In which I eventually get to the point of the post and formally invite you to... Ask Us Any Question You'd Like To Ask Us

Hiiii, friends. This is the first time I've gone a week without posting. How weird is it that it's the middle of summer, and I've never been busier in my whole life?!

...I don't know how I feel about this whole 'grown-up' business. But I LOVE my job (six-year-old me would have been THRILLLLED to know that 24-year-old me has a job that doesn't require shoes), and on top of that I have some side projects I'm really excited to show you soon.

EEEEEEEEE. Stands for "Excited."

SO. Guess what. We're going to one of our favorite places for the rest of the week. For the past six years, we've gotten to help coach a high school running camp at a lake (yes, the running camp where we got engaged). (Located at the exact same lake where we ran away, a week before our wedding, and took this photo...

I call it, "Taking the Plunge."
Ba-dump-pshhhhh.

....end parenthesis?)

Most responsible people would plan ahead for this sort of out-of-town-and-I-can't-blog thing. They'd write up posts scheduled to publish in advance; they'd ask guest bloggers to submit something a month beforehand; they'd build a radio tower at said lake and grab themselves some internet service out of le beeg bleu sky.

But instead, here I am asking for a leeeetle help from my friends.

There comes a time in all blogs where they
run out of ideas for posts

OPEN 'ER UP FOR QUESTIONS!

You guys already know I love dishing, nay, spewing, the TMI. No question is off-limits, and--
oh hey, Grandma.
& Grandpa.
& Grandma-in-law.
You were hoping I'd forget you were there, eh? ; )

So no question is off-limits, but if it's a reeeeeally juicy one (I hope we get a few) I may have to reply via email instead of in a post. And I may regret this, but I'm okay with anonymous comments.

Mmkay. I'll see you guys next week.

P.S. Thanks for being awesome. I am totally floored that people continually come back to hear what I have to say. I really appreciate all of you. & I'm looking forward to catching up on your blogs when I get back!

The kitchen sink can kill you

I almost never do dishes. You might be tempted to guess that this happens because I'm such an awesome cook, and Jason demonstrates his gratitude by cleaning up the kitchen every night after I ransack it.

WOW, that's really nice of you to guess that, you flatterer you. But I'm afraid the real reason is much darker; much more treacherous, and foreboding, and every other adjective for the word "sinister." I've seen what that sink and its shadowy cabinets below are capable of. I've seen what they can do... to a brave little beetle named Alazar.

This story takes place one painfully sleep-deprived night before a final presentation.

In architecture school, when you ask someone for the time, they don't say, "Ten-fifteen," or "Eight thirty-five," or even "Noon." They look deep into your soul with their darkened, hollow eyes, and robotically murmur something like, "86 hours 'til." 86 hours, that is, until the end of the world as they've come to know it. 86 hours until their 10-week-long project is due.

On this particular night, it was 3 AM, and I was horrified to find myself at FIVE HOURS 'til. I'd gotten one hour of sleep the night before, and only three the last few nights before that. I was frantic. The design was great, but now everything had dissolved into a frenzied flurry of trying to trace all my final drawings onto a large posterboard.

I'd laid out the final poster onto the largest flat surface in our apartment: the kitchen floor. I was flinging pens, running back-and-forth to the printer, and trying not to cry (not a pride thing, I just didn't want to smudge the ink.)

At around this Five Hours 'Til landmark, I felt my brain starting to lose its grip on reality. You know when you're lying in bed, halfway asleep, and you're vaguely aware of the random-ass chaos your subconscious is churning through? I had those spinning, echoey, nonsense thoughts racing through my head even though my eyes were open-- like somebody flipping through TV channels.

Stacy, can't you see, you're just not the girl for meee

Outside, beyond the vaguely schizophrenic goings-on within my own head, my apartment was undergoing its own strange transformation. It was time for the Bug Parade.

I didn't think much of the first few little creatures that crawled across my poster. But they kept coming. And coming. Soon, there were consistently at least five insects skittering across my poster at any given moment, and I was full-on tripping out like Dumbo during that weird, drug-induced "Pink Elephants" interlude.

At "Three hours 'til" (5 AM), out lumbered The King of All The Bugs. His name was Alazar, and he was a monstrous, gleaming black beetle. He was so large that each step he took made a scratching noise on my poster paper. I was so sleep-and-Bug-Parade-stoned that his bumbling gate easily hypnotized my weakened mind; I hummed my version of "Stacy's Mom" to him and smiled admiringly at his majestic waddle.

Then he majestically waddled across the section of the poster I needed to finish, and slapped me back into reality.

"Sorry, Your Highness, you've got to go for a little ride now," I apologized, and blew at him as hard as I could.

He bounced and skittered loudly across the kitchen floor, and came to a halt below the counters under the kitchen sink. His life was about to change forever.

Within milliseconds of skidding to a stop, THE BIGGEST BLACK WIDOW I'D EVER SEEEEEEEN pounced onto Alazar, King of All The Bugs. I shrieked.

The two of them blurred into a tangle of creepy black legs as I sat, frozen in shock. One of them started making a loud clicking noise, presumably Alazar's battlecry, and I sprung into action. I sprinted into the bathroom.

Once there, I froze with the realization that I had no idea why I'd gone to the bathroom. I looked around. Somewhere in my mind, I thought a can of hairspray was a great idea.

It wasn't.

I blasted the SH*T out of our leggy friends with hairspray, and the spray separated the two bewildered bugs a few inches from each other. I grabbed the longest stick I could find (a yardstick-- thank youuu, architecture supplies close at hand), and contemplated the spider's fate.

I don't like killing things, but Venomous Vicky had to move on to the afterlife that night. Too many small children lived nearby, and I had a grim responsibility to perform. I smooshed her giant creepy body flat onto the floor, whispering "sorrysorrysorry I'mreallysorryVicky OHGOD sorrysorrysorry." Possibly the creepiest I've ever looked/sounded in my whole life, right there.

I turned my attention to Alazar. He was in a horrifyingly disgraceful state, considering his royal ranking: the sticky hairspray had attached every last thing nearby to his body, and a ruthless combination of hairs and carpet fibers had wrapped his legs tightly to his body.

Oh, the guilt.

I grabbed a piece of paper, and tried to scootch him onto it with a pencil. Being the Vicious Warrior King that he was, he grabbed the pencil with his giant beetle-y chompers and held fast. I now had a pencil with an accidentally straight-jacketed King of All The Bugs hanging from the end of it.

With another pencil, I tried to pry the fibers off of his body. They didn't budge. In fact, if I pulled any harder I was sure that I'd rip his body off of his pencil-clamping jaws.

I had to give him a bath.

I took him to the bathroom sink, and held him under the faucet. I resumed my creepy habit of whispering "sorrysorrysorrysorry YourMajestyKingAlazar sorrysorryOHGOD sorrysorry" as I tried to gently pull off his ill-fitting sweater. It wasn't working.

But this dude knew what was UP. He wasn't King of All The Bugs for nothing, amigos. He began, meticulously, this motion that I can only describe as "petting himself" underneath the tangled fibers. And slowly, it seemed that they were loosening.

I acknowledged my inferiority in bug-freeing, set him in the bottom of the sink, and left to resume my architecture work. Ten minutes later, I returned to the bathroom to check on Alazar's progress.

At the bottom of the sink was an abandoned cocoon of maroon carpet fibers, and Alazar was triumphantly trying to sprint up the slippery sink walls.

YEAH F*** YEAH, ALAZAR. Ten minutes HAS to be some kind of hairspray-and-carpet-sweater world record. I was effing PROUD. WHAT A LITTLE STUDMUFFIN.

I offered him the pencil and he wisely (?) clamped on again. I took him back into the kitchen and put him underneath the refrigerator to recover in peace and dignity.

Oh, the adrenaline. I finished my poster in the remaining 2 hours like a champ. When Jason woke up, I proudly recounted The Tale of Alazar, King of Beetles.

He looked at my bloodshot, dilated eyes. He looked down at the fridge. He looked up.

"You... didn't put him outside?"

"JASON E. MATTHEWS. This poor tormented creature was just going for his innocent nightly stroll when he got tossed about in a windstorm, attacked by Venomous Vicky, sprayed down with foul, sticky, burning, suffocating toxins, wrapped up in a straightjacket, WATERBOARDED, and trapped in a frictionless pit. We shall harbor His Highness in our food-scrap-abounding, comfortably-heated apartment for the rest of his little life. HE IS A SURVIVOR.

"Also... you might want to wear boots, or squat on a chair, from now on when you wash the dishes... when *you* wash the dishes. Vicky's relatives want revenge against me."

Shudder.

And that's why I don't really like doing dishes anymore.

Bachelorette Pad

Jason's been in Florida for a week-long Physics conference (he calls it The Big-Kid Science Fair). (I hope there are ribbons.)

Since he left, I've realized: that kid keeps me in LINE. Granted, I exhaust myself every day trying to wrangle little toddlers into something that resembles swimming lessons, but damn. I haven't washed a single dish since Saturday. I'm... building a monument to the Dish Gods?

My mom-in-law has a magnet that says, "I wish they made kitchens that flushed." Amen to THAT, SandiMama.

At least Sally the Soap seems excited about the situation!

...really, really excited.

The mysterious thing about all these dishes is that I haven't really cooked much, either. Normally I pretend like I'm some fancy pro chef and cook elaborate dinners every night, but this week?

BACON AND STRAWBERRIES, BABY.

& the only reason I put it on a plate was so that I could take a photo of it. Fine dining at its fine dining-est.

Fuel for the champion lifeguard/swim instructor. AH DO WHUT AH WAWNT.

I haven't put away a single article of clothing that I've worn. Actually, I haven't even put anything away that I took out just to consider wearing.

And who needs showers when I marinate in chlorinated water all day?

It's getting reeeeeally Klassy over here. And I have less than a day to try to clean it all up (including myself)... wish me luck.


[On Monday, I will tell the epic tale of why I'm literally afraid for my life to wash dishes in this apartment. Literally afraid for my life. There will be illustrations... you might want to get excited.]

Our Story, Part Three: My life was really hard but the Hubster was an awesome boyfriend, and then he proposed and I was really happy. Gaaag.

But first, might I offer you a small platter of Part One (first "date")?
Or perhaps a generous helping of Part Two (Hubster's side of the story)?

Alright amigos, I'm not going to lie. There's not too much to say about our first few years together without sounding completely cliché. I was finishing high school, Jason was starting college, and we were pathetically in love. The summers were magic; the school years were a steady routine: classes, then sports practice, then hang-out-with-Jason-and-somehow-manage-to-complete-homework, then walk-Jason-out-to-his-car-at-night-"to-say-goodbye"-AKA-end-up-telling-each-other-our-life-stories/making-out-in-his-car-until-1AM. Nearly every night my mom would walk out to the porch, flick the light on & off, and ring the windchime like a cowbell to remind me of my curfew. Poor, poor Mom... it was bad.

16 & 17 years old... totally mature enough to pick our future life partners, yes?

But as for my first years in college, away from home? They should have been the worst time in my life. They should have been absolute, effing HELL-- I was missing my baby sister & family, I was averaging 5-hours'-sleep-a-night  in Architecture School (battling unbearable workloads designed to "weed out" the undevoted), and I was terrified and heartbroken to know that my parents were suddenly on the brink of a divorce.

Couldn't have done it without you, buddy.

Yet instead, those first years away from home were some of the best I've ever lived. Jason was my rock. He listened when I needed comfort, and cracked me up when I needed distraction. He held me tight while I literally curled into a ball of stress in his lap, bawling my eyes out until 2AM. If I stayed at school all night, he'd drive to campus at sunrise with a home-cooked omelette.

Looking back, I can't believe how selfless he was for me during that period. (Yes, he had classes of his own as well.) Everyone in Architorture school neglected their relationships in place of schoolwork, myself included, and I watched couples break up all around me. But Jason was a champ-- instead of complaining abut how busy I was, he cheered me on.

I adored him like a little girl crushes on a classmate; I loved him like the long-term boyfriend he was, but there was a feeling beyond that, that continued to grow bigger by the time I went to bed every night. The feeling was familiar, yet I couldn't put my finger on it. I would introduce him to my friends as my "boyfriend," but the word felt so empty compared to how much he meant to me. Finally, I realized: I loved him in the same way I loved the rest of my family. A comforting, stable love that would still be there, no matter what he did or didn't do for me. When I was with him, it felt like "home."

And yet, true to my stubborn ways, I didn't want to get married quite so young. I wanted to rebel against the cutesy Disney timeline where the 'princesses' practically move straight from their parents' house to their new husband's. And deep down, I'll be honest-- I didn't want people to judge me for getting married in my early twenties. I didn't want them to judge me as naive. I didn't think it was "cool."

On a long roadtrip home from a friend's wedding, we had "the talk." I told him that in few years, he might start thinking about proposing. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted it-- I realized I didn't want him to wait. He kept on being amazing, I kept falling for him, and for the rest of the summer, I kept hoping he'd read my mind and surprise me. I even toyed with the idea of asking him myself. (I should have just told him all this, but remember what I said about being stubborn?)

A few months after "the talk", four years after our first date, we found ourselves 10,000 feet in the sky, perched atop the pointy peak of a mountain. It's one of our favorite places in the world-- we climb it every year when we help coach a high school cross country camp.
 
(Yes, you know where this is going.) (And yes, this means we were surrounded by dozens of squealing high-schoolers when he proposed to me. They freaking LOVED it. They had our wedding all planned out by the time we'd climbed back down the mountain.)

MT. McLOVIN'!! (So classic that I'm wearing a hoodie and holding a Gatorade bottle.)

I didn't hear the squeals, though; honestly, for me this moment with Jason on his knees in front of me was like a cheesy, slow-mo movie scene. Running through the waves Bounding through the flowery fields Looking into his teared-up blue eyes, I tried to capture the image in my mind forever. I finally remembered to choke out a "YES" through my giddy grin.

The hubster did well in picking out his proposal spot. You can see its snowy peak miles away in our hometown, and I smile every time I look at it.

(Next installmentt: Wedding video!! If you haven't keeled over from all the moosh yet, say your prayers.)

Can anger be a good thing?

I'm in a philosophical discussion kind of mood, amigos. Ready to climb on board?

 (I promise the Star Trek Reference will make sense in a second.) (Not that it needs to be justified, of course.)

I grew up in a pretty quiet household where we... read books a lot. On the couch, in bed, in the bathroom, in a tree, we all had our noses silently buried in pages. Jason grew up in a rambunctious household where there was usually a radio playing, a TV show (or two) on, and boisterous banter. 

As a result, I get overwhelmed when people raise their voices at me, and I shut off. Jason handles it much better. Sometimes he'll jump right in and raise his voice in return-- and sometimes he's even the first to raise his voice.

So we've been having an interesting debate lately: is expressing your anger helpful or harmful? I'll give you both of our arguments, but I'd love to hear your take on it too.

So here's what I've thought most of my life: disagreements are better-solved free of showing anger. To me, a productive conversation is where both people really empathetically understand the other person's feelings and logic.

I think that when you get noticeably upset at someone, one of two things usually happen. The first outcome I've seen is that they get defensive and it becomes their mission to prove you wrong-- they stop trying to hear what you're saying and focus on arguing against it (I admit this is my own tendency). The second outcome is that they get intimidated by your anger, and give in to what you're saying without explaining how they really feel about it. Either way, the conversation stops making progress.

Jason thinks that showing anger is occasionally necessary. He says that sometimes, if someone has really upset you, there's no way to express it with words alone. Even if you perfectly articulate how seethingly furious you are with someone, they just won't believe you if you're explaining it to them while seated in an armchair with your legs crossed and using your best "NPR" voice. Sometimes, people won't have the motivation to change their ways unless you show your emotion to really demonstrate how their actions make you feel.

So what's your take on it? Are you a "Spock" like me? Would the world be a better place if people could talk things through without showing anger?

Or are you a "Kirk?" Do you think that showing anger is a necessary tool of communication?

Sorry, no behind-the-scenes drama-- I didn't post this because of any fight. We're just having fun finding the middle road (for yet another opinion that our extremely different upbringings bequeathed to us).

Pretend Tumblr

I had NO CLUE it would be this hard to post regularly with a job/side projects/when I want to spend all my spare time frolicking in the glorious summer sunshine. Wow, kids. Wow. Thanks for sticking around.

The silly thing is, whenever I go online nowadays I think,
"Dude, I would have a blast with a Twitter account,"
and, more even more frequently,
"How on earth do I not have a Tumblr yet?"

Because I would spend ALL DAY AND NIGHT collecting pretty pictures, animals, and geeky things:

And of course...
 

sniffle.

*end tumble spree.
That helped a little... but still, I'm tempted. Maybe once the sun starts hibernating again, I'll reconsider?

1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12

If you like 'mooshy,' then this one's for you

This Sunday marks the two year anniversary of the wedding that made Jason the "Hubster," and myself... (I didn't realize this was an embarrassing word until I tried to type it on the internet).... "Wifey."

Two years! I do believe some high-fives will be in order on Sunday.

& just for nostalgia's sake, I'll post a little somethin'-somethin' from our wedding. Before we exchanged vows, rings, and a scandalous smooch, we read our hand-written "this-is-why-you're-awesome-and-why-I'm-puttin'-a-ring-on-it" looove letters. Someday I'm going to have to post the video of us reading this to each other, with all the giggles and sniffles, but for now, have fun reading!

Jason's went a little something like this:

I marry you because you are now part of my life. In all decisions, you are a consideration. In all joy, you are sharing. In all sorrow, support. I look forward to calling you my wife, mother of my children, and my lover.

I admire your love for learning, no matter what topic;

I admire your love for life, no matter how small that life is;

I admire how you understand others' situations, even if you disagree with them.

I love how you turn nature into a storybook-- with dialogue-- whenever we go on walks.

And most of all, I love how I've never gotten along with anyone as well as I've gotten along with you.

I want to grow old and gray with you, experiencing life with you by my side.

And mine went a little something like this:

Beginning today and lasting my lifetime, I'm choosing my husband, my sidekick, my devil's advocate, the father of my children, my cheerleader, coach, and teammate. And although huge decisions usually freeze me up, you've made this one pretty effortless:

Because your love of life and curiosity inspires everyone around you, like a big happy puppy. Except a really smart one.

Because you're always working to make yourself better, like when you stay up late on homework you've assigned yourself.

Because you put up with my quirks... like putting your toothbrush on the same side of the sink as mine, so they can be friends.

Because even after six years, I keep realizing you're even better looking than I first thought.

Because you help me see what's best for me, and sometimes I resist even though I know you're right. Even then, you don't give up. Your patience and love amazes me.

Because even though you make me feel on top of the world, you still ask me if you treat me well enough.

Thanks for making my biggest decision the easiest. We're going to take good care of each other.

Happy July 10th, Handsome Hubster. High five!