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.

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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!