six months

Anniversary Tag

How long have you been married?

Six months. Six mostly blissful months.

How long did you date?

Almost a year.

How old is he?

25 and one quarter.

How old is she?

21 and three quarters.

Who said "I love you" first?

This is how the first time went.

Fred: I think I love you.

Me: (slightly mortified) What??

Fred: (reading the situation accurately) ...oh...uh...ouch! My eye!

Me: Oh no, your eye!

(The L-word was not brought up for awhile after that.)

Who is taller?

Fred.

Who sings better?

Fred?

Who is smarter?

If we're measuring "smart" in terms of who's better in math, then Fred, but if we're measuring "smart" in terms of...who can type faster or who can eat more chocolate chips in one minute, then me.

Who does the laundry?

Mostly me.

Who does the dishes?

Hmm, we both do them.

Who sleeps on the right side of the bed?

We trade off. It's a free for all system around here.

Who pays the bills?

The state of California.

Who mows the lawn?

We don't have one of those.

Who cooks dinner?

Me. Sometimes Papa Murphy's takes a turn, too.

Who is more stubborn?

I think we tie on this one. It would depend on the situation, though.

Who asked out whom?

Fred asked out me.

Who proposed?

Fred. A few weeks after he proposed, we ordered his ring. Once it arrived at the store, I picked it up and gave it to him by proposing, so I guess we both proposed!

Who is more sensitive?

Me probably.

Who has more friends?

I think I do.

Who has more siblings?

Fred, who has eight siblings.

I tag anyone else who is having any sort of anniversary. I'm a sucker for any excuse to celebrate.

christmas music

You'll note that Drummer Boy is absent. Pa-rum-pa-pum-DUMB.

a day in our life

6:50 a.m.

Fred's alarm goes off. He wakes me up and tells me through his retainer-induced lisp that Arthur, my favorite childhood television show, is on at 7.

7:00 a.m.

We sleepily sit in front of our fuzzy tube TV--Fred on the yoga ball, me in a camping chair. (We're not big on real furniture...or any furniture, really. Did I mention that we sleep in a bed? I did not. You know why? Because we sleep on the linoleum.)

7:20 a.m.

We cut Arthur short and decide to make scrambled eggs. Fred puts his in a burrito with salsa, cheese, and whatever else he can find in the refrigerator. I eat mine with a slice of toast.

7:45 a.m.

Fred and I cozy up to his laptop. I help him revise his beastly term paper. Together we look up cases and check facts, delete and rewrite paragraphs, and try not to bite our nails (it's our shared nervous habit. Cuters).

9:45 a.m.

I make a half batch of cookies for visiting teaching.

Fred leaves for school. He says good-bye: "See you later, booger brains. Don't poop your pants today and stuff!" He's such a flirt.

10:15 a.m.

Fred is probably studying. I'm doing P90X. You know, because I'm a trophy wife...who still watches Arthur and makes cookies before noon.

11:30 a.m.

I shower. I notice our fabric shower curtain is getting moldy on a corner that is constantly wet because our tile wall leaks. (Maintenance hasn't responded to our request to fix it. They're probably still scared of our weapon.) I throw the shower curtain into the on-site washing machine.

12:05 p.m.

Fred is in class.

I sit at a picnic bench outside our apartment to do independent study schoolwork while listening to Coldplay's U.F.O. on repeat.

5:30 p.m.

Fred comes home for dinner. He makes a sandwich and watches football.

We watch the end of this week's episode of The Biggest Loser on Hulu while washing the dishes. Well, mostly I watch it, and Fred just overhears it (and groans each time someone cries) while he washes dishes. :)

6:15 p.m.

Fred goes back on campus to study. It's dark outside at this point. I read King Lear for independent study, then decide to walk to the grocery store to pick up some stuff. The grocery store is about two miles away, so I bring headphones so I can listen to Pandora while I walk.

7:00 p.m.

Ummm, Raisin Bran on MEGA SALE. I promptly purchase five boxes at the self checkout. The guy behind me says, "Wow, SOMEbody likes Raisin Bran. Ha ha." Then he asks for my number. I say no and feel completely unimpressed and put my headphones back in while I stack my treasures in my arms and exit the grocery store. Then I realize that I can't fit five boxes of family size Raisin Bran into my one backpack. Then I feel smart when I think to pull all the bags out of the boxes, throw the boxes away, and then fit all bags in my backpack.

7:10 p.m.

Fred asks where I am. I tell him. He asks if he can come meet me halfway to walk me the rest of the way home.

7:15 p.m.

I get stopped by a pack of Korean tourists on bicycles. They're lost. They barely speak English. One of them holds up a piece of paper with an address on it.

I say, "Oh, just ride your bikes fifteen minutes that way."

"FIFTY MINUTES?" they cry in distress.

"No no!" I laugh. "FIFTEEN. As in, ten to twenty."

"Oh, ya ya! Good!" they laugh back.

7:25 p.m.

Fred and I meet on the overpass of the freeway. He starts laughing when he sees me. "You look ridiculous," he says. (I'm wearing shorts, black furry boots, Fred's ski jacket that goes just a few inches above my knees, and a giant hunter-esque hat with my pixie-cut-gone-mullet hair poking out. I get cold easily, okay?)

7:30 p.m.

We decide to stop by In-N-Out to use the restroom and get some water.

7:32 p.m.

We decide we might as well order french fries while we're there.

7:35 p.m.

Okay, okay. We might as well order a hamburger and a grilled cheese sandwich, too.

8:00 p.m.

We rub our bellies and leave In-N-Out. Fred pulls out his iPod. I take one earbud, he takes the other. We listen to Christmas music as we walk home with our arms around each other, stopping to kick through especially big leaf piles.

8:03 p.m.

We approach a stoplight. When the walk signal turns, a speaker says, "The walk sign is on. The walk sign is on. The walk sign is on." Fred and I joke about what if it said, "Your mom is on." We laugh at that joke for a good two blocks.

8:15 p.m.

We arrive home.

8:40 p.m.

We curl up on the couch so Fred can read Calvin and Hobbes comics to me. He has a book of them, but they're in German, so he reads them first in German, then translates them for me. I learn how to say teacher, tiger, sugar, not me, darn it, different, and magic carpet in German.

9:10 p.m.

We get distracted and Google more about Bill Watterson, the creator of Calvin and Hobbes.

9:40 p.m.

I brush my teeth and get in bed. Fred gets ready for bed while I read Believing Christ by Stephen E. Robinson.

10:00 p.m.

Fred gets so hyper when it's time for bed. Is this just a common thing with guys? This is when he'll come running into the bedroom giggling like a three-year-old. It makes me think, "Oh my gosh, this is exactly how our son will be." He'll jump on me, bite me, crawl under the covers to tickle my feet, and make up songs too inappropriate to post. I usually get annoyed because I'm trying to have spiritual relaxation by reading from my spiritually uplifting book, and all he wants to do is wrestle and make farting noises.

10:07 p.m.

I get exasperated and say, "Um, can't you see that I'm trying to read?"

He gets really quiet and sadly gets under the covers.

10:10 p.m.

I feel too guilty to concentrate on what I'm reading, so I put my book down, turn off the lamp, and snuggle into him. I say sorry. He smiles and says it's okay. We say a prayer. Fred lets me wedge my ice cold feet between his boiling hot feet.

10:20 p.m.

I get philosophical and teary eyed over the chapter I just read in Believing Christ.

10:25 p.m.

Fred gets philosophical and teary eyed over Bill Watterson.

10:30 p.m.

We challenge each other to saying different things with our retainers in our mouths. We laugh so hard we cry.

10:40 p.m.

Fred wants to wrestle and make farting noises some more.

10:45 p.m.

I get annoyed that he'd rather do that than snuggle and tell me how much he loves me. Duh.

10:50 p.m.

Fred feels bad. He pulls me into a tight hug and plays with my hair. He tells me he loves me because I make yummy cookies and because I have a Grade-A "bootwah."

11:15 p.m.

We fall asleep playing footsie.

giving

Last week, Fred and I hit our five-month milestone.

I think blogs can be depressing to read when it seems like everyone but you is living a charmed life. Women will be like, "Today is our five-month anniversary. Chris woke me up with a hot baked muffin. Oh wait, it wasn't a muffin! It was a 4 carat diamond ring. Then he gave me a two hour massage. Then he played Spanish guitar for me. Then he took me to our backyard, and there was a hot air balloon! I couldn't believe it! I'm writing this from my iPhone while we are soaring over the Grand Canyon at sunset."

This won't be one of those posts.

One of my blog missions is to make people appreciate the realism of their lives. So, here's some reality for ya. :)

In reality, I had an exhausting week.

In reality, Fred had an exhausting week as well.

We are nearing the end of his first semester of law school, but it's been a semester full of a zillion changes--a new marriage, a new city, a new school. And sometimes, like this last week, the stress drills into us at full-force, and we are driven to do some pretty stupid things as a result.

Such was the night before our five-month anniversary: an explosion of reality, stress, and a little bit of arguing (okay, a lot of arguing), contention, hurt, and tears (oh heavens, all the tears!). As a result, we slept very little that night--myself only two hours.

Enter Adri.

Meet Adri, my five-year-old niece. I was scheduled to baby sit her the day of my marriage anniversary. Puffy-eyed and worn out, I drove to play with Adri for the day.

Near the end of our play date, Adri and I pulled out paper and crayons. We started to color pictures. While Adri was busy scrawling her name and perfecting her technique in drawing stick figures, I drew a picture of a bright purple castle with a mote, a magical pony, and Princess Adri in a hot pink dress.

While I was putting the finishing touches on my picture, Adri asked, "What are you drawing, Rachel?"

"A picture," I said, "for you."

I handed her my drawing. Her bright blue eyes lit up as she breathed, "Ooh, wow! It's b-e-a-uuuutiful!"

What happened next taught me a very valuable lesson. She smiled, said thank you, and then drew me a picture. Not just one. Not two. Adri drew me SIX wonderful pictures: a turkey, a rainbow, a garden, another turkey, a house, and a picture of me.

I was touched that during our art time, she became most excited when giving pictures, not getting pictures. My giving inspired her to give more, not to take more.

Kids are kinda smart, aren't they?

Adri's example stuck with me as I drove home that night to see Fred for the first time since our blow up the night before. The beautiful thing about marriage is that it's an opportunity to love--to give. As time goes on, I understand my responsibility to give Fred and our marriage everything I've got. It is a huge blessing to hold the soul of another person in your hand--to see someone for everything they are and everything they're not, and to love them no matter what you find. Sometimes it's scary. But mostly it's just awesome. It's awesome to learn to love someone so unconditionally, and then to let that love--that person--inspire you to be better.

When I walked through the door the night, Fred was already waiting for me. He scooped me up in a big hug, kissed my forehead, and said, "Happy five months, Rachy. I love you."

Marriage (and life) is about giving. But giving isn't really enough, because it is especially important to find joy in giving.

Then you can be as smart as Adri. :)

rasp berry

During the more archaic days of Facebook, instead of like-ing something, one would have to add that something as its friend. Somethings had profiles, not pages, so one might be friend requested by Tony the Tiger, Autumn Leaves, and Omelettes.

Two summers ago (during the archaic season), I got surgery on both of my feet. I army crawled for the next two months. It was a poorly planned decision, but this post is not about my inability to think ahead, so back to the story. One night during my invalidity, my friend Janssen posted a new status: "A strawberry just asked me to be its friend. What's next, the Trix rabbit?" to which my friend Jazmine responded, "A blueberry probably, unless the raspberry gets to you first. The two aren't on good terms." Janssen chimed back, "What a tragedy. Hopefully blackberry doesn't try to add me. I really don't like that guy."

Janssen and I were in a theater troupe in high school, but we haven't seen each other since graduation. However, when I saw this status, I freaked out. I knew what had to be done.

I quickly logged out of my account, scrambling to open a Gmail tab in my window so I could create a fake email.

Once that was completed, I hurriedly tried to make a Facebook account under the name "Raspberry." Wouldn't let me.

"A. Raspberry"? Sorry, we know you're making a fake Facebook name because who the heck is named A. Raspberry?

"Mister Raspberry"? Ha, nope.

I was trying to suppress my panic as I went through names; I knew I had to be swift to beat out all of the other people who were trying to play the same joke on Janssen!

Finally, an account was created under the name "Rasp Berry." I friend requested Janssen.

I anxiously awaited for her to comment, or message, or IM me saying, "omg rachel! lmfao girl u so funny! when ru comin back 2 da bay? miss u SO much, lets catch up."

Here it comes. I mean, really, if some girl you hadn't spoken to in 4-ish years played something like this, wouldn't you find it hilarious?

Yeah. Neither did Janssen.

Thus the Internet absorbed my Rasp Berry joke, forever forgotten.

This story illustrates how I feel about life right now. Do you ever get really excited about an idea (REALLY excited), and upon execution, you realize that it was the biggest waste of time because it didn't accomplish anything? And then you're left feeling like ten-year-old Rachel who was laughed at in front of her entire band class because she thought condo and condom were both abbreviations for condominium (that is, embarrassed and "WHY did I say/do/think that?")?

Yeah. My life. Right here.

But you know what? Approximately one month after the epic fail that was Rasp Berry, I shared the story with my friend Kellyn.

She laughed. A lot. Then she friend requested Rasp Berry.

Over time, Rasp Berry has acquired four friends (four!) other than Janssen and myself. Those four friends appreciate the joke. They get it.

So really, when life throws you a condo/m/inium situation, sometimes you just have to wait it out and trust that someone or something like Kellyn, Clancy, Elizabeth, or Stephanie will come along and validate the thing you were really excited about (REALLY excited). Then you'll see that your ambitions, your dreams, your ideas are not a copious waste of space.

weapon

The other night, one of the fellow law students in our ward recruited Fred and me to participate as witnesses in a mock trial. Today Fred briefly went over my character with me before running to his afternoon classes.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door. I opened the door...to find a pack of mean-looking cops.

"Oh!--hi," I said. This must be part of the mock trial, and maybe Topher forgot to mention it to us, I thought. I immediately racked my memory for all the details of my character: Paula Chang, 111 Lincoln Ave, two men fighting, 10 feet apart, Red Apple Restaurant, gun shot, 11:00 pm...

"Good afternoon," the giant cop said while he and the rest of the cops simultaneously held up their badges. "We're here under a search warrant."

"Oh," I said, realizing that this had nothing to do with the mock trial.

"It seems you are housing a weapon," the cop explained.

I quickly thought of all the possible weapons in our apartment. Cutco knives, Venus razor, fabric scissors. I just got an immersion blender with our gift cards--THAT could do damage. Did Fred bring in his golf clubs from the car?

The cop continued, "A maintenance worker was here earlier, and he reported seeing a weapon on top of your computer."

Our computer? We don't have a computer...other than our laptops, but we were gone when the maintenance worker came, and we had our laptops with us.

I opened the door wider and said, "I'm not sure what you're talking about, but come on in!"

They all stomped their big heavy boots into our front room, their pencils hesitating above pads of paper.

"Now, I'm going to have to ask you some questions. Are there any other residents here besides you?"

"Yeah. Well, I mean, my husband. He lives here. With me, I mean. We live here together."

"So this entire apartment is yours?" (Gestures around the apartment.)

"Just this unit, yeah." (Wanting to make fun of him for making our 600 sq ft linoleum dump sound spacious.)

"Do you mind if you show us to--" (shuffles through papers and reads through some notes) "--the bedroom on the left?"

I led them all down our hallway to the bedroom on the left. While we were walking, the cop said, "The maintenance worker reported seeing a gun in this bedroom."

"A gun?" I repeated, thinking about how I've never shot a gun in my life.

Then it hit me.

And I started laughing really, really hard.

Because, you see, in that bedroom in plain sight on the desk is Fred's airsoft gun. I pointed to it from across the room, and the cop started to laugh, too. He picked it up, opened it up, and guffawed, "Oh man, it isn't even loaded! Oh man." It was a nice moment, a cop and me keeling over with laughter. He turned and called down the hall to the entire squad, "Code 4! Airsoft!" I heard them all start laughing as they turned and filed out of the apartment. The cop shook his head, put the deadly weapon back on the desk, said thank you, and sauntered out of the apartment.

The end.

genesis

My mother used to take me for drives in her car. I was young at the time--before I could drive myself, of course.

"There's a real estate open house by the peninsula," she would say, or "There's a deadline I need to make at the post office," "There's a neighbor that needs dinner tonight," "There's a baby shower gift I need to get for this weekend." She would hold out my shoes and say, "Come with me." Then she'd strap me in my car seat, the toddler seat, and eventually I'd strap myself in the front seat, and together we'd drive for hours and hours, peering out at blurred trees and squinting into the sun, which always seemed to be directly in our eyes no matter what compass direction we traveled.

It was during these drives that my mom would talk. And talk. And then be silent. And then talk some more. I can't remember exactly what she talked about, but I do remember feeling slightly irritated at both the unimportance and the abundance of her thoughts. What was the point of this jabber? What do I care about the biography she saw on TV, the shoes she saw at Nordstrom, the sandwich she ate at Subway?

It's taken me years to understand the need to talk--the need to be heard. I'm 21-years-old now, been married a few days over four months, currently pushing through my last 20 credits of my undergrad at a university that is two states away. My husband and I recently moved for him to begin his first year of law school. Anyone who's been in this position knows the long (long) study hours. Anyone who's been married understands the funny gender/personality differences to identify and get used to. And I feel like my entrance into womanhood is making me realize that women just want to talk, but our society isn't conducive to that.

Take, for example, blogging: a perfectly great outlet for someone to talk and maybe be heard. But even blogging becomes more complicated than that. "You can't blog without an objective," they say. "You need to be narrow in your content--crafts, cooking, electronics, politics. Otherwise you won't make any money."

Since when was it important to talk only if you're going to make money?

People don't understand that talking for the sake of talking is enough.

That's why my visiting teachees have me over for HOURS, and why they interrupt me each time I try to wrap up the conversation to keep me around a little longer. Compare that to my home teachers' stay for fifteen minutes. I'm not saying they should stay longer. Their visits are great as they are. But lately I've been thinking about the women who want me to stay so they can talk talk talk. I've been thinking about why my mother strapped her nine-year-old daughter and drove her all around northern California. I've been thinking about my friend who said there are days when her two-year-old son is the only person she sees. I'm slowly coming to realize why I can't seem to shut up when my husband asks me how my day is going, and why bridal showers are filled with womanly chatter so thunderous that I can barely hear myself think.

There is so much to say. And lately, I haven't been able to locate enough people to listen to it.