could someone do that? How could friends and family who have always been there for you be so easily cast off? I saw first hand how. I experienced how easy it was to slide into a singular special world that consists of only you and that other person at the expense of others. I try to be more aware of not doing that and make an effort to stay connected to other people I truly care about and who care about me.
3. Get picky and emotional over wedding stuff? Nope. I totally envisioned myself as being go-with-the-flow. I've always been horrified at bridezilla stories of women being off the chain over ridiculous stuff. I like to think of myself as easy going, not having strong preferences for things one way or the other. But now I'm seeing myself devolve into a picky little whiner over certain things. Ugh. Girl, stop.
4. Become less motivated in school? Nawl. I have always prided myself on being a driven ubernerd who made academic things happen. Yeah, I've always been a procrastinator of sorts, but I never thought I would languish in laziness as I feel like I have been doing concerning this dissertation. I can't say I'm not making ANY progress, but I need to be making a lot more progress than I'm making now if I plan to graduate and get a job when I say I'm going to. When I need to. I never thought finally getting a man would suck the drive out of me. And frankly, it's kind of embarrassing. Even if it is "normal."
I have a feeling I'm going to be having a whole lot more of these "did I think I'd ever" moments...
Monday, September 15, 2014
So Cute
Ahem.
I used to rant back in the day when people tried to set me up with some black dude due to the simple fact that he was a black dude. And church people were the worst, ugh! Like, black dude, wears pants, has the Holy Ghost, there's your soulmate, let's go. Uh, naa.
Don't get it twisted, tho. The desire of my little 18-year-old heart back in the day was a Holy Ghost-filled black dude. Dark chocolate brotha, too. He took me out for my 18th birthday, he accompanied me to my senior prom...(sigh)...but that was back in the day.
Other brothas have made appearances here and there in subsequent years, but fast forward to now. The one who liked it enough to put a ring on it is the opposite of a dark chocolate brotha. In fact, I was told (by loving members of his family) that he consistently wins the "whitest feet" contest every year at the beach. My poor man stays spraying on 100 SPF when out in the sun so he doesn't end up a baked lobster. I chalk it up to ye olde Irishman in 'im.
Anyway, my rant has transformed from "stop assuming me and some random black dude would be magically compatible soulmates" to "stop squealing about how 'cute' me and my white fiancé are when you see us together."
Omigawd, y'all are SO CUTE!
Really?
I know people mean well, honestly. I mean, I'd rather somebody think we're "cute" than make other assumptions. For real. But, still, can we cut it with the "cute"?
I get it. You're expressing your approval. You want us to know that you're not one of the ones who thinks we should "stick to our own kind." Got it. Thanks. I guess.
What I'm saying is when you emphasize how "cute" we are, especially when you most likely don't say that about other couples you're in contact with, what you're doing, even though it's in a "positive" way, is emphasizing our difference. In a way, you're marking us as something foreign, exotic and other, albeit "cute." Do you see what I'm saying?
There's a difference between a normal compliment and an overexaggerated, oft-repeated panegyric. The latter is what I'm ranting against.
Calm down. We're not wide-eyed extraterrestrials with glowing fingertips. We're just a girl and a guy in love.
I used to rant back in the day when people tried to set me up with some black dude due to the simple fact that he was a black dude. And church people were the worst, ugh! Like, black dude, wears pants, has the Holy Ghost, there's your soulmate, let's go. Uh, naa.
Don't get it twisted, tho. The desire of my little 18-year-old heart back in the day was a Holy Ghost-filled black dude. Dark chocolate brotha, too. He took me out for my 18th birthday, he accompanied me to my senior prom...(sigh)...but that was back in the day.
Other brothas have made appearances here and there in subsequent years, but fast forward to now. The one who liked it enough to put a ring on it is the opposite of a dark chocolate brotha. In fact, I was told (by loving members of his family) that he consistently wins the "whitest feet" contest every year at the beach. My poor man stays spraying on 100 SPF when out in the sun so he doesn't end up a baked lobster. I chalk it up to ye olde Irishman in 'im.
Anyway, my rant has transformed from "stop assuming me and some random black dude would be magically compatible soulmates" to "stop squealing about how 'cute' me and my white fiancé are when you see us together."
Omigawd, y'all are SO CUTE!
Really?
I know people mean well, honestly. I mean, I'd rather somebody think we're "cute" than make other assumptions. For real. But, still, can we cut it with the "cute"?
I get it. You're expressing your approval. You want us to know that you're not one of the ones who thinks we should "stick to our own kind." Got it. Thanks. I guess.
What I'm saying is when you emphasize how "cute" we are, especially when you most likely don't say that about other couples you're in contact with, what you're doing, even though it's in a "positive" way, is emphasizing our difference. In a way, you're marking us as something foreign, exotic and other, albeit "cute." Do you see what I'm saying?
There's a difference between a normal compliment and an overexaggerated, oft-repeated panegyric. The latter is what I'm ranting against.
Calm down. We're not wide-eyed extraterrestrials with glowing fingertips. We're just a girl and a guy in love.
Monday, September 01, 2014
Expressions of Ambivalence and Contradiction
I have a confession to make.
Well, it's not a true confession, it's more of an expression of ambivalence and perhaps even contradiction.
I miss the voice I used to have on my blog when I was still single.
This is so crazy, but my blog persona has become kind of one note now. All I talk about is school and my fiancé. Not only that, but I also post a whole lot less than I used to.
But to be fair, school and my fiancé are what my life is about now, so what else am I supposed to talk about? And naturally, I'm going to post less because my priorities have shifted.
I don't want things to be different. I don't want things to be the way they were. I am 100% happy with the way things are now. And I'm 100% looking forward to how things are going to be in the future: after I get married, after I finish school, after I get a job and start a new chapter in a new place...
There is nothing in me that wants anything to retrogress. I like being in this place. For now. Not just this engaged place, but this place in my career, in my schooling, this place in my life as a whole. It's still a transitional place. It's a place that's taken (and is still taking) some getting used to. But overall, there's nothing about it that makes me truly want to return to another time.
I'm still in wonder about the fact that I'm in love. The very real fact that I am now inextricably linked to someone else. That I depend on someone else and that someone else depends on me. The very real fact that I have chosen and I have been chosen and that this choosing is for life. I'm still in wonder at this dizzying turn my life has taken. I'm still in wonder at the idea of someone taking up so much space, and wanting them to take up that space, offering them that space. I'm in wonder at how I got to the point that all I want is to be with him all the time.
But still...how did that become me? How did independent, quirky me end up another moony, swoony, distracted girl in love?
I'm not saying I don't want to be that girl in love. I love being in love. I'm ecstatic over the fact that I've found the person I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. How can you explain just wanting to smell someone? How can you explain the fact that even if he's sweaty he never smells like sweat? How can you explain the pure feeling of contentment I feel as a result of just looking at his profile while he's driving? How can you explain loving to watch him eat because there's something endearing about seeing him enjoy what he's eating? These are inexplicable things.
But do you see how, in spite of the uniqueness of our bond, in spite of the singularity of how I love, of how we love each other, I've somehow been reduced to something ordinary and well-worn? I have joined the ranks of Girls in Love with Guys. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.
Do you see what I'm saying? That spunky, defensive, creative me who would launch manifestos and write sternly-worded letters to gross guys who tried to holler at me or even to inanimate objects and craft intriguing pieces of creative non-fiction on my blog is now just like, I love him. Omg, I just love him so much. Omg, and I'm supposed to be writing my dissertation. But I'm so distracted, omg. Do you see what I mean?
Here's something else I haven't been able to figure out: I know when my hair looks to' up. Let's be real. I have moments when my hair is in need of washing, looking like an unattractive haystack. I have moments when my inner 15-year-old bursts out onto my skin and I become the poster child for the "before" picture of a Clearasil ad. I know these things because they are a part of my reality. But still, he says, "You are so beautiful." Can you not see me? But he's telling me that he does.
This is what I will sporadically write about for now. It's just where I am right now, this is my life right now. I might miss my former voice in some ways. But I'm still me.
But to be fair, school and my fiancé are what my life is about now, so what else am I supposed to talk about? And naturally, I'm going to post less because my priorities have shifted.
I don't want things to be different. I don't want things to be the way they were. I am 100% happy with the way things are now. And I'm 100% looking forward to how things are going to be in the future: after I get married, after I finish school, after I get a job and start a new chapter in a new place...
There is nothing in me that wants anything to retrogress. I like being in this place. For now. Not just this engaged place, but this place in my career, in my schooling, this place in my life as a whole. It's still a transitional place. It's a place that's taken (and is still taking) some getting used to. But overall, there's nothing about it that makes me truly want to return to another time.
I'm still in wonder about the fact that I'm in love. The very real fact that I am now inextricably linked to someone else. That I depend on someone else and that someone else depends on me. The very real fact that I have chosen and I have been chosen and that this choosing is for life. I'm still in wonder at this dizzying turn my life has taken. I'm still in wonder at the idea of someone taking up so much space, and wanting them to take up that space, offering them that space. I'm in wonder at how I got to the point that all I want is to be with him all the time.
But still...how did that become me? How did independent, quirky me end up another moony, swoony, distracted girl in love?
I'm not saying I don't want to be that girl in love. I love being in love. I'm ecstatic over the fact that I've found the person I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. How can you explain just wanting to smell someone? How can you explain the fact that even if he's sweaty he never smells like sweat? How can you explain the pure feeling of contentment I feel as a result of just looking at his profile while he's driving? How can you explain loving to watch him eat because there's something endearing about seeing him enjoy what he's eating? These are inexplicable things.
But do you see how, in spite of the uniqueness of our bond, in spite of the singularity of how I love, of how we love each other, I've somehow been reduced to something ordinary and well-worn? I have joined the ranks of Girls in Love with Guys. Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.
Do you see what I'm saying? That spunky, defensive, creative me who would launch manifestos and write sternly-worded letters to gross guys who tried to holler at me or even to inanimate objects and craft intriguing pieces of creative non-fiction on my blog is now just like, I love him. Omg, I just love him so much. Omg, and I'm supposed to be writing my dissertation. But I'm so distracted, omg. Do you see what I mean?
Here's something else I haven't been able to figure out: I know when my hair looks to' up. Let's be real. I have moments when my hair is in need of washing, looking like an unattractive haystack. I have moments when my inner 15-year-old bursts out onto my skin and I become the poster child for the "before" picture of a Clearasil ad. I know these things because they are a part of my reality. But still, he says, "You are so beautiful." Can you not see me? But he's telling me that he does.
This is what I will sporadically write about for now. It's just where I am right now, this is my life right now. I might miss my former voice in some ways. But I'm still me.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Little Things
Wow. It's been almost a month since I've posted.
This is the second week of class and I've hit the ground running. Let's backtrack:
1. The beach with my fiancé's family was lovely. I turned a nice shade of gingerbread (instead of my usual caramel), got lots of breezy reading done, took long walks on the beach and watched the sunrise. Twice. There is truly something beautiful and bonding about watching the sunrise with someone you love. I got to know his family a little bit better. Which means I got to know him a little bit better.
2. Before we even got back, I was blindsided with the news that I was the instructor of record for a literature course. I should've been happy about it (teaching literature, after all, is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life), but I was kind of flipping out because I've actually never been in charge of designing a real, live syllabus before. Thankfully, one of my colleagues super helped me out getting things together, and now I really enjoy it. I really have a good group of students. Latino Literature and Culture. I'm also teaching a section of the second part of Elementary Spanish. Fun, fun, fun.
3. So, my fiancé's dad sent us a really nice chunk of change for the wedding and my fiancé suggested we open an account to deposit all of our wedding money. I am positively giddy at the prospect of opening an account together. Omg. It will be like our first shared thing. Like the first thing that we've owned and established together. It's like, once we open an account together, we're firmly on the marriage road. It's goin down.
4. I have to describe this sweet thing. It's a simple thing, but it's a sweet thing. And the little things, the simple things, are the sweetest. My fiancé has class at 11 and he gets out right as I leave to go teach my 12:20. The building where his class is held is not far from the building where I teach. Usually, when we come to campus together and he leaves for his 11 o'clock, I don't see him again until later in the day. But yesterday, when I was on my way to my 12:20, I saw him on the corner waiting for me, watching for me. When he spotted me, he came over, hugged and kissed me and said, "I just wanted to see you." Just the image of him standing there waiting for me, watching for me because he was unsure of which way I would come, the smile on his face when he saw me, the simple fact that he just wanted to see me, however briefly, before I had to go teach...there was something genuine and pure about that moment. There was something about it that I wanted to hold close. Something about it that I wanted to preserve forever.
This is the second week of class and I've hit the ground running. Let's backtrack:
1. The beach with my fiancé's family was lovely. I turned a nice shade of gingerbread (instead of my usual caramel), got lots of breezy reading done, took long walks on the beach and watched the sunrise. Twice. There is truly something beautiful and bonding about watching the sunrise with someone you love. I got to know his family a little bit better. Which means I got to know him a little bit better.
2. Before we even got back, I was blindsided with the news that I was the instructor of record for a literature course. I should've been happy about it (teaching literature, after all, is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life), but I was kind of flipping out because I've actually never been in charge of designing a real, live syllabus before. Thankfully, one of my colleagues super helped me out getting things together, and now I really enjoy it. I really have a good group of students. Latino Literature and Culture. I'm also teaching a section of the second part of Elementary Spanish. Fun, fun, fun.
3. So, my fiancé's dad sent us a really nice chunk of change for the wedding and my fiancé suggested we open an account to deposit all of our wedding money. I am positively giddy at the prospect of opening an account together. Omg. It will be like our first shared thing. Like the first thing that we've owned and established together. It's like, once we open an account together, we're firmly on the marriage road. It's goin down.
4. I have to describe this sweet thing. It's a simple thing, but it's a sweet thing. And the little things, the simple things, are the sweetest. My fiancé has class at 11 and he gets out right as I leave to go teach my 12:20. The building where his class is held is not far from the building where I teach. Usually, when we come to campus together and he leaves for his 11 o'clock, I don't see him again until later in the day. But yesterday, when I was on my way to my 12:20, I saw him on the corner waiting for me, watching for me. When he spotted me, he came over, hugged and kissed me and said, "I just wanted to see you." Just the image of him standing there waiting for me, watching for me because he was unsure of which way I would come, the smile on his face when he saw me, the simple fact that he just wanted to see me, however briefly, before I had to go teach...there was something genuine and pure about that moment. There was something about it that I wanted to hold close. Something about it that I wanted to preserve forever.
Friday, August 01, 2014
Turn It Off
There's a worrier in my brain and sometimes I want more than anything to turn it off.
The end of this summer is quickly approaching, and I almost feel like I have nothing to show for it.
Things started off rather suckily with my losing my summer assistantship and then having to embark on a job scramble at the last minute in June. I know, I should be thankful I was even able to find a job. I really can't complain. I was able to find a decent, non-stressful job for the summer which still allowed me time to work on other things.
However, I have been so unmotivated work wise. I should be writing my dissertation right now. But I've been listless. I have been plodding along with a book review, and I guess there is that thing called a wedding I've been helping to plan as well, but I still feel like I've wasted a wealth of time. It's a bad feeling. Knowing you could have done so much more.
If I sat here and started listing the things that the worrier in my brain bothers me about, it would just be overwhelming. That and unnecessary. I really just need to take a deep breath and concern myself with today. With things that I have control over right now. Like finishing that book review. Sigh.
Next week is the last week of work before my fiancé and I leave to go to the beach for several days with his family and then come back to get geared up for the fall. I'll have the opportunity to get to know his family better and have the chance to meet people I haven't met yet. It's going to be a nice time. But there is this niggling sense of anxiety over it. Like I will somehow be uncomfortably on display. There is no reason for me to feel this way. I honestly need to get over it because I am becoming more and more aware of how my worries can negatively impact my relationship with my fiancé, and that is the last thing I ever want to do.
I cannot express how profoundly we are connected. When I read the sentence I just typed, it seems overblown, cliché, but I don't know how else to express it. A young lady at church recently had a baby and we went to the hospital to visit. We both took turns holding him and he was a simply healthy, beautiful boy. When I saw how my fiancé held him and interacted with him I was just overwhelmed with this sense of beauty and longing. He's going to be a good husband and father, I know it. I want to have beautiful, healthy children with him, and I try to shut out the voices that remind me of decreasing fertility and increased risks that come with age. (I'm older than I look. Believe me.)
Any time we're together, all that matters is that I'm with him. We just signed a couple of contracts with vendors and businesses for the wedding and we both expressed this feeling of accomplishment, this realization that this is actually happening. I get excited about the simplest things with him—taking long walks to get frozen yogurt, buying new guitar strings, watching a Charlie Chaplin movie. When he holds me close he says, "You fit perfectly. Right here." And it's true. As if we were literally made for each other. There's this indescribable genuineness that our relationship consists of that is overwhelming. I want to preserve it, protect it, enjoy this precious thing that we have without any worries.
The end of this summer is quickly approaching, and I almost feel like I have nothing to show for it.
Things started off rather suckily with my losing my summer assistantship and then having to embark on a job scramble at the last minute in June. I know, I should be thankful I was even able to find a job. I really can't complain. I was able to find a decent, non-stressful job for the summer which still allowed me time to work on other things.
However, I have been so unmotivated work wise. I should be writing my dissertation right now. But I've been listless. I have been plodding along with a book review, and I guess there is that thing called a wedding I've been helping to plan as well, but I still feel like I've wasted a wealth of time. It's a bad feeling. Knowing you could have done so much more.
If I sat here and started listing the things that the worrier in my brain bothers me about, it would just be overwhelming. That and unnecessary. I really just need to take a deep breath and concern myself with today. With things that I have control over right now. Like finishing that book review. Sigh.
Next week is the last week of work before my fiancé and I leave to go to the beach for several days with his family and then come back to get geared up for the fall. I'll have the opportunity to get to know his family better and have the chance to meet people I haven't met yet. It's going to be a nice time. But there is this niggling sense of anxiety over it. Like I will somehow be uncomfortably on display. There is no reason for me to feel this way. I honestly need to get over it because I am becoming more and more aware of how my worries can negatively impact my relationship with my fiancé, and that is the last thing I ever want to do.
I cannot express how profoundly we are connected. When I read the sentence I just typed, it seems overblown, cliché, but I don't know how else to express it. A young lady at church recently had a baby and we went to the hospital to visit. We both took turns holding him and he was a simply healthy, beautiful boy. When I saw how my fiancé held him and interacted with him I was just overwhelmed with this sense of beauty and longing. He's going to be a good husband and father, I know it. I want to have beautiful, healthy children with him, and I try to shut out the voices that remind me of decreasing fertility and increased risks that come with age. (I'm older than I look. Believe me.)
Any time we're together, all that matters is that I'm with him. We just signed a couple of contracts with vendors and businesses for the wedding and we both expressed this feeling of accomplishment, this realization that this is actually happening. I get excited about the simplest things with him—taking long walks to get frozen yogurt, buying new guitar strings, watching a Charlie Chaplin movie. When he holds me close he says, "You fit perfectly. Right here." And it's true. As if we were literally made for each other. There's this indescribable genuineness that our relationship consists of that is overwhelming. I want to preserve it, protect it, enjoy this precious thing that we have without any worries.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
All the Feels
We love each other so much. It's incredible. And the best thing is, there's something in both of us that values it deeply. That doesn't take it for granted.
We talk about our unconceived daughter a lot. (Yes, she already has a name.) What we're going to teach her, how she's going to be bilingual, musically inclined, what activities we'll do with her, what games we're going to play with her. Sometimes when we're out and see an adorable little curly-haired brown girl, we say that's how our daughter will look.
We were shopping at Kroger and I bought some body wash that had our little girl's name in it. Then my fiancé started talking about her and said that he would give our little daughter a bath and wash her hair and tuck her in and read her a bedtime story in Spanish. Major swoon. There was something about the image of him washing her hair that just made me feel all the feels.
Wedding planning is turning out all right. So far so good. Venue? Check. Photographer? Check. Caterer? Almost check.
We got time, baby. We got time.
We talk about our unconceived daughter a lot. (Yes, she already has a name.) What we're going to teach her, how she's going to be bilingual, musically inclined, what activities we'll do with her, what games we're going to play with her. Sometimes when we're out and see an adorable little curly-haired brown girl, we say that's how our daughter will look.
We were shopping at Kroger and I bought some body wash that had our little girl's name in it. Then my fiancé started talking about her and said that he would give our little daughter a bath and wash her hair and tuck her in and read her a bedtime story in Spanish. Major swoon. There was something about the image of him washing her hair that just made me feel all the feels.
Wedding planning is turning out all right. So far so good. Venue? Check. Photographer? Check. Caterer? Almost check.
We got time, baby. We got time.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
You Still Have You
My mind wanders. That's something that will never change.
This is something that I've been thinking about for a little while. Now, I know this is in no way original. It may even sound cliché. But even things that are cliché are based in truth. And that is a cliché.
What I want to say is that no matter what station of life you are in, you still have to deal with you.
I am super thrilled to be engaged. I super love my fiancé and can't wait to be his wife. But what I'm saying is that having a fiancé doesn't make me less me. Having a fiancé doesn't make me not get sad about things that the person I am has a tendency to get sad about. I'm still who I am. I am happy. I am grateful. I do cherish this very precious thing we share and that we've built together. But, at heart, I'm still the same person I was before I met him. Falling in love has definitely caused me to re-order a few priorities, but it hasn't caused me to undergo some kind of magical metamorphosis. I'm still me. And I still have myself to deal with.
The whole idea of myself being ultimately responsible for my own happiness is an idea that I finally began to grasp when I was still single and had absolutely no prospects on the horizon. Now that I'm soon to be married, that idea somehow hits home even more.
I do remember how I felt when I struggled with loneliness. It is a very real, palpable thing that should never be dismissed as a mere matter of perspective or mental fortitude. It can surface at the most unsuspecting and inconvenient times and manifests itself as a void that can be literally painful. I know. I remember. But what I wish that self knew was that once you're in a relationship, the terms change, but the ultimate responsibility doesn't.
In a relationship, you have help, so to speak. You have the comfort of knowing that you're on a team and that whatever comes, you won't have to face it alone. But you can never essentially shift the responsibility of maintaining your contentment with your life onto your partner. Not only is that unfair, it's simply impossible for one human being to meet all of another human being's needs.
My tendency to overanalyze, my tendency to give in to worry, and my tendency to indulge the melancholy strains of my personality are all things that I still have to deal with, that I have to come to terms with in my personal relationship with God.
There are things that the most handsome, wonderful, compatible, amazing person in the world cannot fix, alleviate or satisfy. You still have you.
What I want to say is that no matter what station of life you are in, you still have to deal with you.
I am super thrilled to be engaged. I super love my fiancé and can't wait to be his wife. But what I'm saying is that having a fiancé doesn't make me less me. Having a fiancé doesn't make me not get sad about things that the person I am has a tendency to get sad about. I'm still who I am. I am happy. I am grateful. I do cherish this very precious thing we share and that we've built together. But, at heart, I'm still the same person I was before I met him. Falling in love has definitely caused me to re-order a few priorities, but it hasn't caused me to undergo some kind of magical metamorphosis. I'm still me. And I still have myself to deal with.
The whole idea of myself being ultimately responsible for my own happiness is an idea that I finally began to grasp when I was still single and had absolutely no prospects on the horizon. Now that I'm soon to be married, that idea somehow hits home even more.
I do remember how I felt when I struggled with loneliness. It is a very real, palpable thing that should never be dismissed as a mere matter of perspective or mental fortitude. It can surface at the most unsuspecting and inconvenient times and manifests itself as a void that can be literally painful. I know. I remember. But what I wish that self knew was that once you're in a relationship, the terms change, but the ultimate responsibility doesn't.
In a relationship, you have help, so to speak. You have the comfort of knowing that you're on a team and that whatever comes, you won't have to face it alone. But you can never essentially shift the responsibility of maintaining your contentment with your life onto your partner. Not only is that unfair, it's simply impossible for one human being to meet all of another human being's needs.
My tendency to overanalyze, my tendency to give in to worry, and my tendency to indulge the melancholy strains of my personality are all things that I still have to deal with, that I have to come to terms with in my personal relationship with God.
There are things that the most handsome, wonderful, compatible, amazing person in the world cannot fix, alleviate or satisfy. You still have you.
Tuesday, July 08, 2014
The Impossible Desire to Be Understood By All
I'm laughing at the title of this post right now because it seems like the title of a 90s teen angst-filled miniseries. It sounds ludicrous, but it's the only thing that comes to mind for now.
I have to constantly fight to repress this adolescent idea that I am utterly singular, that my experience, my position, this place in which I find myself, is utterly unique. I really have to let that go. Because if I don't, I will constantly contend with this existential sense of "why me?" that is pointless and emotionally draining.
Nevertheless, the idea that anyone who knows me would look at me, look at my choices, look at this place in which I find myself and "not understand" is somewhat distressing to me.
Why do I insist on expending mental energy on thinking I could satisfactorily answer other people's whys?
I did something that only social media addicted people would ever conceive of doing: I checked to see if a particular person I more or less grew up with had "liked" the announcement of my engagement or the announcement of the wedding date on FB. Negative. It's a person that I've always considered a friend, but maybe a person whom others always assumed I would end up with and maybe a person who tried to explore the possibility of a relationship in the past.
Can I admit that it bothered me just a little bit? I hate that it did, but I'm just being honest. I began to think about the negative things he was thinking. That perhaps he just couldn't understand why I would reject the obvious, the practically inevitable (to some) and opt for the, for lack of a better term, less conventional. That my decision was so bewildering that he couldn't bring himself to congratulate me in any way or even "like" it to at least show acknowledgement.
Why do I care? I use this particular instance as an example, but perhaps there are other instances that fall under the same or a similar category. Besides, my imaginings of someone else's negative thoughts are just that, imaginings that aren't based in reality and would be better off disregarded. I really shouldn't care. I need to get over it. I recognize that. I honestly do.
When the new semester starts in the fall, I'm going to have to especially woman up and be prepared for encounters. lol. I know I'm being vague, but suffice it to say I'm just going to have to be matter of fact and then just keep it movin.
I keep coming to the same conclusion: I'm going to have to finally learn to own my choices. I'm going to have to learn to deal with the reality that there are some people who won't "understand."
I have to constantly fight to repress this adolescent idea that I am utterly singular, that my experience, my position, this place in which I find myself, is utterly unique. I really have to let that go. Because if I don't, I will constantly contend with this existential sense of "why me?" that is pointless and emotionally draining.
Nevertheless, the idea that anyone who knows me would look at me, look at my choices, look at this place in which I find myself and "not understand" is somewhat distressing to me.
Why do I insist on expending mental energy on thinking I could satisfactorily answer other people's whys?
I did something that only social media addicted people would ever conceive of doing: I checked to see if a particular person I more or less grew up with had "liked" the announcement of my engagement or the announcement of the wedding date on FB. Negative. It's a person that I've always considered a friend, but maybe a person whom others always assumed I would end up with and maybe a person who tried to explore the possibility of a relationship in the past.
Can I admit that it bothered me just a little bit? I hate that it did, but I'm just being honest. I began to think about the negative things he was thinking. That perhaps he just couldn't understand why I would reject the obvious, the practically inevitable (to some) and opt for the, for lack of a better term, less conventional. That my decision was so bewildering that he couldn't bring himself to congratulate me in any way or even "like" it to at least show acknowledgement.
Why do I care? I use this particular instance as an example, but perhaps there are other instances that fall under the same or a similar category. Besides, my imaginings of someone else's negative thoughts are just that, imaginings that aren't based in reality and would be better off disregarded. I really shouldn't care. I need to get over it. I recognize that. I honestly do.
When the new semester starts in the fall, I'm going to have to especially woman up and be prepared for encounters. lol. I know I'm being vague, but suffice it to say I'm just going to have to be matter of fact and then just keep it movin.
I keep coming to the same conclusion: I'm going to have to finally learn to own my choices. I'm going to have to learn to deal with the reality that there are some people who won't "understand."
Thursday, July 03, 2014
Thank you, friend.
Since my closest friends are married, looks like I'll be featuring matrons of honor instead of maids. Yes. Matrons of honor. As in plural. When you've been the maid of honor in the weddings of both of your closest friends...I refuse to choose. Both of them have been instrumental at different points of my life in different ways.
But I want to talk about one of those friends for a moment. She's a God-sent friend. All because of my mom wearing one of those poofy Pentecostal hair bows. This friend prayed for a friend who was a believer, a friend so that she wouldn't feel alone. She got up off of her knees and walked into the student center, and there was my mom in a skirt and the back of her head with that fateful hair bow. When I arrived soon after my orientation session, I joined the tearful chorus. And the rest is history. (The last line was corny and unnecessary and cliché, but that's what I do.)
I was being all un-giddy and slightly unmotivated concerning wedding planning. I just haven't really been into it, as I've mentioned before. Like, I'm excited, but I'm not all...you know, wanting to go to David's Bridal and pick out bridesmaid's dresses and look at accessories and decorations and everything. You might even say I was being cynical and negative. Just thinking about wedding planning made me sigh with a touch of ennui. (You're welcome.) All these fussy little details. All these questions to be answered, decisions to be made, people to deal with. Knowing that even though "it's my wedding," it's kind of not because I'm not paying for it and not just that, but it is kind of for everybody else.
But my God-sent friend came to visit, insisting that we go to David's Bridal. At least to pick out a main color and look at styles of bridesmaid's dresses. So we went, and I immediately got overwhelmed with all the choices laid before me. All the styles, all the materials, all the possible accessories...(sigh). But at least I decided on a color. Iris. (You're welcome.) And eventually I did find a style that I thought was classy and versatile and could be accessorized with either a chiffon shrug or a satin bolero. (You're welcome.)
But then...my God-sent friend wanted me to try on wedding dresses. But my wedding dress is being made. But she insisted. I tried to be a good sport about it, just to try to get in the spirit. I tried on the first dress and it looked very classy and pretty and lacy and everyone oohed and ahhed and I felt like a how I imagine a princess might feel. But then the saleslady put a veil on me. And when I saw myself in the mirror with that dress on with a veil, I just teared up. I'd never seen myself like that before, and I was shocked at how moved I was. Seeing myself in a way that I'd only previously envisioned for other people was profound. A Lacanian moment if there ever was one. (You're welcome.) There was something about seeing myself in a wedding dress and a veil that brought the reality home in a fresh, poignant way. I'm getting married.
I don't know how to explain it, but weddings and wedding dresses and wedding colors and flowers and venues and receptions and honeymoons were for other people. These kinds of things weren't for me. They weren't things I would ever realistically need to be concerned with anytime soon, or so I thought. They were in other people's vocabularies. They were other people's concerns. They were a part of other people's lives. In other people's orbits. Not mine.
It took seeing myself in a wedding dress and veil, as a bride, to realize that these things are mine. That these things are a part of my vocabulary. A part of my life. A part of what is happening to me right now, not in some indeterminate future. I have a ring on my finger and I have a date set. What's happened and what's happening now is what is going to continue to happen: Everything falling into place.
So, thank you, friend. Thank you for helping me to realize that this is a singular time in my life. Thank you for taking the time out to come see me. Thank you for making things special for me.
But I want to talk about one of those friends for a moment. She's a God-sent friend. All because of my mom wearing one of those poofy Pentecostal hair bows. This friend prayed for a friend who was a believer, a friend so that she wouldn't feel alone. She got up off of her knees and walked into the student center, and there was my mom in a skirt and the back of her head with that fateful hair bow. When I arrived soon after my orientation session, I joined the tearful chorus. And the rest is history. (The last line was corny and unnecessary and cliché, but that's what I do.)
I was being all un-giddy and slightly unmotivated concerning wedding planning. I just haven't really been into it, as I've mentioned before. Like, I'm excited, but I'm not all...you know, wanting to go to David's Bridal and pick out bridesmaid's dresses and look at accessories and decorations and everything. You might even say I was being cynical and negative. Just thinking about wedding planning made me sigh with a touch of ennui. (You're welcome.) All these fussy little details. All these questions to be answered, decisions to be made, people to deal with. Knowing that even though "it's my wedding," it's kind of not because I'm not paying for it and not just that, but it is kind of for everybody else.
But my God-sent friend came to visit, insisting that we go to David's Bridal. At least to pick out a main color and look at styles of bridesmaid's dresses. So we went, and I immediately got overwhelmed with all the choices laid before me. All the styles, all the materials, all the possible accessories...(sigh). But at least I decided on a color. Iris. (You're welcome.) And eventually I did find a style that I thought was classy and versatile and could be accessorized with either a chiffon shrug or a satin bolero. (You're welcome.)
But then...my God-sent friend wanted me to try on wedding dresses. But my wedding dress is being made. But she insisted. I tried to be a good sport about it, just to try to get in the spirit. I tried on the first dress and it looked very classy and pretty and lacy and everyone oohed and ahhed and I felt like a how I imagine a princess might feel. But then the saleslady put a veil on me. And when I saw myself in the mirror with that dress on with a veil, I just teared up. I'd never seen myself like that before, and I was shocked at how moved I was. Seeing myself in a way that I'd only previously envisioned for other people was profound. A Lacanian moment if there ever was one. (You're welcome.) There was something about seeing myself in a wedding dress and a veil that brought the reality home in a fresh, poignant way. I'm getting married.
I don't know how to explain it, but weddings and wedding dresses and wedding colors and flowers and venues and receptions and honeymoons were for other people. These kinds of things weren't for me. They weren't things I would ever realistically need to be concerned with anytime soon, or so I thought. They were in other people's vocabularies. They were other people's concerns. They were a part of other people's lives. In other people's orbits. Not mine.
It took seeing myself in a wedding dress and veil, as a bride, to realize that these things are mine. That these things are a part of my vocabulary. A part of my life. A part of what is happening to me right now, not in some indeterminate future. I have a ring on my finger and I have a date set. What's happened and what's happening now is what is going to continue to happen: Everything falling into place.
So, thank you, friend. Thank you for helping me to realize that this is a singular time in my life. Thank you for taking the time out to come see me. Thank you for making things special for me.
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