Because I Can't Tell This Story Enough

Because nearly all of you are my close friends and/or family, I doubt you missed the texts, phone calls, or Facebook posts announcing that last Friday my boyfriend asked if I would do him the honor of becoming his wife and I said yes. But I know that many of you would like details on how the whole event went down - squeals, giggles, meatloaf and all. And because I get swept off of my feet everytime I tell the story, I'm gonna indulge us both. Nice how that works out, eh?

To begin.

Nic (my now-fiance) and I had planned for him to fly down last weekend to visit. I asked for Monday off as a personal day so that we could have a long weekend together. He told me that he had purchased tickets for a flight that would arrive at 8:24pm Friday night. I took a babysitting job that afternoon after work, partly for the money and partly because it would help kill time before he arrived. I know that if I had stayed in my apartment that whole time I wold have tested the durability of all surfaces to withstand the 100th time of me bleaching, cloroxing, or lysoling them. Yes, I am a compulsive cleaner. In the words of fair Bess, judge me. But back to our story.

Nic texted me throughout the day, as usual, reporting on the progress of his day and his whereabouts. He told me when he was at work, when he left for lunch, when he arrived at the airport, when he was about to board the plane - the works. I, in turn, told him when I picked the kids of up from school, when we went for a bike ride, and when I was headed back to my apartment.

Because Houston traffic on a Friday at 5pm is like molasses in winter, the mom was running late so I didn't leave their house until well after 6pm. I texted Nic that I was headed home, but first I had to pick up some drycleaning (which, by the way is wallet rape and next time I think I will leave the peanut butter stain on my skirt, thank you very much!).

I live on the third floor of my apartment building. I had just spent 3 hours riding bikes, playing soccer and basketball with youngsters. So, I arrived at my door sweaty, panting a little, and carrying at least six things up from my car.

Insert key.

Turn.

Open door.

And see boyfriend dressed in suite and tie holding a rose and surrounded by candles? WHAT??

Oh, you better believe it sister. My romantically sneaky boyfriend had actually left Nebraska at 11pm Thursday night and had driven to Houston. All the while keeping up the pretense via text that the he was still in NE and then in the airport. He was aided by my mother, who knew all of this and played along as she chatted with my on Yahoo IM (should I be worried they work so well together in tricking me?).

Nic had arrived at my place a little after noon and began to set up his surprise evening for me. He rearranged and decorated my living room by buying new linens for my table and setting it with my grandma's wedding china, putting blue and green colored pebbles (the color theme for the night  - yes, there was a color theme) in small bowls with floating tea light candles, having roses in a vase on the table, and putting nine other candles (one for each month that we've been dating) in glass holders leading up to him as he stood waiting for me.

But that's not all folks.

He had also spent all day making us dinner. My favorite dinner.

He spent 5.5 hours on a chocolate cheesecake complete with oreo crust, he had gotten my mom's meatloaf recipe and made me meatloaf (a first time attempt for him), garlic mashed potatoes, grilled asparagus, and of course champagne to drink.

After letting me change and freshen up and just before we ate dinner, he  took me around the room to show me all of his decorating skills. Lastly, he handed me a few pieces of paper.

Hold up, I think ya'll need some history about us to understand this.

Before we were ever dating, we had made boyfriend and girlfriend resumes - just for fun. I thought it would be funny to write a resume mimicking the format of my business resume, but for a potential boyfriend. Well, it was a hoot and probably should have tipped us off that we were meant for each other when things started matching up on both of our resumes. Ok, flash forward back to the blue and green themed room with a dozen candles smoldering away....

He hands me several pieces of paper stapled together. The opening sentence:

Objective: To illustrate my love and admiration for you in the hope that you will do me the greatest honor of becoming my wife.

Yes, he had made a husband resume for me. Of course, I didn't get an further than the objective before I started beaming, laughing, hugging him and saying yes. Then he very loving asked me if I would wait and let him ask the question, where he then got down on one knee and asked if I would do him the honor of becoming his wife.

Well, I had already said yes but I repeated it for him, followed by more hugs (and maybe a few kisses) and he slipped the ring on my finger.

And hot damn, the ring! Well, in my honest opinion it's so wonderfully and beautifully "us" that I already feel it's an extension of me.

Some pictures for you:

My diamond and turquoise ring. Nic helped design in with the jeweler.

One of the engagement photos a friend took for us. This one probably won't make it onto any of the Save the Dates because it's showing a bit more of my leg than is prudent for such things....but I love it just the same :)

A fun side note to Nic's proposal: he joked afterward that he wanted to propose before we ate the meatloaf in case he ruined it...well, he did a superb job. I would have said yes especially after eating his cooking :)

Thank My Lucky Leg Warmers Wal Mart Still Believes in the 80s

This weekend I had the opportunity to do some fashion archeology. An activity that is right up my alley.

Saturday, there was a surprise 30th birthday party for the Vicar at my church. As he was born in '81, it was to be an '80s themed party and us party goers were encouraged to dress the part. A chance to dress up in vintage duds bordering on costume? I couldn't resist. The challenge combined some very Impish elements - I had to be creative on a budget, I had to delve into fashion history (I secretly still aspire to be an archaeologist and work for National Geographic...), and ultimately I got to indulge my theater side and parade around in a purposefully outrageous get-up.

I had two sources of information, "text books" if you will, on '80s fashion in mind when I set out to assemble my ensemble: VH1's "I Love the '80s" and PeopleofWalMart.com. You laugh, and I would have too if I wasn't afraid of the arms on the mothers who were doing serious shopping for their daughters right next to me.....but I'm getting ahead of myself.

As I strolled into Wal Mart and headed for the clothing section, I began to mentally assemble my ideal '80s throwback look: some stirrup pants or black leggings, leg warmers if they were to be found, a neon colored tank with an over-sized and possibly cut-to-pieces sweatshirt, some neon jelly bracelets and other, bulky, geometric jewelry. I was prepared to think of creative compromises in the event that I was unable to acquire any of these pieces. However, although Wal Mart regularly doesn't carry the basic spices, herbs and vegetables I need for my cooking recipes, the '80s are alive and well, thriving even, in their clothing department.

My fashion archaeological dig turned out to be a walk in the park. It was as if Tutankhamen's treasures were lying  atop the  local sandbox. No digging required.

As I picked out my leggings, shirts, and obnoxious jewelry, I was repeatedly overcome with the desire to turn to my fellow Wal Mart shopper and explain that I wasn't buying these things as a part of my usual wardrobe....they were for a party, really. But, I quickly noticed that most of the other girls in the young women's clothing section were selecting similar tops and bottoms but with the clear intent of wearing the items in all seriousness to school.

It was probably a good thing I kept back all of the cracks I wanted to make at Wal Marts "current line of fashion." I might have made someone cry. And it probably would have been me, after one of the girl's mothers decked me for insulting her daughter's wardrobe choice.

After making my selections, I quickly scuttled to the produce section of the store. Here again I felt prompted to explain what was in my shopping cart to every mother I passed in the isle....but these impulses, I think, were more justified. These were the mothers with the Prada purses, Lucky Brand jeans and Gucci sunglasses.

Only at my Wal Mart could I mingle with the fashion elite and the fashion backward at the same time.

I'll have you know that my ensemble was a success. I had a hair stylist friend tease my hair into rat's nest of a side pony tail and cake on the purple eye shadow.

                                                          A picture from the party.

                                     A later picture of the entire outfit. PS my camera adds 75 lbs to everyone. Seriously.


The party was a success as well. Vicar's wife is a great hostess and a great party-thrower. There was '80s music, '80s trivia, '80s decorations and even '80s candy!

The appetizer that won us all over was....wait for it....bacon wrapped bread sticks rolled in parmesan. Drool.

The challenge now will be to incorporate the separate elements of my '80s attire into my everyday style. Challenge accepted.

Video Wednesday

The Imp would like to invite you to be distracted from anything productive you might attempt today.

I give you:

Monster sized lip dub of lady gagas hits

This is something I wish I could have been a part of in college. I totally would have been in the Quidditch group...

Straight No Chaser 12 Days of Christmas

The Princess Bride Meets Star Wars

This one came from my dear friend Lizzi who can be found at Firestones on Film

Steve Miller Said It Best

The wealthy are different. A very intelligent, wealthy Jewish woman we'll call "V" told me this. And she was right.

While I was still living in Michigan and going to school, I worked for V and she became the Jewish mother I never had. She looked out for me like I was her own and was never short on witty words of wisdom and advice on life. I respected her honesty and frankness, her sense of style, her sharp intellect...I loved the fact that she could make the statement "the wealthy are different" and follow it with a real-life example. We were cleaning out her closet last spring (like we did at each turn of the season), and she told me she didn't want her Burberry satchel purse anymore, and would I like it? True story. Thank you V, for making this middle-class girl's dream come true.

Now back to the present, and how the wealthy are still different.

I have taken a second job here in Texas in addition to my 40 hour a week day job. Babysitting. Now don't laugh, I know I'm almost 23 and the proud holder of a double degree from Hillsdale College, but as far as I'm concerned (and everyone who's getting a Christmas gift from me this year, you'll agree), you're never too old to babysit wealthy children.

At the moment I am a regular babysitter for 3 families and counting. My growing brood of adoptive children have become little blessings in my life. We play together, share daydreams and fantasies, laugh, read books, and they keep me highly entertained with their upper class attitudes at the tender ages of 5, 6, and 7.

Let's review some adorable examples, shall we?

Family "T" has two sons, Zach in Pre-K and Luke in K. One day, Luke told me that most luxury cars are  yellow and asked if I were familiar enough with luxury cars that I could tell the difference. Later that day, we were playing soccer in their backyard, which backs up to a golf course, when a man jogged by dressed in a white track suite carrying a golf club. Luke informed me it was a caddy (how could he tell?) and then proceeded to yell through the fence, "Hey caddy, why ya runnin'?"

When it was time for dinner, we had planned to order a pizza. I looked on the counter for the money the parents' had left to pay for dinner and discovered a $100 bill. Our order total came to $11. The lady from Pizza Hut on the other end of the phone politely told me I could not pay an $11 order with a $100. I knew that, but apparently Mr. T did not.

A few days later I was babysitting for family "W", Peyton is in K and Jonathan is in Pre-K. If I were to ever kidnap a child, it would be Peyton. She is the first little girl who has completely stolen my heart (it's usually the little boys who steal my heart). After a full night with those two, I laughed with their mother at the new concept, for me, of hiring a professional company to hang your outside Christmas lights. 

But of course! I wouldn't want my hubby risking his neck hanging those lights on our multi-million dollar mansion with tiered roofs. Psssh.

The point is not that I hold these families lives in contempt. I am blessed and thank God every day for what he has given me. And I truly enjoy these families as my friends. I don't expect to absorb their class, paycheck, or attitudes simply by being their favorite on-call babysitter, but I also will not scoff at their willingness to pay me more per hour than my day job. I think Steve Miller had the right idea.

Take the Money and Run.

Except my version might start something like this:

This here's a story about wealthy kids and Ariel T.,
Six wealthy kids with nothin' better to do
Than sit around the house, playin' Wii, and spendin' money,
And here's what happened when Ariel decided to cut loose...

Go on take the money and run
Go on take the money and run...

Merry Christmas everyone. To spread some holiday cheer: it's the second song in the list, titled You Will Behave Like Gentlemen.

The Other Nicholas from Nebraska: A Day with Nicholas Sparks

For those of you who don't know, I work in the Advancement office of a private school. So, my work life is full of event planning and fundraising. One of our biggest fundraising events is our Signatures event. We invite an author to give a speech at a luncheon in a fancy ballroom and often to sign books afterwards. The money raised from this event supports the fine arts at the school. In year's past, the school has hosted Barbara Bush, Anthony Bourdain, and John Grogan (author of Marley and Me). This year, they managed to snag Nicholas Sparks, author of A Walk to Remember, The Notebook, Message in a Bottle, Dear John, The Last Song, and eleven other rather formulaic (according to my mom) sappy novels. I have never read any of his books because I never liked any of the movies. Although, he is a famous person, and he might be the first to admit it, and I can't hide the fact that I was a little excited to meet him and hear what he had to say. I think I was ready for his slightly inflated sense of self, what I wasn't prepared for was the role of bouncer/body guard to keep back the seething masses of woman. Personally, I think I should have received some compensation for putting myself in harm's way for the man, but I'm just the hired help.

His visit began on Thursday night three weeks ago. Several days earlier, he announced to us that he would be willing to give a more in-depth version of his Friday luncheon speech to faculty and students on Thursday night. This was very generous of him as many teachers and students could not skip school on Friday to attend the fundraiser. The Advancement office briefly met Sparky (our nick-name for him) before he was escorted to the stage of the Performing Arts Center. His talk was titled, "Learning the Craft." Many of us had brought pen and paper, prepared to take detailed notes from this author who has had half of his novels turned into movies (which indicates, I think, that he writes bubble-gum novels). The talk was funny and engaging, but it was all about HIM. It was a focus on how amazing he is, how lucky he was, how he does everything. If anything, we hopeful writers learned that we should capitalize on the tragic things that happen in life (all of his books are based on true family stories) so we can sell them for $1 million a pop. Great. I don't consider my life full of sappy love tragedies. Or vampires. I'm screwed.

I will say this about him, he is very good with students. He took lots of questions and answered them all. He even answered a girl's question on how to tell her mom not to make her quit sports because she has a B in science class. He also told us the answer to what is, according to him, the most frequently asked question: he wears boxers. I knew it.

Friday was the big event. I put on a short dress, black tights and tall boots. In hindsight, perhaps I should have worn steel-toed boots and a muscle tee that read "Security." Registration and set up for the event went smoothly. I even got a picture with Sparky.

His speech for the luncheon was an edited and shorter version of his speech the night before, which was fine with me because I was focused on my food. Man was I hungry. No sooner was I done with my dessert (cinnamon and peach cheesecake), and it was time for us, the Advancement staff, to start preparing for the book signing.

Dear Lord, the book signing.

Ladies, start your engines. The moment women spotted us setting up the table, they were up out of their seats and queuing  up. I even saw some of them reapplying makeup. That's right. When it was their turn in front of Sparks, they were gonna look so darn fine that he would be inspired to right his next book about them. Uh huh, you keep those pipe dreams alive ladies. In the meantime, better apply an extra coat of that cherry flavored lip gloss (just in case Sparky leans in close while signing your book) and I'm going to get ready to play your personal paparazzi and his personal body guard. Ready, go!

You think I'm joking? Well, I'm not. I had to walk up and down a line of several hundred women, aged 12-75 and remind them that Mr. Sparks only had time to sign two books and no, he wouldn't be able to personalized them. Now please have your books ready and opened to the title page. If you would like a picture while Mr. Sparks is signing your books (remember, only two books per person), then please hand me your camera or iphone when you reach the front of the line. You'd think that after repeating these simple instructions multiple times these adults would be ready when they reached me and the table with Sparky. Oh no, all of these instructions had to be repeated while with one arm I physically held back the rest of the line and with the other free hand tried to work the camera feature on an iphone.

I think the funniest thing about the whole ordeal was that, despite multiple reminders and me shouting "look at me! smile!" 99.9% of the women forgot to look at me while Nicholas Sparks signed their books. All you could see was a wall of brown or blonde hair...yeah, who's going to believe that's you tagged in the photo on Facebook when we can't see your face? Epic fail. Sparky, on the other hand, never failed to turn, smile and pose perfectly for every shot. Good boy, Sparky. Kinda felt bad I didn't have a treat for him.

Thanks to the hard work of us line Nazis, and Sparks' signing efficiency, we finished on time, despite the last seven ladies in line who kept rotating through to make sure all 10 of their books were signed.

At the end of the day, after seeing Sparky off to the airport in his town car, we all went for drinks in the hotel bar.

Yes, I'll have two amaretto sours please. Cheers!

Sore Thighs, Soaring Heart

I found part of me last weekend, part of me that I had packed up and put in a box for almost 4 years. It pains me to admit I let part of me wither from neglect, but I know that a healthy helping of humble pie is one of the things that will help me ensure that I don't do this to myself again. My pride can take a hit and I can admit that I was wrong.

What was I so wrong about, you ask? What part of me was packed away in a box? The part of me that, for almost 12 years, jumped astride a horse for dressage lessons at least once a week during the school year and more often during the summer. When I was 7 or 8 I convinced my mom to let me try dressage lessons. She took me to her old instructor, Karen. Ironically, my mom was forced to stop her own lessons when she discovered she was pregnant with me.

Karen was, and is, a horse person through-and-through. She told my mom that I could come over for a test lesson to see if we could work together. Karen is not someone to put up with childish crap in children, or adults. It only took one afternoon out at the barn and my heart was sold. Lucky for me, I think Karen saw this and agreed to give me lessons. I continued riding and learning with her through the first year of college. She was one of the most influential and important people who helped me grow and mature as a young girl. Sadly, I don't think I fully realized this until college.

Although I never owned a horse, or competed in the arena, I took my riding very seriously. However, after my sophomore year in college, travel, internships, jobs and my blossoming life as an adult crowded out my time for Karen and for riding. After the summer between my college freshman and sophomore years, I never returned to the barn, to Karen, or to the horses. I tried several times to call her on the phone and see her at the barn, but each attempt was met with answering machines and notes left in the tack room. I know I could have tried harder to hold on to this very large part of my life, but I think I was too distracted by the promise of new adult adventures and ashamed I had let my connection to the horses and Karen slide so far already. I started to feel so ashamed about this that I stopped letting myself think about my life with horses in it.

Flash forward three years and some change to last Saturday. I had had multiple dreams with horses in them over the past few weeks. Enough was enough. I can take a hint. I've started over in many ways down here in Texas, starting again with horses should be no exception. My friend Dave had made a horse date for me out at a friend's stable. I was going back to place I never should have left. These thoughts were flying through my mind as I reached for a box in my closet. A box that hadn't been unpacked after my move.

Kneeling on the floor, I looked at the writing on the top of the box . It read "Horseback Gear" in my mom's perfect handwriting. I felt a searing pang of home sickness shoot through my chest. Of course my mom would have packed this box, she had always encouraged me in my riding and we shared a bond over our love for horses.

I grabbed a pair of scissors and jabbed violently at the masking tape which was holding such a large part of me inside a tiny, dark, cardboard prison. When the tape had given way and all four flaps of the box top were peeled open, my hands were greedily shoving my riding pants and vest into my face. Ahhh! It all still smelled of Tesoro, Madison, of Hagi and Avatar. The horses that had taught me so much. I could try and hide memories, but oh the smell! That couldn't be washed from these clothes even after 100 washes. I grabbed up my Tipperary helmet and then looked to my two pairs of boots. One I used to wear during the Michigan winters. They were well insulated and were great for mucking stalls and crunching through muddles of partially frozen mud. The second were my knee-high dressage boots. Which to wear? I was pretty sure I would be put into a Western saddle that afternoon, so better go with the winter ankle boots.

Cody was his name, and he must have thought I was out of my mind. I kept wiggling in the saddle on his back and asking Ben to adjust the stirrup lengths for me. I was told Cody had a sensitive mouth because of some prior abusive riding and care, so I rode with an extra long rein. After a half an hour of finding my seat, listening to Cody and making sure he was listening to me (how I expected him to feel my small riding signals through all that leather of the Western saddle, I don't know) I decided we could try for a nice sitting trot. Now that was an embarrassing endevour.

My dressage training was getting me squat with this horse. Ben jumped back on him and even he couldn't get Cody to move faster than a walk without some serious leg thumping. The solution: spurs. Cody only had to see Ben put them on my boots. As soon as I remounted, he had a more lively walk. That's more like it.

I won't say my sitting trot was elegant. I was still unsure of his pace, gate, and the saddle, but I could sit it and keep him at it steadily, which was all I needed to know. I had my mind set on one goal, one of my favorite things in this life: riding the canter. I think God made my heart for the canter and the canter for my heart. Again, I won't say they were the best circles of canter in the arena, but they were smooth and fast. My legs wrapped and formed around the saddle and Cody. I let my hips find his rhythm. And then I let my heart sing a song of praise as it soared at the pace of the canter.

It was all very poetical. The feeling of my inner thighs the next three days were not. But they were a bitter-sweet reminder of what I had rediscovered by swallowing my pride. Those aches and pains were also a confirmation in my mind that the English saddle is superior in many ways to the Western. But that is a post for another day.

This post is dedicated to Tesoro, my first horse love, Hagi, a mare who matched me in attitude, Madison, the fastest ride of my life, and Karen. I would not be the person I am today without her. God bless them all.

Madison and Me almost four years ago.

It's Wanting What You've Got

Thank you, Sheryl Crow, for giving me those perfect words. And yes, I think I will soak up the sun :)

On Halloween weekend I was given a most wonderful surprise. That Thursday night, just before 11 pm, I got a call from my boyfriend. He told me that he had decided he would drive 12 hours on Friday to be with me that weekend (everybody say, "awww"). I was ecstatic to say the least! We had both had a rough week and the thought that we still had 25 of the 42 days apart still to go was just too much. I could barely sleep that night. First of all, I kept running through a list in my head of the things I needed to do and clean before Nic arrived. But more importantly, I was caught up in the realization that what I had been waiting for, what was being denied me, was going to show up on my doorstep in less than 24 hours. It was like suddenly being told a week into advent that Christmas was actually going to come tomorrow, several weeks early.

The entire time that Nic was with me that weekend, I couldn't help but look over and see him and think that I wanted so much what I had right next to me. You would think this should always be the case, that we we deeply desire what God has already given us, but more often than not, we stop desiring something after we acquire it.  This is a very sad thing. But, this post is not about sad things, it's about a very blissful weekend of wanting what I've been blessed with, a loving boyfriend.

One of the highlights of the weekend was a lunch date to a little mom-and-pop restaurant called The Country Bumpkin's Cafe. I discovered this little treasure on the 30 minute drive from my apartment to the nearest outlet mall. I'm sure 9 out of 10 people speed past this little cafe without noticing its existence. It's on a road bordering country pastures and it looks like someone's house with only a small sign out front. Once I saw it, with it's wrap around porch complete with porch swing, I knew I had to stop and eat there the next time Nic was visiting.

When I was younger and my family would go on road trips, my dad loved to stop at the mom-and-pop restaurants to make sure his family got a slice of Americana in each town. I remember really abhorring having to stop and eat at these places, places like Paul Bunyan's Cook Shanty in the Wisconsin Dells. Of course, we then discovered that the Shanty served fresh, right-out-of-the-oven cinnamon and sugar dough nuts at every table and the biggest stacks of pancakes we'd ever seen (pancakes are a personal addiction). I think this experience might have cured me of my aversion to mom-and-pop establishments. I now thank my dad for taking us to these places, he planted a seed of curiosity and appreciation in me. Now that curiosity was piqued by this Bumpkin's Cafe. Luckily enough, Nic has a wonderful sense of adventure when it comes to food and was more than willing to indulge me by taking me on a lunch date to the cafe.

I had done a little research prior to our date. I wanted to see if the Cafe had a website (I was very doubtful). They did not, but they did have a very popular Facebook page (go figure!). As I scrolled down the list of comments on their wall, I discovered that this place was a favorite in many locals' hearts. They raved about the Bumpkin Burger and their homemade desserts. Perfect. From the Facebook comments I planned out what we should order before Nic ever arrived in Texas.  I know, I'm kind of a planning freak.

When Nic and I pulled into the small,  gravel parking lot of the cafe, there was only one other car parked in front of the large porch. An older couple sat at a wooden picnic table on the porch. Both of them stopped and said hello as Nic and I made our way inside the tiny restaurant. It was kind of like walking into someone's covered porch at their home. It was full of mismatched tables and chairs and the walls were decorated with Texas country memorabilia (ahem, remember the decor of the Big Texas Saloon?). A lady, who could have been our grandmother, leaned out to us over the ledge of a half opened door. She asked us how we were and pointed us to menus that were paper print outs stapled together. I already had in mind what we should order, but we looked anyway. We ordered the Bumpkin Burger, the peach cobbler and of course I got sweet tea, then we headed outside to the porch to wait for our lunch.

When our burger arrived, it screamed Texas. It's a big burger, with the works of lettuce, tomato, onion, but it's also topped with barbecued beef.  Cow and more cow. Mmm, baby, but was it tasty! I'm not a huge meat person, but this made me a believer from the first bite. Nic and I were glad we split it because it was rather big (but it's Texas, so we shouldn't have been surprised) and we wanted to leave room for our cobbler. It came out shortly after we finished the burger. It had literally just come from the over and was too hot to eat. When we could eat it though, we agreed we had never eaten so much sugar, butter, and biscuit soaked in sticky sweet peach syrup. We joked that Nic would need a shot of insulin as well after this dessert. It wasn't the best cobbler, but the burger and sweet owners who severed us were worth it.

I can't wait to take my mom, dad and brother to the Country Bumpkin's Cafe. Just knowing it exists and having eaten it's signature burger makes me feel more like a local.