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.