The cottage cheese incident.

If I could go back to myself on my wedding day and give myself one bit of advice, it would be this: keep a quote journal.  Granted, other sorts of wisdom would have helped me to navigate our marriage with fewer bumps in the road.  But I want more than to avoid the pain; I want to recall the blessings and the silliness with vivid detail.  Isn’t it the memories of the good stuff that sort of slip away when times get tough?  I should have been keeping a quote journal to remind me of all the moments that left me feeling like I was on some sneaky sitcom, to remind me of Brian’s sweet and unexpected compliments. On some of my more average days I hope to remedy this error by blogging some of my favorite marriage memories.  Poor Brian.

You see, Brian’s charm has always been his inability to hear himself before he speaks.  There’s a definite lack of filter there.   Most of us never wonder, “What’s Brian thinking?”  And it’s not that he’s constantly blabbering on about his opinions, loving the sound of his own voice.  He doesn’t need to use that many words to sum up what’s on his mind.  And at this point, I’m not sure I’d enjoy him as much if he did have a filter.  This quality was one of the first things that I appreciated about him.  While many men would hold their tongues, watch their language or apologize, “Pardon my French,” Brian never held back.  His colorful and offensive vocabulary just proved that his intentions weren’t to pretend his way into my heart.

This precious quality, however, didn’t seem quite as precious one week into our marriage.  Prior to getting married I let my gym attendance slip to the back burner.  (There’s not much time for step aerobics when you plan your wedding in one month.)

(Don't we look like children?)

Yes, one week into being married Brian looked at me from across the room and inquired, “ Soooo…  When are you going back to the gym?”

Me, “ Why?  Do I look bigger?”

Obviously the answer is no, right?

Brian,  “Well… I can only tell in one spot.”

Me, “My stomach?”  (It’s always the first thing to go.)

Brian, “Okay, two spots.”

Now, don’t forget, Brian doesn’t hear himself before he speaks.  Any careful man would have stopped this conversation before it started.  But Brian is a brave, brave man.

Brian, “It’s the sides of your legs.”

Me: *taking a sharp breath*

Brian, “They’re kind of looking a little bigger.”

Me: *now holding that sharp breath*

Brian, “…kind of cottage-cheesy…”

Me, “Yoooouu NEVER.  Use the words.  Cottage cheese.  In reference to a woman’s body.  Ever.”

Being born a sensitive soul, you would think that I was hurt, embarrassed and headed back to the gym.  Not quite.  You see, I felt sorry for Brian.  I felt sorry that no one had ever taught Brian the rules.  So one week into being married, I developed a strategy.

There was no nagging.  There were no tears.  I just mulled over this little incident and waited to retell it…

… until the first night that we had dinner with his parents.

I mean, really, why waste your breath nagging and crying when you can get other people to point out that cottage cheese should clearly never be mentioned outside of the context of meal preparation?

Did I mention that my mother-in-law adores me?

The blueberries always help.

So far the highlights of my morning have been removing a tick off of my basset hound Esther, rereading the story of David and Goliath and perusing an insert I found in the Washington Post.  Really, I was just looking for the grocery sales papers, but I got distracted.  (More on my frugal living later.)

Perusing the Washington Post isn’t a normal morning ritual for me.  On Wednesdays, however, I tend to make an exception to all the morning ritual rules.  You see, Wednesdays are the days that I recover from Tuesdays.  While the rest of the world laments the woes of a Monday, I start my work week on Tuesday.  Not only do I start my work week on Tuesday, I usually stand for a solid 12 hours.  Mentally, I absolutely love those 12 hours.  Physically, my body wonders how on earth I ever agreed to this. 

I’m a hair stylist.  I don’t normally refer to myself as a hairdresser, and certainly not a barber.  And while I am an American Board Certified Haircolorist, I just stick with plain ol’ ‘hair stylist.’  (Except every now and then, just for kicks, I like to sound fancy and throw people off by telling them I’m a cosmetologist… which I am, technically, but who really refers to anyone as that anymore?)

There’s never a dull moment in the world of hair styling.  No two days are the same.  No two clients are the same.  And very few people speak the same language when it comes to hair.  One person’s “long layers” means lots of layers from top to bottom, while another person’s “long layers” means no layers except the few along the bottom.  It’s like cracking a code.  And I love to win.

So don’t get me wrong.  I’m not recovering from not enjoying a 12 hour Tuesday.  I certainly did enjoy it.  I even got to use the bathroom (more on my jam packed schedule later)!  I’m simply recovering from standing and stooping and bending for 12 hours on Tuesday.  And once I got home, wouldn’t you know my husband Brian made breakfast for dinner!  *sigh*  He even put fresh blueberries IN the pancakes.  (More on how and why I love my husband later.)  And once I finished, I headed into the living room to plug in my new-got-it-on-clearance-from-a-Tuesday-Morning foot massager.  Except this time I didn’t use it for my feet.  Testing just how useful this new device can be, I carefully stretched across the floor and situated the foot massager under my lower back.  And while it took a few tries to figure out how not to accidentally turn it off and on with my rear, at last success.  A good Tuesday.

Did I mention this is my first blog?