Divine Imperfections

Dreams Do Come True: On Being a Band Wife

I was really bummed I missed #MusicMemoryMonday yesterday.

Instead of whining about it, though, I've decided to live by what could be my life's mantra: "Better late than never."

Here are some belated thoughts on music, more specifically, about being married to a musician.

They're words I wrote several months ago, during a winter retreat, but ones I wasn't brave enough (ready) to post then.

 

After spending Saturday feeling like a nerd at my own husband's rock concert, I realized just how much I need a reminder myself, of the lesson I learned that weekend.

Whether you're "with the band" or not, maybe you'll find some comfort, encouragement.

- - -

This isn’t quite what I had in mind when I agreed to go to camp with my husband.

Him out exploring with the guys from the band, me laying in bed with tummy troubles, in a room that smells like wet carpet and years’ worth of lingering BO.

 

I thought just choosing to be brave by coming here, stepping out of my comfort zone, would be enough.

I thought it’d get easier after getting here.

I thought I’d realize all my worries were in vain, that I’d get so “wrapped up in the Spirit,” that all my “worldly” troubles would cease to exist.

 

I thought wrong.

 

I expected overt, immediate miracles to happen.

Instead, I am realizing that I can’t outrun my cold, or myself. 

 

I am learning slowly, very begrudgingly lately, that most of us don’t have a Paul conversion, a blinding moment followed by a 180 degree turn.

We don’t go from killing Christians to giving our very lives up for Christ.

 

We go from moments/years of self-loathing and struggle, to giving up, going before God, and then trying again. And again. And again.

 

We spend much of our lives wishing “walking the faith” worked a bit more like magic, wondering when things will suddenly be different… 

All the while quietly, stubbornly refusing to move much.

We want a better life. 

We just don’t want to work for it.

Or even bend for it.

 

I spent most of last night struggling to sleep, fighting coughing attacks brought on by a cold that’s moved from my head to my chest… trying all the while not to wake my poor, sleeping husband who was inches away from me on a double mattress that is half water bed, half trampoline.

 

And let me tell you something. 

This is not the “victorious life” I thought I was promised.

 

This is not the dream I had for myself, the one I thought would magically happen because it seemed good, which I thought meant it must be God’s will.

This is a nightmare, an embarrassing, awkward nightmare. 

But this is my life. Right here. This messy, seemingly God-forsaken moment.

 

And in my physical weakness, I'm forced to question my self-reliance. I'm forced to face the truth, that I can't do everything well all the time.

I'm forced to see myself as human, fallible, a mess even.

 

But I also get a chance to see where true strength comes from.

I see an opportunity, to develop some healthier thought habits.

I have a chance to take a deep breath, and to remember this as a spiritual retreat.

I have a chance to stop trying so hard, and simply be.

Strange experiences, like being sick at church camp, would be a lot easier, I’m sure, had I not created such unreasonable ludicrous expectations in my youth.

As a teen attending Christian camp, the musicians’ wives always seemed like the coolest people on campus.

 

They always had just-came-from-the-salon hair. They were edgy (at least for Southern Baptist circles). That meant they had nose rings, pink streaks, or fashionable scarves around their necks, even in summer.

They had perfect skin the second they woke up, and eyeliner that didn’t smear, even after the perfect amount of unattainably cute crying during really moving songs.

 

They were beautiful. Flawless really. 

They were outgoing, and cool.

 

They never looked like they were trying too hard. They didn’t look like they were trying at all, actually.

They just exuded awesomeness.

 

And they couldn't be more different than me.

 

As a musician’s wife of going on thirteen months now, I have yet to show up at a gig with fresh makeup, or a nose ring.

I have shown up with a sweaty brow from unloading heavy equipment from the back of our beat-up Jeep, and tired eyes from late-night practices, photo-editing, and arguing about another visit to Guitar Center.  

I don't exude awesomeness; I reek of trying too hard.

And deep down I'm not trying to be better, or to do my best.

 

I'm trying to keep up with the Disney-ified version of a Band Wife I bought into in my youth, instead of accepting my role as Mikael's wife, instead of learning the delicate art of being me.

 

This trip in particular has been especially memorable, in that I couldn’t be farther from the glamorous images I have pinned in my mind.

 

I sweated so profusely during last night’s “worship” set, that I felt like the evil witch in Wizard of Oz. 

It’s only 11:30 a.m. as I write this, and already my cheap eyeliner is inexplicably smudged.

 

Instead of spending the morning out shaking hands and exuding a level of coolness that teen girls can aspire to, I ate a cold sausage biscuit, alone, in a giant dining hall.

And that was followed by a not-so-spiritual “quiet time” here in the smelly room, struggling with tummy troubles, and wondering why I’m not at all like those glamorous wives I saw growing up.

 

I’m a grunt, a roadie, and a weak one at that.

I go nearly catatonic in large groups of people, and speak so softly in regular conversation that my husband can barely hear me.

 

Despite weeks of advanced notice I ended up packing so frantically for this trip that I forgot essentials like tennis shoes, and a hairbrush. 

"Clearly I’m not cut out for life on the road, much less looking pretty behind the 'merch' table," the evil voice whispers over my soul.

 

"I am ill-equipped at best. Awkward in my own skin," it taunts.

And yet, here I am.

 

I’m a woman, married to a musician, one I prayed for, one I love...

A man I vowed to stand beside, for better or worse, in sickness and health, and through all kinds of band stuff…

I can't let the insecurities I let stop me in my teens keep me from becoming the woman, the grown-up and the wife I want to be... 

But I also can't sit around waiting to be made into something different, while stubbornly refusing to budge.
  

 

I know now, more than ever, that I will never be the “Band Wife” I looked up to all those years at camp.

If she does exist, she is certainly not me, a gal with perpetually chipped nail polish and a heavy sweater under pressure.

 

But I am also learning that those weaknesses don't disqualify me from being a good band wife.

And they definitely don't mean I can't be my husband’s best wife.

Because what my husband really needs isn't a hairdo and a painted-on smile.

He needs for me to show up, the real me...

 

The one he promised his life to, for better, for worse, and for those "nothing to wear" times too.

 

It's time I stop dreaming about the life I wanted as a kid, and time to start taking steps towards the life I want now, as a woman, and as a wife.

 

It’s time now to roll up my sleeves and work towards the “abundant life” I was offered as a Christian, instead of waiting for it to fall from the sky.

It’s time to act on what matters to me, to worry less about what doesn’t, and to find my footing as my husband’s other half, knowing my dress size and hairdo do not define me.

It's time to show up, as my real self, trusting that's good enough.

 

Being a good wife isn’t about perfect salon hair.

It's not about pore-less porcelain skin.

It’s about living out the commitment that was made, in sickness and in health.

It’s about giving one’s best, for better or worse.

 

It’s about standing by his side, cheering from the sidelines, or manning (womanning?) the merch table as needed. 

 

But mostly it’s about being present. And supportive.

And proud to be a band wife, proud to be his wife.

 

And I am, so proud (and thankful) to be married to a man whose helping me to become my best self, flat hair and all.

 

The Reluctant Reader: Twain's Take on The Garden of Eden

I found another book I couldn’t put down this week, one I’ll admit I purchased primarily because of its size.

While out on a thrifty adventure I stumbled upon The Diaries of Adam & Eve, a 63 page book by the characteristically witty, concise Mark Twain.

 

Having never read Twain before I figured I was overdue. And knowing him to be a lauded humorist I figured I’d appreciate his amusing take on one of the most discussed events in all of human history: The Fall of Man.

 

The book begins with Adam’s take on life in, and after, the Garden of Eden. In his first entry he comments on the new long-haired creature that has been placed there with him.

“It is always hanging around and following me about. I don’t like this;
I am not used to company. I wish it would stay with the other animals…
We?      Where did I get that word…
I remember now-the new creature uses it.”

 

Throughout the book it is Adam's commentary on Eve that proves the funniest (at least to me). But maybe that's because Eve’s diary hit much closer to home. 

Even in paradise, Eve begins life with a desire for companionship, both with the other animals and especially with Adam.

 

From the start she is bent towards discontent.

She is mesmerized by the flowers, stars and waterfalls, but she longs to call them her own.

She needs closeness, and it pains her when Adam avoids her attempts at friendship.

 

As time progresses both Adam and Eve’s takes on each other change.

 

In this progression the “diaries” become an acute look at the differences of the sexes that make life both difficult and rich. The entire book is about love, as much as it is about life, the beginning or The Garden.

 

Eve puts it this way:

“When I look back the Garden is a dream to me.
It was beautiful, surpassingly beautiful, enchantingly beautiful,
and now it is lost, and I shall not see it anymore

The Garden is lost, but I have found him, and am content…”

 

I found it really interesting, this look at what drives us at our deepest cores. It made me wonder if I would have longed for the same things I want now, the same things Eve longed for (at least in Twain’s mind) even if I had existed before  “the fall.”

 

   

The close of the book is what speaks the most about the human existence, though, and how it is always changed by love.

 

As time passes Adam’s take on the once new creature changes drastically, until his heart has softened to her so that his final words, the ones he speaks over Eve’s grave, are these:

 

 

Is that not beautiful?

That line pretty much melted my heart.

And it definitely made me a fan of Mr. Twain.

 

 

The foreword for the book is written by Columbia English professor, J.V. Ridgely, who says Twain began writing the book while his own wife was sick. He actually finished Eve’s entries after her death.

Knowing that, these fictional diaries become an even sweeter look at the meaning that love brings into our lives, poignant confirmation that we were made for relationship, whether we realize it or not.

 

And I think that’s a particularly powerful confirmation coming from a man known for observing the darkness in life as much as, or more than, the light.

 

 

In another of Twain’s books, he claims that humanity’s only defense against the darkness is laughter.

But Ridgely believes this book is proof there’s one other. He closes his forward by saying,

 

“… these dairies of Adam and Eve make poignantly explicit, there was one other weapon.
It was, of course, the endurance of human love.”

 

Good stuff, this one.

Really good stuff.

 

Weekend Update: A Birthday Bash and Band Practice

I'm gonna let you in on a dirty little secret, one that you've probably already picked up on if you've been around here long.

 

I LOVE taking pictures. I really do.

I take my camera everwhere. And it's heavy too.

 

But I'm not so great at taking pictures of people. (Wah wah.)

In fact, I don't do it very often. At all. It's kind of sad really. And strange.

 

Pictures of my shoes? Yes; I've got plenty.

But pictures of people I love? Precious few.

 

Moving subjects are just so difficult to capture.

And truth be told I love the subtleties of photographing a great many little details.

Looking back over this weekend though, I realize how much I need to get over this strange aversion to photographing people. 'Cause what's a weekend - much less a life - without great company to share it with?

 

Note to Self: Photograph More People!

 

That little diary entry aside, guess what? It was another great, busy weekend, one filled with people (who are mostly not pictured).

Friday Mikael and I had a super early dinner date (like, before 5) before he headed off to band practice.

We went to Potbelly's; it was our first time there as a couple. (Dorky as it is, I love that a year into marriage we're still finding new places to explore together.)

The sandwiches were good, but the cookies... WOWZA.

Adorable and incredibly delicious. I'll definitely go back for those.

While Mikael and the boys (the band) worked really hard to gear up for their next few shows, my night was spent watching Cold Case reruns with my mom and sister. (My mom is eerily good at making that opening noise by the way, the screechy shrieky scream. You know the one!)

 

While I've already shown you plenty of pictures of my adorable puppy nephew, there are relatively few appearances of his sister, the cat.

I'm just NOT a cat person (or a people person apparently).

But this one, Ellie, is pretty tolerable as far as cats go. Especially when she's sleeping.

Pretty much anything napping is cute. Am I right?

So I caught her cute little kitty nap, while lazing around with my family, but I didn't capture the drummer trying to cuddle the cat after practice. (That didn't go well.)

I also didn't photograph myself stealing the electric guitarists' leftover chicken nuggets. (But then again, that's a picture I can live without.)

Saturday Mikael's youngest cousin gave us a perfect reason to head to Dave & Buster's. (It was her birthday!)

And even though I embarrassed myself horribly at the basketball game, (i.e. I didn't make a single shot, sorry Dad; you taught me better than that!) I was still glad we got to celebrate a special girl's sweet sixteen.



Did I mention she loves zebra? Zebra nails. Zebra belt. Zebra cake.

Her coordination was very impressive (as is the fact I finally got a picture of human faces).

That night we had a legitimate date (meaning not an earlybird dinner at a sandwich shop).

We sprang for steak and then went to see the new Oz.

The storyline was great, and the effects superb. But my favorite part (being the nerd I am) was the opening credits.

 

It was incredibly artistic and well done, like handcut figurines dancing in a carnival scene. It's hard to explain, but was very inspiring. (Now if only I'd put all that great inspiration to good use.)

As previously mentioned, Sunday ended up being an entire day about eating tacos (breakfast, lunch and dinner), plus a little soup.

But it was also about hanging out with family and new friends, including the peeps from church (who I'm still too embarrassed to take pictures of my food around).

 

After dinner they invited us out to karaoke too, and that made for a very fun (entertaining) evening.

I resisted the urge to do The Replacements' dance when one of the guys sang "I Will Survive," but only barely.

And I guess that means I stopped being a card-carrying Baptist just in the nick of time. (I kid. I kid.)

To sum the weekend up, we missed SNL (something everyone was talking about Sunday) but it was with good reason.

 

Life is full. And moving fast. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

 

I do hope to share more people pictures with you in the future. 

In the meantime, though, thanks again for sticking through these Weight Watchers-like entries of what I ate over the weekend.

 

You're good pals, especially those of you who've been eating with us.

It's really great having such good company to gather with.

 

Five Minute Friday - HOME

HOME

 

I used to think home was the three bedroom home I grew up in, the one with the converted garage to give each of us kids our very own room.

 

But then I left for college, and experienced freedom for the first time. Sure I had a rubber duck themed bathroom, but I was an adult. I had bills. I was free. (HA.)

 

 

When I finally moved back to my parent’s house I missed all the creature comforts I had enjoyed out on my own.

 

I missed my own sparsely filled fridge. I missed my knick knacks, my kitchen towels. All these tiny things that made me feel independent, that made my tiny apartment feel like my home.

 

I traded them in for a roof over my head, and one of those bedrooms I’d grown up in.

But suddenly that house seemed smaller than before, still it offered security I needed in uncertain times.  

It came with a support system I needed, as I navigated my early twenties.

 A few years later I left again.

 

And as soon as the boxes were unloaded I excitedly hung art and organized my cabinets. I picked a new shower curtain and bedding to reflect my changing tastes.

 

I felt settled. I was thrilled to be back on my own.

 

Until…

 

I missed my family’s company.

 

I missed people to laugh with at our favorite shows, to talk to after a hard day, to drink coffee with when I woke up.

 

I missed, love, what really makes a home. I missed sharing my life and space, even if it meant having a ridiculously crowded fridge.

 

 

 

My husband and I were only married five months before we decided to move.

 

Without jobs lined up, or a new apartment in a new city, we moved in with family.

 

And that was hard. Incredibly hard.

 

 

Once again I missed tiny things that had made our apartment feel special.

 

The dishes our friends gave us as wedding gifts. The tiny silver bells they rang at our first kiss.

 

Putting them in storage crushed my heart a little, even though they were just things.

They represented freedom, a fresh start, our beautiful beginning.

 

Boxes, and boxes, tightly sealed in grey duct tape represented a time of waiting. Another season of uncertainty. A blank slate stretched out indefinitely before us.

 

A giant question mark on our calendar, our timeline.

 

- - - - -

 

As the months have passed the grip those things have on me has lessened. I still miss them sometimes, my blue canning jars and our good colander.

 

But my heart is accepting a truth that can’t be boxed away.

 

I’m learning that home is what we take with us. Something thieves and rust and poor packing cannot destroy.

 

Home is internal. It’s what the Israelites took with them when they left Egypt, and what we took with us when we left Waco.

 

It’s what we keep with us even now, with the boxes in storage, and the future still unclear.

 

It’s peace that surpasses understanding and the promise of brighter days ahead.

 

It’s love that fills our days with laughter, and community, and coffee, shared.

 

It is life shared, under one roof, wherever that is.

 

 

HOME



 

Last week I discovered a lovely community of writers that participate in five minutes of free writing each Friday, each week with a different prompt, today's obviously being "Home."

You already know I LOVE alliteration, so I really couldn't help but participate in this great idea, FiveMinuteFriday.

 

Only I'm new to this "free writing" thing, and a very bad creature of habit, so I cheated a little.

The italicized words above (and everything after the dashed line) were added or edited after my five minutes was up. For goodness sake I felt like I should 'fess up to that.

Thanks for grace as I learn to self-edit a little less, and to trust my heart and typing hands a little more. :)

For Better or Worse, and Even Really Awkward Marriage Conferences

Here we are, at the very start. Bright-eyed & with no idea what we were getting into. ;)

A few weeks ago Mikael and I spent about six hours at a marriage conference in Allen.

Though we each had our reservations about saying “yes,” we agreed to go at my parents’ recommendation.

 

I grew up thinking all marriages must be really easy – that’s how my parents made it look (those of you that know them can attest to this). But as a newlywed myself, my parents let me in on a secret - they actually put a lot of work into it.

One way they said they make their relationship work is by taking part in as many “learning opportunities” as they can.

So, my husband of a year and I heeded their advice and said a hesitant “yes” to the conference, a chance to learn as a couple (plus "yes" to the free hotel stay that went with it; that which was much easier to agree to).

 

Unfortunately we had a few weeks for our nerves to build up before actually attending the conference.

Would we be packed in a room with strangers (plus my parents, and a dozen couples from their church)?

Would we have to breakout into sessions without each other?

Would we be the youngest people there by several decades?

Would we leave feeling worse than when we got there?

Would they convince us we were actually wrong for each other? Toxic, like a Brittany Spears song/relationship?

By the time Friday came we were both on edge and frazzled.

It’s no wonder, really, that we had a pretty intense fight before leaving the house that day.

 

In fact, when we checked into the hotel we had once been so excited to stay at, the grandeur of the fine accommodations was lost on us.

We were still pretty sore with one another, and obnoxiously loud Abba playing in the elevator on the way up to our room didn’t help.


As much as I wanted the fancy suite, complete with Neutrogena travel toiletries, flatscreen and a full-sized Hershey bar, to magically end our squabble, or at least diminish our anxiety, alas… it did not.

Instead we continued exchanging cross words, and feeling miserable that we’d ever agreed to attend the conference in the first place.

 

And we felt this way all the way to the conference, which, very much like our predictions, did involve a large room filled with name-tagged couples, most of which looked a lot happier at that juncture than us.

 

There we were. Tear-stained newlyweds, barely talking, in a sanctuary filled with handholding couples straight out of a life insurance commercial.

We weren’t excited to be there.
We did not have high hopes.
We didn’t even like each other at that moment.

 

We wanted to be anywhere else but there. Most importantly we wanted time apart.

 

Still, we showed up. Reluctantly. Together.

And I’m so glad we did.

 

From the start the speaker spent most of the time talking about the differences between men and women.

 

And I know this sounds like “no duh” territory.

But for me at least, it really was beneficial.

 

Over and over the speaker used the phrase, “not wrong, just different.”

And it was through that lens that he shared humorous stories, sociological research and Scripture, all pointing to the idea that couples are brought together to strengthen and to complement one another.

 

And I liked that message a lot.

(I desperately needed to hear it.)

 

As an adult, as a wife, as a Christian, I’ve come to believe strongly that marriage was not made for people to live hunky-dory happily ever after, the way I thought it was as a kid (one that watched The Little Mermaid a few too many times).

Instead I choose to believe, and trust, that marriage was created to make life richer, fuller, and ultimately better, by allowing people to share it.

 

Their days. Their dreams. Their lives.

Messily. Majestically. Intertwined.

 

 

And what I took from the conference was just that - an expert, well-spoken survey of how our differences make us stronger…

Reinforcement that relationships were never meant to be easy. But also that they’re important.

 

All of life boils down to relationship.

With one another. With Creator God. With the people we share this planet with, especially the one we share a bed with.

 

 

And I don’t want to sound like I’m on a soapbox here.

In fact, Mikael and I agreed months ago that we’d try very hard not to share too much, and especially not to give advice about relationships, seeing as we’re still very much starting out ourselves.

 

We’re far from perfect. We’ve got tons to learn.

Plus it’s dangerous territory sticking your neck out like this.

 

We agreed our 40^th anniversary would be a good time to start explaining how we made things work, assuming we make it to 40 (if the hotdogs don’t do me in before then).

 

But…

 

I felt like this is one good exception to that rule…

Because what I’m sharing is advice carefully curated from other people’s research, careful study, and hard-earned wisdom, not my own…

And also because it’s important, what with relationships being what life is created around and all…

It seems good to share this information, even if it is abridged, and with a little personal history thrown in just for kicks (with approval from my hubby).

 

 

I hope just hearing this tiny bit will give you a bit more appreciation for your S.O. (Significant Other’s) unique traits.

I hope “not wrong, just different” will prove an argument diffuser the way it has around here.

Mostly I hope that you’ll be reminded how the best things in life require a bit more effort, but are way more than worth it in the end.

 

With or without the chocolate incentive… like that Hershey’s bar waiting for us after a long day of learning...

The best things aren't things at all. They are people committed to sharing life with you.

#TeamAguilar for the win.

Weekly Update: 7 Days in 14 Photos

MONDAY

1. It's always nice when I get to start the day with a fresh pot of coffee, prepared by my favorite barista hubby.

2. This was our first time making (and my first time eating) brussel sprouts; we roasted them with a bit of olive oil, salt, pepper and garlic. They were surprisingly delicious, not at all what I expected.

3. Cooking together has become one of my favorite things (even though he mostly does the cooking and I mostly do the dishes; we work with the talents we were given).

TUESDAY

4. My Valentine's flowers hung on a really long time, which was nice. They kept me company on my longest work days.

5. Fake bacon, lettuce, no tomato for me sandwiches made for a nice little lunch break. (And yes; that's veggie bacon. It's much better than it sounds.)



WEDNESDAY

6. My favorite mug makes early mornings a bit easier to swallow.

7. Driving to meet new friends for lunch downtown, I was amazed how much the rainy city streets of Dallas reminded me of our trip to New York.

THURSDAY

8. We're lucky enough to live close enough that we can get our cardio walking to the nearest Starbucks. It's a little weird, but whatever works.

9. Mikael and I took a little roadtrip Thursday night. It was lots of fun, and the drive sure was pretty.

FRIDAY

10. I met a friend for BBQ Friday, and lucky me she brought along a cute lil' man she was babysitting. Our table proved a great spot not only to catch up over pulled pork and potato salad, but for his darling red truck to go for a cruise.

11. And of course I would get coffee for dessert, from a darling new shop I discovered. (I can hardly wait to go back.)



AND THE REST...

12. This pretty little basil plant lived to fight another week (though he did not fare so well this Monday night, wah wahh).

13. I can't get enough Cuties lately. They're just so delicious, and adorable.

14. Until next time, Mike says "see ya."

 

Weekend Update: A Conference, A Concert, and Plenty of Coffee

We had a pretty whirlwind weekend. And I probably say that about any weekend not spent exclusively in my PJs, but this was particularly busy/crazy/good/caffeinated.

It was such a rushed (albeit wonderful) time I didn't get a lot of pictures. But here is a quick photo recap of another enjoyably chaotic weekend:

 

Friday we headed to Allen for a marriage conference, which wasn't nearly as bad as it might sound. (More on that later.)

We stayed in a lovely hotel that gave us a full-sized chocolate bar too.

You know you're living the good life when they leave you Hershey's that isn't "fun-sized," play Abba in the elevator, and have pictures of "local" celebs adorning the walls.



Then Saturday Mikael had a concert at a coffee shop in McKinney.

(Thanks to my sister for getting the below shot of hubby playing while I was accidentally drinking someone else's drink. And thanks to Kenny for sitting in on mandolin, and all the other folks who came out to support them.)

It was a great show, a great night...




... and having the concert downtown was a great excuse to take "the boys"* to eat pizza at Sauce!

We tried "Texas Jalapeno" and a pesto & mushroom pizza called "Green." Both were delicious - good work Sauce.

(*For those of you that don't know, when your husband is in a band "the boys" in that band become like sons to you, regardless of their age, or yours. So yea; I have two teenage-ish sons now. Man can those kids eat. ;) )

Sunday afternoon was spent trekking around various parts of Dallas for a photoshoot and lunch with friends that are getting hitched.

They were all cute and lookin' crazy in love, and good sports letting me snap pictures of them in random places. Like in a sketchy part of Oakcliff.

Then came church/dinner with some good peeps whose names we're still trying to learn.

(There may or may not be a rough diagram of these people, with sketches, names and their relationships to one another - spouses or siblings, etc. - laying in our car. But just maybe.)

 

Hope your week is off to an A-wait-for-it-Mazing start.

See you soon. 

Better Late Than Never: Valentine's Edition

Yesterday my poor MacBook got really sick. Like, it wouldn't charge, and said "service battery." Which was a bummer for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that I had spent the previous two days working on a roundup of cute Valentine printables which I planned on sharing.

#LifeIsHard  #FirstWorldProblems  #NerdAlert

 

In fact, I went to bed last night very distraught about my poor computer's ill fate (and that's an understatement, and a half).

 

Some days it just feels like nothing seems to go right. Ya know?

Your Plan A falls through. And then you remember your backup plan is either non-esistent, or sucky.

And... you just want to throw your hands in the air and yell "Wow is me."

 

"The world is crumbling," you think, 'cause it feels that way to you.

And no amount of reasoning - it's only a computer, it's not that big of a deal - seems to help.

 

So you sob. Uncontrollably. 'Til your chest hurts, like an elephant's been dancing on it.

All while your husband tries to comfort you, though he presumably thinks that you're completely crazy (and understandably so).

 

Eventually you drift off to a light, unpeaceful sleep, like a toddler after a really nasty, unsuccessful tantrum for candy.

Only you're crying about a computer, and your general bad luck with electronics/cars and (secretly) also about your inability to effectively deal with your emotions before you become a full-out basketcase. #WhenWillILearn

 

So yea, last night, not my finest hour. And I'm hoping some of you can relate, though not quite so specifically.

But today, do you know what happened?

 

The world didn't implode. You know that much (despite my predictions last night).

But also I discovered that not only was my computer salvageable, the two repairs it needed were covered free under my warranty. 

 

Today I discovered that last night's troubles, the ones that had kept me up late into the night, thinking nothing would ever go right again, and that I was doomed to live in despair... ended up being nothing more than an a 30-minute fix, plus an excuse to walk around the mall, have dinner in the food court, and to spend an entire day with my husband.

Running errands, laughing at bad pop songs, and holding hands with a man I was lucky enough to marry. A man that held me close as I cried myself to sleep, telling me all the while that things would work out. A man that didn't say "I told you so" when we got the good news that the repairs would be free. He just stuck out his hand for a fist bump. And then we went on our merry way, not a cent less rich.

 

In a weird way I guess I'm grateful that all my struggle to post something Valentine's Day-ish has led me here.

To this post, this strange and winding one, that began about printable Valentine's art, but ended up being partly about a broken computer, partly about an irrational and overly emotional meltdown by me, and mostly (underlyingly, if that's a word) about LOVE itself.

Love that shows up to hold us, and to comfort us when we need it most.

And Love that also cheers us on, when we've got news worth celebrating.

Love that commits to going through the highs and the lows, together, as a team.

Love that doesn't leave you to wallow in self-pity, or sadness. But drags you back up to the surface, for fresh air. And perspective.

 

Love that's willing to get its hands dirty lifting you out of the muck and mire, but then cleans up real nice and maybe even walks around the mall (for two hours!!!) with you.

And Love that requires vulnerability, a willingness to be seen (even at your worst). But Love that makes all that scary letting-your-guard-down more than worth it.

Love that makes you grateful you're alive, even though life is sometimes hard.

Love that reminds you, encourages you, gives you extra reasons to breathe.

Since I can't go back and tell last night me to calm the heck down, and to let tomorrow worry about itself... to stop panicking and just be present and grateful for the many blessings in my life (regardless of how I felt at the time)...

Since I can't go back and tell my husband in that moment how much I appreciate him, and the great, big giant heart he has, or praise him for having so much more patience than I often give him credit for...

Since I can't do that I'll settle instead for passing along this story about the sick computer and the strange, panicky girl, in hopes it might save you a little trouble/time of your own.

And in hopes it might encourage you to listen a little closer to that voice assuring you "things will be fine."

 

Let tomorrow worry about itself.

Enjoy where you're at, even if it's not where you want to be.

Life might not be perfect - it never, ever is - but it's life.

It's up and down, joy and sorrow, sickness and healing...
it's a packaged deal.

Accept the good with the bad...
or something like that.

And be grateful for the company, most of all, 'cause that's what life is really about.

 

That's my Valentine's message, rolled up in a nearly incoherent nutshell. (Above.)

But because I'm stubborn (and 'cause I spent such a long time on them, and possibly blew my computer's brains out working on them) I'm also going to share the much cuter, saner graphics I rounded up. (Below.)

1. The typerwriter stole my heart in this set by AmyIsTheParty.
2. Candy & a game make for a super fun design by Dixie Delights,
found via another great Valentine roundup from TatertotsandJello.
3. These would make such cute stickers; thanks SecretAgentJosephine.
4. These adorable cards from MerMag make me want a button machine!

1. What girl doesn't love owls, like this pretty one from MineForTheMaking?
2. A set of four classic-looking cards from FPGirl on Flickr are perfect for coworkers or old friends.
3. Twig & Thistle's cute, grown-up goodie bags would be a great excuse to buy chocolate.
4. I love these nerdy chic NPR Valentines found via Katie Armour, with even more at NPR.org.




1. For the hipsters, a Converse-clad cartoon from EatDrinkChic seems perfect. 
2. Here's a slightly sappy, very sweet greeting from SimpleAsThat.
3. Plain old awesomeness from TheRockinBoysClub!
4. A simple, straightforward sentiment from 74LimeLane.

 

I hope a few of you will use these digital goodies (or others) to surprise someone special.

 

Print something pretty for your coworkers. Email an encouraging salutation to your single friends. Or tell your Significant Other you love him/her with a doodle.

More importantly, I hope all of you will make sure and send some love, or better yet offer a hug this Valentine's Day.

 

A good hug makes almost anything better. And you can trust me on this, 'cause I was dealing with a sick MacBook yesterday, so clearly, I know all about grief, and comfort...     #Don'tWorryI'mKidding #Mostly

I think the collage above means I must also be an expert on love. So this must all be very good advice.

In fact, I watched a Hallmark Channel movie Saturday, so yea; I'd say I've learned pretty much all there is to know about life.

All joking aside, using the world's most overly-marketed chocolate holiday as an excuse to spread some cheer, some encouragement, some lovely greetings, seems like a pretty good idea in my book.

So consider this my #HappyValentine'sEve/Day to you.


I hope it's a good one, overflowing with sweetness, both the cavity-kind and the comforting kind.

#WishingYouAllGoodThings

 

A New Dream: Be Hugh Jackman's Wife

Recently I went to bed thinking about how much I’d like to be Hugh Jackman’s wife someday.

And I know what you’re thinking. Wouldn’t we all?

He is, after all, a Broadway star, half man, half wolf, 100 percent Australian dreamboat.

 

But that’s not what I’m talking about, though the man does look good in a suit.

 

To explain what I mean we must first make a short trip back in time. All the way to January 13, in fact.

January 13, 2013.

 

 

I was watching the Golden Globes that night, mostly for the hosting genius but also to see all the gorgeous dresses.

 

Right away I fell in love with Ann Hathaway’s sparkly white ensemble. And I was pleasantly surprised to discover that her unfortunate haircut had grown into a pretty cute pixie by then.

I also figured Tina had to be proud seeing one of her protégés strike it big in Les Mis (Mean Girl to It-Girl). And so, though I’ve yet to see the film, I didn’t mind that there were frequent camera pans to the table featuring the musical’s biggest names.

 

But each time they zoomed in I spotted one very unfamiliar face. A face that would have seemed just as fitting at a PTO meeting, or selecting tomatoes at a Tom Thumb, as it did at an awards gala.

 

Each time they showed her I was taken aback, trying to figure out who it could possibly be.

 

Director? Producer? Screenplay adapter? I couldn’t figure out who it was, or what she’d done so right to be sitting at Jackman’s right hand. But I knew she must be important.

 

And thankfully it didn’t take too long (relatively speaking) to find out how she scored such a place of honor.

 

 

When the good news was announced, that Jackman had won Best Actor in a Motion Picture - Comedy or Musical, his initial reaction was to kiss that unidentified (ever-so-slightly matronly) blond by his side.

 

And when he took the stage to accept his award, speaking in that charming accent of his, he shed further light on the mystery guest - the one with the Fox newscaster haircut.

 

 

The woman I didn’t recognize, the one at a table filled with A-list actors… the one given kisses from the man of many women’s dreams…

 

Was Jackman’s wife. Of seventeen years.

 

Deborra-Lee Furness if you’re Google. Mrs. Jackman if you’re nasty.

(I sure hope at least one person gets this absurd reference.)

 

 

While it was somewhat (and very pleasantly) surprising that Jackman hasn’t traded in his devoted wife for a model-of-the-month club, like so many celebrities of his caliber do, it was far more astonishing to me what he had to say about her on that brightly-lit stage.

 

 

It’s pretty standard to thank a current romantic flame, sure, along with a whole bunch of industry execs no one’s heard of, maybe God or some higher power, the military and beer (if it’s a country music awards show).

Honorees looking for bonus points might also thank the fans, a deceased relative, or the other nominees in their category; those are always crowd pleasers. (Military personnel, hit or miss in that kind of crowd.)

 

But when given a microphone, Jackman did something pretty remarkable (especially for Tinseltown).

 

He dedicated a good chunk of the very small amount of time he was allotted to publicly thanking his wife.

You know, my mystery face. His right-hand woman.

 

Not only did he call her “the greatest woman in the world,” he said she was the one that convinced him to stick with Les Mis, even when it was really hard. She was frequently the one to talk him down from a ledge, he said.

And then, he chuckled, declared in front of the world that she was always right, and said “Babe, I love you.”

 

His dedication couldn’t have lasted more than a minute or two. Yet, by the time the music had played him off stage I had learned a great deal about Jackman’s better half:

 

She found ways to see him through his worst, while coaxing his best out of him.

 

She developed the ability to speak words of affirmation, but undoubtedly worked much harder at the difficult art of shutting up as needed.

 

And most of all, it was clear that at some point she must have count the costs, and chosen to go all in for and with the man she loved and loves still.

 

 

Because she believed in him. Because she wanted the best for him.

And because she knew the best thing would be giving him the freedom and space to chase his dreams.

 

 

In rewatching the speech as “research” for this post it’s even more clear to me how close their bond must be.

Because even before reaching the stage, during the quick exchange they shared when the good news was announced, you could see something special passing between their eyes.

 

And yes; Youtube kept getting stuck on that very spot.

But I think if you watch it for yourselves you’ll see I’m not just grasping at straws.

 

I think you too will notice what I did on the second and third and sixth replay.

 

While the other nominees looked out at the audience, or smiled sheepishly at the camera, Jackman’s immediate reaction was to look straight to his wife.

And when he did she was looking right back at him.

Both of them were beaming from ear to ear. At the nomination first. And then at the win.

 

 

I think what made that moment so special, one worth watching at least once more, and one actually worth dissecting (the way I do so many other foolish things) is that in that moment – that exchange – what you witness is two people sharing a victory together.

 

You see a couple experiencing the kind of multiplication of joy that only happens when you have committed to spend your life with someone, and then, even bigger, choose to stand by that commitment.

 

 

If you strip away the fancy gowns and the TV crews and tables filled with tabloid fodder, what you’ll catch in that moment, that speech, those stolen glances and kisses, is a person reaching a great pinnacle of success, genuinely wanting to share the credit – the achievement – with his spouse, of all people.

His partner. His champion. His plus one. His friend.

 

 

Please don’t get me wrong here.

 

I know. I know; no marriage is perfect.

 

Every couple goes through up and downs.

And I don’t want you to misunderstand me.

 

I’m not saying the Jackmans’ marriage is perfect, or that I want it, or that I want him.

(At least not anymore than the average woman does. Let’s be real.)

 

 

What I am saying, what I do want, is to learn to be a better system of support for my own husband, the one I’ve got.

My partner. My confidante. My friend.

 

I want to be a more tireless encourager, a more patient listener, and a more gumption-y pep talk giver for him.

‘Cause I know he needs those things. And I want to be a source of them. (Unlike every sitcom wife you've ever seen.)

 

I also want to be there to tell him not to give up, even when a dream seems impossible, or an obstacle insurmountable (or another trip to Guitar Center seems entirely unreasonable.)

And that’s not always easy, but I think it’s important.

 

 

I want to pick up the sweaty towel that was thrown in yesterday, wipe his brow with it and tell him to try again. (While somehow still managing to wash the thing at some point. Sweaty boy cooties – gross!)

 

Most of all, I want to do all this supporting out of love, not obligation.

Because my chips are all in, with the man I married. The one I love.

 

 
When I see my husband on the stage at the Grammy’s, or strapping on his guitar at his first sold-out concert…

Or accepting his Master’s Degree, autographing his first book, or holding our first child…

 

… I want to know that not only was I a part of that, but that I did everything in my power to make that moment happen.

 

What I learned while watching the Golden Globes is that I want to be my husband’s right-hand woman.

I want to do my best to help him accomplish his biggest dreams, the way Jackman’s wife obviously did for him.

 

I want to be my husband’s teammate. His faithful companion. His supporter and friend.

His newscaster haircut. His quick kisses after victory.

His beaming wifey, and his biggest fan.

 

 

*Thanks to the internet for letting me borrow/alter the image above.

And thank you to my hubby, for graciously approving this message.

Cough-Syrup Induced Thoughts on The Weather, My Mom

Years ago I read that no one needs a vacation more than the person who's just returned from one.

"What an indulgent statement," I always thought. "Try telling that to bitter, overworked coworkers without sun tans."

 

But, as ludicrous as it sounds, this week has proven that to be absolute truth.

I could really use a vacation!

 

Despite my best intentions to come back and show 2013 who's boss - me, hopefully - it turns out my immune system had other plans for this first week back in the real world.

The last three days:

In elementary school I always loved word puzzles (like the above).
That's not-so-top-secret code for "I have been under the weather," by the way.

 

I had every intention of tackling my resolutions when we made it home - resolutions about living healthier, more intentionally, and with less TV.

Instead I've spent most of my waking hours (which have been considerably less than usual) focused on simply breathing.

 

I've also spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about the expression "Under the Weather."

Here's where all that thinking, and copious amounts of cough syrup, have led:

 

For all the silly, non-sensical phrases that exist in the English vernacular…

“Raining cats and dogs.” “Don’t go chasing waterfalls."

I’ve got to say “Under the weather” is one that totally works.

 

 

When I get sick there are a few things that immediately come to mind, and one of them is rain. Rainy days and sick days should be one and the same.

After all, no one wants to be sick on a gorgeous sunny day. Rainy days were made for recuperating from the sniffles. (That and Law & Order marathons.)

The other thought that always creeps its way in, though, when I’m laying under as many blankets as I can find and wishing I’d purchased Kleenex when I was able-bodied enough to visit the store, is how much I inevitably miss my mom.

 

Whether you’re feeling down, out, just blue, or flu-ish, there’s something instinctively comforting about being around a mom.

 

Being around your own mom is best, obviously!

She knows just how you like your soup. What yummy drink to have on hand as a chaser for the nasty liquid medicines. Which movies you’ll want to watch (You’ve Got Mail) and that chocolate chip cookies have healing powers.

 

But any mom’s presence has a way of bringing comfort.

Why is that? How is that? And do all women grow to have that ability?

 

Mikael has been incredibly supportive and patient with pathetic, sickly me this week.

He's made soup and tea and done anything he could to make me feel better (including looking the other direction when I ordered an embarrassing amount of Chinese food).

Most importantly, though, he's sat with me, offered words of encouragement and lots of hugs.

He's been there with me, through it all.

 

Sadly, last week, when Mikael was sick, I think I dropped the ball on the caring and comforting.

 

I did my best, bringing him lunch and Tylenol. But I had a hard time just sitting with him, trying to cheer him up with my presence.

Instead I put the Nyquil on the table then basically fled the room.

 

I wasn't consciously trying to abandon the poor boy in his time of need.

I was just so worried, and frantic and frustrated, I didn't know what to do but keep busy.

I hated that he was sick on vacation. I wanted him to get better so badly.

I tried my best to will or wish him to health.

But I had a super hard time just being there, beside him.  (Which is maybe what he needed most.)

 

And maybe that's why I always miss my mom so much when I’m sick.

'Cause she was always really good at the “just being, with me.”

 

Whether I was heartbroken or puking my guts up, had a bicycling injury or an I-forgot-to-do-my-homework headache, she was great at being there for me, and with me, until the aches and pains subsided.

She didn't run away first chance she got. Or simply stop the bleeding then hurry on about her day.

She was patient enough to simply sit there with me, until I was ready to get back on my feet again.

 

She was willing to push "pause" on her own plans to be fully present with me.

And the older I get the more I realize what a remarkable gift that was.

 

She understood that sometimes sitting with someone through the tough time is the best thing you can possibly do.

 

It doesn’t fix anything, necessarily, but it lets her know she’s not alone.

And that counts an awful lot when those rainy days come.

 

 

I’m not there yet, in the land of women with strong motherly instincts.

I don’t know how warm a bottle should be, at what age baths take place in tubs instead of kitchen sinks, or how anyone lives through Driver’s Ed. on the parental side of the equation.

 

 And I suppose I'll learn most of those things when the time comes that I need to.

 

But even now, as a wife, as a woman, I'd sure like to get better at the being there when people need me.

 

At being willing to sit with someone through the pain. To simply be present in a time of need.

Instead of racing on my way. Or worrying. Struggling against circumstances (that often can't be changed).

 

I want to accept that sometime's choosing to be with someone is all that can be done.

And I want to know that sometimes that's enough.