Married With Marge

I recently found out that a dear friend of mine has heated toilet seats in her place of work.

The next day, when using the slightly more modest facilities at my own office, I suddenly realized how chilly my underside was. My poor, chilly, neglected bum, forced to undergo these inhumane working conditions.

It is so hard living in America.

Not long after exiting the restroom I realized something. The amount of water I just flushed would’ve taken a several mile walk and haul for millions in Africa. The soap I mindlessly scrub with has saved millions of lives by limiting the spread of disease. The bathroom itself is a comfortable 71 degrees—while just over a mile away, homeless huddle over vents in the below freezing and falling temperature outside.

Meanwhile, I’m brooding over my temporarily chilly cheeks. The human capacity to expect rather than appreciate is mind numbing.

And so has started my campaign to greaten my gratitude.

Everyday this month I am going to write down something new that I am thankful for. Not just paychecks and Christmas gifts but the in between things. The joy-making and sometimes even life-giving things that all too often slip through the grateful grate in my heart and land somewhere near my stomach.

Below are a few things I’ve added so far. Next time I put up a whiney post, kindly refer me to this one. I don’t want to wait until I’m drowning to be grateful for the air.

• Holding hands.

• Finding the perfect word.

• Realizing that for some things, there isn’t one (see “holding hands”).

• Metaphors.

• When your cell phone breaks and at first it seems like your disconnected from the whole world and then after a few hours you feel the freedom and you realize you were never actually connected to the world. You were just carrying it around in your hand bag.

• Technology that allows for underwater vision.

• Squeezing too many people you love on to one couch and realizing that with this crowd, you don’t care for elbow room.

• The hours between 7 and 9 in the morning.

• Knowing people that make you want to be better.

• Reading something true.

• Reading something true out loud.

• Learning something new.

• Aprons.

I’ve been putting off posting the last couple weeks because I didn’t want to waste my first post in over a month on something that wasn’t glamourous.

But as of now there have been no affairs, sabotage or money laundering to report on and the only red carpet I’ve seen in ages is the spot on the rug where I spilled red wine. So instead I’ll write about books (Us Weekly, you can stop reading now).

The other day a young woman asked me if I was stranded on a desert island with only one book, which book would I choose. I told her that was not a question. How could anyone pick just one with absolute surety? And if they could, why on earth would they continue to read others purposelessly, knowing they’ve already found the one? And were they ready to commit to this singular piece of work, knowing that kind of statement binds them to its pages for life and demands an intimate knowledge of what’s between them, both stated on their weathered faces and insinuated in their turning? The question’s very existence was disarming, and left me no choice but to address it immediately.

After a short period of deliberation, it became clear that while I had no problem committing the rest of my life to a man I had dated less time than I had been a junior in high school, picking a single book to define as my one and only seemed quite nearly impossible.

So I picked five. This is where the marriage metphor ceases to work, FYI.

I’ve listed them for you below, in no particular order, just in case you’d like an activity to pass those post thanksgiving meal hours that completely excludes your family.  Keep in mind I have read only the tiniest fraction of the books in this world and I’m sure many of you have much more learned lists. Feel free to share them in the comments below (I’d like a little holiday reading of my own).

On Writing by Stephen King

East of Eden, John Steinbeck

The History of Love, Nicole Kraus

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer

An American Childhood,  Annie Dillard

Note: I am halfway through The Architecture of Happiness and I am 85 percent sure it will make it on the list. You’ll be the first to know if it does.

A few weeks ago, a few friends of ours asked Steven and I to say a few words at their wedding.

Most good wedding speeches are spontaneous, catch the mood of the event and the lovers and ride it out in an eloquent diddy, complete with laughter and tears and heartfelt words of wisdom that fill everyone to the brim with love and champagne.

Mine was typed, printed, practiced roughly 20 times and even then read word for word on the page, only pausing to look up the one time when I was absolutely sure I wouldn’t lose my place (where I had typed parenthetically ”Look up and raise your glass.” —Just in case I forgot what I was up there for in the first place, became disoriented and started crying).

But I still lost my place once and promptly got the hand shakes, made apparent to everyone by the now flapping paper I could no longer control.

I have never been much of a public speaker. Nor spontaneous, as much as I hate to admit it. But I love these two people, and so I meant what I said. However uncomfortable I made everyone.

From the top:

Good evening beloved ones of Seth and Mackensie Bravermen…

I may be a newer friend of Mackensie’s, but due to the relationship between our husbands, and being that Seth is one of my dearest and closest brothers, I can pretty much guarantee we’ll be friends and family for a long time to come, and I couldn’t be more grateful.

I first met Mackensie as the new Craigslist roommate joining me in a ramshackle house of women, known in some circles as the Myrtle Mansion.

She was sweet and shy and mysterious and much, much preferred over the 40-year-old man with a cat who—true story—also replied to the add.

The first time I saw her, her hammock, and her juicer, I knew she’d be trouble for Seth. I told him so.

“You better not meet my roommate. You’ll fall in love with her.”

He, obviously, did not heed my warning.

Shortly after they met for the first time, Seth started hanging around my house much more regularly, casually wearing his guitar, often shirtless, and with a somewhat newfound passion for vegan cooking and fine wine.

They had begun.


It was all a blur of bike rides and porch sitting and bread breaking and fire circles and cigarettes and pretty soon you could see it on their faces before either of them were willing to admit it.

Actually long, long before either of them were willing to admit it.

They were in love. A sweet, summery love that makes you wish you had your camera.

Over the last year and a half I’ve had the joy and honor of walking with the two them as they stumble and skip through dating and then engagement, summer and winter and summer again. As they’ve planted and grown and watered their love for each other, their

awe of the Lord and their wonder for the world around them contagiously, leaving a warm trail of Instgrams for their captivated family, friends and fans.

And now here we are, at their wedding day, and the two of them have vowed to be one for a lifetime of bike riding and porch sitting and bread breaking and fire circles and quitting cigarettes.

And I have to say Seth, I was right.

Mackensie is your trouble. She’s your wife. She’s your best friend, your confidant. She’s your lover, your help, your home.

So here’s to the newest, Bravermen branch. (LOOK UP AND RAISE YOUR GLASS. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER). May the two of you never lose your love of life and search for God. And please, please take some pictures for the rest of us.

In the last year, the earth traveled 150 km, four million babies took their first breath, seven bee life cycles completed, and one young woman has become so close to a young man that she has lost sight of the line separating herself from him.

Her joys are not joys unless he shares them, her tears not real unless he feels them, her hand cold unless inside of his.

So close have they become that when she realizes that he, like her, will not be here forever, life and death become so real to her that she can’t help but weep awkwardly outside coffee shops, wondering if it were true in this moment if she would go home, and if she did, if she would be able to open the door, knowing that his breath would not be in her ear, nor his hand on her back.

She would.

She would because as fragile and delicate and precious and young their love is, it has relentlessly pointed her back to its source. A love so great it cannot possibly fit in this world except in the hearts of those that know it.

A love that will one day swallow up every sorrow. Even one so big as the one she would bear if he is taken.

And so for now she celebrates this year, in all its ups and downs and two becoming ones, and hopes for one more day to lose sight of that line, to get lost in the two of them in Him.

[caption id=”attachment_240” align=”alignnone” width=”300” caption=”We have a garden now. Growth is slow and hard. And tasty.”]

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Hello reader.

It’s been far too long. I’ve missed you.

Perhaps you have attributed my blogger absence to a calming of life, a wrinkle-free marriage or more time spent enjoying the outdoors. You have always had a great sense of humor.

My truancy is not, however, because my life has become smoother, but because my job has become more so.

I was hired in June by Superior Debt Relief Services as their writer, blogger and social media extraordinaire. Personal finance, debt, credit, etc. are my new beats, which I explore from the amateur’s perspective at http://blog.superiordebtrelief.com/. Yes, I am now a professional amateur. The autograph line starts here.

This is not the death of Married With Marge, but rather a shift in priority. I hope to continue to share my oft crooked walk with you, albeit more sporadically (and more money savvy, too).

Be well.

As I write this, water is slowly seeping through cracks in the foundation of our little duplex and inch by inch, accumulating into a small pond in our kitchen and a marsh/wetlands in the living room.

I have sought high ground (the kitchen table) where all I can do is wait for our land lord to arrive. Even though I’m not exactly sure what he’s planning on doing about it besides confirming that I am indeed not just running the sink and shower unawares, it still feels better that help or at least sympathy is on the way.

In the meantime, all I can really do is pray that it stops raining and research wet suits. Just in case.

The purpose of posting at this dark hour, however, is not for basement dwellers awareness nor to raise money for flood victims. It’s because in all the mess of my home and destruction of my daily schedule, I’ve realized something that makes me a little uncomfortable.

I really like to be comfortable.

That may not sound unreasonable, but for quite a few reasons, this revelation has been quite a hard one to swallow.

Before we were married, Steven and I talked of traveling Latin America owning only what we could carry. Being tied to nothing. Being generous with everything and waking up each morning with great expectation for is to come. Excitement for the unknown.

Somehow, in the last eight months, excitement for the unknown has turned into duty to the known and something as small as a pond in the kitchen can ruin the routine and worst of all, the mood.

Which made me realize. If a bit of traffic or rain or flooding or a cold can make me forget all that I do have, than the problem isn’t my boss or Steven or the terrible drivers or even the weather. The problem is where my foundation is. And if it’s in comfort or routine or regular paychecks or even health, than of course it’s going to crack.

Luckily it’s rained more in Fort Collins in the last three days than in the entire seven years I’ve lived here combined, leaving me with a lesson learned and new body of water to name. And a greater respect for Noah.

Not bad for a Thursday morning.

Being raised a Catholic, I was taught birth control leads to death, destruction, divorce and ultimately hell. Condoms were in the same category as cocaine.  What I was not taught was that as long as you call it natural family planning, it’s totally fine. As long as you are also totally fine with surprises. And as long as you call these surprises blessings. Which in the long run, they are.

In the Protestant world, it’s far less often considered a black and white issue. Many young couples choose to wait until they’re financially stable to be fruitful and others turn to birth control to limit the amount and season of fruitfulness.

I am not an authority on this subject nor do I claim to be. I am just one of the many young fertile Christian women who want diapers later but want sex now. It’s both been “proven” to be biblically righteous and “proven” to be biblically evil and currently my life situation and personal beliefs have put me into the biblically righteous camp. And luckily for us, that camp is coed.

Thus the new question became, what form of birth control is best?

The two most common types of birth control are the hormonal method and the barrier method, or what we call the pill and condoms. Or peepee teepees if you are weird.

Fort Collins tends to be a highly Boulder influenced part of Colorado and many of my friends tend to lean towards naturalism. Which limits them to natural family planning and/or the use of condoms. Nevermind that condoms are latex which is far from natural. But anyways. For the women in my life that want to avoid altering their hormones or body in anyway, the NFP method is attractive and sometimes even effective. If your cycle is regular and you are diligent about the temperature taking and abstaining during your most fertile days, it is 75 to 88 percent effective. Which means you should be about 12 to 25 percent ready for a little blessing. For example, my brother.

The pill is typically taken once a day and contains either both progestin and estrogen or progesterone. The typical debate over the pill is whether or not it prevents conception or solely implantation. The latter being largely considered abortive. Asking your doctor and researching your particular pill is important, especially because of how many are out there and how vastly different their effects on your body can be.

Another common concern about the pill is that it makes you crazy. Or perhaps just more aware of your craziness. If you find you or your spouse is overreacting, overemotional, overeating or just over it, perhaps it’s worth looking into. It could be related to the hormones in the pill, but it could just be the hormones in the person. Or the person themselves. I refer to this as psycho spouse syndrome and I’d suggest looking into it before signing the marriage certificate and especially before procreating.

I was prescribed the pill six months before my wedding for acne (the regulation of hormones can reduce breakouts).  This made my skin better and my birth control options simpler. And so far, no sign of acne nor babies. I’ll keep you posted.

There is a lot of research out there and it’s good to know what you’re putting in your body and why, and consider side effects and implications of all your options. Not to mention being on the same page as your partner. Talking with people you know and trust who have gone before you can also be a valuable resource. It’s not as scary as you think.

This afternoon, Steven and I had a date with the pope. And he reminded us of why we got married.

No, this wasn’t couples counseling with the head of the Catholic Church. But very close.

It was our first joint filing through Pope Tax Services. An equally enlightening experience that all couples living together without the marriage license are regretfully missing out on (besides security and the Lord’s blessing).

Tax breaks. Like the nation’s way of patting me on the back and saying “Way to lock it up Mags! Here’s a check. Now go have babies!”

For those of you who like me don’t know much about the tax system, here’s a brief overview.

When you claim marriage status (facebook updates don’t count, turns out), the government takes less out of each paycheck. Which is nice.

But in our case, the government was an Indian giver (or is it Native American-giver now? I’m not sure what’s PC anymore). Because now that it’s April, he wants it back.

So the Pope told us to change our status back to single on our W-2s. And then proceeded to charge us for two sessions because we’re two people. So much for grace.

Which made me wonder about all this “government incentive” to get married and where it’s hiding from us.

Which also made me think back to why we got married. Which, luckily for us, had nothing to do with taxes.

The moral of the story is this. Don’t get married because it will save you money. Get married because you’re desperately in love and want to do life with that person for the remainder of your own and/or theirs.

And then the taxes part wont matter so much.

Everyone deals with illness and injury differently.

Now that I am a two-become-one rather than just a one, I have noticed that my sickness and injury and most all health related issues are not mine alone, nor are Steven’s his alone. When your husband is sick, you are his caretaker of sorts. You buy tissues, make soup, encourage rest and try to slyly avoid mouth kisses. When you are sick, if he knows what’s best for him, he downloads all of Dexter Season Two, brings you flowers, tells you how becoming the red nose actually is, massages your feet and delivers endless supplies of froyo (it tastes good even when you’re sick. And especially when you think you may get sick if he doesn’t get it. This is not in your head). Don’t hesitate to ask for these things even if it’s just a cold. It’s best to be precautionary when it comes to your health and wellbeing.

But in all reality, Steven and I do handle our health quite differently. He tends to be more of a “ride it out” type, refusing to take time off regardless of his vomiting per minute rate. If he were to break a limb I’m sure he’d just sling it up until five and probably never tell his boss. This may sound like an exaggeration but it’s quite accurate. He has no concept of the term “check-up.” The single time he’s been to the doctor since we’ve been together ended up being cancer. And even then he asked if he could finish the day’s work before surgery.

I, on the other hand, lean more towards what I like to call preventative healthcare and what Steven likes to call hypochondria. He sites the time I went to the doctor for a canker sore as evidence. Which is true. But it was a really bad one. I will not hesitate to vitamin up, rest more and receive regular check-ups, just to be sure. I just think that things tend to get worse when left on their own, and I would much prefer to rest in the peace of a professional opinion that I’m going to make it than plan a funeral for no reason.

The challenge then becomes for me not to put on an “I told you so” attitude when something does finally slow him down, and for him not to minimalize it when I’m feeling under the weather. In turn I am trying not to feel under the weather more than over, and he is making an effort to not to be so manly. Which is hard for us both. But we’re learning.

Just another way, however small, we’re better together.

When it comes to politics, my parents have always believed in smaller, redder and more elephant like governmental policies. So when the new healthcare plan that for better or worse would allow me to remain on my parent’s insurance for another two years came into place, they weren’t exactly persuaded.

“Maggie, we started paying for our own insurance when we were seven and back then the premiums were much higher and up hill both ways with homemade shoes. We bandaged our own broken arms without any advil or narcotics. Well, maybe narcotics but absolutely no advil. If we didn’t have better music and stronger morals we never would’ve made it.”

Or something like that. The “being married now” thing didn’t help my case much either. As if marriage is synonymous with financial stability. Dream on, engaged couples.

So last week, Steven and I met with a real, live insurance agent, paisley tie and all.

He was nice enough, I suppose, but much too tan for February in Colorado which was our first red flag. Or orangey brown flag, rather.

We spoke first of premiums which is a misleading word because at this time in my life I hear it used most often when referring to something of highest quality or value. Like a really good cup of coffee or box of chocolates or nice lotion.

For those of you who, like me, are new to the wonderful world of the insured, this is not the case. Premium does not refer to a great latte or thorough moisturizer but to money you give the insurance man every month to ensure that if heaven forbid you get cancer or have a heart attack or become mentally unstable than they will try and help after you pay another $5,000 to $25,000 dollars. The latter number which I am pretty sure I haven’t collectively made in my entire life.

So if none of those heaven forbidden accidents ever happens to you and you are in a similar economic bracket to ours, than you are basically taking a quarter or so of your paycheck every month and donating it to the insurance man’s account at Miracle Tan. No matter he earned more in the hour he spoke with you than you will make in the next two weeks.

But if the heaven forbidden accident does in fact occur to you and for some reason you don’t have the first $5 to $25 k hanging out in your “just for fun” account than you are indebted the entire amount to the insurance company which will take you the majority of adulthood to pay off. And once you do, you’ll find yourself paying  back the 20 percent of the expenses they took on after that because you didn’t read the fine print because you were so distracted by the paisley tie and radiant skin tone.

Neither scenario at any point includes a good latte.

Looking at it as lose/lose, however, would do me no good because whether I like it or not the responsible adult thing to do is to have an insurance policy and so I might as well like it and maybe even learn something along the way.

And look at the bright side. I could get a rare skin disease that requires hundreds of expensive medications and they’ll only cost me $15 a piece (which is perhaps why the agent we met feels so comfortable at the tanning salon).

Okay I know the tanning jokes are tired and I’m not giving the man much grace. But not without reason. At the end of our consultation, we told him before any payments were to be made or applications processed we wanted to shop around and get back to him. Which he took to mean that if he didn’t hear from us in three days he’d save us the phone call and go ahead and send in the application for a small $160 fee. How very thoughtful.

Don’t worry numerous readers. Steven called him and after a few short words we stopped the application process and the charge never even came through. Which is lucky for the man’s paisley clad neck.

Which also means we are back on the insurance hunt, trying to weigh premiums with benefits with health concerns with the amount of time we want to spend talking with those that sell them. And until we’ve made a decision I am being very careful not to trip or get really sick or go bungee jumping or eat poison. Let me know if you know of any other dangerous activities to avoid and please don’t hit me with your car.

*photo courtesy of Insurance Quotes 911.

We’ve all seen it happen.

The friend that meets a boy, starts dating him, stops calling you and then slowly but surely loses touch with her friends and community and reality and most things except the boy. Whom she touches exceedingly more, regardless of whether or not it’s socially acceptable.

And whether you like to admit it or not, at some point this “friend” has  been you.

The closer you get to someone, the easier it becomes to be with them, and only them. Especially in situations where your friends might run in different crowds or you don’t want to plan something or drive or quit holding hands. It’s even worse when it gets cold and dark at 6 pm and that one movie you both love is calling your name and the freezer is loaded with ice cream and Steven doesn’t judge for having thirds (this is all very hypothetical).

I’m in no way trying to promote open relationships. The only healthy open relationship I’ve seen is between cats and even then it can get messy. Exclusivity, in many ways, is a necessary thing.  But when your phone’s recent calls list is made up solely of his name for the last three weeks and you’re bickering about little things like who uses more toilet paper (like I said, hypothetical) and you find out through facebook that it was your best friend’s birthday last week, something has to change. And it’s not your toilet paper habits.

Perhaps the strongest thing about Steven and I’s relationship isn’t anything in either of us, but the community we’re in and the people in our life who won’t take “not tonight” for an answer.

And maintaining that community goes hand in hand with maintaining a marriage.

Yes, it does take more effort to see other people once you’ve “settled down”. Having someone over becomes a joint decision and leaving for an evening usually has to be spouse checked. But oh, how worth it it is.

The other night, some of my girlfriends and I got together to make dinner - sans spouses and/or anything opposite sex related. We ate bread and cookie dough, drank wine, talked about work and clothes and babies and sex and God, in no particular order. It would have been a great scene in Eat, Pray, Love. Barf.

And when it was over I felt refreshed and ready to return to my beautiful basement and big-armed man. And the ice cream was still there the next day. Thank God.

Just one example of how time apart can mean better time together.

The day my mother would get out the Christmas decorations was perhaps my favorite day of the season.

Something about the Santa mirror decals in the bathroom and the star that appears when the mug gets filled with cocoa and the silvery tinsel that ends up in little piles around the bottom of the tree and in the cat’s throw up just seems to get me in the spirit.

For the first time, I have a home of my own to decorate for my new tiny family. And I wanted to create that same tinsel-throw-up fuzzy feeling.

I looked through our storage and quickly realized that the only items we owned that could pass for holiday decor were two garland strands and a faded red dish towel. Apparently decorations only get into the storage if they’ve previously been stored. Dang.

So in order to make my home welcoming and festive it appeared I had to start from sqaure two (square one being the garland. Thanks ma and pa Shafer.).

Due to a series of unfortunate events, I found myself at Wal-Mart with a half hour prescription-filling wait time. Wal-Mart is the opposite of Christmas.

Wal-Mart had sectioned off an area of the store solely for holiday items big enough to open up another more reasonably sized store in. They had trees and lights and giant lawn Santas and chocolates and bows and a steady flow of seasonal tunes to get customers in the shopping spirit.

I found myself lost amongst it, that little guy in my stomach saying “I need. I want. I must have.” As if all my morals and values and beliefs about what this season and life in general is about were caving into this lie that a pretty home decorated with pretty things purchased at a big shiny store could make dreams come true and Christmas real and wrongs right.

Not so.

I managed to escape with just a few smelly candles and some red and green M&M’s (only the necessities). I left determined to prove that little stomach guy wrong.

I hate that guy.

After reestablishing my morals, I decided that a home could be decorated without killing children in China or sending your husband to work overtime every week up until Christmas to pay off the porcelain nativity scene figurines.

Next stop was Brand Spanking Used, a pretty okay thrift store with a pretty terrible name. Their Christmas section, although modest when compared to Wal-Mart’s, was filled with buried treasures of Christmas past that were about to become our Christmas present. I found lights, candles, a set of handmade star ornaments and a vintage Santa mug. Sold.

They went up in my house that afternoon while I listened to Matt Chandler and remembered who I was. And maybe it was the mug, but that festive feeling came. Just like at Mom’s.

To an outsider, our place doesn’t look spectacular nor showy. We will not be a stop on the Christmas Home Tour this year, unless their standards have plummeted to include basement-level two bedrooms. But to us, the smells and light and stars and warmth is enough of a reminder that this season is about remembering to hear the whisper under the wind, the hope of love come down.

And if a manger was enough for a king, then a basement is plenty. Especially if there’s M&M’s.

Decorating without Corporating:

1. Make your own stockings. And everything else. Here’s how.  

2. Bake something Christmas. Do it often enough and you’ll find you wont need scented candles.

3. Create ornaments out of felt.

4. Listen to music that brings joy. It’s contagious. Amy Grant is a staple.

5. Lights. At a dollar a strand, they are a cheap way to make Christmas party mood lighting. The big colorful ones are and have been tacky since the mid-nineties, fyi.

6. Candles. They smell good, they look good, they are good. Do not put them on your tree.

*Note to readers: the majority of the photos in this blog were taken by Baily Hollen at her home - which she’s decorated almost entirely of items she’s purchased from the dollar store. She wins.

[caption id=”attachment_132” align=”alignleft” width=”300” caption=”Bombs Away Dream Babies. Elegantly put John. “]

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At some point after the wedding - probably as you’re headed towards the getaway car -someone will ask you when you’re planning on having kids.

From here on, this will be the question you answer most frequently, right after “how are you?”

Recent statistics show that the average age of women at their first childbirth in the United States is 24.9 years. The average age women marry is 25.6.

So people are willing to make a person before they’re willing to marry one. This is weird.

The theories and reasonings behind baby timing are as numerous as the babies themselves, ranging from health to birth month to fiances and everything in between.

When women are in their twenties, they have less health risks associated with pregnancy, more energy, put on less weight and tend not to start buying Wal-Mart velcro shoes until long after their child is out of the home unless they are members of the local hipster community. All valid reasons to procreate sooner.

Others want to be more financially stable, own a home, have a career and put off kankles as long as possible. All valid reasons to procreate later.

Wedding/marriage/sex writer Francesca Di Meglio says communication with your spouse is the most important thing when planning when to pop one out, considering all pregnancy possibilities (twins, birth defects, complications, etc.) and whether both partners are emotionally, physically and financially ready. Grandma may be antsy to start spoiling, but you’ll be the one picking up the baby mess. The decision to conceive must be you and your spouse’s alone.

However, no matter how much you plan, there’s always the possibility of the surprise package (Congrats Missy and Jon). So it’s worth talking about before trying. Perhaps God’s plan is better than your own.

Considering the average lifespan of an American is pushing 80 years and menopause typically doesn’t set in until the late 40s or 50s, there are no real environmental reasons to rush. I realized recently I am far too selfish with my time, my sleep, my space and my life in general to love and care for a child the way it deserves. Plus, Steven is not ready to sacrifice part of the paycheck for diapers or trade his Wired subscription for Parenting. Video games are still cooler than diapers. For now.

Don’t worry, we’re not going to let these good looks go to waste. We’ll eventually have children. Just not this year. Or the next. Or the next…

(If you’re waiting to have children, don’t see this movie.)

Most women would probably agree, we need to feel loved.

Steven can tell me he loves me 30+ times a day, work full time to provide and sign every text with an emoticon heart, and sill I want to feel loved, not just know it. (Note to reader(s): Steven actually refuses to use any emoticons.  Perhaps that is the real issue.)

Reassurance can come in many forms. Small gifts - flowers, notes, sweet things in any form, etc. - random acts of kindness that prove he thinks of me, and lastly but surely most importantly, quality time.

If you believe quality time is synonymous with restaurants, movies, concerts, shopping for new shiny things to wear or going out to Jay’s for jazz and tiny pieces of food with not so tiny prices, then unless you were one of the less than 20 precent who were able to land their career fresh off campus, you may soon find the numbers in your account statement starting to shrink. And perhaps changing colors. This is when you have to modify your definition of quality.

Trust me, I’ve been doing this marriage thing for months now.

What follows are some things Steven and I have discovered help keep us in love and out of debtor’s jail.

1. “Owner’s Pick” at Lyric Cinema Cafe - A movie chosen by the owner that he is so passionate about people seeing, he doesn’t even charge for it. Every Wednesday at 9:30 pm. Factor in $4 for popcorn.

2. Walks. These are cheap and healthy and can have fun desitinations like 7-Eleven for pumpkin spice lattes. Here I use the term “latte” loosely.

3. Making/Eating dinner together. Create and experiment with new recipes. Start at the winter famers market and explore options. Get a $4.99 sale bottle of wine from Aggie and it won’t matter as much if it turns out.

4. The Village Vidiot. The rent-a-date. When Steven and I first became a unit, he made me promise we wouldn’t be one of those “movie couples.” You know, the kind that don’t have much to say to eachother so they let Spielberg or Tarantino do the talking. But! Movies can be quality time. Choose one you both are curious about that is perhaps even educational, discuss afterwards and be sure there’s not room between you for a third party. Not even the dog. Especially not the dog.

5. A new project. Do something productive together. Even if it’s not the same thing.  I make cards while he attempts to build guitars (emphasis as of now on attempt). As long as you can talk and create simultaneously, you can increase productivity and moral. A good marital move.

6. Read Still Life With Woodpecker by Tom Robbins.

“Who knows how to make love stay?

1. Tell love you are going to Junior’s Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if loves stays, it can have half. It will stay.

2. Tell love you want a momento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning.”

-Robbins

Steven and I have extremely different Halloween histories.

I came from a family where it wasn’t whether or not you were dressing up, but whether or not your costume would be better than both your sister’s and your previous year’s production.

We dress up, eat chili, go trick-or-treating if young enough or sly enough to convince the little brother to let you take him, and afterwards cover the living room floor with the night’s earnings, making categories and a filing system for more organized lending, trading and refinancing of Butterfingers, Snickers and the highly sought after Reeses - top of the market since 1989.

We also go to parties, decorate, carve pumpkins and watch scary movies. It is a full weekend of festivities.

Steven’s traditions are a little different. Mostly because he doesn’t have any.

This was our first issue. Our second was that we also have different friends, different costume expectations and different tolerance levels for candy corn.

Let the compromising begin.

I’m the first to admit that often I have bad judgement and poor taste, and this combination more than once has put me into less than ideal confrontations.

Which is what he reminded me of when  I suggested we go as abused housewife and wife beater husband, PBR can and all.

So that was out. Obviously.

We eventually decided on Margot and the Bomber from The Royal Tennenbaums and after a bit of eyeliner and fake blood, we were ready to party. Now the question was, which party?

 

Compromise two.

Steven’s friend and former band member was having a dress-up get-together, and many of his friends would be there. And probably a lot of chips and beer too.

A few of my friend’s had planned a harvest halloween party, where the theme was dress up and bring your favorite fall fare. Basically, where all halloween dreams come true.

After comparing start times, it was decided we could easily do both.

So we’re dressed to impressed and ready to leave when Steven gets word of a friend playing a show that same night. He argues that we can stop by for fifteen minutes and still not miss much of my party.

I say “okay” but what I mean is “I’ll go but I’ll be miserable and make you miserable too.” I thought it was obvious. Not so.

Once we arrive at the venue it doesn’t take long for him to realize I’m wearing my pouty pants and it’s not just part of my Margot look. Although it’s fitting.

The show starts late and Steven asks if I want to just leave and I put on my best martyr face and say “No. It’s fine.” What I am thinking is of course I want to leave and you don’t understand anything I say or think rather and I don’t feel pretty or loved and my whole world is crumbling. And I’m probably fat, too.

Once the music ends and we finally depart, Steven is confused why my hand is limp in his and my angsty costume seems more realistic. And I am resentful he doesn’t know already.

It’s because my yes meant no and my okay meant I hate this and the whole time we were at the show my smiles were fake and I wanted him to have known.

In reality, I gave him almost no clues that I was upset about the changed plans and unless he had dressed as a psychic and brought a crystal ball there was no way for him to figure my mood rollar coaster out.

To be honest, I haven’t even got it figured out. Good luck Steven.

There is still halloween hope yet.

He apologized anyway and thanked me for my patience. Ha. We ended up making it to both parties and everyone got enough candy corn.

This scary story does have a moral. Don’t expect your spouse to also be your shrink.  Your inner evil thoughts will not suffice if you’re saying the opposite of what you mean. Speak up or let it go.

Lastly, compromising will save many a night and perhaps a marriage. I enjoyed half of my party with him more than I would’ve the whole of it without him.

And underneath all the makeup and costumes we are still in love after all and the world keeps spinning. Surprise.

In the United States, 59 percent of marriages fail.

Like a coin toss except your brother has weighted the heads side and you owe him a coke every time. Dang.

But according to research published in Science Daily, relationships improve your odds of survival by 50 percent.

So it looks like your choice is stay married or die.

Trust me, this is good science. No need to check the numbers.

Because currently staying married sounds more attractive to me than death, I decided to research ways not to get divorced. Google seemed like a great place to start.

One of the most cited causes of divorce was finances. Apparently how much you make and what you spend it on is a big deal when two become one bank statement.

I first assumed this statistic must be due to the puppyin-the-purse, Daddy’s credit card carrying, money/power/new clothes hungry, gold diggers marrying to get a new Visa.

I know I’m hungry a lot and I really liked the idea of inheriting Steven’s lap top, but that makes me more of a cookie-craving mac-digger I assume. Neither of which were on the divorce-causes list.

And even if I ever did carry Daddy’s credit card, it wasn’t going to get me much more than lunch.  Definitely not a new monogrammed sweater for Princess Spot. I don’t even like dogs. That’s another post.

Anyways. I was wrong about the exclusivity of financially fueled fights. Research shows that money is an issue in most marriages, regardless of your income bracket. But don’t start filing the divorce papers yet. Follow these steps and greatly reduce your risk of relationship ruin. Read on.

The best place to start is to completely merge your finances, according to an article in Smart Money.  Meaning either sharing one bank account or keeping two with both names, however it works best for you. When Steven and I started merging money I gave him full access privileges to the cash mug I kept in my underwear drawer. (A great banking system I started in high school. I’ve never over-drafted. Flexible after-hours availability.)

Once mug and accounts are accessible to both parties, the next step in the marital counselor’s financial session is making a budget together.

According to personal finance writer Miriam Caldwell, in order to budget successfully, you must first determine what the household needs are.

The next step is to determine how you define need. I need food, shelter, transportation and a pumpkin spice latte every-other day or so, depending on my schedule.  And a weekly massage but my live-in masseuse came with my marriage. MoGo (marry-one, get-one).

But in all seriousness, most people will need to budget in items like rent, utilities, tithes, debt and insurance payments plus any amount they want to put away before factoring in the luxury items. Which are different depending on the person and their binge popcorn eating habits at the movies or accidental trips to the hair salon. Or white chocolate chip blueberry scone purchases. Which sometimes have to be honored and accepted, even if not understood.

If all this still confuses you, there is still hope. Not a lot. But some. Using a budget program can be helpful and if you can turn on a computer you can find one. Try using mint.com or Kiplinger or a Number’s template - the budgeting and spreadsheet program for Mac - or Xcel for Windows.

Don’t risk not seeing the marriage for the money. Figuring out the numbers will allow you more time to figure out each other. Which could take a lot longer, but should be a lot more fun. I’ve yet to find a spreadsheet that looked as good shirtless.

Too much information.

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Contrary to anything you were taught in sociology, men and women are actually different. Even if your professor had a mustache and high heels.

We’re built differently, and therefore need to fuel differently. The frequency, quantity and types of food we eat reflect the differences in our body’s needs and cycles. Insert favorite period chocolate joke here.

There is also the cultural gendering of food to consider. Men and women want their bodies to look differently, and will choose foods accordingly. Some studies also show that American women are more likely to choose sweet over savory and colorful over monotone when making a meal or beverage choice. Which is interesting because I’ve always gone for the whiskey over the mai tai myself. But nature versus nurture is a a whole other blog.

When we start to synchronize our eating habits, consequences follow.

It’s no breaking news that women tend to gain weight after getting married. A study published in USA today found that married women in their early 20s tend to put on 24 pounds in the first five years.

Which puts me about three years away from making the switch to elastic waistbands.

[caption id=”attachment_70” align=”alignnone” width=”200” caption=”This could be you. Not bad. “]

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But wait a minute wives. Don’t rush to Ross’ maternity section just yet. The wedded wight isn’t inevitable, nor is it fatal. Muffin top has never been legitimate grounds for divorce.

Just like in the war on drugs, the first step is to educate.

Why do we eat so differently as a duo?

Probably several reasons. Pyschologists have found that women feel the need to prove to their new husbands their cooking skills, and therefore have a tendency to cook large, decadent meals. And consequently, end up eating them with him.

Another possible cause is that we end up matching the pace and amount we eat to our husband’s, who probably can eat a lot more in a lot less time.

Remember, no one wins a meatloaf eating contest. No one.

I was told by a veteran wife recently that the trick is to make sure that when you eat separately, you eat the way your body needs. Whether that’s a salad, a tofu spinach wrap or a double cheeseburger, your body tends to crave what it’s lacking. Which if you’re paying attention, probably isn’t always brownies and red wine. Just sometimes.

For Steven and I, we both make compromises when it comes to food. I end up trying new things (like ramen scramble) and experimenting more with red meat (which in the right amount, is good for you) and he has developed a taste for parfaits and side salads. Main course salads are a work in progress.

Balancing all this eating with regular activity like walks/hikes/sex/biking/sex/games/sex games/running/sex running (kidding. We haven’t tried that. Yet.) also maintains the fun to pant size ratio.

However you choose to eat, remember that being healthy is living holistically. And when it comes to weight, that’s only one piece of the puzzle. The more time you spend thinking about food, weight and body the more you’re thinking about yourself and let’s face it, this world has enough of that. So don’t become consumed with what you consume or there’ll be something a lot thicker than a fupa between you and your spouse.

Tips for Feeding a Man and Eating Like a Woman from Real Women

1. Not all weight gain is bad. A lot of young women don’t get enough protein and eating with a man is a good way to start.

2. Read this blog.

3. Don’t let him plate your meal. His eyes are bigger than your stomach.

4. Encourage him to eat bigger lunches, and not to expect the evening meal together to be the largest.

5. Make sure to supplement every meal with something fresh like a salad or fruit. This gives you something else to fill up on besides the starchy stuff that he loves.

6. Use a smaller plate than him. They keep your portions smaller, plus they look cuter.

Once the knot is tied and the houses are combined and names are changed, chances are an event/holiday will be approaching, and traditions must be carried on, disposed of, revamped or created entirely.

For us, this holiday was birthday.

I know you all think that I’m making the tired joke that my birthday is a holiday. Well the joke’s on you and this is no laughing matter. My birthday situation is actually quite unique. Read on.

Many, many years ago, on the 6th of October 1945, my father was born. Thirty-five years later, on the 5th of October 1984, my older sister, Anna, was brought into this world. Two years later, on October 5th 1986, I graced the family with  my presence, and five years after that, yes, on the 5th of October, my little sister ruined everything with her untimely birth on my big day.

So for those of you who never passed the “put two and two together” lesson, this means that four people, or two-thirds of my family, have the same date of birth.

Which, using simple math, basically translates to one-third the presents and a mother with one-third the brain cells by the time the day rolls around each year.

But sometimes we get three cakes, which is nice.

I looked it up in Guiness and turns out I’m pretty sure we have a world record. I would’ve applied for it but the process takes roughly six to eight weeks and a decent fee and quite honestly I don’t feel like putting that kind of effort into proving to the world that my family is the weirdest and most dysfunctional.

You can probably figure that one out for yourself.

Each one of them have enough personality and needs and cake preferences to take up their own day. Which makes this time of year a little complicated/physically dangerous in the Canty family. (For instance, never make Anna upset when she’s holding a pie knife. Actually never make Anna upset when she’s holding anthing with a sharp or hard blunt end. Actually just never make her upset in general is probably the safest bet.)

Time hasn’t necessarily made it any easier to coordinate. We all now live in different parts of the state, making it harder and harder to comply to each one of our birthday whims. And now factor in a new husband that you also want quality spoiling time with and you’ve got one birthday stew and far too many Canty cooks.

Steven had no ideas birthdays could be this much like Word War II. And trust me, no one makes it past the shore on B-Day.

However, this year, I’ve decided to put down my pinata bat and call a truce in the birthwar. This is the first of many Steven and I will be celebrating together as a family, small as it may be, and I want our birthday tradition to start right.

Which means seeing my family, whatever that takes, and spending time with the husband. And probably eating whatever I want. The rest are just the details.

Because when you strip this day of the confetti and ice cream and mimosas it’s simply a day to realize you’ve been alive yet another year, and each one has been mostly good. And if not, a new one is already on the way.

And this year, there’s a lot to be thankful for, presents or not.

But I’ll still be accepting them.

birthday recipes for you:

try  these cakes

Whether it’s birthday or not, they’ll still taste good. If you’re not into the bake-it-yourself scene, call Diana Sitzman, the cake making goddess of Northern Fort Collins. Or just call her anyways.

Once you’ve decided you want to become a wife, there’s a few things you’ll need to get started.

1. a man
2. a KitchenAid

That’s about it.

Both will cost you. But one has a much longer warranty. I’ll let you guess which.

Seriously though, if you cook, bake, are a wife or one day hope to be, the KitchenAid stand mixer is an appliance that will prove its worth time and time again. And seeing as how they’ve been the top of their market since 1919 I am clearly not the only one who thinks so.

Despite their $300 price tag, KitchenAids are not just for the KitchenElite. Here’s how we got ours.

After returning a few duplicate items from our registry, we had racked up quite a bit of store credit from Macy’s.

I looked longingly at the mixers in the store, but rational Steven reminded me that even though I am his princess I am still not exactly making a princess’ wages and therefore should not buy a $300 appliance, even if it comes in pistachio and with 3 attachments, including a whisk.

In desperation I asked the clerk if there were any comparable alternatives. After telling her my budget she gestured me towards the wooden spoon section.

At this rate, I’d never be a real wife.

Little did I know, my new husband was already scheming his birthday gift for me. And yes, it came in pistachio.

After receiving the surprise package last week, I have since made a meal plan for just about everyday up until 2020. So as far as Steven is concerned, it’s paid for itself.

Here are a few recipes that with a traditional mixer are messy and time consuming. With a KitchenAid, they’re quick and easy, and way more fashionable. Career women, read on.

chocolate chip cherry cookies. I prefer these with dark chocolate chunks, but either way they’ll get eaten. All of them. Maybe before your husband gets home. Tear.

biscuits. I reccomend them with real butter, colorado honey and a piece of cheddar cheese. You can also make them with wheat flour, but they come out slightly denser and more self-righteous.

almond blue cheese. The reason to eat crackers.

spiced pumpkin bread. I found this recipe at epicurious.com, which similar to the bible for the internet foodie, just slightly more hip. Dried cranberries are a nice edition, as well as white chocolate chips. Fall tastes good.

Wedding planning is a peaceful season of planning and preparation, cake tasting and spending quality time with your fiance and his family.

That is if you’re on a healthy amount of anti-anxiety drugs and hallucinogens.

But for the rest of us, it is one of the busiest seasons you’ll encounter as you strive to balance meetings and shopping and table topping with the rest of your life, which, surprise, does not stop for your big day. You’re lucky if you get work off for your honeymoon.

But once your I-do’ed and hitched and honeymooned, you return home to life as it was before any question was ever popped.

Plus one, of course.

It was back to work and the shiny ring no longer was the precious for my coworkers, and whether or not there was a Mrs. in front of my surname or not, they still wanted me to bus tables and stock the salad bar and all of those other not so glamourous tasks that brides are exempt from.

But the veil never looked good with my Beau Jo’s t-shirt and to customers I’m just another burn-out pizza waitress.

It’s clearly time for me to leave the pizza industry behind. As good as it’s been.

But with only a piece of paper that says journalism graduate and pepperoni knowledge to guide me, I don’t really know where to.

And as much fun as it is to spend my new free time eating chocolate and catching up on every suspense thriller I missed over the passed few months, I have a feeling that Steven did not intend to marry a size 40 Grisham enthusiast.

So it’s on to bigger and better things and I’m not talking about pant sizes. I’ve asked for a promotion at my job at Scene Magazine, as well as looked into a few other local business opportunities.

But there’s one thing that separates this search from my previous job hunts.

I’m not alone.

Turns out this marriage thing comes with a built in support/advisor/mentor with your best interests in mind. Like a buy one, get a thousand.

If you know anyone looking for a full time marriage blogger, let me know.