The last 2 decades of my life (2010 and 2020) were preceded by tough years, end-capped with stressful, painful, frustrating Decembers.

In 2009, I ended my 29th year on this Earth with a bold middle finger to the entire world. I was mad as hell. I was reckless and destructive and I did not give a fuck. I made bad choices, I said all the wrong things, I closed myself off and indulged in every thing that was bad for me. 

I began my 30th year feeling defeated and with little hope that life would improve, but while wallowing in that defeat, I shed a few bad habits and started feeling better. Feeling better meant shedding a few more things (or people) that were weighing me down. 

My 31st year was loud and busy and filled with the joy that true love brings. I had a tan, I celebrated, I drank, I cheered, I cried, I finally found the man that I had been waiting for. The man that I didn't believe could possibly exist. 

The years following were faded versions of the ones before, filled with love and life and work, laughter and good times. We traveled to beautiful places and listened to some of the most amazing music I have ever heard. Once in a lifetime experiences were had and some experiences were gladly left behind. 

The 39th year had many wonderful ups including selling our home in Dacula and finally moving forward with building our forever home. That joy came with extreme stress and some heartbreaking lows, coming to a head the week after Thanksgiving with a car accident that left me whirling in my anxiety and feeling too exhausted to go on. Sleepless nights were followed by days that went by in a blur, but many words were written in the process. 

I believe that every thing happens for a reason and I understand that life is not as sweet without the bitter moments. You just have to accept them and move on to find more sweetness. That said, I'm happy to be saying goodbye to 2019, but not to a decade that brought me the love of my life and some pretty wonderful adventures and friends. 

Cheers to the next decade, may there be many more sweet days than bitter ones. 

​As most of my writable thoughts come to me, this one came to me while I was doing something else. Whether it was more important than writing is debatable, but that's neither here nor there.

The cliche of "Confessions of an Unwed Mother" came to mind while I had the idea of writing some kind of memoir.

Somehow,  Un-mothered Wife doesn't have the same "ring". (pun intended)

I feel like we've heard plenty of confessions from unwed mothers and, well, they're just not that interesting anymore. No offense to those unwed mothers, but...I've heard the story more than once and...*yawn*

Aren't you curious what confessions a woman who has chosen not to have children has? Aren't you curious WHY? As an un-mothered wife, I consider the reasons fairly banal and not surprising...quite logical in fact. But, some people might not get it. 

Oddly, I find great satisfaction in the stunned look that I typically receive and I can almost hear what they're thinking. "Uhhh, how do I react? Is this a test? What do I say to her? What do we talk about now?"

My response to that is simple--"Duh, vodka."

It amuses me that once you have children, there is simply nothing better to talk about. Actually, I know people who don't have children who are stunned when I say that I'm not going to have children and they suddenly can't think of ANYTHING to talk about. Or, they say something incredibly weird, like, "Yeah, me too." More than likely, unless they're over the age of 35, they haven't thought about a life without having children.

It's just what you do when you're a woman. You get married, you build a homestead, and you have babies. Not necessarily in that order, but you get the drift.

But, what if...?

What if you've fallen madly in love with someone who can't have children?
What if you don't actually LIKE children? 
What if you like children, but you like giving them back to their parents and drinking more vodka?
What if you played out the "fairytale" in your head and kids just messed up the whole, traveling, sleeping, fancy car dream?

The glorious thing about being a "modern woman" is that you have a billion choices.

My advice is to follow your bliss. Do the thing(s) that make you feel good. Life is too short to spend it any other way.

The confession of THIS un-mothered wife?

I'll never tell.

But it probably has something to do with vodka.

Dear Chickpea!
Oh! How I love thee,
Even more than a marathon of Always Sunny.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner
You're always a winner.
Even for brinner!

I don't know what I would do
If for some reason I lost you.
I would most certainly boo-hoo.

Salt and cumin makes you delicious
Tomatoes and garlic make you nutritious.
Every meal with you is like Christmas!

We won't even talk about hummus
I could eat as much as a hippopotamus.
What rhymes with hippopotamus?

Even your name is cute!
You go with everything to boot.
You don't even make me poot.

Nom
Nom nom
Nom nom nom.

*Drool-worthy image stolen from http://dinnerwithjulie.com/2012/02/15/roasted-chickpeas-bacon-pecans/. Sorry Julie! 


...fingertips, that is.

If you know me, you know that I'm a class-A klutz. 

That's why this post is being typed with 9 fingers instead of 10.

In an effort to make sure that my husband has hearty, healthy meals, I bought a shit-ton (yes, that is a unit of measurement) of summer squash and zucchini. The best way to quickly get perfect slices is to use a mandolin slicer.

If you've never seen one, they look like a guillotine that fits on your countertop (see above).

Oh, the irony.

I decide that I don't need the guard because it usually just gets in the way and what I was slicing was easier to just hold.

WRONG.

The more I slice, the more speed I gain. I got into a rhythm.

BIG MISTAKE.

I got cocky.

BAD IDEA.

Suddenly, it happens. 

Before I feel anything, before the blood begins to flow from my finger, I realize what I've done and my brain says, "Whooooaaa, Lady, we can't handle this--we're out."

I keep my bloody hand in the sink while hanging my head down toward my knees.

"I cut myself..." I push from between my lips. "I'm going dowwwnnn..."

DH jumps up and wraps a paper towel around my fingers so I can get horizontal and get my feet up.

You can tell how much your spouse loves you by how they react in a situation like this and mine was PERFECT.

He was a little scared--he called urgent care offices even though I told him I wasn't going to one.

He bandaged up my bloody finger even though he was scared he was doing it wrong.
(A piece of advice: Enough tape will stop any amount of bleeding. No experience required.)

He dealt with the mess I made in the kitchen and called the Chinese man to make a late night delivery of dumplings and chicken fried rice.

He made me laugh about the situation...kinda.
As I was laying in the floor trying to un-wooz my head, he called from the kitchen--"Hey! I found the chunk of your finger! Wanna see it?"
Umm, yeah, no. I think I'm gonna die.

Anytime I stirred in the night, he said, "How's your finger?" from the fog of a dead sleep.

It's healing nicely, but one side of my finger comes to a point now...

I've said it many times before and I'll say it many times again--I should have orange cones that perpetually circle my body. I am an accident waiting to happen at any moment.

Thankfully, I have darling people around me who take care of me and love me when my awkwardness leads to an injury. 

I crave the sound of snow falling. 

There is an eerie quiet that seems to fall over my world when the snow is falling and it generally means good things.

Years ago, I was about to leave to have dinner with my father and step-mother. The snow began to fall and with it our dinner plans were cancelled. I wanted to see them, but I was filled with glee from the cancelling of plans and the promise of a day in my sweatpants to come.

Even longer ago, the sound of snow falling at night meant no school, a day of frozen toes, wet feet, and desperately attempting to build a snowman out of 3/4 of an inch of wet, slushy sleet.

Four years ago, almost to the day, a date that had lasted nearly 24 hours was coming to an end...even though neither of us wanted it to. I told him that he had to bring me home. With a few pouts and extra snuggles, he finally relented and we got in the truck. As we went down the road, he held my hand tightly and assured me that this would not be our last date and in my heart, I knew he was right. I fought back a flood of emotions as I looked through the gray windshield and watched the tiny bits of white dust begin to fall. I heard it pelting the truck as we sped down the road, like being in a sand storm. I was disoriented, I could barely breathe, and I was elated. Snow was falling and so was I.

When the snow falls, I ache to be home. I crave the warmth of my handmade quilts and the comforting rub of pily sweatpants. Four years ago, my heart found its home in a snowstorm. Each winter, I crave the smell of the snow and the sound it makes when it snaps against the window, but I'm lucky that my home is now with me every day, sleet, snow, rain, or shine.