This again?

Yup.  This again.  I’m writing the promised “follow-up” post to this.  I was amazed by the response I got, and I appreciate all of the comments.  It’s a hot topic, and it seems like everyone has strong opinions and feelings on the subject.  Hubby and I sat down and read all of the responses together–we laughed at some of your answers, we were intrigued by some of your answers, and we were impressed by all of your answers.  We learned a lot–not just about ourselves but about how other people’s relationships work!

I do, however, need to explain that Hubby and I were not fighting over this.  We weren’t even debating.  Some of you said that you were siding with me, or that you were siding with Hubby.  Well, there were no sides.  I should have made this more clear.  There were no hurt feelings.  This is important, because I am of the very strong opinion that if there were hurt feelings, it doesn’t matter what the possible explanation is, it has to stop.  Because it’s not okay to hurt the person you love.

Many of you responded by saying that women have had to go through a lot–things that men don’t have to go through–salaries, menstruation,the way we give birth, and the objectification of women and the double standards that we’ve been subjected to throughout history–so that means that we can pretty much say whatever we want to say.  I know that most of you who said things like that were kidding, but let’s address it anyway:

Women do go through a lot.  I have been through everything listed above, just like many of you have.  But how is this Hubby’s fault?  He is not the kind of man who does these things.  When I have gone through things like that (from childbirth to rotten bosses), Hubby has always been my champion.  He supports me, sustains me.  Saying hurtful things to my sweet, respectful, loving husband in order to get back at all of mankind and whoever designed my body seems, well, completely and totally unfair.

But let’s say it was his fault.  So let’s say I blame him.  I get even.  He says hurtful things, so I say hurtful things.  Wow.  What a happy marriage/life that makes for.  Surely there’s a higher road…

And, taking that even further, how does MY treating someone badly make up for having been treated badly?  I mean, if someone burns my house down, do I get to go burn a house down too?  Some would say, yes, and that it evens the playing field.  I say, it makes you BOTH arsonists, and you’ll BOTH go to jail. You’ve sold your liberty in order to get even, and now you’re every bit as lousy of a person as the person who wronged you was.

So, I guess that brings us to an important word:  the word “hurtful.”  As I’ve said, it’s never okay for me to say something hurtful, and it’s never okay for him to say something hurtful to me.  (Of course, from time to time we DO say hurtful things–generally on accident–and they need to be worked out.)

So I guess the big “double standard” question was really, WHY is it hurtful if a man says that and NOT hurtful if a woman does?  (And, of course, this is a huge generalization, because I suspect that very often women DO hurt their men with these very things without realizing how stupid they’re being.)

Carla brought up the word “lust” and I think it’s an important one.  If I say that a guy’s good looking, there’s no lust involved.  I wouldn’t say it if there were–I’d be way too uncomfortable.  But, in our case, if Hubby were to say that someone is “hot” there would be a definite sexual undertone.  Lust.  Objectification.  And that’s just not a line that we’re going to cross around here.

Crossing that sexual line is where, in our house, it would become hurtful.  Obviously women are VERY capable of lust too, but in general, if we say a guy’s good looking, there’s no lust there.  It’s just simply a statement about a guy being good looking.  We’re not all hot and bothered.  (If you are, again, I think a line’s been crossed.)  Since men seem to get to that “hot and bothered” point a little more… quickly… easily, and so for them to say, “oooh, she’s hot,” the wife gets the immediate impression that the “hot and bothered” line has already been crossed.

Again, generalizations, generalizations.  Women are very capable of lust.  Men are capable of acknowledging someone’s beauty without it being lust.  Still, because of history and society, we tend to think that a man is a pig and a woman is an innocent observer.  Fair?  Perhaps not.  But true.

The important thing here is that Hubby knows me.  He knows that if I say that a guy’s hot, I’m not saying it because I’m… um… aroused.

Many of you have said that in your relationships, you’re both okay with the drooling and the flirting and the… well… the lusting.  This boggles my brain.  You say that it’s because of a certain level of trust in your relationship.  This boggles my brain even more.  I don’t want to say too much, because I don’t want to say that you’re “wrong” and that you don’t really feel the way you claim to feel.  Suffice it to say, I don’t understand it.  There’s not one single soul on this planet that I trust more than I trust my husband.  There’s not one single soul I feel (or have ever felt) closer to.  Even so, or perhaps because, it would HURT me if he were to be drooling over anyone, watching porn, or even flirting at work.  He’s a good man, he has self control.  I value his self control.  I’m not saying that everyone who allows himself to lust after someone else is going to become unfaithful.  But I AM saying that someone who doesn’t allow himself to fall prey to lust will NEVER be unfaithful.  (That’s not to say that a marriage won’t disintegrate for other reasons, but it won’t disintegrate for THAT reason.)  Why skirt the line?  Why drive close to the edge of the cliff and hope not to fall off?  I prefer to drive far from the cliff, so that falling off isn’t an issue.  Anyway, point is, the mutual drooling is something I just. don’t. get.

I guess the important question is, again, am I being hurtful?  Or, am I being hurt?  Really, dig deep in your soul and find out.  Because that’s what matters.

Obviously, if he says that someone’s pretty, or attractive, or whatever, that’s different.  Of course he’s going to notice if a woman’s beautiful!  His eyes work.  And I like it when he says it.  I can also see when a woman’s beautiful!  I know that I’m not about to sleep with her, nor is he.  It’s just, again, when it become sexual or objectifying that it becomes hurtful.

Um, I think I’m saying the same thing over and over again, so I guess I’ll stop.  hahaha.   Also, for the record, I do not claim to be any sort of expert in this arena!  I’m just stating my own observations!

I’m very interested to see what you all have to say.  So, have at it, bloodhounds.  Rip me to shreds.

(Oh, and remember the “PG” rule, okay?)

Just in case you can’t get enough Brillig…

Go read Kate’s site today. (You really should be reading Kate’s site EVERY day…) She has what have to be the most embarrassing pictures of us from high school up and a very sweet (WAY too sweet) tribute to me for my birthday. I’m not sure whether to laugh, cry, or murder her for posting what have to be the worst pictures ever taken of me. Gosh, I hope they’re the worst… It’s very scary to think that there might be worse ones than that somewhere…

Seriously, though.  There’s a picture in there that looks like the Quasimoto version of me.  Please know that I don’t really look like that.  I don’t!  I promise!!!!

So go see her, and join her in praise of ME. (Hey, it’s my birthday. I get to say stuff like that, okay?)

(But don’t forget to scroll down and read MY post today!!)

Awwwwww

Yo. It’s kinda like Flashback Friday or Soap Opera Sunday, except that it’s a Tuesday. Just bear with me, okay?

About seven and a half years ago, I went up to Park City (I was living in Southern Utah at the time) to visit my older brother, J. He was going to be meeting up with some friends there–friends I didn’t know, but I was always eager to meet any new group of young men.

When we met up with his friends, I naturally checked each one out. I found them to be lacking… But all of a sudden, an incredibly handsome chap emerged from behind the others and I. Was. Smitten.

We hung out with this group of friends for a few hours, during which time I did my darndest to get to know the one hot guy. I was outgoing and friendly and ridiculously self-confident. He was a little more quiet, but radiated kindness and a great sense of humor. And he seemed interested enough…

That afternoon, we all went our separate ways. My brother J and I hung out for the rest of the weekend, during which time I plagued him constantly with questions about that friend. Who is he? Where is he from? How do you know him? What does he like? Do you think he likes me? And so on, until I think my poor brother was ready to strangle me.

Anyway, the weekend ended and I headed “home” to my school and my… um… boyfriend. (Oooops, did I leave that part out?) But I couldn’t get that guy out of my head.

As it turned out, J’s friend had been bugging J with all those same questions about me. And, as it turned out, J was ready to strangle us BOTH. But he kept our mutual interest in each other a secret, the little stinker. (J had recently been in a relationship with a friend of mine, and we both learned that being in the middle of your sibling and friend’s relationship can be very sticky–especially when things turn south. So I get why he wanted to stay out of it. Still, he could have let me know that his friend was interested, right? Instead of tormenting me…)

A few months went by, and I still couldn’t get him out of my head. I was coming into town for a friend’s wedding, and so J arranged a big group date and I was set up with the cute Park City boy (who wasn’t actually from Park City, but that’s where I met him. Confusing?) It was very clear right off the bat that this guy and I were extremely different people. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever dated or ever expected to date. But he was so darling. And so sweet. And I was completely infatuated. But, again, the weekend ended and I had to go back to my job, my apartment, and yet another boyfriend.

But I was constantly haunted by Park City boy.  His eyes, his smile, his sense of humor, his attitude, his whole aura.  Everything about him intrigued, fascinated, and excited me.

So, I did what any lovesick responsible girl would do. I followed my gut and moved back north. After all, I’d hated my job and my apartment (and my boyfriend) and it was time to start over somewhere else (and being closer to Park City boy was just a perk, right?). Everything about this move went so smoothly, as though it had all been orchestrated to work out. Kate, who had been my dear friend for many years already, had an opening in her apartment for a roommate, so I took it and moved in with her. I got a great job. I was near my friends and family… and Park City boy.

Almost an entire nano-second passed after I’d relocated before Park City boy and I were dating. Very seriously. Again, we were SO different, but we were so perfect together.  That’s not to say that it was always rosy–sometimes we disagreed, sometimes we downright fought, and once we even broke up. Now, I’d broken up with plenty of guys by this time, but I’d never cared. I’d never missed them when they were gone. EVER! But this… this was different. About ten seconds after I “dumped him” I realized my huge mistake. I held out for about a week but finally I couldn’t bear it anymore. I caved in and I called him–and it became clear that he was missing me as much as I was missing him.

Breaking up was probably the best thing that ever happened to us, because it made me realize that the idea of my life without him in it was unbearable.

So, we got back together. And I never once questioned if it was the right choice. It just was. Every part of my soul knew that I was meant to be with him.

Exactly 7 years ago today (on my 22nd birthday!) he knelt down before me and asked me to marry him. I said yes.
And that, Gentle Readers, is how Park City boy became Mr. Brillig.

And yes, those of you astute enough to pick up on it, today’s my birthday. My 29th birthday. But we shall refrain from talking about that, because 29 sounds eerily close to 30, which sounds downright geriatric. And I’m MUCH too young and frivolous and silly to be geriatric…

Still, it’s my day! So I’m off to celebrate. Hope you’re all enjoying it as much as I am.

Teaching Me

Soap Opera Sunday, friends!

Because many of you know where I went to High School, I have to tread lightly here…

As I was registering for High School just before my freshman year, I looked over possible electives. One of them on the list was simply not an option, it was a must. The subject was a passion for me, and I was good at it. I signed right up.

The first day of class, I strutted my stuff. I WAS good at this, notably the BEST in the class, right off the bat. The teacher was impressed. It was important to me to impress him.

He was fascinating and… handsome for an old man. And by old, I mean about forty, I guess. Still, since I was 14, forty was OLD!

I excelled in his class and received a lot of special attention from him. I was his star student. He began insisting that I call him by his first name. It didn’t seem all that weird, because there were several others who did that too, male and female.

The next year, I decided to take his more advanced class. He was thrilled, as was I. We were really becoming great friends. He offered me a position as his Teacher’s Assistant and I accepted. This would mean a guaranteed “A” for that class period, along with allowing me to delve even deeper into my understanding and knowledge of this particular subject, while still being his student during another class period. Two hours with him! It also meant that he and I would be alone in his office quite often. Again, we were becoming great friends, and this wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all.

Throughout my extended alone time with him, I learned all about his marriage–and how it was falling apart. He painted his wife as the ultimate wench. I felt so bad for him. It never occurred to me that it was totally inappropriate for him to be telling me these things. We were just really good friends, and it seemed like something that would naturally come up in conversation between friends.

Soon he started making jokes–that if his wife were more like me, they’d get along so much better. Everything would be better, if she were just a little more like me. That eventually evolved into him making jokes about leaving her for me. It was so silly. I was only 15. It was just a joke, but part of me kinda hoped he meant it.

To clarify, I wasn’t completely unaware of his attachment to me. I wasn’t so very naive. But I also didn’t see it as any big deal. And I was extremely flattered. I admired him, for sure. I was intrigued by his knowledge and delighted by his humor. I knew he was a popular teacher and I enjoyed being the center of his attention. I don’t think I returned the sentiment, the bizarre infatuation, but my ego loved the game, so I allowed it. I even had some romantic dreams involving him that got my brain all messed up. I really wasn’t quite sure how I felt about him. But whatever it was, it was just a silly little thing. And probably all in my head. I knew that no one else would understand how harmless it was, so I never mentioned it to anyone.

One day, he’d had a nasty tiff with his wife, and he sat down with me and told me about it, as he always had. And then, suddenly very serious, he told me that he really would leave her for me, if I would have him. I caught my breath and felt the crazy tension in the air.

I don’t remember what happened or who interrupted us, but I never had the chance to respond. Just as well. I had no idea what to say, but I was finally starting to feel a little creeped out.

I began to be a little more distant. He knew it, I knew it. I still considered him a great friend, but I knew we were crossing into dangerous territory and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I just avoided him.

The next semester, he gave me an “A-”.

I was… um… FURIOUS.

I stormed into his classroom and grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into the office. This was witnessed by many students. I wonder what went through their heads! They had already probably realized there was something “weird” going on with us. I never really stopped to think about how it all looked to everyone else.

I yelled at him. I was clearly his very best student –I had never once gotten a question wrong on a test!–and I was given an A-. WHY??? He just laughed at me. He wouldn’t answer me me, or even pretend to take me seriously. He just laughed.

I should have done something, tattled on him to someone, but I was embarrassed and never quite sure of what had actually happened between us emotionally and wondered if it had all been in my head, etc. I decided that I couldn’t possibly tell anyone about it. So the A- remained as it was.

My mom was so ticked off at me when she saw my grades. She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t “living up to my potential.” How could I get less than a perfect grade in this subject? I had no answers for her, of course. I just let her believe that I was lazy and frivolous–she was prone to believe that about me anyway–so after listening to her familiar speech until its bitter end, I went to my room and bawled, feeling so completely helpless.

He and I grew apart, and never talked like that again. I finished his whole series of classes and just moved on. A few years later, all grown up now, I had to stop in at the school to pick up a transcript and I ran into him there. He couldn’t remember my name (hello?) but he said, “what I remember about you was that one time that you were unhappy with your grade and so you made a huge scene and screamed at me.” Laughing, again.

Ick.

I know that this whole situation certainly wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but still, such a relationship was completely out of place. Sadly, this wasn’t my only “inappropriate friendship” with a teacher. There was one other, which we will reserve for another story at another time. And, looking back, it seemed like there were other teachers who had “special friends” who were students that, from appearances, bordered on the inappropriate too.

What would you have done if you’d been 15 years old and in a similar situation? Did you see/experience this stuff in your school too?

Gramma D

Flashback Friday, Gentle Readers!

(Thanks, by the way, to everyone who has left comments on my last post. On Monday or Tuesday I’ll write a follow-up to it. In the meantime, I’d love for everyone to throw in their 2 cents. And guys! I haven’t yet had a GUY leave a comment and I’d really love to hear your point of view there too!)

Today’s Flashback Friday is one that I’m not even sure I’m ready to talk about. But here goes.

When Hubby and I were engaged, we were poor. Very poor. We needed a place to live. It was arranged that we could live with my Gramma D. For free. In her basement. We would be required to earn our keep, so to speak, by doing odd-jobs for her. She was nearly 100 years old at the time and had been wheelchair bound for forty years by that point, so there were lots of things she’d love for us to help her with. She was a millionairess, but it never occurred to her to HIRE someone to help her with things. She just usually guilt-tripped family or neighbors or the church into helping her with stuff. So it would be handy to have us there as her on-call slaves.

Hubby and me with Gramma D

 

Here’s the thing with my Grandma. She was not only extremely demanding, overly critical, impossible to please, manipulative, racist, and self-righteous, but she’d also made it clear from the beginning of my life that she did. not. like me. So why I thought that this would work out, I have no idea. But we were poor. Oh my gosh, we were so poor, and we had to live SOMEWHERE! Hubby was still in school full-time and I was working my butt off at a job where I was making just over minimum wage, paying for his schooling and our living expenses.

 

Gramma D at our wedding

 

 

I tried to get along with her. I tried every possible approach. My parents said that no one had ever broken through her shell as much as I had. Some days we got along and I made her laugh. I had a knack for making her laugh–it was my saving grace. Still, she loved to tell people how awful I was and even occasionally how abusive I was and how I took advantage of her, and so on.

 

Fortunately, she liked Hubby. She probably wondered why he had stooped so low as to marry someone as wretched and disgusting as me, and she likely judged him quite harshly for that, but otherwise she loved him. And since he hadn’t grown up with her, he didn’t carry all the baggage about her that I did. So that helped us all to co-exist.

 

We lived there for three years–I gave birth to my first two babies right there in her house. The hardest time was probably when Princess Fluffy was about 7 months old and I was already pregnant with Bubba. That’s just way too many hormones and emotions rolled into one human being, and living with a woman who thought I was a terrible mother and didn’t know anything about caring for my baby was very difficult.

 

One day she decided that I had made the floor dirty (in a room that I never went in, that had rotting linoleum floors that weren’t “dirty” they were just worn out and needed to be replaced!) and so she demanded that I get down on my hands and knees and scrub. I was pregnant. I had a crawling baby who kept trying to drink up the cleanser on the floor, etc. She sat in her chair and watched me, criticizing every stroke I made with the scrubbing brush. “Gramma, this floor is not going to get clean. It’s scratched. Scrubbing it will not make it look any better, no matter how hard I scrub.” She wouldn’t believe it. I just sucked at cleaning. She couldn’t believe I sucked so bad at cleaning.  She would have to call all of her friends and let them know.

 

So, that’s Flashback Friday, friends! We will probably revisit Gramma D stories again in the future. There’s lots of blog-fodder here….

A Double Standard?

Yesterday, I told my husband about my friend Jenn in Holland who was missing home on the 4th of July and that she wouldn’t even be able to light the fireworks that she’d saved from New Year’s that night because it was raining. “So I told her to go see the hot guy who sells her cheese, and that would create fireworks for her.” I giggled. Hubby just stared at me.

Okay, not funny?

“Isn’t Jenn married?”

“Yes,” I answer.

We were then interrupted by little cherubs with big demands, but a few minutes later Hubby came back and said, “Do you think there’s a double standard? I mean, if two married guys had had that conversation, you would call them pigs. Why is it not equally wrong for two married girls to have that conversation?”

I acknowledged that the guys would be considered pigs. It’s one thing when Hubby acknowledges that a girl is “pretty.” That doesn’t bother me at all. But if he’d had a conversation about “creating fireworks” with some girl, it would have infuriated me.

He also pointed out to me that my girlfriends and I giggle about male celebrities, and hang pictures of them on our blog-walls, and talk about “drooling” over them, and so on. But again, if he were to put a picture of Pamela Anderson on his blog and talk about drooling, he would, again, be a pig.

True.

I offered him an explanation of why I thought there was this double standard, if you want to call it that. There really is a difference, I think. But before I tell you what I told him, I want to know how YOU, Gentle Readers, would respond.

So, is there a double standard? And if it is a double standard, is it justified or not? Lurkers, de-lurk today. I really want to know what everyone thinks of this. I’ll have a follow-up post in a few days.

Oh, and, um… this blog is rated PG. I know that this is a topic that could quickly turn… um… NOT PG. You KNOW I don’t like censorship, but I will have to edit things if they get out of hand so, um, don’t let them. Okay? Ready, set, GO!

If this blog is a-rockin…

What do Cate from A Beautiful Life, Jessabean of Unquiet Heart, Butrfly of Butrfly Garden, Kelly of Diary of the Nello, Megan of Velveteen Mind, Jenny of Absolutely Bananas, CableGirl of 42, and Dedee of The Quiltmaker’s Gift have in common?

They have FANTASTIC taste. They think I rock. Yup. All eight of them!!!! How I managed to dupe so many people, I’m not sure. Still, what an honor, right? I’d love to turn around and give the award right back to each of them, since they rock–oh yes, they rock–a whole heck of a lot more than I do, that’s for sure.

(Did I forget anyone? My technorati is having issues–I KNOW!!! HOW DO I SURVIVE???–and not all of my beloved linkies are showing up, and it actually seems like there was one more, but I can’t for the life of me come up with it… I’ll update this post and add some more linky-love if I missed you!)

Okay, and here’s where the guilt sets in. See, this here site is still brand spankin’ new, doncha know, and I haven’t yet figured out what I want to do with the sidebar. (There used to be TWO sidebars, but y’all created such a ruckus that I had to take one down. I’m such a people-pleaser.) And so, I was waiting until I knew where to PUT my award before I acknowledged it. And then another award was given, and then another, and so on. And I’m just sure that if I’d put the little button into my sidebar, I wouldn’t have tricked so many people into awarding me.

My little plan worked. I’m so humbled.

So what’s the first thing I’m going to do? Put all eight buttons in my sidebar, of course (for now–cuz I think that might get really old soon…). And here too (and, fortunately for me, people have been tinkering with the look of the award, so I can actually put eight different ones in!):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, then. Now for the fun part. Now for the taggy-tagginess. And I’ll even let you pick whichever blog-bling you want!

• The Road Lester Traveled
• GoldyWorld–Yes, I know Goldy’s not a girl. But it just seems like if I’m giving out awards today, one just HAS to go to Goldy! So, Goldy, feel free to pick a badge that doesn’t specifically say “girl”–or, hey, who knows? Maybe you want to be a rockin’ GIRL blogger? I bet no one’s ever called you that before…
• Annette Lyon
• Virtual Sprite
• Gaining Balance
• Believer in Balance
• Sugar Kane
• The Verge
• Omega Mum
• Debio
• PantryShelf
• Carla Stream
• MammasWorld
• Sheila (who prefers not to be linked to, but she knows who she is )
• Work At Home Mom Revolution
• Nanette
• Swistle

Okay, I could go on for hours. I really could. It seems impossible to narrow this thing down. But, there it is. Congrats, Ladies (and Gent) on your awards. Now what? Well, here are the rules: If you’re given the rocking girl blogger award, then in a post on your own site you link back to the blog that awarded you and then you award it to five other blogs. These should be blogs that are written by women who you think rock. And then they take the award, post it on their blog, link back to you, and award five more blogs, and so on, until the universe is overcome with rockin’ girl bloggers. Any questions? Good. Now go partake in the tag-aliciousness.

Not Very Lucky and Not At All Charming

The scene: My littlest two boys are in bed for midday naps. Fuzzles, the ten month old, is secure in his crib while Scooby, the two year old, is in his room, which doesn’t have a lock, but the door is very tricky and in three weeks here he hasn’t yet been able to open it. The other two kids (Bubba, 4, and Princess Fluffy, 5) are outside playing on the park with some friends.

And I, well, I need a break. I see this moment of solitude as the perfect time to fill a hot bath and indulge for a few minutes–recharge the ol’ batteries, doncha know. A rare pleasure indeed.

And so, I immerse myself into the delicious water and close my eyes. Ahhhhh. After a minute, I hear some strange noises. I open my eyes to find Scooby (who not only got out of his bedroom but also apparently climbed up the pantry shelf) lording an open box of Lucky Charms over my bathtub. Before I scream, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” he turns the box over and the bathtub is suddenly full of Lucky Charms.

(Scooby and his Charms)

 

“Oh my gosh, how am I going to clean this up?” I say out loud. Scooby has an idea. He begins scooping the cereal out of the water and ravenously eats it. “Ewww! Ick! No, no!” I squeal.

I busy myself with trying to get the cereal out and keeping Scooby from snarfing it all down when I hear yet more noises. I turn to see Princess Fluffy and all of the neighbor children STARING at me. Me. Naked. In the bathtub. With all of my bits exposed. And let’s not forget the Lucky Charms floaties. (And now I’m just certain that their parents are going to sue me for the therapy that will now be necessary.) At this point I begin shrieking, “GET OUT!!! GET OUT!!!! GET OUT!!!!” And eventually, they catch on, and leave. Clever little things.

That’ll show me for trying to take a break. Mommy never EVER gets a break. I should know that by now….

…………….ETA:

On an incredibly bright note today–Believer in Balance awarded me a Perfect Post Award for my “Chad” Soap Opera Sunday series. What a huge honor! Thanks so much!!!!!

June’s Perfect Post

It’s that time again, folks! That time where I award my favorite post from the preceding month. For those of you who may be blogging under a rock, the Perfect Post Awards are brought to you by Suburban Turmoil and MammaK. Go check out their sites for other awardees!

And so, without further ado, June’s Perfect Post Award goes to Butrfly Garden for her post, Hunted.

If you haven’t yet read this post, go check it out. If you have, go read it again. It will send chills through your body. You will be sitting on the edge of your seat. Your heart will race. You will wonder if this is truth or fiction (it’s truth, by the way). This was an amazing post and the first time I read it, it left me begging for more–it left us ALL begging for more. And so, to appease her fan club (of which I like to consider myself the president…) she began her Punjabi series.

By the way, I was not alone in my adoration of this piece. Indiebloggers featured it on their site (a rare honor indeed, as they receive hundreds of submissions and only publish a small handful of those and only feature a fraction of the published ones) and Stacy of Jurgen Nation and Indiebloggers fame said, and I quote, “it is absolutely fantastic and I’m proud that we could feature it. I think it’s my favorite post we have ever received through the site.”

Wow. I will say it again. Wow.

Congrats, Butrfly! You SO deserve this!!!!

Final Chad

It’s Soap Opera Sunday and our fourth and final Chad. (Need a refresher? Here’s part one, part two, and part three.)

Okay, fine. I confess that to say that he asked me to marry him is a bit of an exaggeration. But he began to refer to us as though we were engaged, and he would talk about our children and our life and our future as though it were a done deal. He told me that there was a ring, but he knew that I wasn’t ready for it yet, so he’d hold onto it until I was.

I never saw that ring.

Somewhere in here, Kate and I made up. Obviously. Anyone who’s ever read this blog knows about my BFF Kate. It was on a very special Groundhog’s Day that I called her and told her I was sorry and that my life without her in it was… stupid. Especially when I knew that the blame didn’t fall on her. (Groundhog’s Day is a significant holiday for us, but she’ll have to tell you that story on her own blog sometime. It’s hers to tell, not mine.)

Naturally, I was getting sicker and sicker and searching for some kind of escape from our game, but I began to feel like this was my destiny. But Chad didn’t want to marry me in the Temple, which is where I’d wanted to be married my whole life. Not just wanted, needed. But he wouldn’t do that. He would have felt like a hypocrite there, because he just didn’t believe in it all anymore. I didn’t blame him for not just doing it anyway. I mean, if he didn’t want to get married in the Temple, then I wouldn’t force him–I wouldn’t have wanted him to just do it for me.

From the beginning of our bizarre relationship, one thing had always been understood. I was going to serve a mission for the Church. I’d always wanted to, and now I had an opportunity to go two years earlier than most women get to go. I was passionate about this, and whatever was going to happen between us would have to happen when I got home. He never considered talking me into staying home and marrying him instead. He knew that this was just something I had to do.

So I turned in my application to serve a mission and soon received my assignment to go to Buenos Aires, Argentina. I was so excited. I’d spent time in Buenos Aires before and I was utterly in love with it. I couldn’t wait to go. And so I threw myself into preparations and made myself, well, scarce.

One day he came over and said, “I’m going on a date tonight.” I laughed. “No, really. I’m going on a date. W from that-one-house called and asked me out.”

I scoffed. “Well, did you tell her you had a girlfriend?” Of course, she KNEW he had a girlfriend. Everyone in the foreign language housing knew us. We weren’t exactly hermits…

“No. I didn’t tell her I had a girlfriend. Besides, it doesn’t matter. It’s just for some dance social thing and she needs a partner. It’s no big deal.”

Hmmmm, I thought. Who asks out a guy who has a girlfriend? Still, I didn’t really have time to worry about it. Or care very much.

It was decided that I would go and spend some time with my parents (who were, coincidentally, also living in Argentina–though on the opposite side of where I’d be serving my mission) before I began my mission. So, very suddenly, I up and left. I didn’t say goodbye.

He began writing me, and I wrote back at first, but finally I decided that this was dumb and I was through. So I wrote him a letter, telling him that if he were still around when I got home (in two years!) we’d see how we felt about each other. In the meantime, I asked him not to write me again–UNLESS (and this part had been a joke) it was to send me a wedding announcement for him and W.

Exactly one year later, I received a letter from him. A wedding announcement. For him and W, who he was marrying in the Salt Lake Temple.

There was no letter attached.  Just the announcement.

I nearly died. I examined it over and over again to make sure it wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t. By the time I received the announcement, they were already married.

I have to say, though, that the moment I finally accepted that it was real, relief washed over me–like warm water being poured over my head. It was over. PHEW!!!!

I’ve never seen him or heard from him since. I sometimes wonder how I would act if I were to run into him somewhere. But it’s just done. Over. And I couldn’t have asked for a better ending.

I do sometimes wonder, though, if she’s wearing my ring…

THE END!

(Stay tuned for June’s Perfect Post Award! The Awards go up on Monday–generally they go up on the first day of the month, but they’ve chosen to put them up on Monday the 2nd instead. Woohoo!)