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  • The Struggle for Originality

    The Struggle for Originality

    Lately I feel like I’ve been going through a bit of a struggle. This struggle is ever present — both on the blog, and outside of it. I feel like I am in a constant battle to be original.
    You see, we are all so well connected these days. We share pinboards. And blogs. And Facebook posts with specials going on at our favorite boutiques. 
    One day, I woke up and realized that everyone was wearing the same thing. 
    Our homes were decorated the same way.
    We used the same lingo and we laughed at the same things.
    We hit the same sales, bought the same products, and read the same magazines.
    Everyone wore the same hipster glasses, threw on the same infinity scarf, and we all toted around the same hot beverages in the same disposable mugs. 
    We idolized the same celebrities and watched the same TV shows and vegged on the same movies.
    Suddenly, everyone wasn’t comprised of “every one” but of just a group of “one” — all the same. No originality. 
    Honestly, that frightens me a bit. You see, I’ve always thought that I found beauty in the unique… the original. When I was younger, I noticed that I had three giant freckles/moles framing my face in an “L” shape. Although I didn’t love my freckles at the time, the discovery felt original and made me smile. I vividly remember staring in the mirror and thinking to myself, “I bet there is no one else in the world with these exact three freckles. I’m one of a kind.”

    Sometimes, I click around between blogs and I get sad because well,…fewer and fewer of us are one of a kind. I feel like so many of us, including me at times, are trying to fit in and so we end up making choices that aren’t wholly our own. We’re back in middle school trying our best to win friends and attention. To do so, we’ll buy anything and be anyone… except ourselves.

    It’s okay to like cliche things and trends so long as you really like them.
    For example, I’m going to rationalize that it’s okay for me to still want gold metallic accents in my home office, because I truly want them. (Though if I’m being honest, the more popular it becomes, I start to regret the gold accents I’ve already purchased.)But do I always draw that line? I don’t think so.

    I’ve found myself jumping on a bandwagon just for the company…for the approval. I’m guilty, and I’m willing to bet that you probably are too. But you know, I want to be original. I have a deep desire to be the person I am instead of sometimes pretending that I’m something different. 

    I’m Kate. And I confess:

    I absolutely HATE chevron y’all and if I see one more chevron maxi dress I might cry. Seriously… tears. Same goes for those same tired striped curtains that everyone is hanging up. I really, really dislike the fact folks can’t use a  reusable mug to save their life all for the sake of an Instagram photo.  I really want you to have more creativity than to post the another picture of a statement necklace, a latte, or your half-empty wine glass (Talking straight to myself here folks!). I’m reminding myself — and everyone else: It’s okay to like something that everyone else thinks is cheesy and it’s equally okay to turn your nose up at something that everyone is drooling over. Not going lie — I hate the bar-cart trend. There I said it. #sorrynotsorry

    __________________________________________

    What I’m trying to say I guess is that we’re all supposed to be individuals and that’s ok. I’m sarcastic and sometimes a little rude. I can drive a hard bargain and I never let someone walk all over me. I will hold a grudge a lot longer than I care to admit, and while I am slow to forgive, I often love much harder once the deed is done. I am crass and sometimes crude, but I am loyal and kind. There is no one else quite like me. For that reason, I refuse to waste my time from here on doing or liking the same things merely because that’s the current trend…even if I have a blog.

    Our blogs can be — and should be — just as original as we are! I’m bucking the system and starting a trend towards originality! Who’s with me!?

  • Late Night Chronicles

    Late Night Chronicles

    Late nights come in a lot of forms. 
    In high school, I’d often stay up late at night dreaming of my future. I’d try to imagine what college I’d go to, what friends I’d make, what career I’d pursue, and of course, which cute boy I’d meet.
    In college, my late weeknights usually consisted of a project that I put off until the last minute. I’d sit at my computer, constantly checking my style manual for citation formats and I’d swear to myself that next time… oh yes… next time…. I’d get it done sooner. On weekends, I was usually up late dancing at some house party. More accurately, I was taking care of a drunk friend at some lame house party or being said drunk friend at some lame house party. 
    In law school, my late nights were usually due to stress. I’d get home late after school, work, and networking functions only to remember I had 40+ pages of cases to read for my class in the morning. I’d grab a snack and try to cram it and the 40+ pages back as quickly as possible. As a result, I’d usually end up with heartburn and worries that I’d be called on the next day and not understand the holding of the case.

    Last summer, my late nights were weird. I’d stay up late upset over the impending bar exam and trying to remember if I had done everything on my checklist that week for the wedding. I’d quickly switch my brain between my Torts and Criminal Procedure outlines while also reviewing invitation lists.  Then I’d wonder why in the world I couldn’t just turn it all off and get some sleep.

    Lately, my late nights have been different. I spend them dreaming and talking with Adam. Just the other night, for example, we swore that we wouldn’t stay up and talk as we have so many nights as of late. I came home from work around 7:30. We ate dinner, cleaned the kitchen together, and then finalized Adam’s blog post. Afterwards, we played a game of Hanafuda and grabbed a quick shower before turning in.  

    But then, like nearly each night in recent memory, we just talked. We talked about our future kids. We talked about our home. We talked about our families. We talked about our finances. We talked about movies. We talked about how much we loved each other. We talked about our dogs and cats. We talked about philosophy. We talked about politics. We talked about whatever happened to be on the tip of our tongues.

    We laughed. We each tried to hog the bed. We stole covers and pillows. We pushed on each other and called each other names… all the while giggling like school children. And while we both knew that the minutes were ticking by and that soon the morning sun would be calling our names — we both just soaked in the other’s presence.

    Finally, Adam succumbed to sleep but I laid there… dreaming again. 
    A lot has changed since high school but I still have those late nights. But somehow, my late nights now are infinitely better because they are filled with more than just dreams. They are filled by the  stunning reality that I’m lucky enough to have stumbled across the man laying beside me. I’m not sure how it happened. I’m definitely out of the loop as to why. But he’s here — breathing deeply as I lay silently dreaming about a life where neither of us ever runs out of things to say.

  • Life isn’t always blogworthy

    Life isn’t always blogworthy

    Life isn’t always blogworthy. 
    Like on Friday, when Adam called me to say that his tire had blown out on the Interstate and he was sitting at the shop getting a new tire put on. There goes our house project spending money in August.

    Or like when Adam called back to say that apparently the starter had gone out in his car and would have to be replaced immediately or we wouldn’t be able to drive to Texas that afternoon for our niece’s birthday party. There goes our chance to put back any money in savings in August.

    Or like when you go to pick up the car only to find out that it now has a transmission problem and has to be taken to a shop across town for even more work. There goes our mini vacation to Portland in October.

    And like when you find three stray dogs in less than 24 hours and despite your phone calls, online posts, and pleas for help you don’t have anything you can do besides take them to the local shelter with no guarantee that they won’t ever be put down. And you feel like complete and total shit about it… total shit!
    Or like when your entire family comes together for a weekend and it isn’t picture perfect. In fact, it’s far from it. It’s hectic and it’s stressful and you want to pull your freaking hair out. And when you finally get back in your car to leave all you really want to do it curl up and cry because integrating families is tough and personalities clash and life just isn’t fair. 
    Yeah — none of that is blogworthy. It’s just life and sometimes, life just sucks. No one wants to see a picture of Adam and I sitting in silence for a 5 hour car ride because both of us are so angry with each other. And no one wants to see a tutorial on how to transfer money from your savings account to pay off the incredible amount of car repair debt you suddenly accumulated. And no one wants to pin creative graphics about how you can’t afford that trip that you’ve been looking forward to or about how you haven’t had AC in your car all summer so you arrive to work every morning looking like a dog hanging her head out the window.
    Life isn’t always blogworthy. But this blog is supposed to be an honest reflection of our lives so I’m making the choice to share all of this anyhow. 
    I don’t want sympathy because I know it could always be worse. 
    I don’t want pity because I know that in reality, we actually have it really good and that I’m being a baby.

    I guess I do want empathy — because I think we can all relate to having a one too many days in a row when life keeps knocking you down as you continue to find enough ground to stand on. I want to get my balance and start to fight back. I want to laugh it all off and tell Life where she can shove it. But first — Life has to quit kneeing me in the ribs each time I think I can get up. I feel like we’ve all been there — so maybe today, all I really want is to hear that you were once there too and that you eventually found the ability to stand. 

  • Maybe I’m nesting

    Maybe I’m nesting

    Adams says that I’m nesting. I don’t know, maybe I am.  Last night, as I laid down in bed, my mind began to swirl with home projects. I silently reminded myself of all the things we needed to buy or needed to do… before… well? Before what? Maybe Adam is right. He usually is.

    Part of the reason for buying this particular home was that Adam and I could see ourselves living here 5 years from now… 10 years from now… 20 years from now! We knew that it would be a work in progress. So why then am I so freaking anxious to get it all done?

    As I laid silently in bed wondering why I was in such a hurry to tile our garage/washroom passthrough and build our new pantry among other things, I realized that Adam’s jokes about me nesting were probably true. But how in the world can someone nest when they aren’t even sure they are ready for a baby!

    It seems like all of my friends are having/had babies. You know, even the ones I used to silently think never would. And even if I thought they would eventually, I figured I was “ahead” in that race since I was at least married and owned (er… mortgaged?) a home.

    Most days I still wonder if I’d be able to keep a baby alive. I worry that I won’t be attentive enough. I worry that I will sleep through its cries. I worry that I’ll trip walking down the steps at our house and kill us both.

    But other days I spend hours on Pinterest learning about the scoop on cloth diapering and making homemade baby food. I worry that when we start trying, it won’t happen. Then I worry that when we start trying it will happen. I silently picture Adam and I standing over a precious little thing as it sleeps and cringe at the thought of 2:00 a.m. feedings and a kid screaming and me not being able to console it. I window shop for books about getting pregnant and prepping for kids, but then I have an extra glass of wine with dinner and think…”Nah. This is pretty good!”

    I’ll be 28 in a few months. Seriously? How did that happen? I don’t think is 28 is old.. to the contrary actually! But I always assumed that by 28 I’d either already have kids or at least feel prepared for them. I am so, so, so not prepared! Heck — we don’t even have a safe patio area yet! And then with that — I’m back to running through my mental checklist.

    But if that day comes, will a baby care that the passthrough doesn’t have tile or that the pantry doesn’t exist? Probably not. If the patio isn’t safe, we’ll keep the baby inside… it won’t be walking for like what… at least 10 months or so. 10 months + 9 months of pregnancy = 19 months to get the deck done! (Wait! I don’t know how long 19 months is?! Will I become one of those mothers who refers to my kids in month age ranges forever?)

    As my mind raced over all of these things last night, I wondered how I’d ever get to sleep. All of a sudden – as if he were guiding me – Adam inhaled deeply in his sleep and I found myself focused on his breathing. I matched my breathing to his and slowly I felt my fears and my tension subside a bit. I readjusted so that I could just lightly feel his breath on my back. Each time my mind started to race, I told myself, “Focus on his breathing. Just focus. Stop worrying and focus.”

    My to-do list is long and it won’t go away overnight. Likely, there will be quite a bit still on it when we decide to grow our family. When that day comes, I won’t be the best mom in the world, but I’ll make it a day at a time and I’m 95% sure that I won’t kill myself and the baby walking down the front steps.

    For now, I’m just going to focus on breathing… on waking up to new days and new adventures and, of course, slowly checking things off my list.

  • Why I’m not ready for kids… yet

    Why I’m not ready for kids… yet

    I am fairly certain that 90% of non-mommy bloggers either have this post already published on their blog or it is waiting its turn in drafts… So here goes nothing!

    Here’s the thing, I will be 28 in October. Some days, the struggle to keep my ovaries calm is for real yo. I mean it. I have to pass by the park every single day coming home from work … and let me tell you! Whew! The sight of those kids swinging and squealing as they come down the slide just really makes me want to act rashly. But then I have moments when I understand that I am simply not ready.

    For example, yesterday my sister and my brother-in-law dropped by our house in Little Rock on their way back home to Texas from visiting a friend in Nashville. (That was a lot of locations in one sentence!) That meant that Adam and I got to see our niece, Lizzie, for the first time in nearly 3 months! I was STOKED. She is walking now and it was so amazing to hold her, chase her, play with her, hug her, tease her, and feed her. I ate up every last second. She is too cute for words and holding her, this child that I love so much, I get really excited about loving something that is a part of me and a part of Adam… the miracle of biology and the like.

    You know — there are a million reasons why I probably shouldn’t have children at this very second. You know them because they are the exact same reason that every blogger puts in post like these… The lack of booze and sleep. The fear about losing their body. The idea of being so responsible. The fact they like having their husband all to themselves at the moment. All of those reasons apply to me as well. (Oh, and before spending money on baby, perhaps I should make sure that all the rooms in our new home have furniture!) The list really goes on and on…

    But after being with little Lizzie for almost 2 hours, a whole new reason hit me… I just can’t keep up. I was seriously exhausted after she left. Once those little suckers learn to use their legs you have to constantly be on guard to make sure they don’t get into crap. I didn’t realize the peril that they can so easily get into…

    Lizzie was tugging on the lamp’s electrical cord, falling down on the tile floor, tugging at the dog’s tail, crawling off towards the bathroom, tearing up the blinds. At every turn I just kept thinking about how fragile, yet resilient, she is right now. While she made me laugh, it also terrified me. I don’t know how anyone can keep up with the kid and parents have to do it on less sleep than us Aunts and Uncles who only get a small taste of it. Yes. That’s a BIG reason why I am just not ready to be a mom quite yet.

    My heart might swoon when I see Adam holding our Lizzie. But for a bit longer, I will have to tell my ovaries to chill. It’s just not time… yet.

  • Making plans to climb my mountain…

    Making plans to climb my mountain…

    As of late, there is a voice inside my head that I can’t drown out…

    It reminds me constantly that we only get so many years in this world. We must make decisions as to how we will spend those years — building homes? making families? earning promotions? getting raises? watching Netflix? taking naps? building dreams?

    Yes. Lately, I want to build my own dreams.

    I don’t know what those dreams are quite yet, but I do know what they will involve.

    More time with Adam.
    More time on this blog.
    More time writing.
    More time at home.
    More laughter.
    More adventure.
    Less unnecessary stress.
    Less feeling out of control.
    Less working on someone else’s dreams.
    Less worries.
    Less fears of failure.
    Less boredom.

    It is almost as if I am standing at the base of a mountain. I’ve been scared to climb it for too long because I don’t know what the other side looks like. Is it a plentiful valley that will be a source of happiness? Or is it a deep gorge with little provisions for a happy life?

    For years, I have worked on a path on this side of the mountain because it was the side I could see. It wasn’t always the place that I truly desired to be, but it seemed safe enough and well honestly, it was easier to dream about what could potentially lie on the other side of the mountain than to actually climb the damn thing.

    But you know, this side of the mountain isn’t as comfortable as it used to be. In fact, looking around, I get a little scared about spending the rest of my life here. It isn’t like this side won’t provide for me — it will. But will it truly fulfill me? I have my doubts…


    It scares me to even consider leaving my safe side of the mountain and starting a climb into the unknown. Hell — even making plans for the climb makes my heart race. But I’m starting to wonder if it is racing in a good way. Because maybe, just maybe, if I finally get the guts to climb this thing, I’ll discover that something more amazing than anything I ever could have imagined was right on the other side waiting for me this entire time…

    And wouldn’t that be wonderful?

  • Comparison is the thief of joy….

    Comparison is the thief of joy….

    Photo Credit

    Several years ago I heard this quote and it spoke to me. Like everyone else, I was guilty of sometimes always comparing my life to the lives of other people. I constantly compared whether my clothes were as nice, my car as new, my house as big, my friends as fun, etc. At the time, I was deeply unhappy and so I decided to quit the “comparing” habit cold turkey. It was liberating. 

    Suddenly, it didn’t matter if I lived in a small downtown apartment, because I loved the way the light came through the big windows on Saturday mornings and that was enough for me. I didn’t care if so-and-so had found their soul mate, because I was content being single and watching SATC on Friday nights. As I said, it was liberating.

    Recently however, this quote has taken on an entirely different meaning for me and once again, it is time for me to liberate myself.

    You see, I no longer compare my life to those of others (well, most of the time at least) but I do constantly compare my reactions. I may sound a little “braggy” here, but I am a good friend. I am a good daughter. I am a good sibling. I’m not the most amazing person in the universe and I have my flaws without a doubt, but feeling joy and excitement for the people that I love just isn’t one of them.

    I am the first person to be completely over the moon when a friend tells me about a new guy they are dating. Or when someone moves into their first home. Or when a baby announcement is made. Or when some lucky guy pops the question. I really am. If I genuinely love you, then all of these events are significant to me because they are significant to you.

    I’m the friend who buys custom gifts for your house warming. I’m the person who takes time away from studying for finals to help you move. I am the girl that spends entirely too much money on a baby shower gift at Target. I am the friend that quite literally will sit and listen to you gab about your new job, new house, new sofa, new baby, new hobby, new car for hours!

    But I compare. You see, when something BIG happens in my life, I look around me and try to gauge everyone’s reactions. Not only do I expect for them to be happy for me but I unfairly expect them to be as excited as I would be if the shoe were on the opposite foot. That’s unfair of me.

    Yet, when they inevitably go about their lives and don’t offer to buy a bottle of wine and let me talk about my excitement to my heart’s content, I get upset at them. That’s unfair of me.

    But it is also unfair to me because it steals my joy! And just when I am supposed to be over-the-moon excited about something, I am left wondering if ____________ loves me as much as I love them. I am left wondering why ____________ wouldn’t be as happy for me as I was for them. I get angry because ____________ didn’t offer me the help that I offered them. The list goes on…

    So this quote still has a lot of teaching left to do. I do not need to compare my reactions to those of anyone else. Instead, I need to realize that each of us handle life differently and react to our friends and family differently. In this moment, I want my joy. I will no longer throw it away with comparison to how other people react to my joy. It is mine. I’m claiming it.

  • My Take on the Downton Abbey Rape Controversy

    My Take on the Downton Abbey Rape Controversy

    Spoiler Alert: If you have not seen the January 12th episode of Downton Abbey – DO NOT continue with this post! This post contains massive spoilers!
    Photo Credit
    I am a Downton Abbey fan. I admit, my love for the show was quite unexpected. I had heard some internet buzz about the show but never really thought a period piece about the British upperclass would really float my boat. So you can imagine my surprise when I finally watched an episode and immediately found myself being happily dragged into the world of Downton.
    You see, Downton isn’t just about the British upperclass. It’s a beautiful portrayal about the lives of everyone at Downton…from the footman to the Countess. Each character is developed fully and you find yourself caring deeply about the hardships of both the wealthy and the poor. Therefore, I am now an admitted (and perhaps ravenous) fan of the show. This past Sunday night, I snuggled down in bed (with a cup of tea of course) and prepared to enjoy all the newest adventures of those at Downton.
    And like the rest of the country, my heart broke when fan-favorite Anna, was raped by a male visitor at Downton. Yes. Raped.
    The scene was startling. Anna briefly left an opera concert being held at Downton to soothe a headache. Her doting husband, Mr. Bates, seemed concerned and offered to accompany Anna to the kitchen but she insisted that he stay to enjoy the music. After all, Anna spent a lot of time in the kitchen. She worked there. Surely it was safe. 
    As Anna, and viewers, soon learned — it was not. The scene was gripping. It was graphic.  Joanne Froggatt, the actress who portrays Anna, masterfully showed the horror, the anger, and the fear that a woman in that situation experiences. That experience is the same whether you are wealthy or poor. It is horrifying. And as Anna’s screams echoed down the hallways of Downton, I felt an all too familiar grip of terror.
    I am a survivor. It isn’t something I talk about. It isn’t something I share often. Even now, nearly seven years later, emotions often boil to the surface when I least expect them. 
    The grip of terror cemented its grasp during the followup scene where Anna is discovered — broken, bruised, bloody, and scared — by Mrs. Hughes. More than anything, Anna’s shame is apparent. She insists that Mrs. Hughes doesn’t tell a sole, including the police and her own husband, Mr. Bates. The fear and the shame pours down her face as she demands that no one should know. 
    No one should know.

    After watching the episode, I couldn’t sleep. It was probably a horrifying episode for many.  But I tossed and turned all night reliving Anna’s shame. And sadly, my own. The next morning, I was somewhat surprised to learn that there was controversy regarding the episode. Since the series airs in England prior to being aired in America, many outlets had already picked up the buzz that apparently gripped England last year when the episode first aired. (Over 200 people in England called in complaints on the episode when it aired last October.)
    Similarly, many bloggers, organizations, and individuals in America took to the internet to proclaim their dislike of the plot line. For example, Slate Blog writer June Thomas wrote a piece entitled “Why is Downton Abbey so Horrible to its Female Characters?” in which she blasted the episode for being an “experiment[] in sadism.” 
    While respecting other opinions on the issue, I feel compelled to put mine out there. Rape is such a scary word because it is such a scary thing. What is scarier is that it happened centuries before Anna’s time and is still happening in our own. And each time it occurs, a woman (or man) feels fear, horror, and sadly, shame. Downton Abbey is providing a poignant picture of what rape was like for women in England during the early twentieth century. Anna’s experience reminds us of a few valuable lessons about rape.
    Rape can happen to anyone. Anna is a fan favorite. She is sweet and kind and hard working. She is loyal and stood beside Mr. Bates when others did not. Anna is simply wonderful. And yet, something so horrible happened to her…
    Rape is unexpected. Anna merely went downstairs to get medicine for a headache. She was in what she considered to be a safe place… in fact, probably a place she considered “home.” Today, we are so quick as a society to point fingers at the victims of sexual violence. Was she drinking? Did she wear an exposing top? Did she flirt with the guy? Was she in a dangerous place? Frankly, the blame game disgusts me. Anna’s rape reminds us, that rape — yes, all rape — is solely and completely the fault of the perpetrator. Period. End of story.
    Rape shame is real. I am still replaying Anna’s face upon being discovered by Mrs. Hughes. Her hair is disheveled and her limbs shake with fear. Her bruises and blood are visible, but it is really the shame in her eyes that is most clear. This character — who we love and who couldn’t have possibly have done anything to “deserve” what happened to her — still feels shame. It is the shame that millions of women (and yes, men too) feel every year. It is deep and it penetrates your soul. It isn’t something easily shaken off or cast aside merely because someone who cares for you insists that it wasn’t your fault. Anna’s shame is real… as is the shame of millions.
    So while I will respect those who chose to quit watching the series based upon this turn of events, I for one, will watch. I will watch because I love Anna. I will watch because Anna represents all victims of sexual abuse and I hope that the show’s creator’s will continue to treat her character, and the experience she had, with the utmost tact but also with the raw honesty it deserves. And frankly, I believe that it is a raw dose of honesty about the lasting impact of sexual violence. In my opinion, that is something that we all, as a society, need to see.
    Rape isn’t a topic we should sweep under the rug. It is a topic that we need to keep talking about and keep talking about and keep talking about until it is an event that no longer occurs. Until then, I stand with Anna. Do you?

  • Confession: I did not enjoy my wedding.

    Confession: I did not enjoy my wedding.

    Adam was right.

    After getting engaged, Adam requested that we elope and I balked at the idea. After waiting 26 years to get engaged, by goodness, I was going to have a freakin’ wedding! But now that it is all said and done — the money spent, the pictures in, the day over — I can without reservation say that Adam was right. We should have eloped.

    If you were a girl who loved every last minute of your wedding, please don’t take this post as an accusation. It’s not meant to be. If you are girl planning your wedding, please don’t take this post as an attack to all your wedding bell dreams. It’s not meant to be. This is, however, a confession I need the world to hear. I did not enjoy my wedding. Not even a little bit…

    Over the holiday weekend, one of Adam’s relatives made a statement to me. She said, “I really liked your wedding because you enjoyed yourself.” It wasn’t a question… it was a foregone conclusion. I sort of nodded my head politely and she responded, “Yup. You did. You really did enjoy yourself. That’s what made it so wonderful. You enjoyed yourself.” I wanted to laugh. I wanted to correct her. I wanted to tell her that if it appeared that way, I deserve an Oscar. I wanted to let her to know how badly I just wanted to just grab Adam’s hand on that day, get in a car, and get out of there. Together, and alone.

    Our wedding was beautiful. It was filled with love. There was plenty of food, dancing, and laughter. We had amazing family and friends that tried their best to show their support to us. I loved that our parents pitched in funds and helped plan and showed up at 8:00 a.m. to decorate the venue in 100 degree weather. I loved seeing other family members make the long journey to Central Arkansas and I loved meeting some of Adam’s family members for the first time… But when it is all boiled down, it was just too much.

    I was under no illusions about weddings. I know that they are a lot of work and
    cost a lot of money. That’s just the truth of the matter. However, I was under
    the impression that after all that hard work, and after shelling out all that
    dough, I would get to sit back, relax and enjoy my wedding. I didn’t.

    Instead of feeling like a blushing bride, I felt more like a referee. I
    constantly ran interference between everyone. With only four hours of sleep and bags beneath my eyes, I toted boxes, setup tables, organized decorations and basically ran around like crazy from 8:00 a.m. onward. My phone
    rang every five minutes with cancelled RSVP’s and at roughly $60.00 a head, these messages became more and
    more infuriating… especially considering that we had already finished setting
    up the required tables, chairs and ceremony benches of ALL RSVP’ed guests. If it wasn’t a cancelled RSVP, it was a vendor on the other line asking to confirm details that I’d already confirmed… at least once and sometimes twice. Even with a wedding planner, there was too much to do and not enough
    time to get it all done in one day.

    Looking back, I didn’t have a single moment to stop and reflect on what was about to happen — on the fact that I was about to marry my best friend. Not a single moment. It was so rushed. It was so insane. I had too many people to greet. I had too many responsibilities to fulfill. There were too many people to disappoint… I was not a bride. I was a cog in a wedding machine that had to “do my part” in order for the day to be successful…

    With that said — I did enjoy moments of my wedding. What moments you ask? The moments with Adam… The moment I looked into his eyes and promised to never let anything come between us. The moment we danced and I laid my head against his chest and just listened to his heart beat while our song played. The moment I was having an obligatory conversation with a wedding guest and caught Adam’s eye from across the venue and saw him smile…at me… his wife. Yes, those are the moments that I enjoyed.

    And you know — I could have absorbed all those moments and more without spending a small fortune on rentals, alcohol, and worrying about whether we had enough cheese on the cheese tray. If I could go back in time, I would take Adam up on his offer. After securing the ring, I would pick a destination, book a photographer, and it would be all “wheel’s up” and wedding bound. All the friends and family who wanted to attend would just have to be disappointed. Adam and I could have avoided all the stress, saved all that money, and put it towards what really matters: Our future together. Our lives together as husband and wife.

    But what done is done. I chose to have the “big” wedding (although only about 100 people showed up) and now I have the photos and the memories (plus the bad bridesmaid stories, photo disappointments, and leftover booze) that came along with it…

    But if there was a time machine, I would go back. I would grab Adam’s hand when he suggested an elopement, look deep into his eyes and say, “Honey. You won’t always be right in our marriage. But you are this time. Let’s go!”

  • why I didn’t take Adam’s last name…

    why I didn’t take Adam’s last name…

    If I haven’t lost you after reading the title of this post, then I am grateful. This post has been on my heart for awhile and I feel like I needed to put it into words. So please stick around, read my point of view, and let me know what you think:

    The title of this post, in my opinion, is “framed” the correct way. Maybe it’s because I am a lawyer, but I like to be as precise as possible with my language. Most people wouldn’t notice the difference, but the hair on my arms starts to raise when people ask me, “Why did you keep your name?” Keep?

    Keep means “to retain possession of” or “continue in a specified direction or way.” It seems to indicate that my name was somehow slipping away and I reached out and “retained it.” It also, in my opinion, seems to imply that “keeping it” was wrong. To me, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt — well, like me.

    Let me just say, I have nothing against women who chose to take on their husband’s name. I think that it is a choice to be made and I respect that choice in every way. Sadly, while I respect their decision to do so, I haven’t always found the opposite to be true. In fact, after getting engaged to Adam, it wasn’t the men in my life who were shocked by the fact I didn’t intend to take Adam’s name — it was the women. I was shocked sometimes at the response from my fellow sex.

    These are the most commonly asked questions or the responses I got:

    Don’t you love Adam?

    Yes, I love Adam. He is my other half in every sense of the word. I truly believe that he and I were destined to be together. But I don’t understand why that means that I have to give up something that means something to me. You see — my parents had a terrible divorce. I didn’t speak to my father for nearly 8 years… When we finally reconnected, it was like I found a piece of my life that was missing for far too long. I love my father. Having his name as mine reminds me of my connection to him — it reminds me that we all make mistakes but that we are all capable of healing, forgiving, and moving on. Not taking Adam’s last name has nothing at all to do with not loving him — but it has everything to do with love.

    Won’t your kids be confused? That’s not fair to them.


    Kids understand differences. They understand that mommy and daddy aren’t the same. Mommy sits down to pee. Daddy doesn’t. Mommy wears shoes with heels on them. Daddy doesn’t. Daddy exercises nearly daily. Mommy doesn’t. Kids probably won’t even KNOW that my last name is different from theirs until they are old enough to read my driver’s license! It will be fine. Seriously. I mean, do kids say, “Mommy Jane Doe!” No, they say “Mommy.”

    Oh, I get it. You went to law school so that’s why you are keeping your name.


    I did go to law school. It was three years of hard work followed by the most difficult summer of my life when I studied for the bar exam. It was torture at times but that is not the only reason I chose not to take Adam’s last name. Plenty of “professional” women change their names and I have no problem with that — power to them.  This is probably a “factor” in why did not take Adam’s name, but to try to wrap me into a nice, neat, “professional-working-woman” package so that you can understand why I made the choice I did is frankly, a little insulting.

    Wow. Adam must be a HUGE pushover.


    No. I draw the line here. Adam is the manliest man I know. He works out regularly, he sleeps with a Glock on the nightstand, and I pity the fool who would ever try to hurt me. Seriously. This man loves me fiercely and would take on anything that threatened us and our lives together. This is a man who stands up for anything that he deems worthy and necessary. But this is also a man who is level-headed and rationale. He doesn’t “push” his ways over mine and he never demands that I do something or refrain from others. He allows me to completely and totally be myself. When we were dating, I mentioned to Adam that I would keep my name if I got married. He took a moment and then asked, “Would it be because you like your name, or because you don’t like mine?” Without hesitation I answered, “Mine. It just love mine.”  From that day, it never had to be discussed again. Adam loved ME — not the idea of me with HIS name. Just me — and loving me meant loving the fact that I was the type of woman to chose my own last name over his. If I had been the other type, he still would have loved me. It has nothing to do with being a pushover — it has everything to do with being a good man.

    As of today — we’ve been married one month. It’s been wonderful and I can’t wait to see what this life holds for us. And YES — we will do it will separate last names on the checking account.  We understand that we will have to deal with the occasional confusion — are you married yet? are you guys just dating? why are these names different?

    But you know– that’s our choice. It is a choice that we made and one that we can only ask others to respect. I believe that this situation can be a tricky one. Each woman is different and each relationship is too. I respect your decision to take his name, to elope, to throw a HUGE church wedding, to have tons of kids, to adopt, to not have any kids at all — whatever your decision is, so long as you have come to an agreement in your relationship, who the heck am I to question it!?

    So I only ask for the same respect. I love my husband. We have different last names. We’re okay with that. Are you?