Would you like Fryes with that?

Make Room for Baby... Literally

2011-02-03T11:30:00.000-05:00

More like a "During Picture" than a "Before Picture"
The room was olive green with Pottery Barn paisley bedding.
The NEW room color (blue pictured) is Bluestone by Eddie Bauer at Lowe's.

I can't wait to have a baby with this man. Mostly, I just want a kid exactly like him.

Justin picking out lumber at Lowe's... BTW, did you know that 1x8s aren't 8 inches?
Yes. We found that out the hard way.

Fly Army. Support our Troops. Vote for George W. Bush. Listen to Bob Dylan. That's my man.

Justin installing the "picture moulding" that he had fought me on for months.
I won.

The painting I had in my head from the time we found out we were having a boy.
I ended up so happy with it, and I'm not usually happy with my own work.

Two old photos Justin and I picked out. His is a group of Army boys doing their daily chores.
Mine is a creepy looking toddler sitting on a very old propeller plane toy.

Details. Scout's work paid off. We tied the bumper on with a tweed-like trim I found at a local fabric shop.

Red linen crib bumper, cotton vintage airplane fabric for the sheet, and grosgrain ribbon print bedskirt.
All by Scout.
The red and stripe were purchased here in town. The vintage airplane fabric is available at Warm Biscuit.

I love this vintage toy top. I found it at Feather Your Nest (Lexington) for $22.

My old rocking chair as a child. Dad painted it then and I didn't have the heart to change it.
Blanket from Cathorine Temple. Boxing gloves were Justin's grandfather's. I love them there.

Vintage planes, toys and books line the picture moulding.
The print "The Little Aviator" was given to Justin by his mother, GG.
Townes's letters available at At West End.

The Moses Basket in the foreground is one of my most treasured gifts yet.
Faye Temple gave it to me at my shower.
I adore it and will carry him around in it until he is too big to fit. Then, it will hold his toys. LOVE.

Eleven of these line the longest wall under the moulding. They are old Wings Cigarette Cards that used to
come in packs by Brown and Williamson in the 40s. I found all 11 of them on Etsy for $10.
I found the frames at Hobby Lobby for $4.99 and placed the burlap fabric behind it.

View into his room from the hallway.
I found the rocking chair in Auburn years ago for $25 and recovered it.
The pillow is an old French feedsack.

A view from the top.

Until Townes gets here, this light fixture is really the star of the show. Scout purchased it from a vendor at the Nashville Flea Market. This month, he is featured in Country Living Magazine.

Again, it's all in the details. Scout is so good.

I just can't get enough of this toy top. Mid-photo is Justin's old wooden rattle.
Justin built the shelving around iron brackets I found in Auburn at Christmas.

Once again, the top.

I loved using this old vintage toy of Justin's as a bookend.
Believe it or not, there are still planes left to display.

A view of my barley twist furniture (side table) which adorns every bedside in my home, not to mention is the style of my kitchen table, two living room tables, a desk chair, and a plant stand. Obsessed? Maybe a little. The lamp came from Homegoods and was a birthday present from me to Justin years ago.
Secretly, I just wanted it.

Justin's old Hunting and Fishing Game in the background.
Curtains by Scout. Fabrics from local shops. Burlap trim on valance is $0.99/yard at Hobby Lobby.
Burlap panels donated to me by Sherri Wolf, owner of Henry Brown.

My long-awaited and so undeserved crib.
Way out of our price range, I had given a similar photo to Dad (Duck) as a template for him to make a crib.
When they sold their house and decided to move, we looked elsewhere for a purchase.
On a wing and a prayer, I found this at Me and Mommy to Be in Knoxville and she sold me the floor model.
Still a stretch, we made up for the difference with two savings bonds my
late great-grandmother had given me the year I was born.
Thank you Duck. And Aunt Effie.

I just want to take the time to thank our family for these blessings. Without you, we wouldn't have been able to decorate this nursery and fill it with the things about which we've always dreamt.

Scout, for your hours upon hours of sewing, stitching and fittings. For your patience with me to have the exact room I always wanted. For the light and the rug that you surprised me with at Christmas. And for the million times a day we talk about the "details."

Duck, thank you for making my dream crib a reality. For loving us and advising us in all the ways you do. And for the million times a day we talk "because you had me on your mind."

GG, thank you for your generous gift this fall that made so much of this room possible- the paint, shelving, changing table (not pictured), frames, etc. We are so grateful to you for your role, no matter how far away that role is played.

And Pop, for the stroller (not pictured) which we bought on your dime- it is one of my favorite pieces I look forward to using. It will last us for years. We are always sad thinking of the "Pop Talk" that Townes may miss out on being seven hours away. Now if you could just join the rest of the population and get a computer! We could Skype.

Thank you, Family, for all that you do. Mostly, it's not about the material things we've filled the room with in which to welcome him. It's about the love you will help us fill that very same room with this March. We are so grateful.

To Justin, who I rarely give a shout out to on my blog... You are the light of my life and I relish in the thoughts of welcoming this baby boy with you. Our little family- you, me and Townes. You will never know the times in a day that I think of you, the father of my child. You will be a father in the biggest, greatest, finest sense of the word. That word was meant for you. And if you are half as good a father as you have been a husband, well, then your depth in that role is not even imaginable. Thank you for my son. I love him already.

Are you there Blog? It's Me, Meredith

2011-02-02T10:54:00.008-05:00

Remember the book by Judy Blume? Couldn't resist with the title of this post. So fitting. I feel so negligent. I promise I'll be a better mother to my child than I have been to this site. But I'm going to make up for it now. You wait and see...

I haven't posted about much in the last 6 months, except for the news of our baby boy, who is still making his home in my tummy at almost 33 weeks. Like a mugshot, my profile says it all.

I spent about two months this fall immersed in political work again (I know, I know- I thought I was finished with that phase of my life). Apparently not. I bought a Mac (on a loan until I could sell a kidney), wrote it off, and worked for an old boss who took a chance on a greenhorn like me. I designed printed pieces for mail. LOVE.

I died over this work. I mean, I hate to say that because really the only ones dying for something are Troops and Jesus (and I'm not making a mockery of either- I can say that as a Christian, military wife), but I totally ate it up. I loved it. I loved sitting in my pajamas all morning, coming up with color combos, catchy bullet points, and dealing with candidates. Too bad November 4th put an end to my work. But even with the primary season around the corner, I couldn't commit after that. The last six weeks of this spring's primary happen to be the first six weeks of Townes's life. But I'll attempt to pick it back up again this summer. Yes, there are races to be won (in Kentucky, Virginia, Maryland, Mississippi and Louisiana). On to the next creative outlet...

Over Christmas my mother (Scout) taught me how to crochet. Incidentally, it was over Thanksgiving that she had just taught herself how to crochet. That's just how Scout rolls. Since then, she's woven 6 stars for the Christmas tree, 3 scarves (at least), and a baby blanket. Not to mention all the other work she's done to enhance my life- those projects posted soon in my next post, "Make Room for Baby... Literally."

Scout and I had a ball fostering our creative spirits. We came up with some great designs for Maternity Hospital Gowns (hey, a girl's got to look good for her visitors). They even button at the shoulders for easy nursing. They are available in a few weeks at the Lexington shop, Cradle Will Rock www.cradlewillrock.blogspot.com. Pretty soon, you'll also be able to purchase them in our Etsy Store. Along with some other items I've been creating for friends. For Alison, a dear friend who is less than 3 weeks behind me in her pregnancy... a door hanger with her son Woods's initials (SIDENOTE: having a child's name that ends in an "S" makes it difficult to feel grammatically correct. I tried doing a multiple plural "S" and writing Townes' but then someone on Facebook said, "Oh, his name is Towne." I digress....).

Later, I painted a 24x30 canvas to go over Townes's (see, again- an issue) crib. You'll see it all come together in my next post of his fabulous nursery- our most favorite room in the house. We keep going in there and sitting, like we can't wait for him to get here. Mostly, we just wish the rest of our house looked as good as our son's room. Oh well.

And last, a grouping of hostess mostess gifts- handpainted towels with artisan soap and these fabulous letterpress "Thank You" cards that my sister in law gave me. She's so great at gift-giving. I hope my Lexington shower hostesses think I am too. I thought about putting a tag on it that reads, "You can wash your hands however you want, but hand wash these towels cold." Funny? I'm not sure. I'll think about it.

Talk of the Townes

2010-12-03T15:44:00.003-05:00

If you haven't already seen our video, on Youtube (search Small Frye for future reference), then you can see it here. I had so much fun putting it together and hearing everyone's reactions to our big reveal.

As you know now, IT'S A BOY!!! And as you can see in the video, we are thrilled. Beside ourselves. Almost so much that we feel spoiled at this point. Not only did we always picture ourselves as parents to a first-born boy, we are able to use the name that we've dreamed of using for over eight years.

Our first date is where it started. He picked me up in his grandfather's 1986 Chevy Celebrity Eurosport. It felt like we were riding around in a big living room. After purchasing it from his aunt for $1000, he had a CD player installed and I heard a familiar voice on the radio when I got in the car. "Who is this?" I asked. He dismissed me, saying, "Oh, you've never heard of him." I said, "Yes I have- this is Townes Van Zandt." Floored, he replied, "You know who Townes Van Zandt is?" And I said, "I only grew up listening to him." Thus began the realization of our shared taste in obscure music. And thus was the conversation that sparked our favorite boy name: Townes.

We always swore that would be the one. But given our luck so far at conceiving, not to mention that we'd need to be pregnant with a boy, I never thought we'd see the day that we would get to use it. I also had such a positive reaction from people over the years that I thought someone would surely steal it before we got to this point. We are so happy to introduce him to you in a few months. Townes Frye, after the great late singer of "To Live is to Fly." As for a middle name, well, that's still up in the air. :)

We're Having a Little..................

2010-10-22T10:55:00.004-04:00

Watch this Video FIRST- The Explanation:

Watch this Video LAST- The Reveal:

Good things come to those who wait...

2010-09-08T21:39:00.005-04:00

I guess I have spoiled the surprise. But before you read this, I urge you to scroll about 5 posts down to "We plan. God Laughs." It truly is the beginning of this crazy journey. I am 11 1/2 weeks pregnant!

I had been journaling these moments from the beginning. Actually, I journaled about what I didn't even know existed. I was totally at peace with God's plan for us. And that's when it happened. To follow up to the previous blog posts (which I am just now posting tonight with this one), we went back for a subsequent ultrasound at almost 9 weeks. Praise God. This baby is healthy, happy and moving around! Already? This ride is going to be crazy. I hope you'll join us on it.

One small Frye, please!

2010-08-11T11:49:00.006-04:00

It has been one week since we saw the little heartbeat flicker on the screen. One week since the ultrasound tech turned up the sound and we heard the ever-so-longed-for sound of "duh dunk duh dunk duh dunk," beating in our ears. It has been one week since we figured out this really is it. We are finally, after 3 years, 4 months of trying, going to be parents.

Oh, what a feeling.

For this child I have prayed

2010-08-03T17:16:00.009-04:00

I am 6 weeks pregnant. It's so early, I know. My subsequent blood test showed my hcg increasing at 511% every two days (way above average), ruling out an ectopic pregnancy. Praise God. Tomorrow I will get to see the little english pea-sized being that is growing inside of me. Lord willing, we will see (and maybe hear) a heartbeat flickering on the screen. For this child I have prayed. Oh, have I prayed.

Life keeps interrupting my story. I guess that's a bit of an understatement. But what I mean is that I keep trying to hammer out the way things began and I can't seem to finish my thoughts. I'll attempt to now, before tomorrow changes everything. And I mean everything.

Read back to "Twinkles in Our Eyes" http://fryeswiththat.blogspot.com/2009/08/twinkles-in-our-eyes.html if you've forgotten how it reallly all began. In that post, I wrote something a little controversial to read... especially to family and those to whom we're close. In November of 2008 I had just found out I was pregnant, and desperately trying to make God understand that it was my wish to keep my dying grandfather alive. Two days later he miraculously made it through his risky operation, and I miscarried that baby. He stayed in the hospital for over 50 days and finally lost his battle in the middle of January. We buried him on January 20, 2009 and the next day I found out I was pregnant a second time. Unfortunately, that pregnancy turned out to be ectopic, and we lost the baby at 7 weeks. Oddly, you would think there couldn't possibly be another coincidence about life imitating life, and about the true, weird, undeniable circle of life. But this new baby, this little english pea, is due on my grandfather's birthday.

How funny life is. How funny God is, I guess. The week that I found out this time, I was struggling. I was struggling with my purpose. Justin and I- who rarely are at odds- were in a bit of a rut over decisions about career, life, etc. And we were both stressed. It didn't help that I had lost a bit of self worth since not being able to identify with a career path or passion, and I was truly searching- at the expense of my emotions, and sometimes his, I'm afraid. I had broken down with him on several occasions. He was leaving on business for the week, and on Sunday I said, "When you get home at the end of the week, I will have found my purpose." That Thursday, he walked in the door and I sat him down on the couch with the news. My purpose. What an honor. I can't imagine a better way to identify than taking on the greatest job of all: Mom. And best of all, I might finally be able to make him a Dad.

Flash back to three years ago. It was June and Justin was just returning from a flight school and we would finally be able to really start a family. I felt it was the perfect time for us. And in my positivity I just knew with all my heart that a March baby was meant for me. And so I prayed. "Lord, give me this March baby. I'll be big and pregnant in all the cold months and can cover up with layers. I won't have to feel swollen and bloated while it's hot outside. And the baby will be born just in time to take long walks in the spring and take in the fresh air. The child won't be too old for his grade, or too young. Yes, a March baby is meant for me."

For this child I have prayed. Way before I knew it. Due end of March, 2011, three years after I prayed for it. God really does have a sense of humor. How could He not? Did you hear what I was saying to Him?

Yes, we WILL be having Fryes with that... at least one, anyway

2010-07-28T18:55:00.006-04:00

Today is Wednesday, July 28, 2010. This is the journal I will publish on my blog about 6 weeks from now. I will be over 11 weeks pregnant when you read this.

On Thursday, July 15th, I had a positive pregnancy test. This isn't new for me. If you know much about us, it's not the getting pregnant we have trouble with. It's the staying pregnant. So naturally, I was cautiously excited. I called the doctor and being the high-risk patient that I am, she had me come in for immediate bloodwork. They say there's no such thing as "a little bit pregnant." O contraire. It was probably the first possible moment I could have known. I was barely on the chart. And my progesterone, of course, was lower than it should have been to sustain a pregnancy. So she put me back on the supplement I had been rebelling against in my "we're giving it up to God revelation." We spent the weekend praying. On Monday, I was tested again. They say your pregnancy hormone should double every 2 days. Mine had increased 500% every 2 days. My progesterone was now above average.

The next week was a blur. I noticed a few of the rumored pregnancy symptoms, and tried to take it easy. Having had an ectopic pregnancy, I was 10-25% more likely to have another. So we waited until this past Monday (one week later) to draw blood again. In the meantime, we prayed.

God plans. Now I'm the one who's laughing...

2010-07-28T18:28:00.008-04:00

This is the first time I have had a home office. I turned the sitting area in our master bedroom into one so that I could do a little work from home for a good friend who runs a website. It has been nice to be at the house each day, playing housewife and lunching with friends. I get bored and so often I have tried to sit down and update my blog, but it never seems to happen.

Even when I had my most heartfelt topic on the tip of my tongue, I couldn't finish. But today I will. Actually, today I will begin.

At the end of May we left Justin's training in South Alabama and arrived back to Lexington with a new lease on life. He was back at work and I was trying to get settled in to this new routine, hoping the right job would come along, but not knocking down doors to find it. I suppose I'll consider doing that here soon. As I had begun to write in the previous (just now being published) post, I was struggling. I had come to a very simple conclusion in May, after our fourth failed attempt at getting pregnant (naturally, except for a progesterone supplement the last half of my cycle) since he arrived home from Iraq. I drove home from my college girlfriend's house in Jackson, Mississippi and cried until I got to Montgomery. I was going to give it up. Not give up. Just give it up. To Him.

I don't know how to explain my revelation any other way than I had come to the conclusion that I was placing too much emphasis on the physical/worldly things that God provides, rather than God himself. For instance, my internet research, ovulation predictor kits, and newfangled ideas for fertility had altogether replaced the sense of peace we are all supposed to have in Him- struggle or not. I truly don't believe God thinks there's a difference between thanking him for what we love and thanking him for the things we hate. I think we feel entitled to so much in this world that we forget what blessings are actually out there. And so I began to thank Him for my struggle. I know that sounds odd, like I was all of a sudden praying to him for infertility. But I gave up my needs and thanked Him for his will. Pure and simple.

While this may sound like reverse psychology on God, I can assure you He's far too all-knowing for that. I just threw my hands upward, and let go.

I know there's supposed to be an end to this story. But I can tell you now- this post is the very beginning. I have a story to tell and I am (almost) ready for you to hear it.

We Plan. God Laughs.

2010-06-14T17:10:00.011-04:00

I know my title for this post might seem a little sacrilegious. But I half believe it. I have struggled with whether or not to put this information out on my blog. Today, I feel called to do so.

Since first opening up about our fertility struggles in this blog post http://fryeswiththat.blogspot.com/2009/08/twinkles-in-our-eyes.html (I choose to use the word fertility, because I like to think it's the fertility we're struggling with, not the infertility), I have received countless emails, comments, phone calls, notes, etc. I have been truly touched by the ability women feel to open up after long moments of silence. I have been inspired by so many of you and I just want you to know how hard I wish that we didn't have this thing in common, but that if we're fated to have it then I sure am glad you are here with me on this ride.

As you may know, our fertility struggle began three years and two months ago. That doesn't necessarily mean we've had every single month to give it a try- he was gone for almost a year so getting pregnant during that time would require some 'splainin- but it doesn't change the fact that we've been at this for a while. We've been at it longer than any of my close friends who are now on to their second babies now. So today I feel called to tell you my revelation.

********

..... That was me then. I never finished this post. I am "backposting," as today's date is actually July 28th, over a month after I started to tell you what happened. Read on to the next blog for the end of the story. Actually, it's more like the beginning.

House-keeeeeeeeping....

2010-04-27T14:00:00.004-04:00

Talk about Writer's Block. Or maybe life just got in the way. It is April now and Justin has been home for over seven weeks. So much has happened in our little life together that I hesitate to try to cram it all in to one blog post. Life itself isn't quite back to normal, but our life never really was that predictable.

I will try to sum up the feelings we experienced in the very beginning of this reunion. But it's so hard. Sometimes I have to rely on what others have observed, rather than what I was experiencing. It was similar to my wedding day- the way everyone always warns you that you will be so overwhelmed you will remember nothing at all. I remember my girlfriend Jessica Ditto, who was so loyal and loving to be present for the welcome-home ceremony, saying that when he arrived, I had been too calm and collected for my otherwise neurotic personality. We were having this conversation after the family had gone home and after Justin and I had gotten back into our routine. We were standing in our kitchen when she said it. I explained to her that if I'm given the time to prepare my emotions then I know how to get them in check. Throw a wrench in a plan I had at the last minute and I can hardly function.

But I had the time to prepare for this one. 325 days to be exact. I was standing in the Armory, a cold and sterile building, far from the romantic airport setting in which I had imagined us reuniting for so long. But it was 40 degrees farenheit outside and no one, not even for the sake of romance, wanted to catch pneumonia. I was wearing a black dress that had replaced my original choice of a dress with vintage airplanes on it (Mom decided it wouldn't photograph well). My hair was rolled that morning, with a little bobby pin holding up one side. Red lipstick, red nails; I was going for the pinup look. I even found a pair of vintage-looking stockings with the black line down the back (Calypso, Lexington). If the setting were going to be this ugly, I wanted to do as much with it as I could.

The airplane landed on time and we anxiously awaited their arrival, on foot, through the cold doorway. Their commander entered first, followed by a few other guys and then Justin, who was toward the end. I stood out from the line of awaiting family and waited until I caught his eye. Then I walked calmly into his arms and we kissed, right there in front of everyone, and we cried. Then he said, "Want me to dip you?" And that was it. The crowd applauded. We had an audience. They were probably all thinking, "Rookies."

About six weeks before he got home I made the decision to leave my job as national sales manager for Henry Brown. It had been a long and thoughtfelt process to get to that point, but inevitably I felt an overwhelming need to be available, both emotionally and physically, to Justin when he returned. I had a little over a month to get ready for his arrival. I relished every second of it- the anxiousness, the drive, with the greatest goal in mind- to welcome him home safely and honorably without him having to worry about so much as a car wash.

One week after I had been home from work, Justin called and said we needed to make a decision... fast. The guard unit was offering him another "school." It was his choice whether or not to attend the six-week course, and it would be at Fort Rucker, where we had spent the first year of our marriage. I sat there wondering how he could even consider it, given that he was still weeks away from returning from an 11-month deployment. Then he said, "It starts mid-April. Wanna go with me?"

It just so happens that Fort Rucker is less than two hours from the beach and less than 3 hours from all of our family members. It didn't take me long to say yes. We've been here less than two weeks and I have already visited all our old haunts. I'm taking Pilates at the new gym on post, framing lessons from the Art Center, and going antiquing without buying anything since we are now a one-income family. Justin's class schedule is less than challenging. He gets home between 1 and 3 each day and we play frisbee, grill out and occasionally attend cookouts or "Wing Night." We spent our first weekend at Pop's in Auburn, having drinks on his little patio and attending the 280 Boogy in Waverly, AL. Last weekend we made the trek up to Mom and Dad's farm in Clay County where we were visited by friends, Damian Cuttie and Jessica Pate. Lance Miller put on a fine show at the Ashland Theater, despite the warnings of a Category 5 tornado. Sunday, we put the canoes in Crooked Creek and had a fine time with David Mitchell and his gang of hellraisers. In all honesty, we feel a little spoiled. Yes, spoiled. It just doesn't seem right for anyone to have this much fun.

I would like to think we are living our life like "rookies" now. I would like to think that as we celebrate our five-year anniversary next month, we are still a little "green." I hope that's the case anyway. Recently, Justin asked me, "When are we going to stop acting like newlyweds?" One morning last week, as he waited for his ride outside our little on-post efficiency apartment, he turned to me and said, "I love you so much. I'll always love you. You are my best friend." Then he kissed me and got in the car.

I know people feel sorry for us. I know they think we have to suffer so much angst over separation and distance as a military family. But when I sense a little pity from someone, I respond this way: We get to experience a reunion, a romance, a feeling that so few others get to feel. Those emotions make me more thankful for what we have than any year together could ever accomplish. It doesn't mean I love him more because he's been gone. It just means I love him a little harder when he's here.

P.S. A special thanks to my cousin Eva Vaughan, our photographer at the welcome-home ceremony. Please visit her website at www.evavaughan.com.

Open my arms and heart... Check.

2010-02-24T14:07:00.004-05:00

A picture worth a thousand words, right? Nothing more to say about that now. Nothing needed.

Paint the front bedrom a neutral color, unlike the rest of the house... Check.
Childhood iron bed needs to be chartreuse to match Anthropologie bedding... Check.
Kitchen desk is too cluttered. Move to front bedroom where there is already a lot going on... Check.

Clean the baseboards. Check.
Mop the floors. Check.
Touch up wall paint. Check.
Wax eyebrows. Check.
Color hair. Check.
Tan. Check.
Sync Patty Griffin (all 7 albums) to Ipod. Check. (and listening now)
Invite the girls over for one last hoo-rah. Check.

Buy more expensive wine than normal, because of the name... Check. www.justinwine.com

Find and decorate a "Christmas in March" Tree... Check.
Wrap gifts... Check.

That's right. The burlap sacks that originally said "Speedy Cook'n"... now say "Peed Cook'n." Go ahead. Laugh.

Post the project without any shame or humiliation in my 32-hour project of recovering six kitchen chairs (in my mother's words, "It adds character.")... Check.

More to come later about the moment for which I've waited 45 1/2 weeks. Stay tuned...

MEREDITH Mainte-NANCE FRYE

2010-01-11T18:35:00.004-05:00

If I had it to do all over again, I think I would have quit my job when Justin left and devoted myself completely to a blog about domestic duties while a husband is away at war.

I suppose this could be my theme for entries over the next 7 weeks. I can write about the trials and tribulations of a love-scorned housewife whose husband has gone to war and left her with the never-ending responsibilities of a house in need of maintenance.... Not really. We live in a house that was brand new when we bought it and we live in a neighborhood with a fantastic HOA, so we're not in dire need of really anything (and by the way, Justin would never do that to me). But a girl has to have her projects.

I love Lowe's. I LOVE Lowe's. I mean I really do. I could walk around there for hours thinking of things I could do to improve the function, and even aesthetics, of my house. So last Friday (New Year's Day) that's what I did.

I did go there on a mission. To purchase the touch-up paint colors with which my house is already adorned: All from the Eddie Bauer Craftsman Bungalow collection, because that's the style of the house in which we live. Well, actually, the secret is out that it was built in 2006, so it's not TECHNICALLY from that era, but it's made to look that way. I guess you could call it a "Fungalow" since according to my friend Jessica and me, putting an "F" on the front of anything thereby desribes it as it faux. But I digress.

I also digressed at Lowe's. Finding a perfectly good use for things that I otherwise never knew I needed... And then there was the tile aisle. And there was Michael, the tile guy. I never meant for the conversation, complete with tile-laying instructions, to last that long. I simply asked him, "Hey, about how quickly and easily could you describe the tile installation process for a backsplash? About a foot tall and seven feet wide. Kitchen. Behind a sink. Natural material." And thus, see picture below.

One 15-minute conversation, one buggy-full (in the south we call it a buggy- up here they call it a shopping cart) of supplies, and one mid-afternoon later I had a fully-tiled backsplash (sans grout, of course as it needs to set overnight). My aforementioned friend Jessica, who is a new resident of our fantastic little neighborhood, came by and said, "I go to New Year's lunch at my aunt's house and in that amount of time you tile your backsplash!?!" While this would be a compliment either which way (provided the job was done well), I have to mention this comes from the same friend who actually asked, "Why can't we just spray paint the iron bed in the bedroom?" (instead of garage)

Friday night, I was home alone and actually excited about it. I picked up the house which was a disaster and was going to remain a disaster until I was able to finish grouting the week-old backsplash and flip the breaker back on. Up to that point, dirty dishes had sat unwashed and stacked on my kitchen table. UGH! If you are thinking to yourself that I could have hand washed them, no such luck. My disposal was also turned off so the sink was a little clogged. Anyway, I grouted the tile and felt victorious. Only problem? I had gone back later in the week to replace "Marble Beige Unsanded Grout" with a lighter creamier color of "Sanded Grout." My kitchen was a complete mess and every time I moved the carton of powder grout, it burped a big cloud of dust all over the countertops and sink. Finally, hours later, I had cleaned up the mess and sat down to have a beer. I purchased it at Whole Foods for a friend who came to town and it ended up... She's pregnant! Surprise! So I was left with a really fancy version of a "tall boy" with 7 % alcohol content, in such a pretty bottle I might add. http://www.gooseisland.com/pages/matilda/25.php

An hour later, Justin was calling and I was waxing on.. and on... about my night, even throwing in a few dates in the conversation which we, under no circumstances, ever mention over the phone lines. Finally, he asked, "Are you drunk?" I wasn't really, but I had gotten a little tipsy. The next day I wrote an apologetic email for any American security that might have been compromised. He told me later, "I will only worry if you are drinking alone and crying. If you are drinking alone and acting that funny again, I don't care." Apparently he and the guys had a good laugh over my poor judgment.

Saturday I spent the day with Brigitte http://www.brigittenguyen.com/. She's headed to the Vancouver Winter Olympics in February to compete in Bobsledding. Just kidding. She'll be cooking for the athletes. She's a chef who has been on FoodTV and will be competing again in the Food Network Recipe Showdown, airing in March. I love her. Top five favorite people- she's one of them. Anyway, we went to An Antique Affair, the show that opens once a month on Manchester Avenue. I found nothing of any value to me, but stumbled upon a 48-ft. square oak table from 1910, in pristine condition, and boasting SIX leaves! I sent Jessica (yet again, part of this blog) a photo of this kitchen table she so desperately needed and she wrote back "SOLD!" It's riding around in my SUV currently. She gets back tomorrow from Seattle and I'll get her to help me unload it into her kitchen.

Saturday night I spent the evening with two friends who just so happen to be two more of my top five favorite people, a couple named LaVoyed and Cheryl Hudgins (featured in this article of the Wall Street Journal: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203674704574336414204385806.html). In case you haven't noticed, I only put my famous friends in my top five. Just kidding. But their "fame" just goes to show you how dynamic they all really are. Anyway, I counted my blessings that day because I got invitations from two people I love and admire. I spent the evening drinking LaVoyed's mudslides with them and eating homemade chili.

Sunday, it was project time again. I had been late to Cheryl and LaVoyed's the night before because I got too caught up in staining my "shoe shelves" a dark ebony, only to realize I was out of mineral spirits to clean the stain off the brush and had no choice but to do all the staining at once. Since the shelves had dried overnight, it was time to hang them. I had naturally, already purchased the necessities for this project earlier that day at Lowe's.

Now what I'm about to tell you might be offensive to some. But I have the right to talk about women, since I am one and I think I know a thing or two about being one. While I was at Lowe's buying the "shoe shelf" equipment (only a woman would go to Lowe's to build something to hold her shoes), I stumbled upon both a man and a woman standing side by side, who worked there. Now, I'm no sexist but I do have a few theories. First of all, I'm not a big fan of women sportscasters. I think it is possible that they know about as much as a man when it comes to the current state of a team's statistics, its batting average, or its past 10 seasons. But what I also know is that she didn't grow up playing tackle football in the front yard with her dad. And second of all, if she did.. that's weird.

Anyway, I have this same theory about home improvement. I mean, when given the choice of asking for help from a man or a woman, I'm sorry ladies, but I'm going to choose the man. So I did. But this certain lady really, really wanted to help me. So I followed her to the screw aisle (please, no comments- there's no other way to say it). I needed two kinds of screws for my L-brackets. One pack held the 1/2-inch long ones to go into the shelf itself. The others would go into the wall. I repeatedly told her that I was screwing them into drywall. So she handed me a pack of TWO-INCH long screws (no anchors) made for wood, stating that my dry wall was probably two inches thick. I don't know any dry wall that is two inches thick, so that should have been clue number one to stick to my theory, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt.

The next day, after polishing off a morning coffee I was positioned with my newly-stained shelving on the floor of my closet. I was ecstatic about the idea of displaying my new Frye boots and leopard-print platforms where I could actually see what I was choosing to wear (I'm a big believer in seeing what you own, or you will forget to wear it... is this a problem?).

First, I went to drill the unrealistically long screw into the drywall only to find that it was so far in that it wiggled and threatened to come out the other side and land in my bathroom. So I moved on to the shorter nails that I had used to screw into the wood, all the while cussing the lady at the home improvement store for her lack of knowledge. Thirty minutes in, I had all of the shelving on the wall and was just drilling the last shelving into the very bottom of the wall. Beaming with pride from my success, I must have knocked the wall with my drill and out of nowhere the six other shelves came crashing down and landed on my head. I don't really know why, but this too must have been the Lowe's lady's fault as well and so I cussed her into the first of next week.

One Starbucks-bold-with-two-raw-sugars-and-cream and yet another Lowe's run later, I was back in the closet (ah hem), hammering DRY WALL ANCHORS in, followed by a 3/4 inch screw.

Alas, the project was complete and very industrially fashion-forward, I might add. So, the moral of the story is... Think twice about a woman telling you how to stain wood, build and hang shelving and curtain rods, rework an old lamp, or tile a backsplash. As a matter of fact, disregard this entire blog entry and exit this computer screen.

I am quite the hypocrite, aren't I?

The Dreamer and the Realist

2010-01-08T11:45:00.006-05:00

I'm not really as aloof as I sometimes might sound. I do have this uncanny ability to put up my best defense mechanism- getting over it. But while that might be the end, there is usually a long journey of a means to getting there.

I got there quickly last Friday night when Justin told me his news. I feel selfish about the way I wrote the last entry because I didn't really address the most important people in the equation- my husband, and namely his comrades. It wasn't until I got a comment on my blog from one of the guys in the unit who Justin has come to like and admire that I realized my mistake (he calls him "good people"). John wrote that they were disappointed too. And then I thought for a good long while about how two more weeks makes them feel. I realized there are a lot more things that they have to look forward to in a homecoming, than the waiting families and friends can ever really imagine. I mean, after all, we have stood here on American soil, in our day-to-day lives (albeit a bit empty without their presence), but we got to get on with it. Their hopes, dreams and realities were essentially put on hold. And now, two more weeks will go by with them experiencing "Groundhog Day." I bet two weeks is a lot longer to them than it is to you or me. That's why I feel selfish today.

I am also selfishly devoted to finding a way to cope. I say it's selfish because in the last three years (really four, if you count his second stint at flight school) I have had to do a lot of that and I've become a master at this whole self-soothing thing, you know, at making myself feel better. Infertility woes- ups downs and in betweens, the loss of two grandfathers within eight months of one another, time for training spent away from the love of my life, a (now eleven-month) deployment to Iraq. I would say the list goes on and on, but really it stops there. At least at this moment. You see, I am not a pessimist. And while I like to call my husband one on occasion, he always replies, "I'm not a pessimist. I'm a REALIST." But I am neither. I am the eternal optimist. The somewhat UN-realistic optimist. A dreamer. In a favorite song from my childhood, Nanci Griffith sang:

Where are all the dreamers that I used to know
We used to linger beneath street lamps in the halos and the smoke
The wing and the wheel, came to carry them away
Now they all live out in the suburbs
Where their dreams are in their children at play

At seven years old, listening to the Texas folk artist from the backseat of my parents' minivan, I knew not what she sang. I simply didn't have control over the cassette player that was frequently filled with the music choices of my godparents and their heritage- rubbing off on my mother and creating in her a deep, deep love affair with the Lonestar State.

Nowadays, I understand. I get a little caught up in the future, and am not so concerned with the past. In the middle of doing so I often forget about the others who are on this journey with me. Too busy dreaming, I guess. I am selfish in my dreams. But less so in my actions I hope. I would follow Justin wherever he wants to take me. And I will do it without complaining (for the most part). I am caught up in my own love affair. And it makes me do things I otherwise probably didn't dream about.

There is one thing I know from listening to that song: I want tokeep my dreams. As a matter of fact, I want them to come true. And as a sidenote: I don't want to move out to the suburbs and live vicariously through my children's imaginations. I want our future family to be a product of mine and Justin's love affair with one another, first and foremost (those of you who have children will say, "Right. Let's see how that works out for you."). But it's good to have dreams.

So right now I am dreaming. I can't tell you everything I am dreaming about, but I will tell you one of them: I am dreaming of a Monday in March, where Justin flies back into my life (remember, it's the "WING and the wheel" that carry things away). After he gets home, maybe I'll fill you in on some of the dreams we dream together, and those that we dreamt apart. One thing is for sure- I did a lot of it while he was gone. We'll sit around and I'll fill his ear with many of them, and inevitably, he will bring me back down to earth once more.

In the words of Nanci, and as a shout-out to my mother (because she's busy dreaming with me), "Here's to all the dreamers... may our open hearts find rest."

God and Uncle Sam Have Senses of Humor

2010-01-01T23:13:00.003-05:00

Why do I even bother? Number one, I am a child of God- how can you really ever predict, plan or prepare for His intentions? But even if I thought I had some means of control over this crazy life of mine, why don't I consider for a moment that I am also owned by the Army?

I have to smile about it. I can't be too sad or upset, disappointed or let down. After all, it's just two weeks. TWO WEEKS! But I was foaming at the mouth to tear off week 7 on my paper chain this Sunday and round the corner to a mere 6 weeks left in this long-awaited journey of ours. But alas, there is red tape. Forget a Valentine's Day arrival- it was just too good to be true, and far too romantic I guess. End of February, Lord willing. Sam willing too.

I know it's only two weeks and Justin says to be thankful for his tour not having been extended for six months or something crazy, and all-too realistic these days. I am thankful. It's all relative. I was just so wrapped up in what little time was left. I mean, you can read- you saw how I had already planned out the day of the ceremony, the menu for dinner, the week following. But God probably laughed as I wrote it- he IS all-knowing, after all. And I went on and pretended that I knew what He had in store. That's okay. A sense of humor has always been important to me.

I bet He almost busted a gut today watching me at Lowe's, buying paint, rollers, brushes, and spur-of-the-moment supplies to lay tile along my kitchen backsplash (which I DID today, and did WELL, I might add!). All that and 8 weeks left.

Oh well. More time to feather my nest.

Why Half and Half Makes Me Feel Whole

2009-12-30T09:51:00.003-05:00

Remember the blog about self-soothing? It's hard to believe I wrote that one over 8 months ago (37 weeks ago, but who's counting?). The other day I went grocery shopping and bought Half and Half. I turned the carton over to reveal the expiration date: January 9th. Less than one month before Justin's release date! (Mark Twain said you shouldn't use exclamation points, but I'm excited.)

You should see my paper chain. It used to be woven all the way around the banister up to our bedroom. Now, it boasts just 7 little rings that entertwine with only two posts on the staircase. On Friday I can say, "Justin will be home NEXT MONTH." On Sunday there will be just 6 weeks left. How odd that I am now starting to feel like I am running out of time to get my tasks completed. I have to feather my nest. The kitchen paint needs finished (got to buy a ladder to do it), the front bedroom needs a new shade as does the old iron bed, the living room needs touched up, the base boards need cleaned, the kitchen chairs need recovered (I'll post pictures of this project later- 6 high-back oak chairs that are getting grey ticking stripe on the seats and vintage burlap sacks on the backs, finished with antique copper nail heads), the master bedroom needs new bedding and a good cleaning as does its bathroom, and on and on and on. I'm headed to New York at the end of January, which leaves me with only five weeks to do it all.

Less than a month after that Half and Half expires, Justin will board a plane back to the United States. He'll de-mobilize at a stateside Army base and make his way back to the Frankfort Airport, where he left us 44 weeks earlier. The family will come to town and we will reunite again on that little tarmac. We'll hug and kiss, eat and drink, and then I'll show our little home to him. Some things have changed since he left. I want to experience that moment together, alone. I want him to be able to take it all in. A few hours later, we'll meet the family again and have dinner at Shaker Village. Then we'll all stay up late having drinks at our house and catching up before the others retire to the hotel. We'll meet for breakfast the next morning and then spend the day in our little kitchen as everyone helps with our "Christmas in February" meal. We'll sit down to a menu of Frye-d Turkey (thanks to Jason), Mom's creamed potatoes and green beans, Giada's butternut squash lasagna, and Granny's sweet potato pie (made by me). Then, we'll open gifts which we postponed so our Soldier could experience Christmas at home. And I bet he's not expecting what I have for him. That's okay- I'm not expecting what he has for me either since he says he already has it and I never saw it come through on our American Express. Mom, Dad and Michael will probably head home the next day. His family will stay on for another day or two. And then he and I will leave for Asheville, North Carolina where we'll finish out what little time we have away from the hustle and bustle of family, work and our everyday responsibilities.

I am ready for this moment- dirty, unfinished, undecorated house and all. I am ready to begin the rest of our life together. I have to prepare my heart, although I think that is the thing that needs the least attention.

Clay County, Life's Bounty

2009-11-29T10:18:00.007-05:00

I was born and raised in Atlanta.. for the first ten years anyway. The state I've lived the longest in? Alabama. Throughout my entire life, I have traveled the state known as the "heart of dixie"- moved away, moved back, and moved away again. But I've always called it home.

My parents were high school sweethearts in Ohatchee, Alabama- the homecoming queen and the center of the football team (not quite as romantic as being able to say the quarterback, but still worth mentioning). Dad met Mom when the 3rd graders were asked to go read to the 1st graders. Mom was his "student" and he thought she was cute. What isn't cute about a first grader? But I guess it was love at first sight for Dad. He asked her out when he was 14 and she was 12, and then kissed her on the school bus. The rest is history. Or is it? I believe that sometimes in life, things don't actually become history. They get weaved into our makeup and come back to haunt us from time to time.

They sought out a new beginning, at 18 and 20, respectively. They set up house one state over, in Georgia (which must have seemed exotic to them at the time). Dad went to school at Southern Tech and they both worked nights at a photo developing shop. When I was one year old they bought a house in a newly-developed neighborhood and we lived there until Dad was transferred to Huntsville, Alabama 9 years later.

While living in Atlanta, I too thought Alabama was exotic simply because it wasn't Georgia. I would claim it as if it were mine- when in reality I only went there a handful of times in a year to visit my grandparents. But for some reason, because my parents and grandparents were born there, I felt like it owned me. And when we moved there, it just seemed right. I knew I would never live in Atlanta again. It had just been a pitstop along my parents' journey together. A means to and end. A detour.

They settled in Decatur, Alabama and have lived there ever since. The only problem is, they're never there. On weekends and in between business trips, they head off to a little spot on the Alabama map that we don't even call by its city. Clay County... life's bounty.

Situated about 30 minutes south of I-20, it might be the most convenient place on earth, geographically at least. From there, you can reach Auburn (our alma mater and Justin's hometown), Birmingham and Atlanta within an hour and a half. But it's not convenience that we're after. It would be more likely to fall in love with this place if you're already in love with inconvenience. That's what you get in the country... but that's part of its appeal.

Clay County feels like home even if you're only there on weekends. It's a place where your alarm system is leaning next to your bed- fully loaded and ready to defend. Your dogs sleep with you in the small cabin built by a father's hands (and a little help from the locals). There's always enough food on the stove, in case an unexpected visitor stops in, and most often does. When there's not enough to share you do it anyway and eat less. Christmas trees are cut, not bought. There are stories told by real-log fireplaces, like the one about the man who "was so sorry he had to dig his own grave." In Clay County you discover that a pot of potatoes boiling sounds just like someone driving up the dirt road and you're not sure which outcome you'd rather have. The doors are always open, but the house isn't always clean. When a man needs help, he gets help. When a woman is home alone, the man stays outside. When a loved one dies, a tree gets planted. When a friend gets cancer you buy the things he needs to sell, even if you don't need them. When a Soldier goes overseas the men sit around and talk about the wars they fought, until he comes home and they can hear about his.

The Piggly Wiggly is twenty minutes up the road, and you have to drive 30 miles just to buy beer, but it's that inconvenience that appeals to those with an old soul- those who enjoy the leisurely pace, the unexpected, and the journey you take when you have to work a little for what you get. If this is foreign to you, then hop in your car right now and head to the spot between Lineville and Cragford. You might have to stop and ask for directions. But what's the fun in getting there if you already knew where you were going?

When in Rome...

2009-10-17T11:59:00.015-04:00

Before I left for my trip I went shopping. A lot. But among the new outfits, scarves and comfy Tory Burch flats, I bought the basics: Shampoo, Conditioner and Body Wash. I wasn't out of those items when I left, but I replaced them with smaller, travel-size versions to make it easier to transport. One day, I'll open up a bottle of Biolage Color Care and be taken right back to my two weeks in Italy. I like that.

I have debated whether to spare you the details of the travel, leaving just the one-liner that encompasses the whole trip... the sentence we said to one another over and over and over again while there: "I'm so happy."

But I digress. I can't help it. Read further if you like. For you history buffs not interested in my playful lease on this part of my life, you can stop after this paragraph: We saw The Vatican, The Sistine Chapel, Michaelangelo's David, The Cathedrals of Rome, Siena, and Florence, The Trevi Fountain and The Spanish Steps. We spent time exploring Tuscany, shopping in Cortona, and we visited a vineyard in Montepulciano. Justin and I hiked the Cinque Terre Trail (in one day!) and we swam in the Meditteranean Sea. But that's not what I'm writing about.

Words can do a lot to describe what we experienced. But they can't do it justice by any means. I wanted to walk in the door on Sunday at 9 pm, fresh off the plane with memories recent, and begin to hammer out my entry. But jet lag and the need to refresh myself for the impending daily routines won out. Truthfully, I have had more fun reliving the moments, and recapping them to friends. I've been unable to get through a description of our time together without shedding a few tears. It was magical. It was perfect. I could not have asked for more.

Before I left, I wrote about Justin's heart. I read back over that entry this morning and realized it was a far cry from doing his character any justice. I realize the self-indulgence that bloggers possess. For some reason, we think others want to hear what we have to say. I don't care what you take from me, my opinions and my way of thinking. But I hope you get to know my husband. I hope you get him like I do when this is all over. I hope you have that honor.

That fateful Saturday in September (seems like so long ago), I was dressed in my aforementioned knit dress and Ms. Samuels' bracelets. I was calm after landing in Rome. I had been much more nervous during my connection in Detroit... that feeling of the unknown. The stress of travel ahead. But in Rome, I exhaled. I stood in line at the wrong baggage claim for over 10 minutes- waiting, watching, to never see my bag come around the corner. I wasn't hurried like I thought I would be. I was just at peace. When I made it to my bag, I headed toward the swinging doors that protected baggage claim from the outside world. As the doors swung open I saw the partition- much like something they would have between adoring fans and celebrities at a red carpet event. Everyone was watching anxiously to see their loved ones. And there, as the doors swung back, I saw him standing, just to the right. Clad in a blue polo, khakis and tennis shoes, his hair was short and his face was more toned than I could remember. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I ran to his side and we embraced, my 66-pound rolling suitcase knocking into my hip. We couldn't let go for at least a minute. Tears came between our kisses even as we were giving them. He had 3 gerbera daisies in his hand. LOVE.

I was dying for someone to capture this. But the short distance between the door and where he was standing didn't allow for much time to hand the camera over and I am sure it was the furthest thing from his mind at the time. Immediately, we had an overwhelming feeling of picking up right where we left off in April. The six months between our goodbye and hello seemed to disappear. We felt the instant connection that had bonded us to one another over seven years ago. The attraction, the sense of humor, the respect and love. I was the happiest I have ever been.

That feeling stayed with me until I left his side last weekend. We spent the first week with family- amongst food and drink and love and laughter (an abundance of all those things). To try to summarize the moments we all shared together would be impossible. I could never recap the memories from that week with our parents and brothers. We traveled Rome, attended happy hour in front of the Pantheon, made friends with our wait staff, and relished in our tourist attitude. We rode the double decker bus and saw the sights like true Americans. We spent four days in a Tuscan villa that became our home away from home. We were hosted, fed, loved and nurtured by Italy. Life was so good.

During the day we were pulled in all directions. A family of 9 means 9 opinions, 9 ideas (at least!) and 9 ways to get there. But we managed. All prior personalities were left at the door- in honor of our most important guest and his newfound, albeit temporary, "freedom." At night, we ate some of the best food any of us had ever tasted. Some nights, we ate at the villa, thanks to Mom's home-away-from-home-cooking. Most meals were shared together outdoors, including those at the villa, where we ate and drank underneath the vine-covered trellis.

The family left on the second Sunday and we cried. I cried because I hurt for them not getting to experience him any more than they did. I felt so blessed to be the one who had that honor. After our goodbyes we hopped on a four-hour trainride to Cinque Terre where we would spend the next 6 days... alone.

When we arrived in Vernazza, the 2nd-most northern town on the Cinque Terre Trail, we were speechless. We were situated in the most pristine and lively of the five towns, a point I had not missed when doing my research for our lodging. We literally felt like we had rolled our heavy suitcases right into Heaven. Our quaint little room looked right out over the Mediterranean Sea. The air was so cool that night that I wasn't sure I could move from the balcony to do all the things on our "to-do list" (shower, nap, get ready, drink, eat). It was here that we began uttering the words, "I'm soooo happy."

That night and the next day, we explored our little town. It didn't take long to walk through the main cobblestone street and scope out the shops that I would frequent over and over again later in the trip, contemplating souvenirs. But it was that quaintness that had us feeling like we owned the town by the time we left. We felt like locals.

On Tuesday, our 2nd full day there, we had planned out a route that would take us on the roughly 7-mile hike along the entire Cinque Terre Trail. We hiked from our town (Vernazza) down to the most southern (Riomagiorre), ferried back up to the most northern (Monterosso) and then hiked the trail between Monterosso and our home for the week. The terrain is extremely rugged, with manmade, rocky steps most of the way. By the time we arrived back in Vernazza around sunset, we felt victorious. We threw off our hiking clothes, bought two beers from the hotel bar and jumped into the turquoise water of our port.

Wednesday was my most favorite day. We put on swimsuits and took a train back up to Monterosso, where the best beaches awaited. We rented the two beach chairs furthest from the public and sunned, swam and snorkled in the clear blue waters of the ocean. Their beaches don't have shells, but rather rocks. I taught Justin about "sea glass," a phenomenon I had only read about, and we went on a day-long treasure hunt to find the best and most beautiful. We made memories I will never forget that day. The time was peaceful and playful and the moments ahead only got better.

The next day was overcast and we were debating how to spend it. We ended up in a few shops, but napped and relaxed most of the day. Every single night was spent the same way- drinks around 7 and dinner between 8 and 9. We always spent the evenings wrapped in conversation with one another.

It was Friday evening, our last night there that we had our best talk. We had made a last-minute decision to head up to Portofino earlier that day. It rained on us and the shops were closed when we arrived. Justin and I shared hotdog and egg pizzas while the rain poured down in front of Gucci, Prada and Emilio Pucci. When we got back to Vernazzza that night, I had every intention to shower and change into a nice dress for our last night in the Cinque Terre. But good conversation turned great and I realized that after sitting down for a drink as we waltzed back into town, my biggest fan was sitting in front of me and didn't care if I got my 138-dollars-worth out of that Anthroplogie dress I had been planning to wear. We ordered drink after drink, there at the Blue Marlin, where we had shared a breakfast of eggs (the only eggs in town) most mornings. We told stories of childhood, ones I know we'd both heard before. But somehow, they all sounded new and different.

That's how the whole trip went. The experiences were new and different. But the feeling was the same. Good, wholesome, comfortable love. That's what I got. That's what he gives me every second of every day of every year.

I left him on Sunday with less tears than I had thought possible and far less than what my silly heart had dreaded leading up to it. I left him with a sense of security, of memory and wonder. I wonder what the Lord has in store for us. I wonder what He'll surprise us with next. I know for sure we weren't expecting any of this.

And now that I am home, I realize I won't need the smell of a familiar shampoo after all. The memories are so real I can almost touch them. I pray they never fade, not even a little. I want to revisit them from time to time. I want to travel back to the place where everything was just right, just for a moment. In less than four months, I will have that chance again. No, we're not planning another trip (it will be a long time before we can afford to).

He will be home. And every day with him is like a vacation.

Flying Solo for a Moment More

2009-09-24T20:43:00.004-04:00

The time is here. The time I have waited for. Tomorrow I leave on the most exciting journey I have ever taken. I am headed to Italy to see the love of my life. He'll be waiting for me at baggage claim in the Fiumicino Airport. Rome bound. Love is right around the corner. Though it's been here all along.

God is so good. He knows me so well. I wanted a baby. Justin said if we weren't pregnant before he left for Iraq he would take me to Europe on his R&R. He made good on his promise. God did too. He has promised me the desires of my heart. But I feel so undeserving. To both of them.

Let me tell you about my husband. Let me tell you about his life. If you read my blog at all, then you know how it all started with us. But that's just the last seven years. Before that, he had already developed his character into will and determination, into loyalty and a kind heart. All things from which I would eventually learn. His example was noticeable from the very beginning. The silent leader. No one even knows it's him until all of a sudden everyone's following him. He doesn't shout from the rooftops that he's up front. He's just there. And you can't help but go with him.

He'll kill me for saying these things. He's too humble for this.

He didn't have to join the Army. As a matter of fact they tried to turn him away. Too old, too injured, too many traffic violations. But he kept up the fight. He knew from the moment he learned to walk that he had to learn to fly.

I didn't want him to go Active. I was never going to tell him that. I wanted to support him, but I had prayed and knew in my heart of hearts that the life wasn't meant for us. An opportunity came from above. No pun intended. And we took it. He would go on to serve in the Kentucky Army National Guard and become a Chief Warrant Officer. He started flight school the month we were married and I had a stand-in groom at our wedding rehearsal because he was learning to fly a blackhawk. We spent our first year of marriage at Fort Rucker and then moved to Lexington. Bought a house. Started new jobs. Chinook flight school. Fixed-wing flight school. On our five-year anniversary we will have spent three of them together. Our fifth anniversary will be our second together (the only other one was our first).

In October of last year he had been home about a month from his latest flight school, which had separated us for five months. He came home from work one day and said, "We need to talk." I remember where I was standing making dinner in our little kitchen (our kitchen is so small that there's really only one place to stand). I knew the moment he said it. I said, "You're deploying." I fought back tears as he told me the options. One unit would leave in April. One in August. One in November. I said, "I hope you go in April." He was floored. I don't think he was expecting that response. My reasoning? "Let's get this over with." And then we prayed. We prayed for days, for weeks, for a month. Until it was official.

Now here we are. No baby, no puppy (that was another bargaining chip he's since forgotten). I am two days away from seeing his handsome face, standing there in Rome, waiting for me at baggage claim. Praying he fulfilled my only request of handing a stranger his camera to capture the moment.

God is so good. Everybody thinks our time together will be good because we've been apart so long. Everybody thinks that's why our relationship is solid and grounded in one another's long distance love. But that's not it. It's good because it's right and real and honest. It's good because if a question is worth asking to the other, then it's worth saying yes to. It's good because God gave us this undying, fortunate, wholesome love. And for that I am grateful to Him and to him.

Thank you Justin for the man that you are. I'll see you Saturday. I'll be wearing a black knit dress and Ms. Samuels ivory bracelets (I feel prettiest when jewelry makes noise). And I expect to see you smiling, sans camera and with arms open wide.

Ciao,

Twinkles in our Eyes

2009-08-12T22:06:00.001-04:00

Here I am on the homefront. Waiting for him. 26 weeks left. 18 have come and gone.

It is odd how his lifestyle there has created in him an oxymoron. He is softer but tougher. It might be equal to the way a humanitarian feels when returning back from a third-world country. Gone are the entitlements and higher standards for living. But there is a new and more fulfilling entitlement- that of freedom and appreciation for life. He's not taking any crap off anybody. But he's the most compassionate and considerate man I have ever known. Even moreso than when he left.

We talk every two to three days. We have a video date about once a week and I even got to see his new mustache which he said grew in all different shades. In moments like these I am reminded of the journey our life and love has taken.

If you know us very well at all (and even if you know us just a little), you know about our struggles with starting a family. It's not something we keep a secret. Maybe one day I will sweep it under the rug. Maybe one day my new life will help me forget. But I'm not sure I want to. I have now, an appreciation for life and family that I never would have known. I guess you could say I have developed similar feelings to those that my husband will bring home next February. I guess I once knew entitlement and now I know how easily reality gets in the way of what you always expected you would one day be awarded.

We figured out it was "time" about two years into our marriage. That was in April of 2007. The very first time we tried, I got a positive pregnancy test. Justin was back at flight school and I had to wait all day to tell him the news. I wasn't even sure I wanted what I had received. I wasn't sure until that little pink line faded over the next few days and I suffered what they call a "chemical pregnancy." We went on to try and fail twice more before last November, never making it past a faint line on a few pregnancy tests.

Last November, in between doctors, and right before finally turning to some real fertility help, I found out I was pregnant again- and further along than I had ever been- at almost 5 weeks. The very next day my father called and said, "Come home. Your grandfather is dying." Justin was gone again, this time hiking his dream route on the Appalachian Trail with his childhood friend, Phillip. I couldn't tell him my sad or wonderful news. And I couldn't figure out how to feel. That afternoon, after a subsequent blood test confirmed the news, I sat on my couch waiting for him to call. Behind tears, I prayed, "Dear Lord, if you will just let me keep my grandfather, I will give this baby back." I'm not too concerned with how that comes across. It doesn't mean I didn't want what I had or that I was writing off the creation of human life. I, in no way, had any control over what would happen with that pregnancy, except to nourish my body in the hopes that I could create a healthy home for it for 9 months. I was simply offering up my own needs to God and trying to prove to him the sincerity behind my prayer. Justin later told me God doesn't work that way. But I was desperate.

We lost the pregnancy two days later- the day before Thanksgiving. On January 20th of this year we buried my grandfather. The next day, I found out I was pregnant again.

With help from a hormone supplement (one we discovered I was lacking, through our newfound saving grace of a doctor), we just knew this was it. I told strangers my news because I couldn't tell anyone I knew, and it was just too difficult to keep it in. The next week, I was in New York City at the gift mart. I was taking it easy, given my new state. But I started to bleed lightly after a few days and realized it was happening again. I was losing it. Again, devastation. I called home to my new doctor and we made plans for the future. What was causing this? To my surprise, a week and a half later, I was blood tested again, only to find that after arriving home from the trip, I was still very pregnant. But something was wrong. My levels weren't where they were supposed to be. At 7 weeks, they removed the ectopic pregnancy which had made its home in my left fallopian tube. They were able to salvage my tube and finally remove the cause of all my hormone imbalance- endometriosis. A silver lining amidst my two years of gray clouds. Finally, some answers.

Justin and I had one more chance to try before he left for Iraq. I thought that would be it. It made sense. Let me assure you, people, God doesn't always make sense. I was monitored closely in this process- assuring that all the right circumstances were there. All the stars were aligned and we just knew this would be it. I found out our attempts hadn't worked, of all days, the morning he was leaving. I remember sarcastically saying, "Thanks, God." Entitlement.

Since Justin has been gone, life went on to demonstrate to me that God knew what he was doing. Life went on to show me that He has a plan. Life went on to teach me how to make it. Life goes on for me, even though sometimes I feel like mine is the only one standing still. As my friends get pregnant, decorate nurseries and read books about child-rearing... As my husband serves thousands of miles away from me, I take a good hard look around and think, "God knows the desires of my heart. But to receive them, I must delight myself in Him."

So delight is what I will do. Please pray for us and for this journey. I hope it is a short one. But I know better than to expect it to be.

Y'all dunn asked fer it now!

2009-07-26T21:34:00.012-04:00

There I was again at the Nashville Flea Market over the weekend. Can you believe it? I can't get enough of this place.

Mom and Dad met me there, accompanied by friends. They with their close friends Janet and Eddie, and I with my gal pals Libby and Lauren. We went down for the day. And what a day it was!

Lauren and I picked Libby up in Elizabethtown and got to the Flea Market around 9:30. We found a nice little parking spot and met up with my parents. Of course, we had to go see Steele first (see the entry titled "Good Stuff Displayed Bad"). It's a good thing we did. I thought Lauren was going to buy him out right then and there. She found herself an antique vacuum cleaner base painted turquoise (which she will use for her outdoor fountain), an iron coffee table with hotel flooring for its tabletop, a turqouise metal scroll for the wall, a brass lamp, and she was given a cross made of iron pipes. Yard art!

I personally found my dream decor, which I suspect will end up being my husband's worst nightmare: Three already-wired lamps made from vintage tin pails. Two were once used to hold lard (I have a feeling he will have an issue with the word "lard" on a functional piece in our living room), and one that used to hold peanuts. I asked Lauren if they were kitschy, to which she replied, "No. They would be kitschy if they were fake. These are dirty and real." Touche.

One of the most treasured memories I have of the Nashville Flea Market (albeit my memories only date back to last November) are that of the little hut that sells fresh roasted, hot-buttered corn in a husk. There, you can nibble away on something relatively healthy- I mean, it IS a vegetable- and you can also refresh your thirst with a nice cup of ORANGEADE. I know, why didn't I think of this? Someone actually said to me, "Isn't that just... orange juice?" Oh, but it's not. It's made the same way lemonade is. With sugar and water. It's divine. I had soon added two fans to the Orangeade Fan Club and it was only about one hour after the first cup that Libby offered to go back and get herself and Lauren seconds. So away she went.

Now, I am about to tell you what happened to my mother, Lauren and myself while Libby was off refilling her newfound obsession. This is not, in any way, an exaggeration (ask them for their version- I can assure you it will be the same). You will almost not believe what happened next. The three of us took off on foot, down a 45-degree angle hill to retrieve our vehicles and drive them back up the road to load our new treasures. You must have a pass to do this (which we did) and there is little to no traffic here for that reason. But alas, there we were hugging the curb of the road, walking to our cars. Let me paint the picture- we were on a paved road that was wide enough to fit three cars across. Plenty of room.

So as we are walking, I hear the loud beep of a car horn. Naturally, your first instinct is to think that you are in their way out of your own stupidity, or that you are in their way because of theirs and either way you might want to move. Well, when I turned to see that this car was riding down the middle of the road and was loaded with 4 heavy, middle-aged women holding small children in their laps it occurred to me they were just being obnoxious by honking at us innocent curb-huggers. It made me mad. And I'm a big fan of fairness, so I simply uttered, "What are you honking at?" No surprise- all four windows were down, but to my surprise, the driver was an angry mid-life-crisis road rager who must have had a target on our three little skirts (we did look cute, as Lauren pointed out and derived she must have been jealous). But here we are thinking I would have just uttered something to tick them off as they drove away. But no.

This crazy loon slams on her brakes- on the 45-degree hill- and proceeds to give everyone in the car whiplash while doing it. The two kids are thrown into the backs of the front seats and the car comes to a screeching halt. As the car stops, we hear these words from the lost soul of a woman in the front seat: "Y'all dunn asked fer it now!" I look at Mom and Mom looks at me and Lauren is already trucking it. It turns out Lauren was deathly (rightfully so) afraid of this woman using her vehicle as a weapon. But at this point, the redneck driver was flinging her own seatbelt off of her (never mind the kids- just save yourself) and GETTING OUT OF THE CAR! Mom and I are thinking "What exactly did we ask for?" And I'm mumbling to Mom, "Do you have your pistol?"

Meanwhile, we make it a good ways down the hill before we turn back to see this nutjob standing in the middle of our nice, wide road, in a middle linebacker position. She has her hands cupped around her mouth and her feet are nicely planted in a rather manly-looking plie position. And she's yelling, "I was TRYIN' to tell y'all to GIT out of the RO-AD!!!" At this point, there was nothing we could do but... laugh. And laugh we did. We laughed all the way to the shady spot under a tree where we determined the deadly vehicle would have plenty of things to run into before it ran into us. It took a good minute and a half for us to regain our composure and walk the rest of the way to the car. Only then, did we see the weighed-down nissan make its way out of the grassy parking area and disappear on the other side the guard shack. We're pretty sure they sat there for a minute plotting our deaths. But we didn't care.

We were living on the edge of our curb. And whatever we "asked for" was worth every redneck second.

RC Cola and a MoonWalk

2009-07-08T19:51:00.011-04:00

Life hasn't written much lately, or at least it hasn't given me much time to. Okay, so maybe I'm not officially a "writer," but I feel a little like a negligent mother- I haven't typed out my take-them-or-leave-them thoughts in nearly three weeks.

In that time, you would think life would have given me a little material. After all, I have since visited my parents' farm TWICE, finalized a much-cherished and much-needed trip to Italy to reunite with Justin and family (part of the time), and Lord Jesus, help us all.... Michael Jackson died.

I spent the first trip to The Farm cherishing my time with my dad, his mother ("Ma"), my sweet Granny and the rest of the family that makes me the only little gully-gully-gull- or spending time being "Lucy" as my mother refers to me. We had a low-key weekend then. That Sunday we had the local schmocals over for "Cowboy Church" a tradition that is anything but traditional... or is it? How, once, did a congregation really meet? Would they not have been surrounded by God's beautiful bounty? It doesn't get much more beautiful than Clay County, Alabama.... God's Country. Dad gave a memorable sermon and pointed out the land we were given (not by my parents, but by our FATHER), appropriately, on Father's Day. Spending time in that part of the world turns me into a different person. Not because I wasn't myself before I got there, but because it teaches me to act like the person I really want to become.... Simple, back to the roots, back to the earth. And whole.

On my second trip to The Farm, I was accompanied by friends Jessica and Michelle. We booked our Southwest flights (Louisville-Birmingham) at the last minute and I convinced them that it would be a relaxing 4th of July weekend. We arrived around 3 pm last Friday and headed straight to Flat Rock (or the Redneck Riviera, as we affectionately call it), a large stretch of limestone that slopes off into Lake Wedowee and is rumored to be the same rock that makes up Stone Mountain. There, you can sunbathe and wade in the bathwater-like lake. We drank white sangria and read books, the three of us basking in the glow of nothingness and lack of responsibilites until our cell phones got service again. It was sheer peace. As a matter of fact, we hardly talked at all. We enjoyed home cooking at the tiny cabin my father built with his own hands, and slept on air mattresses on the screened in porch. Heaven, I tell you.

Justin and I planned a trip to Italy in September and October. In Rome we will do like the Romans. In Tuscany we will do as we please. I am overjoyed. For the first week our families will join us. Our plane tickets are purchased, our hotels are booked. And there is a villa waiting for us in Cortona (where Under the Tuscan Sun was filmed). www.vrbo.com/47564 We will see Rome, Florence, Siena and Cortona with our parents and brothers. We will see Cinque Terre by ourselves- a welcomed respite from the worldly obstacles that have kept us apart. Justin and I will be together in Italy for fifteen days. I count my blessings all the time. I am the happiest woman in the world.

In other news, the King of Pop is gone. I was a fan, but not a FAN. I admit he was talented- he had his hey day. But it was over long ago. Gone were the days of his smooth dark skin accompanied by his smooth moves. Gone was the well-written music inspired by 80s-era, over-the-top flamboyancy. Gone were the early nineties when his looks had changed but his music hadn't. Gone. Why are we just mourning him now? He was gone a long time ago.

I think the hardest part of watching this fanfare over his death has been that we put all this stock into celebrity and image. We lift these people up and create idols out of them. We worship them, pine for them, long to meet them, and try to emulate them as much as possible. And for what? I beg you- I urge you- to prioritize your admirations.

I was saddened to hear of the deaths of a number of US Soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan the week MJ died. Was there fanfare over that? A televised funeral? I think not. And I don't expect there to be. I do, however, expect that we begin to look up to, respect, love, and admire the men and women who keep free the nation that produced the icons like Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon (who by the way, was a decorated Marine- you don't hear that in the news now do you?).

We have forgotten those who gave their lives for our freedom, but we will never forget how to moonwalk.

If heroes were actually regarded as heroes... we'd attend welcome-home cermonies like we do concerts and fan letters would be sent to the ones who really deserve it.

"Let me tell you a something about my family..."

2009-06-19T11:07:00.008-04:00

"We are as thick as thieves...." (for all you Real Housewives of New Jersey fans out there).

Oh, but we are.

Sunday is Father's Day. This is the first Father's Day my father has had to spend without his father. Ironically, we'll all be spending it (sans Michael, as he is in Telluride with a "friend") at our family farm- the farm my grandfather purchased many years ago. My grandfather, "Daddy Moe," as affectionately referred, passed away in January. He was 81.

Life always brings unexpected events. There are no certainties, but uncertainty. His death was unexpected and life-changing. For the past five months we have reflected back on our memories and his presence in our everyday things- the things I never even knew he had influenced.

Back in November, Moe fell ill. He had always been a reasonably healthy man- strong as an ox, and with a temper to prove it. At 78 years old, he punched a man in the face for trespassing on his property and refusing to leave. It had only been three years since that had happened. The week he went into the hospital, he and Dad were spending time with one another at the farm. My grandfather was like an M&M,- a hard coating on the outside, but in the right hands he would melt. He loved his grandchildren, and I like to think we had a special bond, as I was the only girl of 6 grandkids. But he wasn't a fanatic about capturing photographs. As a matter of fact, it struck my father oddly that he was suddenly carrying around a disposable camera that day, walking the 200 acres of land.

Somehow, I think he knew.

He was so proud to have conquered a steep hill, walking as hard as he could to keep up with my father. He was breathing heavily, but beaming with pride. We think that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Unbeknownst to us, the "pig valve" his heart had received 16 years before, was failing. That Friday, he was admitted to the hospital and never came back out.

When Moe passed away, we developed that little camera and found the last photograph of him taken in good health. There he was, standing on the front porch of my parents' cabin, proud of his land, his heritage, his country, his legacy. In his camouflage coveralls and jacket, and a hunter's orange cap on his head, his strong hands grasped the flag of the country he had once served.

He died a proud man. Proud of my father and his sister, Beth. Proud of us grandkids, proud of Helen, his wife of over fifty years. Proud of all that he had done and made for our family. Proud of this country.

My father's father. My "Daddy Moe."

My father is a writer and a painter too. Maybe we inherited that creativity trait from Moe, as I can remember receiving a letter in the mail from him as a child that included a hand-drawn picture of their dog, Sarge with a broken leg. I thought about framing the "last photograph" on the front porch. But I decided that I could honor my heritage a little more by painting it in my own style- with my own flair.

That's how Moe was. He had his own flair. He didn't live by anyone else's rules.

Dad and I got that trait from him too.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I hope you like the painting. I'll see you tonight when my plane lands in Birmingham. Tomorrow, I'll pass you the tools as you hammer away at the barn that, one day, I'll tell my grandkids "We built together."

Monkeys with Car Keys

2009-06-07T20:17:00.017-04:00

Last weekend (surprise, surprise!) I met Mom and Dad, and Marta (a long-lost family friend) in Nashville. I haven't talked much about my mother, but here's the only way I know to describe her (and by the way, it won't do her justice- trust me): A jill-of-all-trades, event-planner, Texas-music-manager, housewife-and-stay-at-home-mom-turned-LED-light-saleswoman, caterer, singer-songwriter, pistol-packin'-mama. Ok, that will do for now, although I suspect a story or two is due soon so that you come to appreciate her talents as much as we all do.

Anyway, we met there because she was planning an event, catering, booking her artist, etc. (I'm not kidding- she was doing all of that) for a friend of hers I've heard about for years. This woman, who I had never met- thank God, or my most productive years would have been spent trying to become her- is named Sara Caroline. She and my mother became friends when Mom was the owner of a wholesale linen clothing company (oh yeah, she did that too). SC was my mom's customer from a trunk show in the Nashville area, and she later commissioned Mom to make a few pieces, tailored just for her, each with its own sense of personality- a conservative jacket or top with a WILDLY colored lining- you know, in case she ever needed to pull off a "flashing" with clothing underneath, of course.

The friendship ignited when they discovered that the reason behind the name of my mother's clothing company, Blue Moon Linens, was something they had in common. On a cold Halloween day in Alabama and Arkansas (I'm actually not sure if it was really cold in either state, but it makes for a better description), two women were born under a Blue Moon- just hours apart. I never knew her, but Mom kept saying, "I can't wait for you to meet Sara Caroline. You will LOVE her!" In my wildest dreams I couldn't have imagined how much I really would.

Sara Caroline's husband, Van- who reminds me of Randy Travis, but doesn't talk as slow- is a doctor who runs Bella Vita in Dickson, TN. http://www.bellavitalaser.com/. He supplies the Nasvhille area with good healthcare and a little help becoming more beautified, all within 30 minutes of the city. Together with Sara Caroline, he uses his position for the betterment of a community. Last Saturday, they used their roles to raise money for the Help Center, a donation-based organization that helps the needy citizens of the area and is based in downtown Dickson.

We set up the tables in a rustic fashion- as if you'd just stepped right onto a Texas ranch and had only a flask and a bandana to accompany your meal. There were raffia-tied vintage-printed napkins, big jars of lemonade and sweet tea, peanuts in the shell, and enamel-ware skillets for plates. It brought on thoughts of an old cowboy movie complete with scruffy men loudly scraping their pans with reusable, traveling forks. Go green, right?

That afternoon, after the bones of the event were in place, Mom, Marta and I had been allowed the pleasure of accompanying Sara Caroline to her Dickson home. We were in awe of the beautiful home they had lived in since before their children, Andrew and Ian (two charming, well-rounded boys with a 10-year age difference), were born. The house was oozing with character. You see, I forgot to mention, Sara Caroline is an artist. For years, I have been in awe of her creative paintings- namely a gorilla with a martini in its hand. She loves to paint apes. While in her house, after witnessing an oddly sculptured pair of wooden/leathery/furry monkeys on her kitchen countertop (a slab of onyx), I asked her, "Sara Caroline, why the fascination with apes?" Her response? "Honey, we're all just monkeys with car keys."

During the tour, we were introduced to the paintings of her mentor- the woman who had taught her the trade. In a small light-filled room between her living room and master bedroom that seemed a catch-all for the most important things in the house (namely a Pram that Van bought her before they had children- something she asked for because she simply wanted it and then used it to push the neighbors' children up and down the street), there was a portrait of a young SC. I asked her who had painted it and she said her mentor had, but with a little help from herself later on. She had gone back and "painted in bigger boobs and a bigger diamond."

Later that night, we all got ready inside the clinic. Proving that pictures aren't the only thing she paints, Sara Caroline gave me a makeover from the makeup room. After consuming a beer and some well-chosen lipstick (as I tend to lick it off as soon as it's applied), we threw the event under a rented white tent in the parking lot of Bella Vita. Guests began to arrive and partake in the tamales made by Sara Caroline's hispanic housekeeper, Hema. Someone once likened their relationship to that of Will and Grace's Karen and Rosario- a description that, in my opinion, makes them both that much more endearing.

In order to attend, guests made donations to the Help Center. Entertainment was provided by Austin Cunningham http://www.austincunningham.com/ , a singer-songwriter from Garland, TX who makes friends with his audience by singing songs that do one of two things: 1. Remind you that you once experienced that, or 2. Makes you realize you want to. The tamales were good enough to make you want to slap your Mexican mama. We raised our glasses and money too. A good time was had by all.

My Week in Pictures

2009-05-27T10:36:00.017-04:00

Pictured:

The vantage point from my desk in my office at henry.brown. http://www.henrybrownbags.com/
Poppies from the wholesale florist, which I gave myself for my anniversary. Ahhemmm (coughing noise reminding my dear husband that I haven't gotten flower one from him since he left). Ahhhh, but yesterday I find out that my anniversary present is indeed en route: a pair of Slane and Slane diamond earrings. Wow- and way worth the wait! Just a note: this picture had to be taken at this exact moment... the poppies died about ten seconds later.
The better half of a pair of pillows I designed (I know, I know, Anthropologie is knocking down my door to get my designs...). If you are wondering what its partner says............ "Sell high."
My favorite photograph of Justin clapping, taken on our wedding day. When I am having a bad day, all I have to look over and see him giving me a hand.

Pictured:

My "foster friends." Only, I don't have to give them back. Elizabeth introduced me to her "family" and they have been accepting me ever since. They live by the motto "Be pretty if you can, be witty if you must, but be gracious if it kills you."
While it might appear that we just got finished with a hoedown in a rustic barn, we are actually posing on the patio at my favorite restaurant, Merrick Inn. http://www.murrays-merrick.com/
Also pictured: My birthday boots. Thanks, Justin! I was in dire need for a new pair. My others had been worn slap out. And yes, my dress really was that short. I only realized it when I saw myself in this photo. Sorry Mom!
Note: This picture was changed to black and white so that all individuals pictured to right of Courtney would no longer appear as mimes.

I wish I had a photograph to portray what happened to me on Sunday. But you will have to settle for me painting you the picture. Here goes...

Justin and I had a Skype date for our anniversary last Thursday. I would love to say it was magical. But I had actually been exercising with a friend (okay, okay, so we were really just walking the neighborhood... with beers in our hands). I hadn't showered, hadn't changed, and he called about 30 minutes earlier than expected. So, sans my date face, we Skyped. It was about 30 minutes long and the conversation was mostly what I call "business"- him telling me what he needs for the week, and me updating him on finances, home improvement, etc.

On his list of things he "needed" were the following:

A dictionary for letter writing. Why? you ask. Because he is a horrible speller (I'm not offending him- he knows this). So he asked for a dictionary to help him. I love this about him- never too much pride. Always willing to admit a shortcoming. I wish he would rub off on me. Ah-hem. Please don't take that literally.
A book of Killer Sudoku puzzles. I have never heard of this and I still don't know how he knows what it is. He hated Sudoku when he left. But I think he is learning to like a lot of things. It took me forever to find it (forever, meaning I was at Joseph-Beth bookstore for one hour and missed the entire "Games" section before finding out from my checkout girl... the original cashier I had- but I'll get to that).
A crossword puzzle book- medium skill level. His exact words were, "I'm too smart for the easy ones, but too dumb for the hard ones."

So there I am, books in hand. I had added a larger book with an assortment of games, as well as a memoir on the Appalachian Trail (so he can dream about hiking it with Phillip again when he returns). http://www.randomhouse.com/features/billbryson/bb_title/display.pperl?isbn=9780767902526

I go to check out (for the second time) and I am being rung up (is that appropriate?- I don't feel like looking it up) by this dyed-red-ponytail-hippie-looking man in his fifities. While at the checkout counter, I spot three gourmet chocolate bars: Bacon, Sea-Salt-Almond, and Chili-Cinnamon. I decide this is just what Justin needs. If he likes bacon and he likes chocolate, then how about the two combined? So as the "Red-Haired Hippie" is ringing me up, I mention they are for my husband. To which he replies, "Don't pretend you aren't going to taste these." I say, "That would be a little difficult- they are headed to Iraq." Oh, boy. I just said one of the most controversial words to a man who clearly must have voted for our current president.. or at the very least Ralph Nader. And then, he says, "Are you in a hurry?" I was scared to death. There are not a lot of debates I fear. But for the next 8 1/2 months, I'm not debating this topic. Nor am I discussing it. You don't want me to- believe me. There is far too much emotion involved. And plus, I will devour you. I'm just saying...

I replied, "No." Scared to death. And then, out of his mouth, removing all judgments and stereotypes I faced looking at him, he said, "Stick around. I want to give you some books to send him. What does he like to read?"

I was floored. I couldn't believe it. I judged. I judged so wrongly. Not just be cause I was wrong in my judgment. I was wrong to judge at all.

He went to the back and then filled my bag with five books he had personally purchased for this reason. He was once in the Air Force. He wanted to be a part of my care package, and told me that each time I came in I was to ask for him and he would have more to send.

What a beautiful country. What a beautiful moment.

One day, my husband will go from his military buzz cut, back to a long ponytail (see photo), but this time gray. He'll continue to play guitar, maybe finally join a band and we will continue to collect art and listen to the music of communists (why is it the liberals that are the most talented?- I guess that leaves them with less time to spend thinking)... One day, somebody will probably judge him and he will get to explain that he once flew an airplane over a war-torn country, ensuring that a civilization was saved and given the chance to prosper in its freedoms. One day...

To Go Box: Week 7

2009-05-27T09:41:00.004-04:00

This week in my package to Justin (I send one every Monday)...

Extra sheets for his twin bed so that he can have something to sleep on when his others are at the laundry.

A quilt for his twin bed. Name a single other soul you know that would get cold in IRAQ! We used to joke about this. When we would go to bed at night he would pull the covers over his head and say, "I'm COOOOLLLLD!" And I would reply, "You won't be cold in a couple of months." Now I'm eating my words.

An Auburn University pennant to hang in his "hooch," the name they give to their tiny little rooms.

An Auburn University flag.

Auburn University stickers so he can mark his territory, saying "AU Grad was Here."

Brown Army t-shirts which I had to dig out of the tupperware bin in the garage.

A "Mullets Rock" digital album. http://www.bestbuy.com/site/olspage.jsp?skuId=8847545&type=product&id=1209165356613 This is the greatest invention ever! They put the playlist together and sell the gift card. This particular one had about 25 songs on it, including: Don't Bring Me Down, Cherry Pie, Kiss Me Deadly and Take it on the Run. If you don't think mullets are cool, take another look at that photo (above).

To Go Box: Week 6

2009-05-19T10:43:00.005-04:00

This week in my package to Justin.... (Originally, I wrote this the other way around and realized it had to be changed. I toyed with leaving it and letting you laugh hysterically. Or maybe it's just me that thinks it's funny... Ahh, where would I be these days without my sense of humor?)

A sappy anniversary card, which I am sure he saved.

A photograph of his anniversary gift: A dashboard for his prized 1990 325i, who we affectionately call "Betty the Bimmer." Sidenote: I inherited the BMW from my father in college when my VW Jetta, "Marcus," blew up, burned to the ground, and forced three dorms to evacuate on Auburn's campus. Justin bought "Betty" from my family after I went off to do my independent thing (post-college), in "Rhonda," a Honda Accord. "Betty" is actually responsible for our rekindled relationship and eventual marriage. That will all come later, I'm sure, in the Frye Family Flashbacks... "What a nice use of alliteration," says the journalism teacher that failed me.

A Patagonia shirt that he couldn't live without (this brought to my attention only after I mistakenly sent the North Face one last week); I sent the Auburn Aviation polo for good measure.

The contents of a care package, provided by our sweet neighbor Kathy, which included: Soft-baked Pepperidge Farm snickerdoodles (sorry, Jason), some baby wipes, and a dashboard organizer... the latter of which, I am sure, was purchased at a yard sale. Kathy is a yard sale fanatic. So much so, that one time I pulled a gun on her because she was "yard-saling" in my garage at 7:30 on a weekday morning (after my loving husband left the garage door open). Smile, Kathy (she knows I love her). And that is a story I will save for later too.

Online Dating

2009-05-17T21:07:00.011-04:00

Last weekend I talked with Justin and we made a "Skype date." It was supposed to be our first. I showered, put on makeup, fixed my hair, and picked out a cute outfit- all tasks that often get forgotten on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Only, it was Mother's Day, and I think phone calls to my mom and Miss Jeanni took precedence. I watched and waited and even postponed my grocery store visit until 4:00. By the time I went shopping, I realized I had been stood up.

This past Thursday, I was home and we were finally able to have our first date onscreen. It was the most magical thing I have experienced since the start of the deployment. After my roughest week yet, my morale is now at its highest. Tonight, I saw him again, only this time for 50 minutes! I can't explain how much it helps to have this technology at our fingertips. I feel like we are dating again.

Speaking of dating, our fourth wedding anniversary is this Thursday, the 21st. I love to relive the way things started between us. Ironically, the very next day (the 22nd) is our anniversary of meeting one another for the very first time. That was seven years ago. Let me paint you a picture of how it all began...

I was 21 years old and single. I had dated guys on and off throughout my junior year in college, after a string of serious relationships before that. I was finally content with the way my life was unfolding. I was ready to begin thinking about my future in politics- Washington, DC... possibly law school.

My best friend Natalie and I had made plans to ride back to our hometown together. But that fateful Wednesday night in May, during Auburn's break between spring and summer semester, I made a decision that would change the entire course of my life.

I was never one to make commitments and then foil them. That's why my decision that day surprised both Natalie and myself. But for some reason, then unknown, I bailed on our plans and spent that Wednesday night in Auburn. My phone rang around 7 pm and my two poli sci classmates (totally plutonic guy-friends) were headed up to Bodega, the local bar we frequented throughout college. It's a laid-back place that usually features live music. It was the start of summer, an even more laid-back time of year for the town. It wouldn't be a wild night- but I was home alone and up for a drink.

I had literally thrown on a borrowed v-neck top (thanks, Tiff!), a jean jacket, and some checkered black pants, with heels of course. My hair wasn't even washed! I sat at the bar between my friends Matt and Earl. It was a slow night with maybe about 20 people in the bar downstairs and about 20 people upstairs. I was never the kind of girl who went looking for bar boys. That wasn't really my thing. And even if I had been, I wasn't the kind of girl that bar boys went looking for. If you know me, then you know that my feelings are written all over my face. That is never a very good trait to have when you are being pursued. Things don't really get very far underneath a look of disgust. But on that particular night, my face must have said something totally different.

I looked up from my Raspberry Stoli and Sprite, and there he was- clad in a blue and white striped shirt, flat front boot cut khakis, and the icing on the cake: cowboy boots. It was love at first sight. I surprised the heck out of myself by making eye contact and flirting subtly across the bar. He was headed upstairs with his friend, and after taking the first few steps, beer in hand, he turned around to give me a wink and a smile. I can't really think of anything to say that would paint the picture of him walking away from me, other than what I heard Dolly Parton say one time... "I wish I had a swing like that in my backyard." Sorry, Mom and Dad. That's just what I was thinking.

That was all it took. I had to see where this was headed. All the while I was thinking, he is either the man of my dreams, or he is a sleaze who just wants to take a girl home from the bar. I had to find out if it was the former rather than the latter, and I prayed that it was. I quickly assembled my investigative team and had Earl head upstairs behind him to scope out the scene. He found him leaning against the far wall, pool stick in hand. I decided to lay low. I explained to my poli sci guys that we should chat, but that they needed to make sure they appeared plutonic, so as not to "bust up my game." This lasted for about 20 minutes. Finally, he and his friend began to walk toward us. I was in awe. He was going to speak to me... Closer... Closer... Come to Mama!

Our eyes met and he said, in a drawn out country-boy voice, "Hey, how's it going?" I replied, "Good. How are you?" He shook his head in the way a southern man does as if it replaces an answer. And he kept walking. Had my future just passed me by? I wasn't going to let it get away. So I stopped his friend who was following behind him and said, "Are y'all leaving?" At this point Justin (unnamed to me then) had already gotten to the hallway. His friend responded, "He has to pull a plane out tomorrow morning. So I'm just walking him downstairs." And from somewhere deep inside me- I have no idea what possessed me to say this- out came, "Damn." (Sorry, but that's where I was in my life- and that's just what I said). To which his friend replied, "Why, do you know him?" and I said, "No, but I'd like to."

I'm still in shock. But God was speaking (not that I think God uses the word damn) for me. God was in control. I really don't think I had any control that night at all. I was simply His puppet. To this day, I have never felt more guided in my entire life.

By this time Justin had sensed that his friend was lagging behind. When he turned to tell him he had just passed the girl he was eyeing downstairs, he spotted him a few steps back, engaged in conversation with me. He turned and walked toward us, with his hand out to meet me, using his full name to introduce himself (something I will always remember). We had a 3-minute conversation- enough time to learn one another's major, career path, political preference and name. Then he left. I was devastated. Had I not done for him what he had done for me? Was I too assertive? Should I have washed my hair?

A few minutes passed. My future was probably downstairs and out the door by now. I decided that I could handle rejection if it was through his friend, so when "Damian" came back upstairs I would let him know how interested I was in this guy. I would give him my number and ask him to pass it on to this mysterious "Justin Frye," pilot, Republican, cowboy.

Now, I know what was happening down there at that bar. "Damian" was busy convincing "Justin Frye" that I could very well be his future. And "Damian" finally won the battle that brought them both back up to the billiard room, fresh beers in hand. We spent the night discussing politics, the Bible (his "favorite book," he said that night), my membership in the National Rife Association, and eventually closed the bar down at 2 am. Damian convinced me I was in for a real treat when I saw what his friend drove. I think he was worried he would need to weed out this sorority girl who would want nothing to do with Justin Frye's 1986 Chevy Celebrity Eurosport (the Eurosport is a vital addition). Justin assured me he was a poor man, who was by-george going to take me on a date, even if it was only to McDonald's.

A week and a half later, that's exactly what he did, only it was to a Mexican restaurant. He picked me up in the aforementioned car he had inherited from his grandfather with only 36,000 miles on it (see, everything has a story), and we further discussed our common interests in God and politics, discovering that we both had an inclination toward Texas music. That night, he prayed before our meal and opened every single door. Those moments set a precedent for the rest of our relationship.

Nothing has changed, and my feelings for him have only grown and blossomed, bringing with them a new and fresh respect and adoration. He is my biggest role model, and I am his biggest fan. Those moments that fateful May changed our history and our futures. And I am forever a better woman for having what I have had with him. If, God forbid, I am ever without him, I will have known a love so true and wonderful that I could never again feel denied.

Stay tuned... Maybe next time I'll write about our second date- when he showed up in a speedo and cowboy hat.

True Love and Sacrifice

2009-05-08T10:07:00.005-04:00

Originally, I wanted to write about the last week and a half- an unexpected air conditioning problem that cost me $510, a trip to Washington, DC to see a good friend, and a surprise overnight at the Atlanta Airport because of bad weather- all things that have me up in arms to get back to my daily grind and flow of things. Life interfering with life, I guess.

But today, I just have to write about this picture. Yesterday was my 28th birthday. As I was about to start the daily pilates routine that was finally the fruit of my "absence of labor" (me learning how to say no to things), I received this photograph on my Blackberry. With it was a note of thanks and gratitude for me being his wife and the title of the attachment was "Happy Birthday, My Love."

I can't think of anything more meaningful to me at this moment in my life. Not a single thing. I can't imagine a more beautiful gift than the thought of my manly husband, surrounded by other manly men who want to appear even more manly in the call of duty, using not one, but two magic markers (red, in order to emphasize a HEART, of all things) and then standing in the middle of a courtyard?- I'm not sure- of barracading walls to be photographed by his closest friend. Humbling, isn't it?

Later, I got a phone call from him too. I never thought the two best birthday presents I ever received would be an email and a phone call. We talked for 23 minutes, the longest conversation we have had since he has been in-country. The past month (yes, month!) has been interesting to say the least. For the first week and a half we talked two to three times a day. He was still stateside at that point and I must say it helped in my grieving to still have constant communication. Since he has been "in-theater," we are down to phone calls about twice a week and emails maybe three times during a week. I told him never to say he is "going to call" at a specific date/time. I would worry too much if I didn't hear from him.

It's amazing how our circumstances can change an entire outlook on life. I was new to all of this a few weeks ago when I met Mom in Franklin, Tennessee for dinner (flea market weekend). I remember looking around that little town at all the people, out for dinner, enjoying the cool night air and having drinks. I thought to myself, THIS is what he is fighting for, and trying to give those people. THIS is what we take for granted. I can't help but feel a little more fulfilled in what my life offers right now. I can't help but think of what sacrifices have been made so we could be the country we are. I think so often we focus on what we don't have and so little on what we do.

When I walk through the grocery store, I look at expiration dates. When the box of crackers says it's good until November, I think, "That's only 3 months before he comes home. I can make it longer than a box of crackers." I measure everything in dates. It's called self-soothing. It's what babies do when they are learning to sleep on their own or comfort themselves in a time of need. If I were to be given what I wanted right when I wanted it, I would never learn how to become reliant on myself. After all, it is always after a sacrifice that we come out feeling the most successful.

What kind of people would we be if we all got something for nothing?

Good Stuff Displayed Bad

2009-04-29T10:47:00.021-04:00

It doesn't really get any better than this. I mean, look at this guy. I just had to use this photo- Jesus, sign and all- because it inspired my title for this entry. What a great marketing scheme. First of all, Jesus is watching. Second of all, don't underestimate this shopping experience. Jesus would never underestimate a scraggly old man selling the contents out of his wife's junk drawer. Not pictured: the contraption with costume rings tied down by threading bolts on the other side of a crate to discourage five-finger discounts. Genius.

Mom and I spent the weekend at the Nashville Flea Market, a location slowly becoming one of my favorite places in the world (added to a list that includes Rosemary Beach, Clay County AL, and my own kitchen with a good recipe)... I know you're not supposed to end a paragraph with parentheses, but I have to move on.

Saturday morning we drove to the Loveless Cafe for breakfast. http://www.lovelesscafe.com/ This restaurant has been covered by Southern Living, Martha Stewart, and just about every other expert on good home-cooking. The food was great. The art was better. I was in the mood to decorate. After a brief stopover at a TJ Maxx to replace the tent dress I was wearing that kept flying up in the Tennessee wind, we were off to find our treasures. And that we did.

Upon arrival, Mom and I discovered a closeout tent of oil paintings. We were probably a little out of control, but I had good intentions for all of it. I bought seven landcapes that remind me of places I've been, a cowboy for our bedroom (because everyone needs a cowboy in the bedroom... what?) and numerous gifts (for Pop and GG) and a woman who I think (rather delusionally, I'm sure) looks like me. Mom got a few landscapes that look like Clay County, an abstract of musicians (because she is one) and one of a woman in a kitchen with a bowl of apples, who we decided we would claim was a depiction of our beautiful Italian aunt, Sophia (a lie, in case you don't know that we are just a bunch of Alabamians with no clue of our ancestors' place of origin)... There I go again. More parentheses. I knew I was a commaholic, but I didn't know about my parentheses problem. Anyway...

We go there for the stuff. But mostly we go there for the characters. Let me explain. I am a storyteller... Don't like the story I'm telling? That's okay. All I'm saying is that it's important for me to have a story. Seldom do I not recall an old memory or something that relates me to what you are saying. Everything is relevant. And when it comes to finding trinkets and tchotchkes, I don't want it if there's not one. If you come to my house for the first time, I'll ask you if you want the house tour or the story tour. I love collecting art, and every single picture/painting on my walls has a story to tell. Some things are worth nothing, but everything to me. Some things look as if they are worth nothing, but will knock your socks off if I told you the value. Take, for example my Mose T watermelon I bought directly from the artist in college with money I got back from selling a watch. See, there's a story. I paid $92. Sadly, he died last year. It is now worth over a thousand.

Let me tell you the story about Steele. Mom and I discovered him on a cold November day last year, selling everything from Oriental rugs to retro green lunch trays. He is cool. And he knows what's cool. If you admire, say, a wheeled cart at ankle level he'll tell you the same one is selling in Pottery Barn for $700. http://www.potterybarn.com/products/p12515/index.cfm?pkey=call%2Dcoffee%2Dside%2Dconsole%2Dtables Only, Pottery Barn's doesn't have a history (my insertion, not his). We were enamored by his personality and his ability to carry on with us as a salesman should. Unassuming, friendly, and just plain original. If the stuff he's selling wasn't cool before, he makes it that way. I'm not talking about paint and refinishing. I'm talking about character. He has it. He radiates it.

He sets up once a month in the same spot and leans his goods up to a trailer. On it, he hangs handmade crosses constructed of iron, wheels, barbed wire, etc. Back in November, Mom and I learned of his refusal to ever sell one of the crosses. When we asked him why, he said that he could never ask someone to pay him for one, after everything that cross had done for him. Later that day, we witnessed an unforgettable exchange.

Two hispanic women with small children had stopped to admire the collection of hanging crosses. In broken English one of them asked how much one would cost. Steele asked her if she liked it, and if she wanted it, but she just kept asking "How much?" He took the cross down from its post and handed it to her. "Here," he said. "But if you take this, I want you to know what it means. You should know what that cross has done for me." The woman and her friend were flabbergasted. Through the language barrier I think they still thought they owed him something, possibly an amount to which they had not yet agreed. But he kept insisting that she take it without any payment. The women still tried to refuse, but Steele explained that what he could now give them for free would one day be priceless.

Now that's what I call a character with character. And his good stuff is displayed good.

Fried Food and Friendship

2009-04-20T19:20:00.012-04:00

On Monday I made a paper chain. It is constructed of troop-supporting yellow construction paper and it is woven through my kitchen banisters like garland. If you don't know what a paper chain is, think back to Kindergarten when you were counting down to a specific event, like Christmas or the last day of school. You might have stapled or even glued the skinny strips together to form links around one another. Every week I am tearing one off. One down, 43 to go!

Last week was filled with endless support from friends and family. Justin's mother stayed in town with me until Wednesday. On Monday night we made it over to Wallace Station Fried Chicken Night, a must for bluegrass area dwellers- but diners be warned, it's only open for dinner on Mondays. It is seriously the best fried chicken you will ever eat, and made of local, organic ingredients to boot!

On Thursday I received an invitation to have dinner with some new friends. While enjoying dinner together on the patio at Harry's, we were met with a cast of interesting characters, all who decided to park themselves right behind my barstool. First, a heavily intoxicated wild-haired and middle-aged divorcee (I'm guessing). Her lips couldn't find the straw she was using to drink her double-fisted bloody marys, and after being forced to pay her bar tab and vacate the premises, she began to shout uncontrollably about the fact that she had, just three months ago, gone home with a well-known coach in the area. As if that wasn't enough to keep us in stitches for the night, an older man sat down in her place. He proceeded to feed his shitzu from his own fork, and even shared dessert with the little mongrel! If this is what my summer is going to be like, I will be thoroughly entertained!

Over the weekend, I traveled to Atlanta to see my old friend Jessica. We grew up in Marietta, Georgia together. I will never forget the first time I met her. I had won a trip to McDonald's and was being escorted by my most favorite teacher in the world, Mrs. Sibyl Gore. But when I went to get into the back seat of her little white Acura, there sat a smiley-faced brunette who looked about my age. Who was this intruder? She was interfering with my field trip! I was teacher's pet for the moment, and now I had to share my time? In the end, it didn't take long for us to warm up to one another. By the time we pulled out of my neighborhood, we were already scheming for Mrs. Gore to take us to Showbiz Pizza. And here we are... 22 years later. Wow.

Jessica had a baby less than two weeks ago (doesn't she look great?). When we planned the trip, we thought he would be about a month old. But he was two weeks late! Lucas Merritt wasn't ready to make his appearance. He made a surprise debut into her life the same way she made it into mine. Like mother like son.

While in Atlanta, we visited the restaurant owned by my TV crush and Top Chef contestant, Richard Blais. I really can't think of a better concept than that of a gourmet burger joint that serves Krispy Kreme Milkshakes. You heard me. He puts the donut into the milkshake. It might be what Heaven tastes like if you get to taste it. I ordered the "Southern," which consists of a deep-fried beef patty, pimiento cheese, and green tomato ketchup. Again, Heaven. http://www.flipburgerboutique.com/

I am coping with any sadness by relishing in good food and even better friendships. I am learning how to enjoy things again independently. Because Justin doesn't leave the States until this coming Wednesday, I have been able to talk to him at least twice a day. It has been an unexpected surprise that has helped us cope with the first week of this journey. Our relationship is thriving and we are amazed at how quickly the first week went by. While there is still a long road ahead of us, we have both enjoyed our time. There is no other choice than to confront these moments and learn how to make the very best of them. God is so good. I never believed I could be this happy one week after sending him off to war. The only explanation I have? God has a paper chain of His own. I don't have to know what the links entail, but I have faith that there's one on the end that means a Homecoming.

Safe Travels and Godspeed

2009-04-12T19:21:00.000-04:00

For six months I have anticipated what yesterday would bring. I tried to imagine how I might handle the moment when my husband would walk out on to that tarmac and board the plane that would take him away from me for 44 weeks (yes, I have already counted). I could never have predicted the emotions, the number of tears, or the sheer sense of pride and excitement. I could never have imagined what those hours would feel like leading up to that moment. I could never have imagined the moments that would follow.

All day I received messages from friends, new and old. The common thread between them all? Everyone seemed to say, "I cannot imagine what you must be going through right now." I can relate. I couldn't imagine it before it happened to me either.

I do believe in the voice of military families. I believe in the ability we have to help others understand and empathize. I will do my best to explain what we go through. I will give you an opportunity to imagine...

My heart is heavy with grief, but heavier with pride. My heart is heavy with fear, but heavier with dedication. Since 2:30 yesterday, I have been strong, weak, lost and found. I have had ups, downs and in-betweens. I have prayed, screamed, sobbed, grasped, and then grown silent. I have searched my head for every silver lining I can possibly find. I have walked it off, prayed it away and talked it out. I have survived.

The worst is behind me. No, he's not over there yet. He hasn't piloted his first flight in a war-torn country. But behind me is an entire day. An entire day to say, "I did this. And I'll do it again... over and over again." Behind me is goodbye. All that is in front of me is, "I miss you... I love you... I can't live without you, but I am trying as hard as I can... You are my hero and my best friend... I want to go to Europe on your R&R... I want to be a better woman when you come home, a better wife, a mother, and I want you to look up to me as much as I look up to you...." What does tomorrow bring? I can hardly imagine... but it doesn't involve "Goodbye." That moment is history and only God predicts futures.

Eighty-six the Sadness, Substitute with Pride

2009-04-01T10:24:00.001-04:00

No, I never worked in a diner, nor have I ever been a waitress. I have never used the phrase "Eighty-six the mayo," or "Order up." But here's a little-known fact: At one point, my hometown in Georgia did make room for a restaurant called Vittles. I rejoiced in the day that it would open. At night I laid awake in bed, picturing myself parading around on roller skates, serving breakfast, lunch and dinner to a host of hungry customers. Why I picked Vittles, I have no idea. When it finally did open, the food was terrible and the waitresses didn't wear roller skates. My dreams were crushed. Am I living vicariously through that far-fetched idea? Maybe a little. I know one thing for certain: I tend to live vicariously through most of the ideas I've ever had. This is my blog. This is officially my first entry.

Words cannot describe the way I am feeling. Next week marks a monumental time in my life. My husband is leaving for Iraq. He will be gone for one year. Time has flown to get us to this point. I am praying that time will fly to get us through it.

I never picked this lifestyle. I never laid awake in bed dreaming of roller skating alone (please, I haven't roller skated in fourteen years) or of being a military wife. But this lifestyle picked me. I am honored. I am proud. I am screaming from the top of my lungs that my husband is serving overseas to give YOU the freedom to read this blog, love it or leave it, and to have any feeling imaginable about this country, this president, this government, this opinion of mine.

You have everything, you know that, don't you? You have America to fall back on, have you nothing else. You have this because of people like my husband. I just wanted to remind you of that. Because if you don't like this first entry, you probably won't want to read the rest of them. The great thing about this whole thing? It's America. You can do whatever you want. Thanks, Justin.