I just wanted to introduce a new section of my blog, which will be called "52 Dates in a Year: The Cheap Way".
Luke and I bought this married couples date book that has 52 dates in it. We are determined to do one a week for the next month. So, you will be regailed with parts of our dates. And some pictures.
Hope you enjoy!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Roxanne: A Tale of Discrimination
Let me introduce you to Roxanne. She is our beautiful, green Ford Escort. In some ways the first member of our family. Luke bought her while we were dating and we affectionately named her Roxanne. We love Roxanne. She is absolutely wonderful. She gets great gas mileage. She is speedy fast. And she is adorable.
And then, one day, about a month after Luke bought her, Roxanne was squished. She was squished beyond repair - we thought. Although our hearts were heavy because we loved Roxanne, it was nothing compared to the feelings we felt when we found out we had been hit by an uninsured driver. Being poor college students, what could we do?
We resurrected Roxanne as best we could. (Or I should say Mr. Borgelt resurrected Roxanne.) We were glad that she could be resurrected. It is amazing that she still runs. And she runs beautifully. She still gets good gas mileage. I still think she is adorable; however, she has a great, big, huge dent (dent doesn't even begin to describe what she has) in her rear. It is completely smooshed. She is also a little drafty. Only her front two doors open. The back is only accessible by climbing in through the front. In some ways, our poor little Roxanne looks deformed. But she isn't. She is beautiful and wonderful.
I love her.
She has to put up with so much.
She has to put up with incessant teasing about how deformed she looks. People always ask what happened in horror. And they say it like it is her fault. It wasn't. The other car ran into us. Roxanne was a victim of a cruel crime. And now, she is suffering the consequences.
But the new thing that she has to put up with is just annoying and discriminatory.
In Colorado it is against the law to not have insurance.
Luke and I obey that law.
We have insurance on our poor, beat-up Roxanne.
When we resurrected Roxanne, we were warned that we would get pulled over a lot.
I don't know if I believed them.
Everything went fine for over a year. We didn't really get pulled over. We were happy. Roxanne was happy.
Then, a few months ago, it happened.
We were driving home from Colorado Springs late at night, when we saw flashing lights behind us. Of course, our first reaction was that we must have been speeding. (Have you ever driven home from Colorado Springs late at night?) When the officer came over to the window, we handed him our information and our insurance card. He said that he had pulled us over because our tail light was out. He gave us a warning and let us go.
That incident began the questioning in our minds. A tail light out? Or was there more?
A few days later, Luke got pulled over in Arvada. Our tail light was out. Again another warning.
We began to get a little suspicious.
About a month later, we got pulled over again. Our tail light was out. We left with a warning.
Now, we should have just fixed the tail light and made it more difficult to pull us over. But we also began to see something. We had gotten pulled over three times in a month or two. And had been let off with warnings. We had gotten pulled over for seemingly insignificant things.
I began to get upset.
In Colorado, you have to have just cause to pull someone over.
It began to feel like we were getting pulled over because the police thought we didn't have insurance. That is a much bigger ticket than a tail light being out. They used the tail light as a means to pull us over.
As much as this annoyed me, the last instance made me furious.
Luke was driving to work at about 4:30 a.m. He saw two police cars ahead of him, and so he made sure he wasn't speeding.
The police were stopped at a red light.
Luke began to slow down for the light.
The light turned green.
Luke went through the green light and passed the police who were sitting at the light.
The police turned on their lights and pulled Luke over.
The policewoman who came to the window said that he had been going 60 miles per hour.
Luke was furious. There was no way he could have been going 60. He was on Buckley, slowing down for a red light with two police cars in front of him. He wasn't going 60.
Luke gave her his licence, registration, and insurance card.
After spending a few minutes shining her flashlight into the back of Roxanne and checking out his information.
She said, "Well, SINCE ALL YOUR INFORMATION CHECKS OUT, I'm not going to give you a ticket."
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
All she wanted was to see if we had insurance. She couldn't even give him a ticket, because I'm sure she hadn't actually clocked him at all. She just used that as an excuse to pull him over.
When I heard about this, I was livid.
Just because Roxanne has been hit, does NOT mean that we don't keep insurance on her.
Why do they discriminate against poor Roxanne?
It wasn't her fault.
And it isn't ours.
So, Roxanne, although you are a victim of discrimination, we still love you. And we will drive you proudly.
And then, one day, about a month after Luke bought her, Roxanne was squished. She was squished beyond repair - we thought. Although our hearts were heavy because we loved Roxanne, it was nothing compared to the feelings we felt when we found out we had been hit by an uninsured driver. Being poor college students, what could we do?
We resurrected Roxanne as best we could. (Or I should say Mr. Borgelt resurrected Roxanne.) We were glad that she could be resurrected. It is amazing that she still runs. And she runs beautifully. She still gets good gas mileage. I still think she is adorable; however, she has a great, big, huge dent (dent doesn't even begin to describe what she has) in her rear. It is completely smooshed. She is also a little drafty. Only her front two doors open. The back is only accessible by climbing in through the front. In some ways, our poor little Roxanne looks deformed. But she isn't. She is beautiful and wonderful.
I love her.
She has to put up with so much.
She has to put up with incessant teasing about how deformed she looks. People always ask what happened in horror. And they say it like it is her fault. It wasn't. The other car ran into us. Roxanne was a victim of a cruel crime. And now, she is suffering the consequences.
But the new thing that she has to put up with is just annoying and discriminatory.
In Colorado it is against the law to not have insurance.
Luke and I obey that law.
We have insurance on our poor, beat-up Roxanne.
When we resurrected Roxanne, we were warned that we would get pulled over a lot.
I don't know if I believed them.
Everything went fine for over a year. We didn't really get pulled over. We were happy. Roxanne was happy.
Then, a few months ago, it happened.
We were driving home from Colorado Springs late at night, when we saw flashing lights behind us. Of course, our first reaction was that we must have been speeding. (Have you ever driven home from Colorado Springs late at night?) When the officer came over to the window, we handed him our information and our insurance card. He said that he had pulled us over because our tail light was out. He gave us a warning and let us go.
That incident began the questioning in our minds. A tail light out? Or was there more?
A few days later, Luke got pulled over in Arvada. Our tail light was out. Again another warning.
We began to get a little suspicious.
About a month later, we got pulled over again. Our tail light was out. We left with a warning.
Now, we should have just fixed the tail light and made it more difficult to pull us over. But we also began to see something. We had gotten pulled over three times in a month or two. And had been let off with warnings. We had gotten pulled over for seemingly insignificant things.
I began to get upset.
In Colorado, you have to have just cause to pull someone over.
It began to feel like we were getting pulled over because the police thought we didn't have insurance. That is a much bigger ticket than a tail light being out. They used the tail light as a means to pull us over.
As much as this annoyed me, the last instance made me furious.
Luke was driving to work at about 4:30 a.m. He saw two police cars ahead of him, and so he made sure he wasn't speeding.
The police were stopped at a red light.
Luke began to slow down for the light.
The light turned green.
Luke went through the green light and passed the police who were sitting at the light.
The police turned on their lights and pulled Luke over.
The policewoman who came to the window said that he had been going 60 miles per hour.
Luke was furious. There was no way he could have been going 60. He was on Buckley, slowing down for a red light with two police cars in front of him. He wasn't going 60.
Luke gave her his licence, registration, and insurance card.
After spending a few minutes shining her flashlight into the back of Roxanne and checking out his information.
She said, "Well, SINCE ALL YOUR INFORMATION CHECKS OUT, I'm not going to give you a ticket."
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
All she wanted was to see if we had insurance. She couldn't even give him a ticket, because I'm sure she hadn't actually clocked him at all. She just used that as an excuse to pull him over.
When I heard about this, I was livid.
Just because Roxanne has been hit, does NOT mean that we don't keep insurance on her.
Why do they discriminate against poor Roxanne?
It wasn't her fault.
And it isn't ours.
So, Roxanne, although you are a victim of discrimination, we still love you. And we will drive you proudly.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Joys of Home Owning Part II
As I mentioned before, I love our house! The cute gingerbreadness of it warms my heart. The bath tub makes me happy. The booth-like table makes me feel homey. Our house is wonderful.
However...
I have a tale of woe, of terror, of disgust, and death. I call it the Tale of the Flies and How They Died or Shea's Amazingly Wonderful Husband Who Loves Her Enough To Kill A Million Flies In Order To Keep Her Happy and Home.
This is the tale.
Once in a far away city called Aurora, a beautiful maiden lived in a small, cute gingerbread house with the love of her life. Their life was happy and simple. They both loved their life, their house, and each other. What could possibly come into their bliss?
Unbeknownst to the happy couple a deadly enemy was hatching an evil plot to rid their home of its happiness. And one day, like Wraiths in the Pegasus Galaxy, they appeared in far greater numbers than any person could possibly imagine. The enemy was the fly. And it had created an army of thousands. (Ok, poetic licence, but at least thirty.) The flies invaded the peaceful, loving home and began to congregate on the windows of the cute gingerbread house.
The beautiful maiden could not handle it and cried to her love to save her. He at once returned home armed with a fly swatter, good looks, and amazing courage. Calmly assuring his love that all would be well, he battled the monsters until only a few remained. The rest littered the floor of the beautiful house until her love disposed of the dead bodies. (I suppose in most stories, the woman should help in this chore of tending to the dead; however, that is not the case in this story. The fair maiden would not go near the dead. They were disgusting.) And so her love vanquished the enemy, but for a few survivors. He then cleaned up the mess of bodies, and the house returned to tranquility and happiness. For one day.
The next day, the enemy again overran the house. And again the handsome love heroically saved his darling from the forces of evil. They both slept that evening with the thought of an enemy-free home. They were sure that no enemy would dare enter their abode again because the swift vengeance of the man would be swift.
The next day, the fair maiden unsuspectingly returned home to her cute, gingerbread house. She was prepared to be a good wife to her love and clean the house and make dinner and have a happy, peaceful home again. However, the poor girl was walking into a trap. As soon as she opened the door, she was confronted with the horrible beasts lazily lounging on the windows. Faced with this horror and no man to rescue her, for her love was not home for another few hours, the maiden did what she does best when faced with a crisis. She cried. And cried. And ran through the house to a safe haven in the bedroom. But still the thought of the monsters in the other room horrified her. And so she gathered her small amount of courage and raced through the infested house to the car outside. She then drove away to safety at the library. Calling her love, she told him that she had fled their home in terror at the monsters. He assured her that he would rescue her again. When he arrived home, he took is vengeance out on the beasts. His vengeance was swift and terrible. Soon, barely a beast was alive in the home. Not only that, but the loving husband also cleaned the house and made preparations for his lady's return.
When she did return, the house was free of the monsters. She greeted her love with much love and thanks for the rescue.
The following days the beasts began to diminish. And finally the handsome, brave hero beat the enemy once and for all. The maid and the hero took a trip to a hardware store and bought a special spray that neutralized the enemy. From that day forward, the enemy was greatly weakened and only a few stragglers remained alive. Those were easy for the hero to defeat one by one throughout the next days.
In fact, as the maiden sat writing at the computer tonight, a monster attacked her, trying to land on her head and on her computer. But she called to her love who rushed to her rescue, killed the beast, removed it from her lap and laughed. She, on the other hand whimpered the whole time, until her brave, loving man had saved her from the disgusting, dangerous, and demonic enemy the fly.
The cute gingerbread house was returned to its state of peace and tranquility and happiness, with our fair maiden and her love living without the fear of invasion.
And that is the tale of woe and hope that is laid before you today.
However...
I have a tale of woe, of terror, of disgust, and death. I call it the Tale of the Flies and How They Died or Shea's Amazingly Wonderful Husband Who Loves Her Enough To Kill A Million Flies In Order To Keep Her Happy and Home.
This is the tale.
Once in a far away city called Aurora, a beautiful maiden lived in a small, cute gingerbread house with the love of her life. Their life was happy and simple. They both loved their life, their house, and each other. What could possibly come into their bliss?
Unbeknownst to the happy couple a deadly enemy was hatching an evil plot to rid their home of its happiness. And one day, like Wraiths in the Pegasus Galaxy, they appeared in far greater numbers than any person could possibly imagine. The enemy was the fly. And it had created an army of thousands. (Ok, poetic licence, but at least thirty.) The flies invaded the peaceful, loving home and began to congregate on the windows of the cute gingerbread house.
The beautiful maiden could not handle it and cried to her love to save her. He at once returned home armed with a fly swatter, good looks, and amazing courage. Calmly assuring his love that all would be well, he battled the monsters until only a few remained. The rest littered the floor of the beautiful house until her love disposed of the dead bodies. (I suppose in most stories, the woman should help in this chore of tending to the dead; however, that is not the case in this story. The fair maiden would not go near the dead. They were disgusting.) And so her love vanquished the enemy, but for a few survivors. He then cleaned up the mess of bodies, and the house returned to tranquility and happiness. For one day.
The next day, the enemy again overran the house. And again the handsome love heroically saved his darling from the forces of evil. They both slept that evening with the thought of an enemy-free home. They were sure that no enemy would dare enter their abode again because the swift vengeance of the man would be swift.
The next day, the fair maiden unsuspectingly returned home to her cute, gingerbread house. She was prepared to be a good wife to her love and clean the house and make dinner and have a happy, peaceful home again. However, the poor girl was walking into a trap. As soon as she opened the door, she was confronted with the horrible beasts lazily lounging on the windows. Faced with this horror and no man to rescue her, for her love was not home for another few hours, the maiden did what she does best when faced with a crisis. She cried. And cried. And ran through the house to a safe haven in the bedroom. But still the thought of the monsters in the other room horrified her. And so she gathered her small amount of courage and raced through the infested house to the car outside. She then drove away to safety at the library. Calling her love, she told him that she had fled their home in terror at the monsters. He assured her that he would rescue her again. When he arrived home, he took is vengeance out on the beasts. His vengeance was swift and terrible. Soon, barely a beast was alive in the home. Not only that, but the loving husband also cleaned the house and made preparations for his lady's return.
When she did return, the house was free of the monsters. She greeted her love with much love and thanks for the rescue.
The following days the beasts began to diminish. And finally the handsome, brave hero beat the enemy once and for all. The maid and the hero took a trip to a hardware store and bought a special spray that neutralized the enemy. From that day forward, the enemy was greatly weakened and only a few stragglers remained alive. Those were easy for the hero to defeat one by one throughout the next days.
In fact, as the maiden sat writing at the computer tonight, a monster attacked her, trying to land on her head and on her computer. But she called to her love who rushed to her rescue, killed the beast, removed it from her lap and laughed. She, on the other hand whimpered the whole time, until her brave, loving man had saved her from the disgusting, dangerous, and demonic enemy the fly.
The cute gingerbread house was returned to its state of peace and tranquility and happiness, with our fair maiden and her love living without the fear of invasion.
And that is the tale of woe and hope that is laid before you today.
The Joys of Home Owning Part I
Our house is absolutely perfect. Mostly.
I love how colorful and homey it is (particularly when it is clean). I love how comfy our couch is. I love how there are a million books spilling all over my bookshelves. I love how our DVD player is pink. I love our Elvis picture hanging in our kitchen. I love my red tea kettle.
Although I love our house, problems do come along with being a homeowner.
About a month ago, our washing machine decided that the spin cycle was overrated and unnecessary, so it quit. I went to pull out the laundry to find it completely soaked. As I wrestled it out of the washer, water dripped down my hands back into the soggy machine. After doing several loads like this, I realized that not only was this contrary to what a washing machine was suppose to do, it also was horrible for our dryer. To compensate for the overly wet clothing, I would haul them to the dryer in the garage and put them on a cycle. I would then come out again in 45 minutes, only to find them still wet. I would then put them through another cycle. If I was lucky it would be dry after two; however, some required three rounds in our dryer.
Finally, I determined that this was not productive - and it was a waste of money and energy. So, my darling husband and I decided it was time to spend the $150 and buy a used washing machine.
Oh joy! Oh bliss! When my very buff husband and father finally situated the new washing machine in its proper place (with many manly grunts, of course), I reveled in the new (well, new to me) washing machine. For two days I was in heaven. My new washing machine loved the spin cycle. It cleaned clothes. You could tell what setting you were putting your clothes on. (Our old washing machine's nob had fallen off, leaving me guessing every time whether I was doing delicate or cotton.) The new to me washing machine was amazing.
One beautiful day, a few days later, I was being a good housewife. I grabbed a load of laundry, shoved them (lovingly of course) into the washing machine, excitedly turned the knob to the right setting and went about cleaning the kitchen. Thinking myself so clever for putting the laundry in first so that it could run while I did other things, I scrubbed dishes. A few minutes later, as I was scrubbing, I noticed an odd odor. Hesitantly, I went to investigate.
Although I am no match for Gus's Super Sniffer, I did manage to find the source of the smell. As I walked down our very short hall, I smelled the smell even stronger. Pushing open the door which conceals our washing machine, I was greeted with smoke billowing and pouring out from my brand new-to-me machine. Although horrified, I responded with amazing wits and pulled the knob to stop the load. My soul was in anguish. How could this happen to my beautiful, new-to-me washer? What was going to happen?
When my groom returned home I quickly explained what had happened. Being the wonderful man that he is, he comforted me and assured me that we would figure it out.
A few days later and a few phone calls later, we found out that we could bring it back to the store and could get a replacement.
Oh happy day!
But wait! Oh sad day! The washing machine was filled with half-washed clothing and was full of water. Thus began the long process of transferring sopping clothes from the washer to the dryer in small amounts, running the dryer a million times, and then (my favorite) scooping out the water and throwing it on our dead lawn using a coffee mug and a bucket. Finally, it was done. My incredibly strong husband, with the help of our neighbor (because I was too weak) loaded the washing machine on Susie Q, and Luke headed off. A few hours later Luke returned bearing a wonderful present! Another new-to-me washing machine! This time I mustered my strength and helped him haul in the new washing machine. We got it installed and I tentatively ran a first cleansing cycle. Oh glory! It worked!
I now have another brand-new-to-me washing machine that has a knob, spins, and doesn't smoke. It is amazingly wonderful! Not only that, but I also have caught up on all my laundry that had piled up over the period of no washing machine! (Catching up included an enormous folding party with myself. I had a huge mound sitting on the couch. I folded it while watching Northanger Abbey which made it fun!)
That is one of the glories of home ownership, or I suppose I should say washing machine ownership.
I love how colorful and homey it is (particularly when it is clean). I love how comfy our couch is. I love how there are a million books spilling all over my bookshelves. I love how our DVD player is pink. I love our Elvis picture hanging in our kitchen. I love my red tea kettle.
Although I love our house, problems do come along with being a homeowner.
About a month ago, our washing machine decided that the spin cycle was overrated and unnecessary, so it quit. I went to pull out the laundry to find it completely soaked. As I wrestled it out of the washer, water dripped down my hands back into the soggy machine. After doing several loads like this, I realized that not only was this contrary to what a washing machine was suppose to do, it also was horrible for our dryer. To compensate for the overly wet clothing, I would haul them to the dryer in the garage and put them on a cycle. I would then come out again in 45 minutes, only to find them still wet. I would then put them through another cycle. If I was lucky it would be dry after two; however, some required three rounds in our dryer.
Finally, I determined that this was not productive - and it was a waste of money and energy. So, my darling husband and I decided it was time to spend the $150 and buy a used washing machine.
Oh joy! Oh bliss! When my very buff husband and father finally situated the new washing machine in its proper place (with many manly grunts, of course), I reveled in the new (well, new to me) washing machine. For two days I was in heaven. My new washing machine loved the spin cycle. It cleaned clothes. You could tell what setting you were putting your clothes on. (Our old washing machine's nob had fallen off, leaving me guessing every time whether I was doing delicate or cotton.) The new to me washing machine was amazing.
One beautiful day, a few days later, I was being a good housewife. I grabbed a load of laundry, shoved them (lovingly of course) into the washing machine, excitedly turned the knob to the right setting and went about cleaning the kitchen. Thinking myself so clever for putting the laundry in first so that it could run while I did other things, I scrubbed dishes. A few minutes later, as I was scrubbing, I noticed an odd odor. Hesitantly, I went to investigate.
Although I am no match for Gus's Super Sniffer, I did manage to find the source of the smell. As I walked down our very short hall, I smelled the smell even stronger. Pushing open the door which conceals our washing machine, I was greeted with smoke billowing and pouring out from my brand new-to-me machine. Although horrified, I responded with amazing wits and pulled the knob to stop the load. My soul was in anguish. How could this happen to my beautiful, new-to-me washer? What was going to happen?
When my groom returned home I quickly explained what had happened. Being the wonderful man that he is, he comforted me and assured me that we would figure it out.
A few days later and a few phone calls later, we found out that we could bring it back to the store and could get a replacement.
Oh happy day!
But wait! Oh sad day! The washing machine was filled with half-washed clothing and was full of water. Thus began the long process of transferring sopping clothes from the washer to the dryer in small amounts, running the dryer a million times, and then (my favorite) scooping out the water and throwing it on our dead lawn using a coffee mug and a bucket. Finally, it was done. My incredibly strong husband, with the help of our neighbor (because I was too weak) loaded the washing machine on Susie Q, and Luke headed off. A few hours later Luke returned bearing a wonderful present! Another new-to-me washing machine! This time I mustered my strength and helped him haul in the new washing machine. We got it installed and I tentatively ran a first cleansing cycle. Oh glory! It worked!
I now have another brand-new-to-me washing machine that has a knob, spins, and doesn't smoke. It is amazingly wonderful! Not only that, but I also have caught up on all my laundry that had piled up over the period of no washing machine! (Catching up included an enormous folding party with myself. I had a huge mound sitting on the couch. I folded it while watching Northanger Abbey which made it fun!)
That is one of the glories of home ownership, or I suppose I should say washing machine ownership.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Remember
I am not going to mention my long absence.
I have been married for a little over six months. As I look back on the last six months, it is amazing to think about what I have learned.
But one thing really struck me this week.
The other night my husband and I were at a rehearsal where my Luke decided to play soccer with some of the guys. Unfortunately he did not have the right kind of shoes. So he decided to play barefoot. When he came in sometime later he had huge blisters on his feet.
Luke staggered over to me.
"Honey, my feet hurt. Take care of me," he moaned, leaning heavily on me.
I laughed, which looking back on it, might not have been the correct response. But a friend of mine who was standing nearby said "They're such babies, aren't they? When my husband gets a little headache he's like 'take care of me'!"
"Yeah, its a good thing they're cute," I laughed.
"Oh, just wait two years." She said.
"They are cute anymore?" I asked.
She rolled her eyes.
Thinking back on the conversation, I realize that some of it was in jest - but there were some things that really struck me. I realized how easy it is to fall into life and start taking for granted the love of your life. It is easy to stop thinking about how adorable they are and only on their faults. It is easy to loose track of why you love them. It is easy to get caught up in their annoying habits and forget about the habits you love.
I've seen some of this in my own marriage. It is so easy to let petty things steal the much bigger things. When I sit down and think about how amazing my Luke is, I am flabbergasted that I would be blessed with such an amazing man. When I think about six months ago and how I longed to be with Luke every second and now I get to spend nearly every second with him, I'm ecstatic.
So, now I urge myself and you all (those of you who are still out there) to wake up every morning thinking about how blessed you are to have the love of your life lying next to you. I want you to see him smile and think about how that smile is for you! I want you to love every second - even when they are annoying. They are precious, beautiful seconds!
I have been married for a little over six months. As I look back on the last six months, it is amazing to think about what I have learned.
But one thing really struck me this week.
The other night my husband and I were at a rehearsal where my Luke decided to play soccer with some of the guys. Unfortunately he did not have the right kind of shoes. So he decided to play barefoot. When he came in sometime later he had huge blisters on his feet.
Luke staggered over to me.
"Honey, my feet hurt. Take care of me," he moaned, leaning heavily on me.
I laughed, which looking back on it, might not have been the correct response. But a friend of mine who was standing nearby said "They're such babies, aren't they? When my husband gets a little headache he's like 'take care of me'!"
"Yeah, its a good thing they're cute," I laughed.
"Oh, just wait two years." She said.
"They are cute anymore?" I asked.
She rolled her eyes.
Thinking back on the conversation, I realize that some of it was in jest - but there were some things that really struck me. I realized how easy it is to fall into life and start taking for granted the love of your life. It is easy to stop thinking about how adorable they are and only on their faults. It is easy to loose track of why you love them. It is easy to get caught up in their annoying habits and forget about the habits you love.
I've seen some of this in my own marriage. It is so easy to let petty things steal the much bigger things. When I sit down and think about how amazing my Luke is, I am flabbergasted that I would be blessed with such an amazing man. When I think about six months ago and how I longed to be with Luke every second and now I get to spend nearly every second with him, I'm ecstatic.
So, now I urge myself and you all (those of you who are still out there) to wake up every morning thinking about how blessed you are to have the love of your life lying next to you. I want you to see him smile and think about how that smile is for you! I want you to love every second - even when they are annoying. They are precious, beautiful seconds!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Book Byte: "The Happiness Project"
"The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin
I have to admit something. I adore fiction. I gobble up fiction. It relaxes me. It makes me happy. I read it and read it and read it. (At the moment I'm rereading "Mansfield Park"....yay!) But, as I was sick the past few days and the book I'd been waiting for for at least a month finally came in, I broke with tradition and read a non-fiction/memoir/creative non-fiction book. Whatever category it falls into, I really enjoyed "The Happiness Project". It was inspiring and delightful to read. It was also thought-provoking. I would recommend it - mostly. Just to cover my basis, let me say Gretchen is not a Believer and in the book she does talk about Buddhism, hypnosis, and other stuff like that. But all-in-all, I found it very interesting and enjoyable!
I have to admit something. I adore fiction. I gobble up fiction. It relaxes me. It makes me happy. I read it and read it and read it. (At the moment I'm rereading "Mansfield Park"....yay!) But, as I was sick the past few days and the book I'd been waiting for for at least a month finally came in, I broke with tradition and read a non-fiction/memoir/creative non-fiction book. Whatever category it falls into, I really enjoyed "The Happiness Project". It was inspiring and delightful to read. It was also thought-provoking. I would recommend it - mostly. Just to cover my basis, let me say Gretchen is not a Believer and in the book she does talk about Buddhism, hypnosis, and other stuff like that. But all-in-all, I found it very interesting and enjoyable!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
An Experiment in Alfredo
For the past few months I have been wishing that I could cook more. Not that I am saying I can't cook, because that wouldn't be true. But there is something about instinctively knowing how to cook. I have also wanted new recipes. I can make about four meals amazingly. However, I wish to broaden my repertoire. And so, inspired in some ways perhaps by Julie and Julia I began looking through cookbooks, thinking how much fun it would be to cook through one. But as I read my heart began to sink. In most cookbooks the recipes they have are, to put it mildly, complex, expensive, and sound disgusting. Perhaps that is my shortfall. I am probably a picky eater, although I wouldn't admit it. I just don't like seafood, tomatoes, mustard, weird fruits and vegetables, and other sundry odd and sophisticated food. In most of the recipe books, the recipes consisted of eggplant, artichoke, seafood, and everything had tomatoes in it. Yuck. So I began to despair. How on earth could I add to my recipe knowledge if everything was disgusting?
So, I began to give up. But the desire was still in the back of my mind. I would still glance at the cookbooks, hoping beyond hope to find a good one. I found an ok one at the library that I still haven't made anything out of.
I was beginning to forget the need to have new recipes and be able to really cook.
And then, a few days ago, the fever caught me. I had to do something. I had to cook something new. I had to.
And so I did what any modern housewife in my situation would do. I googled "Easy Dinners" or something like that. And I found a Web site that was connected to Betty Crocker. And as I explored I found recipes, recipes that weren't disgusting, that weren't too expensive, and that weren't too hard! Ecstatically, I wrote down the ingredients for two of the recipes and went to the store.
The one recipe that I decided to try was homemade Alfredo. Luke and I love Alfredo and have eaten it many, many times since it was served at our wedding. But never had I undertaken to make it from scratch. Reading the recipe, I thought, now I can do this. It doesn't even look that hard.
Reading the reviews added something more. Many people suggested adding garlic to the recipe. That would be something new and adventurous, I thought. It wasn't even in the original recipe. That would be so daring of me.
So finally with my supplies of cream, butter, Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper, and garlic, I began. I put my noodles on to boil (Luke and I are partial to Penne) and looked at the piece of garlic sitting before me.
Before you think that I am a complete incompetent when it comes to garlic, let me tell you something - I am very good at using a garlic press.
However, I don't have one.
How hard could it be to mince?
I pulled out a knife. I grasped the garlic in my hand and sliced. The first problem became apparent. The garlic was very hard. I tried a bigger knife. The top of the garlic finally lay on the cutting board. I pulled out one of the pieces (I know they have a real name, but I don't know what it is) and was ready to mince.
My way of mincing is simple. I chop it up one way. Then I chop it up another way. And then I look at the pieces. Generally, they are still too big, so then I just move my knife up and down really fast hoping that the thing I am mincing gets smaller.
That is what I did with the garlic. After I was done, I sighed. It looked to big to be minced. I was immediately jealous of Princess Tiana and Julia Childs. How could they mince with such skill and such quickness and have such beautiful, little bits of minced substance before them. No, I am a Prince Naveen sort of mincer.
Resigning myself to my bad mincing, I melted the butter and the cream together with my large minced garlics and watched the fattening substance. Watching a stick of butter melt on low heat is exhausting. It also takes forever. But finally it was done. Adding the salt, pepper, and Parmesan cheese was easy.
I poured the white, gooey, beautiful substance over the noodles and brought it out to my husband who was sitting in the back of the pickup truck enjoying some sunshine. Immediately doubts began to assail me. It couldn't possible be good. There was too much garlic. He wouldn't like it. It was failure. I was sure. Somehow outside of the kitchen my accomplishment seemed less like an accomplishment.
And then Luke took the first bite.
"Is it good?" I asked quickly.
I didn't need too much of a response. The look of delight on his face was enough. It was delicious.
Was there too much garlic? I asked. Not at all was the reply.
Sitting on the back of the pickup truck, Luke and I enjoyed our first bowl of homemade Alfredo and I felt accomplished again.
I had found a recipe and I had conquered it!
And it was delicious!
P.S. This post has taught me that I cannot for the life of me spell recipe.
P.P.S. For those of you who want the Web site, the address is: www.bettycrocker.com/recipes
So, I began to give up. But the desire was still in the back of my mind. I would still glance at the cookbooks, hoping beyond hope to find a good one. I found an ok one at the library that I still haven't made anything out of.
I was beginning to forget the need to have new recipes and be able to really cook.
And then, a few days ago, the fever caught me. I had to do something. I had to cook something new. I had to.
And so I did what any modern housewife in my situation would do. I googled "Easy Dinners" or something like that. And I found a Web site that was connected to Betty Crocker. And as I explored I found recipes, recipes that weren't disgusting, that weren't too expensive, and that weren't too hard! Ecstatically, I wrote down the ingredients for two of the recipes and went to the store.
The one recipe that I decided to try was homemade Alfredo. Luke and I love Alfredo and have eaten it many, many times since it was served at our wedding. But never had I undertaken to make it from scratch. Reading the recipe, I thought, now I can do this. It doesn't even look that hard.
Reading the reviews added something more. Many people suggested adding garlic to the recipe. That would be something new and adventurous, I thought. It wasn't even in the original recipe. That would be so daring of me.
So finally with my supplies of cream, butter, Parmesan cheese, salt, pepper, and garlic, I began. I put my noodles on to boil (Luke and I are partial to Penne) and looked at the piece of garlic sitting before me.
Before you think that I am a complete incompetent when it comes to garlic, let me tell you something - I am very good at using a garlic press.
However, I don't have one.
How hard could it be to mince?
I pulled out a knife. I grasped the garlic in my hand and sliced. The first problem became apparent. The garlic was very hard. I tried a bigger knife. The top of the garlic finally lay on the cutting board. I pulled out one of the pieces (I know they have a real name, but I don't know what it is) and was ready to mince.
My way of mincing is simple. I chop it up one way. Then I chop it up another way. And then I look at the pieces. Generally, they are still too big, so then I just move my knife up and down really fast hoping that the thing I am mincing gets smaller.
That is what I did with the garlic. After I was done, I sighed. It looked to big to be minced. I was immediately jealous of Princess Tiana and Julia Childs. How could they mince with such skill and such quickness and have such beautiful, little bits of minced substance before them. No, I am a Prince Naveen sort of mincer.
Resigning myself to my bad mincing, I melted the butter and the cream together with my large minced garlics and watched the fattening substance. Watching a stick of butter melt on low heat is exhausting. It also takes forever. But finally it was done. Adding the salt, pepper, and Parmesan cheese was easy.
I poured the white, gooey, beautiful substance over the noodles and brought it out to my husband who was sitting in the back of the pickup truck enjoying some sunshine. Immediately doubts began to assail me. It couldn't possible be good. There was too much garlic. He wouldn't like it. It was failure. I was sure. Somehow outside of the kitchen my accomplishment seemed less like an accomplishment.
And then Luke took the first bite.
"Is it good?" I asked quickly.
I didn't need too much of a response. The look of delight on his face was enough. It was delicious.
Was there too much garlic? I asked. Not at all was the reply.
Sitting on the back of the pickup truck, Luke and I enjoyed our first bowl of homemade Alfredo and I felt accomplished again.
I had found a recipe and I had conquered it!
And it was delicious!
P.S. This post has taught me that I cannot for the life of me spell recipe.
P.P.S. For those of you who want the Web site, the address is: www.bettycrocker.com/recipes
Friday, March 26, 2010
Lesson Nine: A messy house
Married life has a way of sweeping you into it and making you forget to breathe....Let alone blog. Or at least that will be my excuse until I think of a better one.
As a new housewife, and a new homeowner, (those two things go nicely together...it is difficult to be a housewife without a house, though you can have a house without a wife, but I'd advise getting a wife) I am only beginning to understand the intricacies of both.
For instance, in my perfect dream world, which of course is well based in reality, Luke's and my little nest would always be spotless. Not so spotless that you couldn't tell people live there - that's torture and has faint resemblances of mental institutes or hospitals, neither of which I want my little house to emulate. But clean. Picked-up. Without large piles of clothes and blankets and things all over.
I am told that once you have children, keeping the house clean is definitely a chore. I believe them. But, then you also have a little posse to also help you clean up. Even with that argument though, I'm afraid once I have children, I'm doomed. I can't even keep the house clean when its just me and Luke.
Right now, the office is covered in papers, blankets (from our viewing of "Lost" on Wednesday), and sundry other items (such as three Odyssey cases). Our frontroom has books, blankets, and who knows what else laying around. The kitchen table is covered with Thank You Notes. (Yes, I would like to go on the record and say that Luke and I have begun the arduous task of Thank You Note writing. So, if you attended our wedding, brought a gift, and the gift came to us with a card and a name, and we wrote it down, you will receive a thank you note.) There are dishes in the sink, though that I think is acceptable. I won't go into the bedroom.
However, the house is not so messy that you can't think or function in it. In fact, there is something a little cozy about a little mess. So, as I contemplate my slightly messy home, I am thinking:
A little mess isn't that bad. But, I don't want to let it become simply trashed. There is a line there. One that I hope I will not cross.
But, the real lesson of this rather uninsightful post is something that Anthony said when he was over last night. It is a motto of his parents home, and Luke and I enjoyed it. It is:
"If you come to see us, come anytime. If you come to see the house, make an appointment."
I believe I am going to adopt this motto for my home.
So, Lesson Nine is simply that.
As a new housewife, and a new homeowner, (those two things go nicely together...it is difficult to be a housewife without a house, though you can have a house without a wife, but I'd advise getting a wife) I am only beginning to understand the intricacies of both.
For instance, in my perfect dream world, which of course is well based in reality, Luke's and my little nest would always be spotless. Not so spotless that you couldn't tell people live there - that's torture and has faint resemblances of mental institutes or hospitals, neither of which I want my little house to emulate. But clean. Picked-up. Without large piles of clothes and blankets and things all over.
I am told that once you have children, keeping the house clean is definitely a chore. I believe them. But, then you also have a little posse to also help you clean up. Even with that argument though, I'm afraid once I have children, I'm doomed. I can't even keep the house clean when its just me and Luke.
Right now, the office is covered in papers, blankets (from our viewing of "Lost" on Wednesday), and sundry other items (such as three Odyssey cases). Our frontroom has books, blankets, and who knows what else laying around. The kitchen table is covered with Thank You Notes. (Yes, I would like to go on the record and say that Luke and I have begun the arduous task of Thank You Note writing. So, if you attended our wedding, brought a gift, and the gift came to us with a card and a name, and we wrote it down, you will receive a thank you note.) There are dishes in the sink, though that I think is acceptable. I won't go into the bedroom.
However, the house is not so messy that you can't think or function in it. In fact, there is something a little cozy about a little mess. So, as I contemplate my slightly messy home, I am thinking:
A little mess isn't that bad. But, I don't want to let it become simply trashed. There is a line there. One that I hope I will not cross.
But, the real lesson of this rather uninsightful post is something that Anthony said when he was over last night. It is a motto of his parents home, and Luke and I enjoyed it. It is:
"If you come to see us, come anytime. If you come to see the house, make an appointment."
I believe I am going to adopt this motto for my home.
So, Lesson Nine is simply that.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I only have seven minutes. And library computers show no grace. I am at a library computer because we have no Internet at our new little house.
Tomorrow that will be rectified.
So I just wanted to put a little note of encouragement to all of you out there that still care. I am not gone for good, just for a little while.
I am sure once Internet has come into our home, I will once again be telling you all stories and lessons that I have learned. And I have learned quite a few in the past few weeks.
So, I will bid you adieu for now. But I promise I shall return.
Tomorrow that will be rectified.
So I just wanted to put a little note of encouragement to all of you out there that still care. I am not gone for good, just for a little while.
I am sure once Internet has come into our home, I will once again be telling you all stories and lessons that I have learned. And I have learned quite a few in the past few weeks.
So, I will bid you adieu for now. But I promise I shall return.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Lesson Eight: A Home for the Housewife
I can hear the remarks already.
"Not even two months in and she's already stopped writing."
"Why do we even read this? She never writes anymore."
Well, to all those comments I say: Oh dear. I am so sorry. But married life just swept me away in its wonderfulness and forgot to give me time for things like blogging.
But I have stolen a few brief minutes, though I can't say I'm not in the wonderfulness of married life, because I am currently watching my husband eat a steak that he just made. And I did just get a bite of it. And I don't even like steak and it was AMAZING!
But anyway, on to the main point of my blog today....
Luke and I BOUGHT A HOUSE yesterday! I cannot tell you the long and arduous road we took to get to this place. After three houses under contract and one thing after another, I was beginning to think that we might never get a place to live. However, God is faithful and my husband is optimistic and we have a house.
Our search for a place to live began back in September. We knew that we wanted to buy something and so we began the long process. I'll spare you most of the gory details, because it would take too long to relate all the trials and problems and bumps in the road that we went through, especially since most of you reading were there right along with us.
But now all that is behind us.
For the last month and a half, Luke and I have been housesitting my "adopted" grandparents house. And while it has been wonderful to have our own space, (a house to ourselves does beat my parent's basement with six other people) we still have longed for our own home. A place that is ours and ours alone. Where our books are on the bookshelves and our clothes are in the closet.
I know that I have needed a house of our own for a long time. Not having a place began wearing on me. I was a houseless housewife. And it was hard.
But now, I am so looking forward to painting and moving in. I can't wait to unpack everything and put everything it its own place. I can't wait to see the lines of spices in our cupboard. I can't wait to put flour and coffee and sugar in our little containers. I can't wait to sleep in our bed. And have our bedroom. I can't wait to have a kitchen with all of our utensils and cooking gear.
I can't wait to have our own little nest to take care of.
I am so excited for our little home.
Lesson Eight: God is faithful and sometimes the best things are worth the wait!
"Not even two months in and she's already stopped writing."
"Why do we even read this? She never writes anymore."
Well, to all those comments I say: Oh dear. I am so sorry. But married life just swept me away in its wonderfulness and forgot to give me time for things like blogging.
But I have stolen a few brief minutes, though I can't say I'm not in the wonderfulness of married life, because I am currently watching my husband eat a steak that he just made. And I did just get a bite of it. And I don't even like steak and it was AMAZING!
But anyway, on to the main point of my blog today....
Luke and I BOUGHT A HOUSE yesterday! I cannot tell you the long and arduous road we took to get to this place. After three houses under contract and one thing after another, I was beginning to think that we might never get a place to live. However, God is faithful and my husband is optimistic and we have a house.
Our search for a place to live began back in September. We knew that we wanted to buy something and so we began the long process. I'll spare you most of the gory details, because it would take too long to relate all the trials and problems and bumps in the road that we went through, especially since most of you reading were there right along with us.
But now all that is behind us.
For the last month and a half, Luke and I have been housesitting my "adopted" grandparents house. And while it has been wonderful to have our own space, (a house to ourselves does beat my parent's basement with six other people) we still have longed for our own home. A place that is ours and ours alone. Where our books are on the bookshelves and our clothes are in the closet.
I know that I have needed a house of our own for a long time. Not having a place began wearing on me. I was a houseless housewife. And it was hard.
But now, I am so looking forward to painting and moving in. I can't wait to unpack everything and put everything it its own place. I can't wait to see the lines of spices in our cupboard. I can't wait to put flour and coffee and sugar in our little containers. I can't wait to sleep in our bed. And have our bedroom. I can't wait to have a kitchen with all of our utensils and cooking gear.
I can't wait to have our own little nest to take care of.
I am so excited for our little home.
Lesson Eight: God is faithful and sometimes the best things are worth the wait!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Shea's Tiny Tips: Exercise
As a semi-busy woman, I don't have a lot of time for exercise - and let's face it: I'm LAZY. Very LAZY, when it comes to exercise. I don't like it at all.
S0 here is what I call the
EASY EXERCISE FOR BUSY HOUSEWIVES
This program is made up of three easy ideas, not all of which are mine and not all of which are original:
1. Instead of taking a grocery cart with you around the supermarket, take a grocery basket. Believe me, by the third item your arm feels like it is going to fall off.
Warning: Do be careful of applesauce. It is heavy and glass jars break.
2. Park very, very far away from the store and wherever else you have to go. It will force you to walk.
Note: Combining steps one and two cause a double workout. But warning, your arms may fall off.
3. Instead of weights use a gallon milk jar. Pump some calcium!
Caution: If the milk jug is empty, not all of the exercise benefits will be reached.
That is the three basic steps. More may follow.
A final word of caution: I am not held responsible for broken grocery baskets, spilled food, pulled muscles, lost cars, or spilt milk. Nor am I responsible for loss of limb or life when using this program. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK!
Oh, and if it works, let me know! I won't be doing it.
Lesson Seven: Student Wife?
Since I have been in college for more years than I care to count, I am not new to being a student. Sometimes I think if I had to pick a profession a "professional student" might be the closest thing that I could come up with. Unfortunately, in order to be a professional student one must have lots of money and time. And not go to Metro.
When Luke and I had first decided that we thought we wanted to get married, I set about trying to graduate as quickly as I could. I figured that if I graduated before we got married our life might be a little easier. I have no idea if that is true or not.
After one semester of twenty credit hours and a few semesters of fifteen or so, I soon became weary of academia, particularly just being down at Metro so much. So I got married with one journalism internship, one journalism senior experience class, two upper division political sciences classes, one elective and one social sciences class to go.
I realized before I got married that I didn't want to take a lot of classes the semester after I got married because with working and everything else, Luke and I wouldn't get to see each other very much. So we decided that I would take one class.
One evening class. Once a week.
I was so happy. Only one day I had to be down at that cold, desolate, happy-killing campus. Only a few hours I had to spend in college student's presence.
I thought I would be so happy and so grateful to only be down there once a week.
But....
As Luke drove me up the first day of class and we turned into the King Center Circle my heart dropped.
"I hate this place," I moaned. "Why me? Why? Why?"
"You know, I thought that after our winter break I would be ready to be back," Luke said. "But I'm not. I'm so glad I'm taking this semester off."
I whimpered, "Not fair."
And as I walked into my class and saw Annoying Girl #2, my heart sank.
Why me?
Why Metro?
Why school?
The next week, sitting in class, listening to the professor painstakingly talk over the entire chapter that we were suppose to have read, I groaned.
It is going to be a long semester.
But sitting here at the computer, typing away gibberish about school that no one will care about and trying to elicit some sort of lesson from it - since that seems to be my theme, I think I realize something.
Right now, I must juggle not only being a working wife and a housewife, but also I must be a student wife.
And at least I only have to go down there once a week.
And it isn't THAT bad.
And I should simply concentrate on what I have to do while I have to do it.
So, I suppose my lesson seven will be:
Lesson Seven: Make the most of every situation. Be grateful that it isn't worse!
When Luke and I had first decided that we thought we wanted to get married, I set about trying to graduate as quickly as I could. I figured that if I graduated before we got married our life might be a little easier. I have no idea if that is true or not.
After one semester of twenty credit hours and a few semesters of fifteen or so, I soon became weary of academia, particularly just being down at Metro so much. So I got married with one journalism internship, one journalism senior experience class, two upper division political sciences classes, one elective and one social sciences class to go.
I realized before I got married that I didn't want to take a lot of classes the semester after I got married because with working and everything else, Luke and I wouldn't get to see each other very much. So we decided that I would take one class.
One evening class. Once a week.
I was so happy. Only one day I had to be down at that cold, desolate, happy-killing campus. Only a few hours I had to spend in college student's presence.
I thought I would be so happy and so grateful to only be down there once a week.
But....
As Luke drove me up the first day of class and we turned into the King Center Circle my heart dropped.
"I hate this place," I moaned. "Why me? Why? Why?"
"You know, I thought that after our winter break I would be ready to be back," Luke said. "But I'm not. I'm so glad I'm taking this semester off."
I whimpered, "Not fair."
And as I walked into my class and saw Annoying Girl #2, my heart sank.
Why me?
Why Metro?
Why school?
The next week, sitting in class, listening to the professor painstakingly talk over the entire chapter that we were suppose to have read, I groaned.
It is going to be a long semester.
But sitting here at the computer, typing away gibberish about school that no one will care about and trying to elicit some sort of lesson from it - since that seems to be my theme, I think I realize something.
Right now, I must juggle not only being a working wife and a housewife, but also I must be a student wife.
And at least I only have to go down there once a week.
And it isn't THAT bad.
And I should simply concentrate on what I have to do while I have to do it.
So, I suppose my lesson seven will be:
Lesson Seven: Make the most of every situation. Be grateful that it isn't worse!
Friday, January 29, 2010
Lesson Six: The Great Name Change pt. 2
This post is probably going to be pretty boring, because the second part of my name changing was so much simpler than the first.
I went to the bank and filled out a form.
I went to school and filled out a form.
The end.
Lesson Six: Some parts of the name changing are easy.
I went to the bank and filled out a form.
I went to school and filled out a form.
The end.
Lesson Six: Some parts of the name changing are easy.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Lesson Five: From House Wife to Working Wife
"But for Adam no suitable helper was found . . . Then the LORD God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man."
Genesis 2:20b, 22
I am the queen of quick readiness - in the mornings, that is.
Coffee in hand, I rushed out the door, watching as my husband waved goodbye from the house.
Enter Working Wife.
I must say, I much prefer House Wife.
Genesis 2:20b, 22
As the alarm blared at 8 am this morning, I was faced with the grim truth. Up I must get. And dressed, too. And I must get out the door. Mostly asleep, I managed to whisper out, "Honey, can you get that?"
And I promptly returned to slumber. Or tried to. But there's this annoying voice in the back of one's head when one knows that one must go to work soon. It won't let one rest easy. At least my voice won't. But, nevertheless, I stayed right where I was, in my warm, soft bed, with my husband snuggling next to me, for another hour or so.
But the clock won't stop, even if I want it to. So up I got. Dressed I got. And I even had makeup on.
It took me about three minutes.
I am the queen of quick readiness - in the mornings, that is.
Coffee in hand, I rushed out the door, watching as my husband waved goodbye from the house.
Enter Working Wife.
Working Wife goes to work, so that money can be made so that bills can be paid.
But, about four and a half hours later, I became House Wife once more.
I must say, I much prefer House Wife.
House Wife went home, and then whisked herself out the door to run to the grocery store (and the library, where she got lost in the used paperback book sale. She came home with 7, but she'd only spent $3.74).
Back again, the house had to be straightened. And the plants watered. And dinner started.
All in a days work.
My husband was having a conversation with a girl about a certain movie we had all just seen. He asked her if she liked it. Her answer was "Well, the women in it were working. I don't think women should work."
Of course, she didn't mean that she didn't think women should work at all - just not work outside the house.
I happen to have similar views on the subject, but not quite.
You see, I'm a Working Wife.
My views on women in the workforce have varied as I grew up. But they have settled down for the past few years.
I believe that God designed women to be in the home. I believe that he created them to cook, clean, watch their babies, and be good mothers and wives. I think that is the norm. The norm should be that our women are staying home.
But, that doesn't mean that all women who work outside of the home are sinning. Or that they are wrong. Circumstances can force all sorts of things on women. God can have different plans for different people's lives. That's between them and God.
For me, it came down to being a helper to my husband.
God created Woman to be Man's helper.
How can I best help and serve my husband?
By making some money.
It is really very simple. Right now, my husband needs me to help him by going to work to make some money. We are a very young, poor couple. We're still in college. My husband is just starting out as a Real Estate Agent. And so, we need both of us making money.
And I am ok with that.
Right now, in order to help my husband, I'll be a Working Wife for him. And also a House Wife. (Because he does love those home cooked meals!)
And in the future, if God should bless us with children, I will, God willing, stay home with them and be a full-time, stay-at-home mom/housewife! I am totally looking forward to it. But right now, God's got me here. And I’m glad to be a helpmeet to my husband. However that may look.
Lesson Five: Be a helper to your husband however he needs you to be.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Lesson Four: Love is...
My husband is amazing.
I know most newlywed women would utter the same exclamation. However, mine is the truest. My husband is the MOST amazing husband.
Before we were married, Luke and I had many discussions about Biblical love and what that entails. We both know that love is not based on an emotion. We know that it is an action. We know what Paul says about it. And before we were married we worked on beginning to emulate Biblical love.
Now we are married.
And it is so wonderful to see my husband loving. His love for me is selfless and it is true. He puts me above himself.
And the one thing that I really admire about his love is that when he messes up - as we all do - he is so quick to realize his wrongness and fix it. When he stumbles, he gets back up and continues to love me in a Christ-like way.
Luke is always giving himself up for me.
He is an insperation to me. I want my love for Luke to be what his is for me. I want to show Christ-like love to him all the time. And I don't. I know I don't.
But, with the examples of my husband and Christ, I pray that everyday I will learn to love my husband better and better.
Lesson Four: Love your husband selflessly and wholeheartedly. Don't start tomorrow. Love him today.
I know most newlywed women would utter the same exclamation. However, mine is the truest. My husband is the MOST amazing husband.
Before we were married, Luke and I had many discussions about Biblical love and what that entails. We both know that love is not based on an emotion. We know that it is an action. We know what Paul says about it. And before we were married we worked on beginning to emulate Biblical love.
Now we are married.
And it is so wonderful to see my husband loving. His love for me is selfless and it is true. He puts me above himself.
And the one thing that I really admire about his love is that when he messes up - as we all do - he is so quick to realize his wrongness and fix it. When he stumbles, he gets back up and continues to love me in a Christ-like way.
Luke is always giving himself up for me.
He is an insperation to me. I want my love for Luke to be what his is for me. I want to show Christ-like love to him all the time. And I don't. I know I don't.
But, with the examples of my husband and Christ, I pray that everyday I will learn to love my husband better and better.
Lesson Four: Love your husband selflessly and wholeheartedly. Don't start tomorrow. Love him today.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Lesson Three: The Great Name Change: Part 1
Well, if that title didn't scare you away with it's longness and clunkyness, then continue on into the land of name changes.
While on my honeymoon I was so excited that when I got back I would be able to change my name. My new last name made me giddy with anticipation to make it legal. So after a two and a half week plus honeymoon, Luke and I reentered "normal" life. I had expected to find the marriage certificate waiting for me at home, along with all the other mail that piled up. However, it wasn't there. Disappointed, I continued on, sure that it would come soon. After nearly four weeks of being a Mrs. I was anxious to get my name legal. There's just something about that shiny new license with the beautiful new name that is now yours. And I wanted that. My new name, in all its glory.
Finally, I did a google search, like any good bride would do. "How long does it take to get a marriage license back?"
The answers ranged from one week (oh, and all the jealousy that aroused from that) to four weeks. So, I girded myself up and said, "Ok, well, I'm going to give them a few more days."
A few more days passed.
No marriage certificate.
I decided that I had to do something. No longer would I sit and wait for my marriage certificate to come. Facing my fear of calling people out of the blue, I called the County Clerk and Recorder's office.
After talking to one person, who transferred me to another person, I finally got to talk to someone who was at least somewhat helpful.
Something hadn't been filled out right, which meant that they sent the marriage license back to our house to get completely filled out. However, they had sent it about a week or so before, and I had not received it. So she said to wait through the weekend and then call her back if I hadn't gotten it.
Exasperated after a weekend of waiting and nothing coming, I called her back.
She had received it back as undeliverable. Thankfully, she was able to fill in the missing information and then she would be able to record it. She also said that she would call me when it was done so that I could pick it up instead of mailing it back. I jumped on that opportunity. I wasn't willing to trust the mail yet.
The next day the lady called against to say that it would be ready to pick up the following day! I was exuberant. Finally, I would begin to tread the crazy path called name changing!
The next day I picked up my beautiful marriage certificate (which, in case you don't know is what the marriage license is called after it has been recorded and filled out) and the four certified copies.
With my key to name changing in my hand, the next day I set out for the Social Security office. I was incredibly nervous. I had heard so many different things about what you needed, what to do, etc. etc. etc.
I filled out the form that everyone said that I needed, and then stressed because one person had said that I needed to have an old and new license with my old and new names on it. But the DMV said that I had to go to the Social Security office and get that changed first. I made sure that I had my birth certificate, social security card, license, and form all filled out with the information that someone had said that I didn't need. But I wanted to be completely prepared. I didn't want to be turned away and told that I had to come back with something else, and my elusive, glorious name change would elude me more.
Now, since I'm being honest, I must say that situations like going into a strange place, all by myself, not knowing what to expect or what to do, terrifies me. So, I was nervous to say the least. Pulling into the parking lot at the Social Security office, I looked up at the office building with the words SOCIAL SECURITY across them. Breathing in, I entered the building. I followed the signs to the second floor and through a door that had a million notices on it. The only one I noticed was the one that said if you have the flu, go away. Since I didn't have the flu, I continued on. A sign directed me to a computer. It told me to press a button based upon which item of business I was there for.
A moment of panic rose in me. What was I there for? Not that option. Not that one. Not that one. Oh! Replacement card or change on the card. Yes! I pressed it and was printed out a ticket with a number on it - and an estimated wait time. 24 minutes. My confidence rising a little, I made my way to one of those plastic chairs that grace almost every waiting office like the Social Security and DMV. Taking out my Agatha Christie novel, I concentrated on that. I pride myself in the fact that I looked poised, old, and married. I looked like I new what I was doing. Of course I grace the Social Security office with my presence frequently. I know exactly what I'm doing. But, I must admit, inside I was worrying. Did I actually press the right button? Do I have the right number? I remembered my wallet, right? Is my form filled out right? Worrying and reading, the time passed quickly and my number was called.
I walked, confidently outside - quaking inside.
"Hello. Do you have your ticket?" The lady behind the glass asked, sounding devoid of all interest and certainly not caring a wit about the importance of this moment.
I handed my ticket to her.
"So you want a replacement card?" The woman asked, dryly.
"Oh, no. No. I need to do a name change. I just got married!" I beamed. Surely she would realize the excitement of that.
"Social number?"
Of course, I'm not THAT blond, so I won't tell you what I responded to that.
"Marriage license and driver's license."
I handed them over, waiting for her to ask for my form and my birth certificate and make a huge deal about something.
She typed away at her computer.
"Just going straight to Porter?"
"Yes!"
She typed again.
"Is this address right?"
"Yes." (For now, until we have a house...but that's another blog post.)
She pushed a piece of paper through the hole in the glass.
"Read that. Is it spelled right?"
I glanced over the jumble of words and information on the paper, trying to understand it.
"Uh, yes." I responded, handing it back to her.
She then proceeded to speak faster than anyone I've ever heard talk before. She was also behind a glass thing. But I did catch something about this information being accurate to my knowledge and something about perjury.
"Yes." I meekly responded. It was accurate to my knowledge.
She stamped another piece of paper and handed it through the window.
"You'll get your new card in about 2 weeks."
I stared at her. She turned away.
She was done with me. That was it. I was done.
I looked down at the paper in my hands. There was my name at the top. My new, married, wonderful name!
"Thank you!" I said, rushing from the room.
That was the least painful process I'd had when dealing with a government agency. And my name, at least in Social Security, was now changed!
So, my lesson this time, is two-fold.
Lesson Three A: When filling out your marriage license, make sure you fill it all out.
Lesson Three B: When changing your last name because of marriage - first of all, don't freak out! It's pretty easy. Also, I won't even begin to give advice. My experience was quick, easy, painless, and I barely needed anything. But it might be different for you! So, my lesson is to be calm and collected - and enjoy it!
P.S. I learned one more thing from this blog, too! I can't spell license to save my life. Good thing for spell check!
While on my honeymoon I was so excited that when I got back I would be able to change my name. My new last name made me giddy with anticipation to make it legal. So after a two and a half week plus honeymoon, Luke and I reentered "normal" life. I had expected to find the marriage certificate waiting for me at home, along with all the other mail that piled up. However, it wasn't there. Disappointed, I continued on, sure that it would come soon. After nearly four weeks of being a Mrs. I was anxious to get my name legal. There's just something about that shiny new license with the beautiful new name that is now yours. And I wanted that. My new name, in all its glory.
Finally, I did a google search, like any good bride would do. "How long does it take to get a marriage license back?"
The answers ranged from one week (oh, and all the jealousy that aroused from that) to four weeks. So, I girded myself up and said, "Ok, well, I'm going to give them a few more days."
A few more days passed.
No marriage certificate.
I decided that I had to do something. No longer would I sit and wait for my marriage certificate to come. Facing my fear of calling people out of the blue, I called the County Clerk and Recorder's office.
After talking to one person, who transferred me to another person, I finally got to talk to someone who was at least somewhat helpful.
Something hadn't been filled out right, which meant that they sent the marriage license back to our house to get completely filled out. However, they had sent it about a week or so before, and I had not received it. So she said to wait through the weekend and then call her back if I hadn't gotten it.
Exasperated after a weekend of waiting and nothing coming, I called her back.
She had received it back as undeliverable. Thankfully, she was able to fill in the missing information and then she would be able to record it. She also said that she would call me when it was done so that I could pick it up instead of mailing it back. I jumped on that opportunity. I wasn't willing to trust the mail yet.
The next day the lady called against to say that it would be ready to pick up the following day! I was exuberant. Finally, I would begin to tread the crazy path called name changing!
The next day I picked up my beautiful marriage certificate (which, in case you don't know is what the marriage license is called after it has been recorded and filled out) and the four certified copies.
With my key to name changing in my hand, the next day I set out for the Social Security office. I was incredibly nervous. I had heard so many different things about what you needed, what to do, etc. etc. etc.
I filled out the form that everyone said that I needed, and then stressed because one person had said that I needed to have an old and new license with my old and new names on it. But the DMV said that I had to go to the Social Security office and get that changed first. I made sure that I had my birth certificate, social security card, license, and form all filled out with the information that someone had said that I didn't need. But I wanted to be completely prepared. I didn't want to be turned away and told that I had to come back with something else, and my elusive, glorious name change would elude me more.
Now, since I'm being honest, I must say that situations like going into a strange place, all by myself, not knowing what to expect or what to do, terrifies me. So, I was nervous to say the least. Pulling into the parking lot at the Social Security office, I looked up at the office building with the words SOCIAL SECURITY across them. Breathing in, I entered the building. I followed the signs to the second floor and through a door that had a million notices on it. The only one I noticed was the one that said if you have the flu, go away. Since I didn't have the flu, I continued on. A sign directed me to a computer. It told me to press a button based upon which item of business I was there for.
A moment of panic rose in me. What was I there for? Not that option. Not that one. Not that one. Oh! Replacement card or change on the card. Yes! I pressed it and was printed out a ticket with a number on it - and an estimated wait time. 24 minutes. My confidence rising a little, I made my way to one of those plastic chairs that grace almost every waiting office like the Social Security and DMV. Taking out my Agatha Christie novel, I concentrated on that. I pride myself in the fact that I looked poised, old, and married. I looked like I new what I was doing. Of course I grace the Social Security office with my presence frequently. I know exactly what I'm doing. But, I must admit, inside I was worrying. Did I actually press the right button? Do I have the right number? I remembered my wallet, right? Is my form filled out right? Worrying and reading, the time passed quickly and my number was called.
I walked, confidently outside - quaking inside.
"Hello. Do you have your ticket?" The lady behind the glass asked, sounding devoid of all interest and certainly not caring a wit about the importance of this moment.
I handed my ticket to her.
"So you want a replacement card?" The woman asked, dryly.
"Oh, no. No. I need to do a name change. I just got married!" I beamed. Surely she would realize the excitement of that.
"Social number?"
Of course, I'm not THAT blond, so I won't tell you what I responded to that.
"Marriage license and driver's license."
I handed them over, waiting for her to ask for my form and my birth certificate and make a huge deal about something.
She typed away at her computer.
"Just going straight to Porter?"
"Yes!"
She typed again.
"Is this address right?"
"Yes." (For now, until we have a house...but that's another blog post.)
She pushed a piece of paper through the hole in the glass.
"Read that. Is it spelled right?"
I glanced over the jumble of words and information on the paper, trying to understand it.
"Uh, yes." I responded, handing it back to her.
She then proceeded to speak faster than anyone I've ever heard talk before. She was also behind a glass thing. But I did catch something about this information being accurate to my knowledge and something about perjury.
"Yes." I meekly responded. It was accurate to my knowledge.
She stamped another piece of paper and handed it through the window.
"You'll get your new card in about 2 weeks."
I stared at her. She turned away.
She was done with me. That was it. I was done.
I looked down at the paper in my hands. There was my name at the top. My new, married, wonderful name!
"Thank you!" I said, rushing from the room.
That was the least painful process I'd had when dealing with a government agency. And my name, at least in Social Security, was now changed!
So, my lesson this time, is two-fold.
Lesson Three A: When filling out your marriage license, make sure you fill it all out.
Lesson Three B: When changing your last name because of marriage - first of all, don't freak out! It's pretty easy. Also, I won't even begin to give advice. My experience was quick, easy, painless, and I barely needed anything. But it might be different for you! So, my lesson is to be calm and collected - and enjoy it!
P.S. I learned one more thing from this blog, too! I can't spell license to save my life. Good thing for spell check!
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Lesson Two: A Battle and a Feast
Growing up, Friday night was pizza and a movie night. It was a night we all looked forward to with breathless anticipation. Mom's homemade pizza was the best - followed closely by the rare "store bought" pizza. So, I decided as a proud homemaker and wife that I should learn to make a delicious pizza, because the way to a man's heart is, of course, through his stomach. My hopes were high. I would create a pizza worthy of my man's heart. I knew no ordinary peperoni pizza would do- no! I would aim for something so much above that. I would make a Hawaiian pizza. Canadian bacon and pineapple. Yummy!
All went well for awhile. I went to the store and purchased the necessary items. I had already called my mother for the recipe. So, I settled down to make my masterpiece pizza. Luke was on his way home from playing football, and I knew I had just enough time to create my delicious crust and pop it in the oven before my darling husband returned from his long, hard, cold day of contact sports.
Yeast, flour, oil, water, salt, sugar. Basic ingredients for basic dough. But here began my first problem. At the house where we are staying the flour is kept in a rolling drawer in a low cupboard where a blender and a collection of bowls. Whoever put those particular things together was not thinking about me. On my first attempt to get flour out and lightly dusted everything in the near vicinity and adding a huge dollop along the side just for good measure. Frustrated, I pulled everything out, cleaned up, and then returned to my great endeavors. I dropped everything in the bowl, even making sure that I poured in my dry ingredients in first so that my 1 cup measure wouldn't be wet when I tried to put the flour in. I thought I was masterfully complete. And then I mixed. I mixed and mixed and mixed. Looking down at the light concoction of dough in my bowl, I realized that something wasn't right. Something was wrong. It was too stringy. It wasn't cohesive. This didn't look like it would form perfect crust. It was much too dry.
My response was what every good housewife's would be. I added more water. If its too dry, it needs moisture, right? And so I gave it moisture. A lot. What I failed to remember was that a little bit of water goes a LONG way. I was soon faced with a goopy, sticky mess that resembled a dry, stringy mess that had been there moments before. As I stirred and squished the blob with my fingers it became even more apparent that this would definitely not be the perfect dough. And so I added flour. Realizing my previous mistake that a little goes a long way, I started with a little. The sticky mess stuck (as sticky things normally do) to my fingers. Peeling myself out of the goop, I groped for some more flour - that evil flour. My flour adding was to no avail. No matter how much flour I added, the sticky stuff remained sticky. More flour and more flour was added. In utter frustration and annoyance, I jammed it into the pan, trying to will it's sticky mass to cover the circumference and leave me free. However, the dough had other ideas. Resolutely it stuck and squirmed and refused to be shaped into anything resembling a pizza. The more I pushed it, the more it shrunk back towards me. At this point I realized I had to be smarter than the pizza dough - and so I called in the big guns! Yes, the rolling pin. If the dough doesn't behave, well then, I will make it behave. And so roll away I did. The dough remained firmly and stickily where it pleased, because my big guns were a little too big and kept running into the sides of the pan.
Completely at my wits end, I grabbed the whole mass in my hands. As I looked at the lump that was suppose to be beautiful, enticing pizza crust, my loving husband returned from his days ventures. Much like the unsuspecting John Brookes who brought his friend home to a house overrun with jelly, my poor, unsuspecting husband arrived full of good cheer, ready to see his loving, wonderful wife. What greeted him was not what he expected. Much like Meg, I stood in the middle of a disastrous kitchen, covered in flour, holding a desultory piece of dough.
"Hello, honey!!! How are you doing?" My darling husband asked. For a few minutes I tried to keep relatively calm and had a simple conversation, however; my husband, being perceptive asked me again if anything were wrong. With one long scream, I put all of my pent up emotions and exasperations at that tiny piece of stickiness. And my loving, unsuspecting husband just looked at me.
After my outburst and many explanations that I was fine, my loving husband left me to my dough baking.
I looked at my nemesis. It looked at me.
I was determined to master that blob.
And so I did what any good cook would do - and I grabbed as much flour as I possibly could, threw it on the counter and all over the dough, snatched the rolling pin up, and slammed that floury, sticky mess into floury submission.
Looking at the flour caked, squarish flat thing in front of my, I felt vague satisfaction. I had at least battled it into something of a shape - and it wasn't sticking to my rolling pin. Triumphantly, I raised my dear dough overhead. As I did so, I realized that I couldn't serve pizza on a dough that was hidden under a thick layer of flour. That would be unthinkable and too, too floury. But, as I had bested the dough, I wasn't going to let this small problem affect me at all. I simply looked at that dough and gave it a good, solid shaking. Flour flew everywhere. But I didn't care. It was off of the dough. Now only a thin caking remained. Satisfied, I finished wrangling that dough into shape, into the pizza dish. Even then, it still taunted me. Allowing me to roll it all the way out to the edge of the dish, I would move on to another corner, only to have the corner roll back, when my back as turned. But I finally smooshed it. Hurriedly, before the dough could think of any new ways to torment me, I layered toppings upon it and plunked it into the oven.
As I called my husband to dinner, he asked once again if I was alright. I explained to him about my plight with the dough and how incredibly difficult it had been. He is a wonderful understander and listener. And understood and listen to all my pizza woes. He is also a wonderful eater, and my husband adored my pizza, floury crust and all. It actually was pretty delicious if I do say so myself. And even more so because I knew I had beaten that dough. I had made it submit - and it submitted beautifully after 10 min. on 400 degrees.
So, my lesson learned, I enjoyed my pizza. What was the lesson you ask?
Lesson Two: A loving husband and good pizza will turn even the most horrible cooking experiences into a laugh and a feast.
All went well for awhile. I went to the store and purchased the necessary items. I had already called my mother for the recipe. So, I settled down to make my masterpiece pizza. Luke was on his way home from playing football, and I knew I had just enough time to create my delicious crust and pop it in the oven before my darling husband returned from his long, hard, cold day of contact sports.
Yeast, flour, oil, water, salt, sugar. Basic ingredients for basic dough. But here began my first problem. At the house where we are staying the flour is kept in a rolling drawer in a low cupboard where a blender and a collection of bowls. Whoever put those particular things together was not thinking about me. On my first attempt to get flour out and lightly dusted everything in the near vicinity and adding a huge dollop along the side just for good measure. Frustrated, I pulled everything out, cleaned up, and then returned to my great endeavors. I dropped everything in the bowl, even making sure that I poured in my dry ingredients in first so that my 1 cup measure wouldn't be wet when I tried to put the flour in. I thought I was masterfully complete. And then I mixed. I mixed and mixed and mixed. Looking down at the light concoction of dough in my bowl, I realized that something wasn't right. Something was wrong. It was too stringy. It wasn't cohesive. This didn't look like it would form perfect crust. It was much too dry.
My response was what every good housewife's would be. I added more water. If its too dry, it needs moisture, right? And so I gave it moisture. A lot. What I failed to remember was that a little bit of water goes a LONG way. I was soon faced with a goopy, sticky mess that resembled a dry, stringy mess that had been there moments before. As I stirred and squished the blob with my fingers it became even more apparent that this would definitely not be the perfect dough. And so I added flour. Realizing my previous mistake that a little goes a long way, I started with a little. The sticky mess stuck (as sticky things normally do) to my fingers. Peeling myself out of the goop, I groped for some more flour - that evil flour. My flour adding was to no avail. No matter how much flour I added, the sticky stuff remained sticky. More flour and more flour was added. In utter frustration and annoyance, I jammed it into the pan, trying to will it's sticky mass to cover the circumference and leave me free. However, the dough had other ideas. Resolutely it stuck and squirmed and refused to be shaped into anything resembling a pizza. The more I pushed it, the more it shrunk back towards me. At this point I realized I had to be smarter than the pizza dough - and so I called in the big guns! Yes, the rolling pin. If the dough doesn't behave, well then, I will make it behave. And so roll away I did. The dough remained firmly and stickily where it pleased, because my big guns were a little too big and kept running into the sides of the pan.
Completely at my wits end, I grabbed the whole mass in my hands. As I looked at the lump that was suppose to be beautiful, enticing pizza crust, my loving husband returned from his days ventures. Much like the unsuspecting John Brookes who brought his friend home to a house overrun with jelly, my poor, unsuspecting husband arrived full of good cheer, ready to see his loving, wonderful wife. What greeted him was not what he expected. Much like Meg, I stood in the middle of a disastrous kitchen, covered in flour, holding a desultory piece of dough.
"Hello, honey!!! How are you doing?" My darling husband asked. For a few minutes I tried to keep relatively calm and had a simple conversation, however; my husband, being perceptive asked me again if anything were wrong. With one long scream, I put all of my pent up emotions and exasperations at that tiny piece of stickiness. And my loving, unsuspecting husband just looked at me.
After my outburst and many explanations that I was fine, my loving husband left me to my dough baking.
I looked at my nemesis. It looked at me.
I was determined to master that blob.
And so I did what any good cook would do - and I grabbed as much flour as I possibly could, threw it on the counter and all over the dough, snatched the rolling pin up, and slammed that floury, sticky mess into floury submission.
Looking at the flour caked, squarish flat thing in front of my, I felt vague satisfaction. I had at least battled it into something of a shape - and it wasn't sticking to my rolling pin. Triumphantly, I raised my dear dough overhead. As I did so, I realized that I couldn't serve pizza on a dough that was hidden under a thick layer of flour. That would be unthinkable and too, too floury. But, as I had bested the dough, I wasn't going to let this small problem affect me at all. I simply looked at that dough and gave it a good, solid shaking. Flour flew everywhere. But I didn't care. It was off of the dough. Now only a thin caking remained. Satisfied, I finished wrangling that dough into shape, into the pizza dish. Even then, it still taunted me. Allowing me to roll it all the way out to the edge of the dish, I would move on to another corner, only to have the corner roll back, when my back as turned. But I finally smooshed it. Hurriedly, before the dough could think of any new ways to torment me, I layered toppings upon it and plunked it into the oven.
As I called my husband to dinner, he asked once again if I was alright. I explained to him about my plight with the dough and how incredibly difficult it had been. He is a wonderful understander and listener. And understood and listen to all my pizza woes. He is also a wonderful eater, and my husband adored my pizza, floury crust and all. It actually was pretty delicious if I do say so myself. And even more so because I knew I had beaten that dough. I had made it submit - and it submitted beautifully after 10 min. on 400 degrees.
So, my lesson learned, I enjoyed my pizza. What was the lesson you ask?
Lesson Two: A loving husband and good pizza will turn even the most horrible cooking experiences into a laugh and a feast.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Lesson One: Is $2.49 a good price for hamburger?
As a first-time housewife, I ran into problems I had never for seen. Mostly because I thought I was well-equipped and light years beyond most newlywed wives. I could clean, do laundry, cook, and, of course, grocery shop. I mean, who can't grocery shop? You walk into the store and you buy food. How much easier can that be?
The sad truth settled upon me as I walked the aisle of the grocery store that I had absolutely no idea what a good deal was. As a poor housewife, I believe it one of my duties to cook cheaply. In order to cook cheaply you have to buy food cheaply. In order to buy food cheaply, you have to know what is cheap. I had no idea.
Hesitatingly, I bought a pound of hamburger for $2.49, hoping that it was a good deal. I selected a few other bland items and returned home. When Darrah, my very knowledgeable older sister arrived, I took out my receipt and painstakingly went over every item.
Was $2.49 really a good price for hamburgers?
What about the 70 cents I'd spent on a pound of oranges?
Was milk for $1.99 alright?
What about the $2.50 for bagels?
To each item, Darrah had a response.
Well, we generally don't pay more than $2.00 a pound for meat. Oops. Too much on the meat.
Good on the oranges. Wahoo! I'd gotten that one right.
Milk + $1.99 = good. Oh good. Two good.
Bagels are just expensive. Oh. Hmm.
Well, I figured that I'd gotten at least a good percentage of them right for going in on the fly.
A few days later I found I had to go grocery shopping again (this is a strange habit that I see myself caught in...I've begun to go to the grocery store almost every other day...I think this means I'm not planning well enough.) However, the night before, I called my mother up and we had a lengthy discussion about what types of prices to look for - and she even went over the adds and pointed out good deals. Armed with the knowledge that meat needed to e under $2.00 and fruit and vegetables under $1.00 and what all the good deals were, I set out to Safeway.
And I was impressed with myself. I bought all sorts of groceries and got great deals! Of course, that was mostly due to the fact that my mother had basically told me what I needed for that trip.
However, I still have a long way to go. Some people just instinctively know what a good deal is. I don't. If it says it is one in the ad, I probably agree, without actually knowing. But slowly my knowledge has grown and I hope it will continue to grow. For instance, cheese is also just really expensive. $3.50 a pound is a good deal for cheese. As far as veggies, you can always get them at WalMart for at least 88 cents.
I hope that soon I'll be an excellent and thorough grocery shopper, but I think I still have a long way to go.
Today I went to WalMart to buy a few things. Soon my basket was overflowing with good things and I was on my way to the check-out. The man behind the counter rang up my purchases. They totalled about $14.00. Not bad, I thought, until scrambling through my wallet I realized that I only had $5.00 in cash and that my husband had the debit card. Humiliated, I had to have him cancel the transaction, and buy my measly can of corn for 63 cents.
So, until I begin making sure I have enough money on me to buy things, I don't think I'll be a proficient grocery shopper - but I'm on my way!
Lesson One: To buy groceries cheaply don't spend more than $2.00 a pound on meat or $1.00 a pound on fruits. Also, remember your money!
The sad truth settled upon me as I walked the aisle of the grocery store that I had absolutely no idea what a good deal was. As a poor housewife, I believe it one of my duties to cook cheaply. In order to cook cheaply you have to buy food cheaply. In order to buy food cheaply, you have to know what is cheap. I had no idea.
Hesitatingly, I bought a pound of hamburger for $2.49, hoping that it was a good deal. I selected a few other bland items and returned home. When Darrah, my very knowledgeable older sister arrived, I took out my receipt and painstakingly went over every item.
Was $2.49 really a good price for hamburgers?
What about the 70 cents I'd spent on a pound of oranges?
Was milk for $1.99 alright?
What about the $2.50 for bagels?
To each item, Darrah had a response.
Well, we generally don't pay more than $2.00 a pound for meat. Oops. Too much on the meat.
Good on the oranges. Wahoo! I'd gotten that one right.
Milk + $1.99 = good. Oh good. Two good.
Bagels are just expensive. Oh. Hmm.
Well, I figured that I'd gotten at least a good percentage of them right for going in on the fly.
A few days later I found I had to go grocery shopping again (this is a strange habit that I see myself caught in...I've begun to go to the grocery store almost every other day...I think this means I'm not planning well enough.) However, the night before, I called my mother up and we had a lengthy discussion about what types of prices to look for - and she even went over the adds and pointed out good deals. Armed with the knowledge that meat needed to e under $2.00 and fruit and vegetables under $1.00 and what all the good deals were, I set out to Safeway.
And I was impressed with myself. I bought all sorts of groceries and got great deals! Of course, that was mostly due to the fact that my mother had basically told me what I needed for that trip.
However, I still have a long way to go. Some people just instinctively know what a good deal is. I don't. If it says it is one in the ad, I probably agree, without actually knowing. But slowly my knowledge has grown and I hope it will continue to grow. For instance, cheese is also just really expensive. $3.50 a pound is a good deal for cheese. As far as veggies, you can always get them at WalMart for at least 88 cents.
I hope that soon I'll be an excellent and thorough grocery shopper, but I think I still have a long way to go.
Today I went to WalMart to buy a few things. Soon my basket was overflowing with good things and I was on my way to the check-out. The man behind the counter rang up my purchases. They totalled about $14.00. Not bad, I thought, until scrambling through my wallet I realized that I only had $5.00 in cash and that my husband had the debit card. Humiliated, I had to have him cancel the transaction, and buy my measly can of corn for 63 cents.
So, until I begin making sure I have enough money on me to buy things, I don't think I'll be a proficient grocery shopper - but I'm on my way!
Lesson One: To buy groceries cheaply don't spend more than $2.00 a pound on meat or $1.00 a pound on fruits. Also, remember your money!
Preface
Welcome to my little blog. The world of blogging has become widespread, and much of it is simply an online diary of sorts. Well, this is not that. Luke and I were talking about starting up a blog and sharing thoughts, lessons, and life as a newly married couple. It might encourage, enlighten, or simply entertain.
So welcome to Life, Lessons, and Luke - a blog about simply that. May it bless you!
So welcome to Life, Lessons, and Luke - a blog about simply that. May it bless you!
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