I feel like the only person who gets into more sticky situations than me is Jack Ryan (the hubs and I watched Patriot Games last night). That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I've had my share of bad luck. Back in college I remember thinking I was invincible (like most college students). I would speed a bit more than I should, drink coffee and take no-doz like there was no tomorrow the day before a test (and most of the rest of the time), and would walk outside by myself at 3 am when I finally decided it was time to leave the science hall and give in to sleep.
Events from the last few years have changed this. The speeding was remedied by two speeding tickets and the excessive caffeine by graduating from college, but the walking outside at night took an oversees trip and my seemingly safe city of residence to remedy.
When I was in Europe back in 2007 with my friend Tiff I had a great time and got to experience so many new and exciting things. Included in this was a mean dog that tried to attack us on the way back to our hostel (fortunately a taxi was driving by, we ran out into the street, jumped in and then drove the 2 blocks back to our hostel), and 3 people who attempted to rob me. The first was on one of the rare times that Tiff and I parted ways for the day (Tiff and I love each other but realize that sometimes our friendship is better when we take a day away from each other). I decided to sit down on a bench and eat my dinner. This was a rare treat because most benches that we found were owned by restaurants and you had to order food in order to rent your space on their bench. I had gotten dinner from a grocery store (we traveled economically) so had no need to order food. I was used to eating while sitting on a curb, but found a wonderful oasis of the non-restaurant owned bench in the middle of the city. I was leisurely eating my dinner when two children sat down next to me and casually reached for my purse. I grabbed it before they got it and no harm was done.
The next time one of the locals decided to try to fool a stupid tourist was in Naples. Tiffany and I had been told not to go there - it is dangerous and dirty. We spent a total of 1 hour and 5 minutes in the city. The 5 minutes occurred in a train station on our first trip through Naples to a near-by resort town. In the 5 minutes it took for us to change trains I saw someone mugged on the other train platform. Fortunately we didn't have to hang around and wait for the mugger to find us because our train arrived. The hour we spent in Naples was when we passed back through on our way north. We had an hour to spend in the city (at least it was day and not night as was our previous Naples experience) between train rides and decided it would be an opportune time to grab lunch since the only thing you could get on the train was an overpriced proscutto sandwich. A local approached us while we were eating to ask us for change (aka get us to open our wallets for 1 euro and then steal all of our money). Fortunately we just said we didn't understand and then left to board our train.
The final robbery attempt occurred on the steps of the Duomo in Florence. I was sitting there with my purse underneath my legs when Tiff told me that someone was reaching under me. I looked down just before the man was able to grab my purse, I grabbed it instead an yelled at him fueled with rage and 1 or 2 beers.
Then I came back to America. I wasn't too phased by my European experiences. Doesn't everyone get robbed in Europe at some point? However, the target was not removed from my back when I moved to my current city. Within 2 months of living here I was mugged at gunpoint (thankfully he was a small-time mugger and only wanted my cash...I got to keep my ID and credit cards and didn't have to reset those parts of my life). Things were pretty calm for about 1.5-2 years until I was shopping downtown in the middle of the afternoon and I heard someone yell "Hey red!" I am aware of the fact that only 2-4% of the population has red hair so I assumed that this voice was referring to me. I made the mistake of looking up to see a homeless man sitting on the steps of a church across the street. I hurried into a nearby store, wandered the aisles until I thought I got the guts up to go back outside. I mean, someone yelling "Hey red" is pretty harmless isn't it? Just in case it wasn't harmless, however, I got my keys in my hands. I wasn't going to turn into one of those suspense/horror movie characters who can't find their keys or who fumbles with their keys and drops them just as the antagonist reaches their car. And yes, I did need a key to enter my car. I am not one of the lucky car owners who also has a remote to unlock my car. As I was approaching my car, trying to appear nonchalant although my pulse was racing at a cardio fat burning rate, the man stood up, took a moment to grab his garbage bag of possessions, and then headed for my car. I picked up my pace, thankful that my keys were already in my hand, started running when I was almost to my car and got in and locked my car just as the homeless man reached me. Then I cried and drove away as fast as I could.
I resolved not to go downtown by myself anymore. I figured that as long as I hung around my home I would be fine. Then came the morning, less than 2 months after the homeless man incident, when a man tried to break into my house. I was still in bed, wasting time on my laptop, when I heard someone ring the doorbell several times and knock. I thought, "Wow. That UPS man is really insistent!" I was still in my jammy-jams so I decided to put off opening the door and to wait until his truck pulled away. I peeked out through the blinds, but there was no UPS truck. "I guess it must have been someone campaigning." So I went back up to continue doing nothing on the computer. However, as I got into my bedroom I looked out the second story window down onto a man in camouflage investigating my back yard. I still liked to think the best of people though, so I ducked down so he couldn't see me and thought "I wonder if he lost his dog and is looking for it on my back porch. That would explain the excited doorbell ringing. I know I would be going out of my mind if I lost a lovable little dog!" So I called my dad and said, "There is a strange man in my back yard. Should I call the police?" He said yes, I called and then the man came back to my front door and started banging on it while I was talking to the 911 operator. Thankfully the man decided that my house was too secure and decided to break in to my next door neighbor's house (he was able to pop one of their doors open with just a screwdriver). The police came, the burglar got spooked mid-burglary (as was evident when we went over to their house, saw he had only had a chance to rummage through 2 drawers before escaping into the woods and leaving the side door of the house standing wide open) since he could see the police in the street from the living room that he was in the process of burgling. After that I did not leave our house, unless the hubs was home, for about 3 weeks. Then we got a dog, a dog that feels the need to pee every few hours, and the healing began. Although, I still refuse to answer the door if I am home by myself. And I figured out how to use a gun and invested in some pepper spray.
Why is all this relevant? Well, the hubs is a 4th year medical student and we are trying to figure out where he should do his residency. While I think it would make us hipper people if we decided to live downtown someplace I have a rule. Although I realize that no place is 100% safe, I don't want to live within walking distance of a bar. Alcohol can make people do stupid things, as evidenced by my running after and yelling at that man who tried to steal my purse in Florence, Italy.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Our dog: pet and family member
I have an 8 pound toy poodle named Simba. I had wanted to get a dog ever since I graduated from college and began graduate school 3 years ago, but my boyfriend/fiance/husband (progressing over the course of those 3 years) was not convinced. Granted, having a dog is hard work. You have to walk them, bathe them, feed them, etc. I made a solemn vow to the hubs that I would do everything to care for our dog and he wouldn't have to lift a finger. He, however, pointed out that, although I see myself as being extremely ambitious, I tend to get about half way through a project and then set it to the side and not finish it (I have about 5 unfinished scarves hanging on knitting needles, 40 sets of wine charms that I have crafted that have not been posted on etsy or ebay, and a pile of scrapbooking supplies for our wedding from last summer with no actual wedding scrapbook). With a dog that results in death and then animal abuse charges and jail time. I also haven't ever been able to keep a plant alive (it's not that I neglect them - it's because I love them too much. You can over water a plant, but a dog will stop drinking before water toxicity).
Surprisingly the impetus that led to our getting a dog was when a man in fatigues tried to break into our house last summer (I'll give more information about this sometime in the future and explain why I have no desire to venture into big cities). The hubs was a medical student and had to be away from the house pretty often to be on call. I told the hubs that I wanted a dog to protect me from future invaders. I began by looking at large dogs online, but the hypoallergenic breed that I wanted (goldendoodles) cost about $2000. Finally, I stumbled across a teensy cloud of poodle on craigslist that only cost $50. It was kind of difficult explaining to the hubs how a then 6.5 pound malnourished toy poodle could protect me from burglars, but in the end I prevailed.
Owning a dog has helped us to learn new facets about each other. This is mostly because the hubs and I entered this endeavor with different views regarding dogs. I grew up with 3 shih tzus who were a part of my family. My mom called me the dogs' sister and she was their mom. We fed them top quality food (which used to be dog food but my mom has since switched to feeding the last of the three dogs Sara Lee Deli Meat because of his chronic pancreatitis), provided them plenty of toys, and let them sleep in our beds. The only time that they went outside was to go to the bathroom or for the occasional walk. They went to the vet every time they had a sniffle or a sore.
The hubs' family owned hunting beagles. The dogs lived outside (I don't believe any dogs should live outside), ate scraps (including bones which can cause major intestinal problems), slobbered, rolled in the dirt and were, in general, gross. The dogs would sometimes escape into the woods when they got free from their post (if one of my dogs ran away I would not be able to sleep until they returned home safely). Instead of going to the vet they would live by the philosophy of "rub some dirt in it."
Simba has changed the way that the hubs has seen dogs, and the rules that we initially established quickly dissolved. The first issue we had is that we were immediately faced with a $500 dental cleaning/booster shot bill from the vet, followed shortly thereafter with a $200 neutering bill (after Simba tried to get it on with a professor's dog). This was followed by approximately $350 in bills for an ear infection that wouldn't go away. Next was the issue of table scraps. We decided when we got Simba that he should eat a 100% dog food diet. That lasted all of 3 weeks until we discovered that if you feed him nothing he will pester you the entire meal, whereas if you feed him your last bite he will sit patiently knowing that his reward is coming. Finally was the issue of the cage. My dogs were never caged growing up. For the first week that we had Simba, the hubs insisted that he be in the cage every time we left the house since we didn't know if he would chew on things or leave us little gifts. After a week I decided that I felt like a meanie every time I put the dog in the cage so then we transitioned to only putting him in the cage to sleep. Within a month, however, we felt bad that we left him home alone so much so we decided to let him sleep in our bed to make up for our absence throughout the day.
Since then we (I) have bought him a rhinestone dog tag, a dog purse so he can go into stores with me, specialty dog treats and several other toys. He sleeps in our bed, eats some table scraps (which may have aided in his 1.5 pound weight gain), naps on the back of the couch during the day, has his own plane ticket for a trip that we are going to take this summer, and gets his belly scratched for a good half an hour every evening. When I want the dog to go find the hubs I say "Go find daddy!" to which the hubs responds "He's a dog, not our child." Then I say, "Don't be ridiculous." and we scratch Simba's belly.
He may not be a very good guard dog, but I feel better knowing that he is here and that he is a member of our family.
Surprisingly the impetus that led to our getting a dog was when a man in fatigues tried to break into our house last summer (I'll give more information about this sometime in the future and explain why I have no desire to venture into big cities). The hubs was a medical student and had to be away from the house pretty often to be on call. I told the hubs that I wanted a dog to protect me from future invaders. I began by looking at large dogs online, but the hypoallergenic breed that I wanted (goldendoodles) cost about $2000. Finally, I stumbled across a teensy cloud of poodle on craigslist that only cost $50. It was kind of difficult explaining to the hubs how a then 6.5 pound malnourished toy poodle could protect me from burglars, but in the end I prevailed.
Owning a dog has helped us to learn new facets about each other. This is mostly because the hubs and I entered this endeavor with different views regarding dogs. I grew up with 3 shih tzus who were a part of my family. My mom called me the dogs' sister and she was their mom. We fed them top quality food (which used to be dog food but my mom has since switched to feeding the last of the three dogs Sara Lee Deli Meat because of his chronic pancreatitis), provided them plenty of toys, and let them sleep in our beds. The only time that they went outside was to go to the bathroom or for the occasional walk. They went to the vet every time they had a sniffle or a sore.
The hubs' family owned hunting beagles. The dogs lived outside (I don't believe any dogs should live outside), ate scraps (including bones which can cause major intestinal problems), slobbered, rolled in the dirt and were, in general, gross. The dogs would sometimes escape into the woods when they got free from their post (if one of my dogs ran away I would not be able to sleep until they returned home safely). Instead of going to the vet they would live by the philosophy of "rub some dirt in it."
Simba has changed the way that the hubs has seen dogs, and the rules that we initially established quickly dissolved. The first issue we had is that we were immediately faced with a $500 dental cleaning/booster shot bill from the vet, followed shortly thereafter with a $200 neutering bill (after Simba tried to get it on with a professor's dog). This was followed by approximately $350 in bills for an ear infection that wouldn't go away. Next was the issue of table scraps. We decided when we got Simba that he should eat a 100% dog food diet. That lasted all of 3 weeks until we discovered that if you feed him nothing he will pester you the entire meal, whereas if you feed him your last bite he will sit patiently knowing that his reward is coming. Finally was the issue of the cage. My dogs were never caged growing up. For the first week that we had Simba, the hubs insisted that he be in the cage every time we left the house since we didn't know if he would chew on things or leave us little gifts. After a week I decided that I felt like a meanie every time I put the dog in the cage so then we transitioned to only putting him in the cage to sleep. Within a month, however, we felt bad that we left him home alone so much so we decided to let him sleep in our bed to make up for our absence throughout the day.
Since then we (I) have bought him a rhinestone dog tag, a dog purse so he can go into stores with me, specialty dog treats and several other toys. He sleeps in our bed, eats some table scraps (which may have aided in his 1.5 pound weight gain), naps on the back of the couch during the day, has his own plane ticket for a trip that we are going to take this summer, and gets his belly scratched for a good half an hour every evening. When I want the dog to go find the hubs I say "Go find daddy!" to which the hubs responds "He's a dog, not our child." Then I say, "Don't be ridiculous." and we scratch Simba's belly.
He may not be a very good guard dog, but I feel better knowing that he is here and that he is a member of our family.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Poetry: I'm not a poet, and I know it, and I'm okay with that
I am getting ready to admit something that I have been trying to deny for years. I don't get poetry. I don't. I read poems. I try to be cultured. I pretend to understand them. I try to see them with emotion and great insight. But I don't understand them.
My interactions with poetry began in junior high. At that point my best friend (Katie) and I were going to start a Christian rock band (we both attended a private Christian school, I read Contemporary Christian Music Magazine, my radio was always set to the Christian music station). We were so cool. Actually, she was cool, I wasn't. A girl in our class made a list of the popular people in our class, the normal people and the unpopular people. There were only two people on the unpopular list, and I was one of them. But I digress. Katie and I thought we were the salt to the world's french fries. Life would be so much better for everyone if only they could hear our music. The problem was we didn't have any music. We only had a concept. And that concept was that we wanted to be famous Christian singers (does that exist) and we wanted the name of our group to be True Peace (with our symbol being a circle with a cross in it...like a peace sign but not).
Next step: write songs. In moments of great passion I would take pen to paper and write out my intense teenage thoughts and feelings. 5 minutes later I would have my lyrics. All that was left to have a song was to write music! Then a problem arose. The only instrument that I played was the flute. Hmmm...that's not very rock star-ish. Katie played miniscule amounts of piano, so she would have to be the creative genius behind our music. As you can tell by the description of my song writing we were bound to fail. Between the two of us we were able to write part of one song (that thinking back was entirely written by Katie) and several horrible lyrics. I submitted one poem that I wrote for a literary scholarship and they said they couldn't give me money but they wanted to publish it...I still have no idea why that one was okay and the others weren't.
My next interactions with poetry were in college. I believed myself to be well read while in small town Ohio, but as I ventured out into the wide world of academia I realized that I was a small fish in a big pond and that I hadn't really read much. It was at this time that I met Jenna (someone who was, and still is, well read). Jenna was an English, pre-med major at our college. She took classes like "Emily Dickinson's Poems" (which inspired me to try to read the poems of Emily Dickinson...I saw something about a butterfly, a frog and a small bird, couldn't figure out what it actually meant and gave up) and "Contemporary Writers." I was always intrigued to find out about these classes, tried to be interested in the topics (I figured that all educated people should be interested in literature), but in the end could not wrap my mind around the information.
In an attempt to try to be plugged in to the literary scene at school I decided to purchase a copy of the literary magazine that was published yearly and contained essays and poems by students. I also purchased this item because Jenna had one of her poems chosen for the magazine. I still have that magazine sitting on my bookshelf next to my other unread books of poetry. I did read Jenna's poem - I thought it was pretty good (it was about doctors and I was a Biology major headed to medical school, so it clicked with me on that level). But I still didn't understand what made poetry good.
I remember that at about the same time that the literary magazine came out I sat down and talked to Jenna about how her poetry class was going. She had been under the assumption that poetry came during moments of frenzied, inspired writing (much like I attempted during my Christian rock band days in junior high), but her professor had explained that poetry was something that took time. It took many drafts. It is not something to be written in 5 minutes but something to be revised over the course of many sittings. I accepted this explanation because it made sense. People revise prose - why not poetry? Plus it gave me a way to rationalize (read cop out) about why my poetry wasn't any good (it's not that I'm not a good writer...it's that I didn't write enough drafts).
Since college I think I have written and kept one poem. I was bored in class one day (in a biology PhD program) and decided to write a satirical poem about my program. It wasn't eloquent. It didn't rhyme properly. It didn't have any kind of meter. But it was funny. For the first time in life other people really appreciated a poem that I wrote, so much so that it ended up on our class refrigerator. Also, interestingly enough, I wrote two drafts. The other poems that I have written since leaving college have been kind of embarrassing. I sit down thinking, "man, I should really write a poem." I write it (usually in 5 minutes with no second draft), read it, realize that it is bad and that I would be horrified if someone else actually read it. Then I proceed to destroy the evidence. First I scribble over the words (Why didn't I think to write this in pencil!). Then, since I am convinced that you can still see the words through the scribbles I write other random words over top of the scribbles and scribble over it again. Finally, the poem is torn up into tiny pieces and distributed into several trash cans.
I think my poetry days are over. Sometimes I see that someone has written a poem and posted it on facebook. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I don't, but I never know for sure if it's good or not. And I'm okay with that. I realize that I have other strengths (none of which would lend to the life of a Christian rock star).
My interactions with poetry began in junior high. At that point my best friend (Katie) and I were going to start a Christian rock band (we both attended a private Christian school, I read Contemporary Christian Music Magazine, my radio was always set to the Christian music station). We were so cool. Actually, she was cool, I wasn't. A girl in our class made a list of the popular people in our class, the normal people and the unpopular people. There were only two people on the unpopular list, and I was one of them. But I digress. Katie and I thought we were the salt to the world's french fries. Life would be so much better for everyone if only they could hear our music. The problem was we didn't have any music. We only had a concept. And that concept was that we wanted to be famous Christian singers (does that exist) and we wanted the name of our group to be True Peace (with our symbol being a circle with a cross in it...like a peace sign but not).
Next step: write songs. In moments of great passion I would take pen to paper and write out my intense teenage thoughts and feelings. 5 minutes later I would have my lyrics. All that was left to have a song was to write music! Then a problem arose. The only instrument that I played was the flute. Hmmm...that's not very rock star-ish. Katie played miniscule amounts of piano, so she would have to be the creative genius behind our music. As you can tell by the description of my song writing we were bound to fail. Between the two of us we were able to write part of one song (that thinking back was entirely written by Katie) and several horrible lyrics. I submitted one poem that I wrote for a literary scholarship and they said they couldn't give me money but they wanted to publish it...I still have no idea why that one was okay and the others weren't.
My next interactions with poetry were in college. I believed myself to be well read while in small town Ohio, but as I ventured out into the wide world of academia I realized that I was a small fish in a big pond and that I hadn't really read much. It was at this time that I met Jenna (someone who was, and still is, well read). Jenna was an English, pre-med major at our college. She took classes like "Emily Dickinson's Poems" (which inspired me to try to read the poems of Emily Dickinson...I saw something about a butterfly, a frog and a small bird, couldn't figure out what it actually meant and gave up) and "Contemporary Writers." I was always intrigued to find out about these classes, tried to be interested in the topics (I figured that all educated people should be interested in literature), but in the end could not wrap my mind around the information.
In an attempt to try to be plugged in to the literary scene at school I decided to purchase a copy of the literary magazine that was published yearly and contained essays and poems by students. I also purchased this item because Jenna had one of her poems chosen for the magazine. I still have that magazine sitting on my bookshelf next to my other unread books of poetry. I did read Jenna's poem - I thought it was pretty good (it was about doctors and I was a Biology major headed to medical school, so it clicked with me on that level). But I still didn't understand what made poetry good.
I remember that at about the same time that the literary magazine came out I sat down and talked to Jenna about how her poetry class was going. She had been under the assumption that poetry came during moments of frenzied, inspired writing (much like I attempted during my Christian rock band days in junior high), but her professor had explained that poetry was something that took time. It took many drafts. It is not something to be written in 5 minutes but something to be revised over the course of many sittings. I accepted this explanation because it made sense. People revise prose - why not poetry? Plus it gave me a way to rationalize (read cop out) about why my poetry wasn't any good (it's not that I'm not a good writer...it's that I didn't write enough drafts).
Since college I think I have written and kept one poem. I was bored in class one day (in a biology PhD program) and decided to write a satirical poem about my program. It wasn't eloquent. It didn't rhyme properly. It didn't have any kind of meter. But it was funny. For the first time in life other people really appreciated a poem that I wrote, so much so that it ended up on our class refrigerator. Also, interestingly enough, I wrote two drafts. The other poems that I have written since leaving college have been kind of embarrassing. I sit down thinking, "man, I should really write a poem." I write it (usually in 5 minutes with no second draft), read it, realize that it is bad and that I would be horrified if someone else actually read it. Then I proceed to destroy the evidence. First I scribble over the words (Why didn't I think to write this in pencil!). Then, since I am convinced that you can still see the words through the scribbles I write other random words over top of the scribbles and scribble over it again. Finally, the poem is torn up into tiny pieces and distributed into several trash cans.
I think my poetry days are over. Sometimes I see that someone has written a poem and posted it on facebook. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I don't, but I never know for sure if it's good or not. And I'm okay with that. I realize that I have other strengths (none of which would lend to the life of a Christian rock star).
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wedded Bliss
How could I start a blog named "Wedded Bliss and Other Stories" without having a first post called Wedded Bliss? My inspiration comes from the fact that I celebrated my 1 year wedding anniversary on Saturday by being a part of my dear friend Jenna's wedding. I have had a few people say, "Well, that's too bad that you had to spend your first anniversary at someone else's wedding." My response is that I loved it! What better way to celebrate than to see a good friend enter into the same covenant that the hubs and I entered into one year ago? Plus, it gave me a really good excuse to plan a mini vacation to Indianapolis and to throw in a few trips to fabulous restaurants on which we would not usually splurge.
This past year with the hubs has been the best year of my life. It has been difficult in so many ways (we are both students - he is in medical school and I am in graduate school), however it has been so much easier because we've been able to go through it together.
I don't mean to sugar coat things - we sometimes have fights or disagreements, but we are willing to compromise and ultimately have a desire to make each other happy. A marriage cannot work unless the other person is your first priority (yes, you have to put them before yourself). But the great thing is that I love him so much that this comes naturally (sometimes more or less naturally than other times).
I was reminded of something a few nights ago when I was at Jenna's shower. She asked for advice on marriage and while I didn't have advice per se I had an anecdote. Our pastor took us out to lunch a couple of months after we got married. He said that one of his favorite things about seeing newlyweds is finding out about the things that they are learning about each other in their new lives together. He asked me what I had learned about Keith. It took me a couple of days to think about this and to come up with a really good answer, but I shot our pastor an email a couple of days later with my answer. The hubs and I have extremely different opinions about the number of hangers one should own. I am of the firm belief that you should have about 15 extra hangers laying around. Then, even if you don't clean all of the hangers out of your closet you still won't run out when you are in the laundry room hanging up clothes fresh from the dryer. Also, if you go shopping and happen to buy a few new outfits, you already have the hangers at home to handle it. The hubs is of the opinion that you should own the same number of hangers as you own clothes. When I have "just enough" hangers, I get to the last 3 things in the dryer, can't find a hanger because they are located somewhere in the jungle of my closet, and then the clothes wrinkle by the time I give up on finding the hangers and just lay the clothes flat on the top of the washer and dryer until I wear 3 new items of clothing thus freeing up 3 new hangers. Of course, he is more organized than me and is prepared before he cleans out the dryer by going around to every closet and looking between every single piece of clothing to see which hangers are empty. He also has a theory that at any time, some clothes will be dirty or un-ironed so we could actually make due with less hangers than clothes. Sometimes I do all of the laundry and ironing in one day just to spite him.
The hubs and I compromised. He agreed that we could have more hangers (and since we bought more there has not been a single occasion during which all of our clothes have been washed - he probably made a good point when he said that there will always be some clothes in the laundry or ironing pile) as long as I agreed to load the dishwasher in his preferred way. Now, instead of loading all of the silverware handle-up, I load the forks handle-up and the spoons handle-down. The hubs is convinced that they get cleaner this way. I am convinced that even if they get cleaner in the washer that it is dirtier in the end because you are inevitably going to grab the spoon on the part you eat off of when you unload the dishwasher (be forwarned if you plan to dine at our house in the future).
I think that this can all be summed up nicely by something that I found on Jenna and her new husband Johnny's wedding website. They had a fun poll that you could take about their future lives together. One question was, "Will Johnny and Jenna kill each other living in a one-bedroom apartment?" The answer: "No. Because Jenna will make the bed (even though she doesn't care) to make Johnny happy."
This past year with the hubs has been the best year of my life. It has been difficult in so many ways (we are both students - he is in medical school and I am in graduate school), however it has been so much easier because we've been able to go through it together.
I don't mean to sugar coat things - we sometimes have fights or disagreements, but we are willing to compromise and ultimately have a desire to make each other happy. A marriage cannot work unless the other person is your first priority (yes, you have to put them before yourself). But the great thing is that I love him so much that this comes naturally (sometimes more or less naturally than other times).
I was reminded of something a few nights ago when I was at Jenna's shower. She asked for advice on marriage and while I didn't have advice per se I had an anecdote. Our pastor took us out to lunch a couple of months after we got married. He said that one of his favorite things about seeing newlyweds is finding out about the things that they are learning about each other in their new lives together. He asked me what I had learned about Keith. It took me a couple of days to think about this and to come up with a really good answer, but I shot our pastor an email a couple of days later with my answer. The hubs and I have extremely different opinions about the number of hangers one should own. I am of the firm belief that you should have about 15 extra hangers laying around. Then, even if you don't clean all of the hangers out of your closet you still won't run out when you are in the laundry room hanging up clothes fresh from the dryer. Also, if you go shopping and happen to buy a few new outfits, you already have the hangers at home to handle it. The hubs is of the opinion that you should own the same number of hangers as you own clothes. When I have "just enough" hangers, I get to the last 3 things in the dryer, can't find a hanger because they are located somewhere in the jungle of my closet, and then the clothes wrinkle by the time I give up on finding the hangers and just lay the clothes flat on the top of the washer and dryer until I wear 3 new items of clothing thus freeing up 3 new hangers. Of course, he is more organized than me and is prepared before he cleans out the dryer by going around to every closet and looking between every single piece of clothing to see which hangers are empty. He also has a theory that at any time, some clothes will be dirty or un-ironed so we could actually make due with less hangers than clothes. Sometimes I do all of the laundry and ironing in one day just to spite him.
The hubs and I compromised. He agreed that we could have more hangers (and since we bought more there has not been a single occasion during which all of our clothes have been washed - he probably made a good point when he said that there will always be some clothes in the laundry or ironing pile) as long as I agreed to load the dishwasher in his preferred way. Now, instead of loading all of the silverware handle-up, I load the forks handle-up and the spoons handle-down. The hubs is convinced that they get cleaner this way. I am convinced that even if they get cleaner in the washer that it is dirtier in the end because you are inevitably going to grab the spoon on the part you eat off of when you unload the dishwasher (be forwarned if you plan to dine at our house in the future).
I think that this can all be summed up nicely by something that I found on Jenna and her new husband Johnny's wedding website. They had a fun poll that you could take about their future lives together. One question was, "Will Johnny and Jenna kill each other living in a one-bedroom apartment?" The answer: "No. Because Jenna will make the bed (even though she doesn't care) to make Johnny happy."
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