She Likes Purple

Already Nostalgic

Our wedding is over. Honeymoon? Behind us. Oddly enough, I'm not even a little blue. To have had such a perfect wedding day and a perfect week in paradise makes me feel grateful, and very little else. (OK, also itchy because my sunburn is starting to peel and my only sunburned area is the very top of my legs—caused by husband-enforced snorkeling—so I look like I'm itching my butt when actually, well, itching my butt, but only because of the sunburn! not because of butt fungus!)

Even though we've already been married a WHOPPING 40 days (e-mail me for marriage advice), I still enjoy looking at this:

When I read this today, I smiled (at that last part, especially). We don't strive for perfection, Mike and me, as I'm sure most couples don't. We got really lucky with our wedding day because, for us, it was perfect, but most days the laundry doesn't get done. The milk usually goes bad. The bills are sometimes late and the bed is never made.

During one of our snorkeling adventures this past week, we found ourselves caught out in the reef while the tide was going out. Swimming to shore was a son of a bitch. I could feel myself gasping for breath in my snorkel and to top it off my mask broke and water was rushing into my nose, and, friends, we all know how I handle stress. With the same grace Paris Hilton handles her responsibilities. I ripped the mask off, punched Mike in the arm and screamed, "SO HELP ME THERE BETTER BE A RASPBERRY COLADA WAITING FOR ME ON SHORE OR I'M GOING TO FLIP OUT."

After another HOUR of kicking and panting and freaking out, I sighed and said, "Forget it. I'll just die out here. I can't swim another foot," Mike laughed at me and told me to grab on to his ankles and he'd swim us to shore. And he did (although I kicked some, I want it noted). We made it to shore. He got me a raspberry colada. Fine, he got me six of them.

Our relationship has never been perfect. (Even when he told me he loved me for the first time on top of the Empire State Building—a magical close-to-perfect moment except for the fact that he whispered it into my ear and I wasn't sure that what I thought I had heard him say was actually what he had said, so I waited, almost a full minute, to say it back, making that magical moment a little awkward.) (Also, when Mike was just about to propose to me, he tried spinning me around on the beach. But I thought a man was trying to steal our car, so I kept yelling at him, "STOP SPINNING ME. WHAT IS THAT GUY DOING? LOOK AT THAT GUY. OH MY. HE'S GOING TO KILL US AND STEAL OUR CAR." And then when, finally, I shut up long enough for him to get the ring out, I took it out of his hand—mid-speech!—and he actually paused, struck by how unsure he suddenly was about marrying me—a psychotic.)

We were lucky to have this:

This too:

But the rest of the time, I do a lot of freaking out and he does a lot of holding my hand. He does a lot of farting and blaming it on the dog. We have spiders in our house, too many, because of all this rain. Also, something got into our garbage today and there are mushrooms and old cupcakes and worms eating those mushrooms and old cupcakes strewn across our driveway and I refuse to do a damn thing about the mess because it just gives me the shivers. Also, we have debt. And I own a Saturn. Not even close to perfect.

But I have him. He has me. We have Molly. She has us. We have a little piece of this world. It's not perfect, not. But it sure is nice.

You Wonder Why I Drink

The day before we left for our honeymoon, Mike and I went to Target (shock! gasp!). We bought sunscreen by the gallon, some beach towels, an awesome beach bag I converted into a really cool oversized purse and a bucket with a matching rake and shovel. That last item purchased: Why marriage licenses shouldn't be issued to just anyone. We stood in the beach aisle of Target while Mike whined—loudly—"IT'S ONLY $2 AND I WANT TO BUILD A SAND CASTLE." Just to help your mental picture out, the aforementioned bucket was A BUCKET, so you can imagine how compatible it was with our suitcase. That bucket was the reason I couldn't bring three extra pairs of shoes.

The first day we spent in St. John, Mike packed the snorkel gear and the towels and the bucket in the back of our rental Jeep. We got out, hiked down to the beach and, friends, THE BUCKET STAYED IN THE TRUNK. That day and every day after that.

When we packed up our suitcases the day before we left, Mike insisted we make room for cheap rum and the crabs he had collected throughout the week, and—sigh!—there ended up being no room to bring the bucket home. We left it in the garage of our villa for the next guests to enjoy (or stare at confusedly).

Look at my lovely husband—all cute and redheaded—intently building a sand castle, WITHOUT A BUCKET.

I let him buy the bucket. I let him pack the bucket. I let him leave the bucket EVERY DAY we went to the beach. I let him leave the bucket in St. John so he could bring home alcohol and live crustaceans.

I deserve a bucket of my own. Fille with money.

Reality Check

We're back. We're also tan and a few (fine, a lot more than a few) pounds heavier. Other than the brief elation of seeing Molly, we're just about as blue as can be that we had to leave this:

But! We took pictures! I'll post all jillion of them as soon as I can, so I can re-live our time—through you—in paradise.

It's the only honeymoon I've ever been on, but oh wow people, I recommend honeymoons to everyone, newly married or not. We had quite the time. I could post story upon story, but only Mike and I would laugh and you would begin to hate me as all stories would have some degree of beach in them.

I will say that now that we're back, we have quite the to-do list to tackle, which is my way of saying wedding thank-you notes are going out THIS WEEK. I promise. Please don't call Emily Post on me just yet!

But before I get to those, look at us, all tan and full of fresh seafood and more in love than ever:

I won't show you the picture of us tonight, after days (literally) of traveling, hours of which were spent in an airplane with no A/C and an airport with no power at all. Also, our rental car's brakes began to fail. That picture isn't nearly as cute.

But, we're back.

And we can't wait to go again. 

I Shouldn't Be His Publicist

Natalie: We just don't keep that much liquor in the house.

Jennie: We don't either.

Natalie: Micah sometimes has whiskey.

Jennie: Mike sometimes has Parrot Bay.

Natalie: ...

Jennie: But he builds stuff.

For Some Odd Reason, I'm Having A Hard Time Concentrating

Where we'll be in five short days:

This is the view from the back of the villa, where we'll be staying in St. John. Those lounge chairs? Ours! Not pictured: ridiculous amounts of alcohol to be consumed while lounging in those lounge chairs.

And just in case you were worried, there is indeed a hot tub:

And, yes, I do think making you insanely jealous is exactly what I should be doing right now.

Mike and I have begun planning our little trip south. Where we should eat, what we should do, how many hours we should sleep before our honeymoon officially becomes a very expensive nap. And everytime I stumble upon an activity Google has produced after I've searched "bad-ass things to do in St. John" I e-mail Mike to tell him to get on top of booking this or that excursion because all he had to do for the wedding was show up and I'd sort of like our honeymoon to be a very nice case of the tables turning.

Last night I e-mailed him about deep sea fishing. I wrote, "Sign us up love! I want to catch me a shark!" To which he responded "It's $675 for a half day."

I better catch that shark in less than three minutes because that's about all the deep sea fishing we can afford.

But those lounge chairs and that hot tub? ALREADY PAID FOR.

I make it very hard to like me, I realize this. So I may as well go ahead and post this one:

How I Know I'm Still Not Over Veronica Mars' Cancellation

Every time the CW plays a preview for one of their new fall shows, I scream at the television:

I'M NOT WATCHING YOU!

A Year Of Purpose

I've said a few times before that if Mike and I never have a baby (if we're not able to have one for whatever reason), I know I'll be OK. It will suck because, as I've also said a few times before, Molly doesn't have thumbs, and therefore we'll never be able to exploit her dependence on us—the way we could exploit a child— by forcing her to fetch us beer or chips or the remote. But, I know I'll eventually be OK if mommy-hood isn't meant for me because I already have a family. There are no voids that need filling. We have a good little thing going, and if it ends up being just us for all the years of our lives than that means I'll always be as lucky as I feel in this moment (I hope). I got to marry my guy, and although life takes us and changes us and throws us into more debt than we could ever imagine, it also rains good down upon us, and three weeks ago, life made me this man's wife:

(Courtesy of Chris Beck Photography)

I don't want to lead a life where that's not enough for me—in terms of family.

I hope to be a mother, don't get me wrong. But, I don't want to live my life as an incomplete person. I don't want my husband or my unborn child to fill something that without them would have been left empty. Also, it's easy to have my particular outlook on motherhood because I'm not without children in my life. I'm an aunt. And it's the coolest thing to be. (Except for maybe rich, but I probably shouldn't type that if you're going to maintain any level of respect for me. Too late!)

Tomorrow, my older sister's baby boy turns one year old. Did you catch that? One year. That's every holiday, every season, every type of weather, every milestone. And that's also enough time for his aunt to teach him to dance to Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack" and Kanye West's "Golddigger." 

I like to think I'm OK, regardless of what the future holds for me in terms of having a baby, because I'm not without pure joy in my life, the kind of joy that comes from loving another person so much. There is something very maternal in the way I feel about my nephew, a real desire to see him happy and healthy and strong and secure. A deep want to see him safe and protected and loved. Yet it's mixed with this fabulous feeling of hope. Hope that I get to see him have real fun and real adventures in his life, and also the urge to give him just whatever the hell he wants. (I know the last part is the aunt in me.) It's only matched by how I feel about my brother. The love is so strong and so physical, and I don't have to keep it in check. I can give them $100 here and there and not worry about spoiling them. I AM ALLOWED TO SPOIL THEM. Although, I'm also poor, so there's a pretty big gap between "here" and "there."

Noah, happy birthday, bug.

I hope this year is better than last and I hope every year that follows gets a little better, a little fuller. I hope you smile more than you don't. I hope you meet new people and discover new things and walk and run and explore this world you're in. It's a very confused world, but beautiful nonetheless. And it desperately needs someone like you in it.

I hope you know I'm not here to catch you when you fall because you need to fall. Because when you soar, little man, I want you to feel it in your soul, and that's only possible if you've fallen down a few times. But I promise to help you back up, every time, and more often than not, to offer you gifts and treats and hugs when it just hurts to be a kid (or to be alive, for that matter, but apparently when you're 25 people don't think you need gifts and treats to get through things like commuting and bill paying and THEY ARE WRONG, NOAH).

I've never known a mother who loves her child more than your mom loves you (except for my mom, so you'll eventually be able to see the connection). But, I want you to know, no matter what happens in life, you'll always have my house to come to. I'll always pay for a flight to come visit me. I'll always take you for ice cream. And I'll never—even when I'm no longer here on earth—stop adoring every little thing about you.

I'm sorry I don't live closer, bug. I wish I lived next door or down the hall. I wish I lived right there so I'd never miss a thing. But I am not just some distant aunt who sends you cards and calls every so often. I am your aunt. Your friend. Your support system. Your family. The one who loves you and the one who you've given peace to. Noah, with your birth came a calm to all who love you. I never have children, if I am never a mother, if I never change diapers or sing lullabies or push strollers, I will still be OK, because you were born. One year ago.

Happy birthday, bug.

For more pictures of my nephew, the birthday boy, click here.

A New Community

In Target yesterday, the nice cashier said to me as she handed me my receipt: "You've been pre-approved for a Target card! Do you want to apply?"

"Not if I want to stay married."

To which the lady behind me in line said: "AMEN!"

We exchanged a knowing smile and then I pushed my cards and beer out to my car. She probably would have kicked me right out of the all-knowing-and-united-wives club if she had found out I've been doing this wife thing for all of five minutes.

There's No Way I Could Have Known

I've been married now for a little over two weeks. So, therefore me = marriage guru.

Although I must admit, it doesn't feel all that different. We're in the same house, with the same pathetic bank account, and—aside from the 50+ thank-you cards we must now get to writing—our relationship has pretty much stayed on the same course it was on before—with more jewelry.

There is a feeling that has come over me and I wasn't entirely prepared for it. I think it's my responsibility to share it. I wish someone would have honestly blogged about engagement, wedding planning, the first little bit of marriage for me to read months ago. It's as if no one wants to put it out there, as if admitting to it being difficult secures you a future in a divorce lawyer's office. Well, kiddos, it's bliss, it really is, but it's also real life and real life includes arguments and a lot of bills you weren't prepared for. (Excuse me, the cell phone bill is how much now?) Mike and I don't look deep into each other's eyes and talk about our feelings unless we're talking about our feelings for The Office.

But what I wasn't prepared for—after the wedding—was a rush of vulnerability to come over me. I feel a bit raw and exposed as if we have something we truly need to protect and take care of now. What we're doing is a big deal for me, and I know—realistically—the odds aren't really for or against us; it could go either way. I know we are happier than some (most?) but we also have debt and I never put my shoes away. We're normal in that we're very hopeful but also (at least me) pretty scared. The pressure seems to be more extreme now that the marriage license is in our hands. We can't just see if this sticks, we have to really work at it if things get tough.

I want to be a good wife. I want to be the kind of wife Mike deserves. I want to be a better wife than I was a girlfriend/fiancee. That sounds ridiculous, I know, but Mike has had girlfriends, a point of reference. But I'm the first wife he's had, and I have to set the bar.

I wanted to marry Mike long ago. I wanted to be his wife more than I have ever wanted anything. And now that I am, now that it is a dream realized, it feels completely surreal, and I am trying, desperately, to do it right because when you see a dream come true, the last thing you want is to take it for granted or stop earning it.

I wasn't prepared to feel so overwhelmingly lucky that it would literally scare me. I also wasn't prepared to hate every customer service person who asks me repeatedly to spell my new last name. I wasn't prepared to attempt to spell it for them FIVE SEPARATE times before throwing my hands up and yelling, as I stomp out of their store, SPELL IT HOWEVER THE HELL YOU WANT TO.

Honeymoon Is Over Before It Began

Three pet peeves:

1. When people smack their food or eat with their mouth open. My skin begins to crawl and I either have to leave the room or kick the offender in the neck.

2. Being tickled. It's painful! Even if that doesn't compute because of how hard I am laughing, trust me, it hurts. I flail and kick and usually elbow Mike in the eye to get him to stop.

3. When fast food joints give me a practically half empty to-go cup. If I'm going to spend $2.49 on a soda that costs $.59 at Quick Trip, go ahead and be a dear and FILL THE DAMN THING UP. If there's more than an inch of space between the drink and the lid, I hand that sucker back, sigh heavily and say, "Could you please fill this up to the top, since I ordered a large and not a small in a large cup. And I'm watching you, so if you spit in it, I want free tacos." (This demand gets harder when I'm not at Taco Bell.)

Mike does #1 and #2 CONSTANTLY. It's a wonder he ever convinced me to marry him.

So, tonight, as Mike ate a BOWLFUL of cherries and slurped and smacked his way through them, I was forced to screech at him:

"FOR THE SAFETY OF OUR MARRIAGE PLEASE QUIT!"

To which he responded:

"No way. I love this. It's like tickling you from far away."

Because I Was Away From My Camera For Four Days, Too

Random pictures:

My manicure and my rings (plural!) on a beach in Tahoe.

 

Mike put together our baker's rack while I was away Please ooh and ahh at his brilliance and ignore the wallpaper.

Flowers and a clean kitchen (despite a few empty beer bottles). Notice the flowers are purple. My man rocks it.

A present from the Teutons that came today! I am, thanks to Crystal, a huge fan of anything personalized/monogrammed/embroidered/etc. See redenvelope.com for items that make me drool on a daily basis. 

My Molly! She missed her mama and her mama's need to constantly take pictures of her, with the flash on, a foot from her face.

My new swim suit! To be worn in 13 short days on the beaches of St. John.

And because I want to keep it real: this table is actually in our house—at this moment—looking just like this. If you ever thought Mike and I had it enviablly good, remember this table.