Welcome to Forgotonia

One of the surprises about being married, so far, has been the fact that I find myself playing more of my dad when it comes to little squabbles about money.

My dad, in my parents’ relationship, was the one who always questioned my mom before she threw anything out–or wanted to buy anything new.

As a kid I always took my mom’s side in these small arguments. (It was hard not to. When the console TV broke in this millennium, Dad wanted her to find another one just like it.)

My mom and I both love to shop. We’re both lured in by bargains and baubles and going to stores for the fun of it.

So when Chris and I have little disagreements about the need (or not) for certain things, I can’t believe how much I remind myself of my dad.

Now that I’ve left a rather comfortable full-time position with great benefits to become a part-part time teacher, I find myself worrying about finances and becoming the more miserly.

Last week when Chris ordered a pie pan and a butter cutter ( I love saying the name of that thing) in preparation for making a Thanksgiving pecan pie, I–instead of saying, “I can’t believe how lucky I am to have found a guy who bakes,”–actually said instead, “Did we really need that? Couldn’t you have just borrowed one of those from your parents (who are also big into baking)?”

When I moved in with my husband last month, I gave away a mattress and box springs from my parental home that was not only handed down to me, but that, when it was, it was already more than two decades old.  (Have I mentioned that my dad is a farmer?)

So, the idea of replacing the queen-sized bed that Chris already owns–a perfectly nice, perfectly balanced between fluffy yet firm, and even perfectly modern and luxurious (i.e., he actually sprang for the memory foam-y kind, whereas the bed I was using had a freaking piece of plywood underneath it to keep it firm)–with a bigger, king-sized one, seems ludicrous to me, nothing but pure waste, typical American excessive-ness.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this bed.

But, with both of us having lived single a long, long time before we moved in together, we’re both used to having more personal space in the bed. (And hogging the covers.)

But more importantly, Chris (unfortunately)  has a bad back, so he’s always in some measure of pain on a daily basis.  So a night spent sleeping uncomfortably means an even more messed-up back the next day. So, every now and then when he wakes up with especially bad back pain, he’ll say, “I need to look into getting a bigger bed.”

I do understand where he’s coming from. But the idea of upsizing still makes me cringe–like we’re those kind of people who, if uncomfortable when trying to squeeze into airplane seats, would more readily sue the airline for obesity discrimination than think of dropping a couple of pounds.

This morning, though, I think I might have been forced to changed my stance.

It was 3:45 a.m., (and I know that for certain because, believe me, I was wide awake after what happened).

I’d been dreaming a weird anxiety dream in which Chris and I were having (for some reason) our second of three consecutive wedding ceremonies, and I was (surprise!) worrying about why we had decided to do three separate ones, because isn’t that a tad excessive, and shouldn’t we maybe have just had one?

Well. In my dream, I’m walking down the aisle for the second time, regretting my choice of having (apparently) decided that we needed one wedding ceremony for some guests, and a second one for another, when suddenly I’m possessed by a piercing pain in my right arm.

I cried out for Chris, and then, simultaneously awoke to the realization that the pain was coming from Chris. I tried to shake out of his spoon-y embrace (sorry, TMI, but it’s important here). “What the–are you awake?!?–ow, stop it! Chris, wake up!”

“Wha–? Oh, oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

“What the hell are you doing?!?” I cried.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “I dreamt I was chasing someone because they stole your cell phone,” he said.

We both started cracking up.

“Jeezus!” I said, rubbing my arm. Were you trying to eat the guy?”

Now, in the daylight, I keep doubling over with laughter out of the blue, every time I think of it–we’re both laying there dead asleep and Chris suddenly takes a huge, deep CHOMP into my upper arm.

I was honestly surprised when I later checked in the mirror and there was (thankfully) no evidence of bruising or broken skin.

But you know how lots of times when you’re dreaming something, like that you’re reaching out to grab a rope, say, and you might actually–but barely–move your arm, and you wake yourself up because you’re lightly gripping the pillow or something?

I can see the possibility of dreaming that you’re biting into something (a cell-phone thief?) and then maybe lightly gumming something next to you, be it person or pillow. But damn. Chris was ready to tear some flesh.

This morning at breakfast, as we were both still laughing and he kept apologizing, I jokingly told him, “We’re gonna end up like that couple on ’20/20.’”

Because, (dork that I am), I totally remember this episode from years and years ago when a guy with a sleep disorder ruefully admitted on camera that he had tried to attack his wife in her sleep, even choking her.

“I drempt I was wrasslin’ a deer,” the poor guy said, wide-eyed.

“You better not try to wrassle me,” I warned.  (I haven’t yet let on that I’m now a bit more open to making a purchase that would allow for a bit more space between us in the marital bed.)

I suppose  now I can truly say that, while our married life appears to be going swimmingly for the most part, it’s also true that–sorry, can’t resist–love bites.

Of Thee I Zing: America’s Cultural Decline from Muffin Tops to Body Shots by Laura Ingraham

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Ok, friends, don’t hate me for the fact that I somehow ended up taking this book home from the library, (this book which, I discovered only after having gotten it home, is authored by a “frequent guest of the O’Reilly Factor.”) What the hell was I thinking? Shouldn’t I have been able to tell from the cover that the person doing the zing-ing is a conservative? (I’m drunk on the awesome library system where I now live, and on the fact that I can take. books. home. for. free. You can’t blame me, really.)

But then, I thought to myself, “maybe it will be good for you to read something from the opposite point of view.” Isn’t that good for our brains and our human development, to try to at least *listen* to opposing viewpoints from our own, from time to time? (Chris and I often do this in the car when the radio inevitably lands on some ranter, but we usually end up cracking up and doing imitations of the offending hosts.)

So, trying to be open-minded, I gave it a chance. And at first, I chuckled at bit. The author’s observations about excessive parents who compete over who can host the most elaborate birthday parties seemed pretty spot on.

But then I kept going, and I realized that, rather than these being essays poking fun at contemporary culture, the entries were actually just section after section of stuff to bitch about, or “wonder aloud” about, in a very old-guy-in-the-coffee-group kind of way. (“Now, about tattoos..what’s wrong with these kids today?”)

After all the mini-sections on things like, yes, tattoos, text-ing teenagers, obese people at the mall, people who write their own wedding vows, people who carry their babies in cloth carries, and on and on and on, I couldn’t help but return to one of my favorite TV bits of all time: Cliff Claven trying his hand at stand-up comedy on Cheers. (Enter subject matter here, then follow with, “What’s up with that?”)

So, regardless of her political affiliation, I thought she came off like a fuddy-duddy, a judge-y tsk-tsk-er, and a crank.

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You Don’t Sweat Much for a Fat Girl: Observations on Life from the Shallow End of the Pool by Celia Rivenbark

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

First of all, at least judging by the author’s photo next to her bio, she is decidedly not fat. So, that kind of annoys me.

And there’s a very “kiss my grits” style of sassy-ness in each entry, and at least for the first couple of entries, I found it kind of cloying.

Having said that, I like writers who analyzes or satirize the seemingly trifling elements of popular culture, (despite the fact that it means their material may not exactly hold up after 10 years because of the contemporary references). I admire writers who aren’t afraid of that possibility of dated-ness (and therefor use as comedic material such cultural fare as the Gosselins and other TLC-show subjects, Twitter over-sharers, and the way Betty Draper treats her fictional children).

I also tried, for two full years, to emulate a newspaper column in a style similar to what Rivenbark is doing, so, I respect and admire her ability to entertain with anything she chooses as her subject matter. I would definitely read more of her stuff, even if I occasionally think the Southern-fried grits-kissing attitude feels a little over the top). I would give this a 3.5 or 3.75 stars.

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Chilly Scenes of Winter by Ann Beattie

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

**SEE UPDATE OF ORIGINAL POST BELOW**

I’m re-reading this for the first time since college, when it was one of the books we studied in Craig Watson’s “Contemporary American Novel” course at Monmouth College. I know I liked it back then but I barely remember it.

In the process of moving from Illinois to Iowa over the past several days, I’ve been going through many a dilemma about keeping/donating/throwing things away. Finally, I have decided that if I’m going to keep *anything*, it has to be for a specific reason that I can state aloud.

A major change for me, Keeper of Everything I Read: from now on, books must fall into the category of “Because I Know I’m Going to Read it Again” or ecause “Because I Know for Certain It’s One of My Favorites and Inspires Me” in order to qualify as a keeper. Hence the re-read on this one: I had trouble putting it in the donate pile. So now I need to be able to see if I can justify keeping it, or face continuing to have too much crap when it’s time for the next Major Schlep to a new place.

This is really hard for me. But I’m trying to tell myself that, when it feels painful to give books away, there are always libraries (for the foreseeable future, anyway…).

However, I still refuse to get a Kindle. It will probably be quite awhile before I bend on this belief: BOOKS MUST BE SMELL-ABLE.

**11/28/11 UPDATE**

Wow. I just can’t do it. And by “it” I mean “actually re-read it,” not “give it away.”

I had thought it would be kind of a fun (and maybe fascinating) experiment to re-read this book (about young people in their early 20s) as someone who has now actually lived through her 20s (when, originally, I read it as a young college student).

But instead it’s just depressing me.

I know this book has literary merit. (And for the very way Beattie depicts the bleak scenarios with verisimilitude, etc.) But…it’s kinda bringing me down. So, out with you, Chilly Scenes. I’ve lived enough life now that I can paint /have experienced enough of them on my own!

(Have you read this book [or any others of Beattie's you'd recommend]? Leave your thoughts in the Comments below.)

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Recently I shared with you that I got hitched after many years of single-hood.

And I also told you about how, subsequently, I left my animal-infested rental cabin (in rural, small-town Illinois) to move in with my husband in semi-metropolitan “Quad City” area in Iowa).

Hence, it’s time to share with you some thoughts about crossing the state line and becoming an official Davenportian, as I like to say.

(I also like to call Bettendorf [one of the cities in this area] “B’dorfadorf,” in the style of “badonkadonk.” You may call it that as well.)

1. DMV Delight

My transformation became official on my second day here, when–upon realizing I was about to become an illegal driver in two states (my IL sticker set to expire)–I shucked out an arm and a leg and got my vehicle registered in Iowa.

Thankfully, I’ve got an aging Honda. They charge you by year and size of vehicle here. (Yet another reason not to drive a tank.)

my proof of purchase

When I opened the door to the Davenport driver’s facility, I wasn’t upset when I saw how many people were seated in the waiting area. Cool, I thought. Now I can get all those jokes on the sitcoms!

Where I grew up, in rural Illinois, not only did I not have to take a number at the DMV, but, the person at the desk would usually wave me over, call me by my first name and ask me what my mom has been up to lately.

So I have to admit I was almost disappointed when the Iowa DMV workers whipped me through one line to the next and I was in and out in under an hour. No chance to build up cred as someone who has finally lived a “big city” experience.

But I did take away one memorable moment: I discovered that the state of Iowa has some kind of weird dental discrimination.

When it was time to get my new license, as I stood in front of the blue background cloth, the lady manning the camera commanded me to brush my bangs off my forehead. “No problem,” I told her.

“No teeth,” the lady said.

“Huh?”

“You can smile, but you can’t show your teeth,” she said.

“Oh…okay,” I said.

What’s the state of Iowa got against a toothy grin? I don’t get it. But I didn’t want to argue. This lady might have had the power to deny me residency.

So I grinned, weirdly, and now I have a very Kermit-the-Frog face on my ID.

2. All Moody, All The Time

(And no, I’m not talking about my husband discovering what I’m really like now that we live together. Ha!)

I wonder what Elvis Costello could come up with if he were asked to update “Radio, Radio” after spending just one day in Davenport, Iowa in 2011.

Ever since high school, (or, for the past 15 years up until now/ having access to Spotify), I’ve envied my Seattle family members, college friends from Chicago, and others who lived in a place where there were radio stations playing music that was actually recorded in the current year.

As a kid, I had no problem getting access to the tunes I loved, because, first of all, I had no concept that there was anything other than Top 40 radio, and because second, I actually loved what was mainstream and popular, from Whitney and Bobby to Wham! and Belinda Carlisle.

These days, whenever I listen to Top 40 radio, in any location, I hear myself saying things I (of course) swore I’d never say: “Gah, what is this crap? That little Katy Perry is just another flash in the pan, you wait and see.”)

But now that I’ve moved to a place that actually has some population–a place I totally assumed would have at least one decent radio station, if not several–I find myself actually excited when I land on a station that’s playing anything recorded after 1978.

When I run errands or drive to work, and it happens to be a time when I’m not interested in listening to NPR, (i.e., news over, classical music begins), I scan the stations and it goes a little something like this:

“I can’t drive fifty-five” (skip) “…I was born on the bayou” (skip) “Today’s Tom Sawyer …” (skip) “…I ain’t no Fortunate Son” (skip) “…hold on to that feel-ay-ee-ay-in’… ‘” (skip) “….please join us in prayer here at Moody Bible Radio–”(skip)…”…I ain’t no senator’s son…” (skip) “…welcome to the Women’s Connection, where today’s focus will be: ‘How can be we work Jesus into our morning carpools?’” (skip)

 

Now, mind you, I love Credence and Journey and Rush. (Sammy Hagar, though, not so much). And I’m fully aware that ClearChannel owns the entire world and the days of varied radio are long over. But why can’t I find at least one station playing something other than classic rock?

Oh wait. I can.

Between every snippet of 70s-era guitar solo, I land upon admonitions to stop sinning and get with God before He smites me down right then and there in the automatic car wash.

The other day in my 5-minute drive between dropping off recyclables and stuff to donate to Goodwill, I got yelled at so vehemently by a guy declaring that life. starts. AT. CONCEPTION, I was starting to feel guilty for something I hadn’t even done.

3. Cross-Town Traffic (Brought to You by Big Brother)

At the risk of making myself sound like a serious hick, I have to admit that I’m still culture shock over the fact that there are two, four, even six of everything here: Hy-Vees, Targets, Wally-Worlds, Paneras, etc. There are two shopping malls, a “north” and a “south.”

And, while I haven’t really patronized any of those too much since I moved here, I have been running around a lot doing errands–partially related to moving/getting settled in, and partially to be a helpful housewifey type (since I’m only partially employed and my husband is double employed). So, whenever I ask my him how to get to some business or facility, I love that I can legitimately use phrases like, “Is that downtown?” Ooh, so urban.

On the other hand, I am so not used to actually having to wait (more than 3 seconds) at stoplights.  Or the fact that, on my drive to and from work, I pass through no fewer than three “photo-enforcement zones,” otherwise known as intersections through which, at any time, I could be videotaped and subsequently mailed a mean-ass letter saying I was going too fast (or interpreted a yellow light as “speed up.”)

My husband, Chris, has already received at least 2 of these evil letters in the mail in the last year or so, complete with a link to a video of himself behind the wheel. (And no, he claims, he was not caught picking his nose.) And a co-worker at my new part-part-time job told me she’d received a few as well, but, hey, “There’s a silver lining. They don’t affect your insurance.”

Well, I’m used to living in a place where the only “stoplight” in the entire county was a blinking red light on a pole.

4. The Final Nail in my Coffin of Nerd-dom

I have always–always–thought that if I lived in a place of any size, I would patronize the local music clubs and go to shows whenever anybody decent was in town.

But, in the weeks since I’ve lived here, I’ve already missed a couple shows of note: a group of Communion folks performing at the club with the weird name, and Paul Simon at the big arena (i Wireless). And the talented singer/songwriter M.Ward will be in town in a couple of days at RIBCO.

Question 1: Am I a drooling fan of any of thee above? No.

Question 2: If any of these acts had come to any of the small towns where I previously lived, would it have been thee biggest moment of the year? YES.

The truth about my new life is that, instead of spending time at rock shows, I’ve been…(tucks head down in shame)… hanging out at the library. Actually, make that libraries.

Did you know that there are places in this country that you can go to and find books and music and movies and that they let you take them home for FREE??? And that some of them even have coffee shops inside?

The linked library system in these quad cities is amazing. I can’t stop checking stuff out. And wondering aloud, “Why did I ever used to buy books, again?”

(Oh, and speaking of the driving situation earlier?? This sign at one of the Davenport libraries was definitely a first for me.)

In Conclusion and In Sum

The verdict, in the big picture, is this: I absolutely love living here so far. So much so that, with frequency, I’ve been shaking my head and going, “What took me so long?”

I have creative interests, so of course I need to live in a place where there are art museums, concerts (I will go, eventually), actual downtowns.

I do wonder, though: As I start to get more and more comfortable in a place where, (as you can kind of see in the background of the library pic linked above), there are cookie-cutter houses popping up everywhere, and where I can hit a Target just by throwing a rock, (but also where the neighbors in our apartment complex are not only strangers, but people who seem to attract the police on a daily basis), will I miss at least some parts of living in a small town?

What if I lose a part of my authentic self by becoming less rural and more suburban?

Mostly, I feel I’ve already gained so much by living here. (And, no, not just weight from better restaurants).

The journal Creative Nonfiction, as some of my readers might already know, has an ongoing Twitter contest, in which writers are encouraged to create micro (true) stories, consisting of 130 characters or less, and tag them #cnfonline.

A few days ago, I decided to try my hand at such a “tiny truth,” and I got one “accepted” last week (whoo-hoo!) on the journal’s Twitter feed.

My 22-word story is from a small moment I observed in a certain local venue (at which I may or may not have been walking laps with white-hairs).

Now that I’ve had a Tweet “favorited,” maybe I can work up the confidence to complete some actual full paragraphs (i.e., a “real” essay) and try to submit it.

But until then, here’s my entry:

No one is on the train. Each time she passes the Chick-fil-A, she, bandana-clad, reaches up and clangs the little bell anyway.

It’s not just the schlepping of so much stuff from one place to another, and the ensuing chaos (although that really, really does suck).

It’s that moving always (this time especially so) creates in me an overwhelming feeling of failure. (Don’t worry. Poop will be mentioned in this post).

The type of organized, clutter-free, bandana-wearing mover I will never be.

I had a full month to get ready for this move.

And I did try to donate several things to the Salvation Army, and to take small loads one-by-one from my place in Illinois to my husband’s in Iowa.

But come move-out day, the process of packing–or, more truthfully, the “process” of “shoving all of my s#$% in its current disorganized state into un-labeled tubs at the very last possible moment”–becomes a forced intervention. It’s been this way each time I’ve moved from one place to the next, even though I swear I’ll do better next time: friends and family who got suckered into helping discover that the boxes they agreed to help load into the truck or van are actually not…um…packed.

I can see now (about two weeks post-move) why I put off packing. It’s because having to physically deal with all of my crap means having to face up to a lifetime’s worth of failure.

In other words, schlepping multiple plastic tubs of stickers, fancy cardstock paper, and glitter glue forces me to admit how many evenings–how many weeks, months, years now–I’ve been telling myself that I’m going to do something constructive while watching TV, not just sitting there eating junk food.

As I boxed it all up this time to give it away, I sighed in defeat.

I am, and will never be, a person who uses glitter glue. I will never make anything with scraps of pretty ribbon. (I will, however, have dropped enough loose popcorn kernels to have planted a field between the sofa cushions.)

And this is not to mention the decades worth of unorganized photos I’ve been meaning to transform into a beautifully chronologized scrapbook of my youth.

As I sat in a circle of shoeboxes stuffed with sentimental crap, I had to admit to myself that it’s just never going to happen. (And so it’s the world’s loss that the Spring 1995 State Pep Band Showcase won’t be preserved for all time after all.)

But, worse than this, dealing with all of my tangible stuff forces me to face another ugly truth:

I’ve got some things in common with those people on that show who live amongst  excrement.

(Although, at least unlike this one poor guy they featured, ["Steven"], the poop is not my own).

Here are three reasons why:

1. I keep useless stuff, like empty glass bottles, because I truly believe I’m going to find use for them someday. (Real Simple.com, you and your “New Uses for Old Stuff” column are nothing but evil, evil enablers).

2. The idea of wasting things–like the perfectly good bottle of Tobasco sauce I threw in the trash this morning at my husband’s insistence (because neither of us like it, but which probably cost a whole $3 when I bought it to use one teardrop of in a recipe)–causes me sincere anxiety.

(Sometimes I try to defend this anxiety by saying it comes from my grandma’s family having been so poor during the Great Depression, they had to live in the chicken coop at one point, [after their home caught fire]. But seriously, that was my grandma, not one of my parents or even me. And it’s an effing bottle of Tobasco sauce. If our own home catches fire one day, Chris and I will not be saved from poverty by holding on to T-shirts from my college days or food products we didn’t use up completely. (, we don’t even have a chicken coop.)

But worst of all, like those people on that television show,

3. I (a person who thinks she is so self-aware, she makes fun of other people for not noticing their own denial), have been guilty of living in denial.

warning signs, perhaps?

Here’s a little bit more on that last one.

On the night before my third and final schlepping trip involved in this move, my husband and I were at his parents’ house mooching off their laundry facilities (and cable) when we landed upon an episode of Hoarders (and, perhaps as Chris’s attempt to send me a message, he kept it on that channel).

In this episode, a man had dozens of cats taken from his home–several of them alive but sickly, and several more, it is revealed (after animal-control people raid his home), have been rotting away dead in the ceilings and rafters.

The shrink on the show, noting how blind the guy seemed to have been to his situation, just kind of shrugged.

“This had just become ‘normal’ for him,” she said.

The animal-control people on the show, and the people in the room with me (Chris), announced their disgust (rightfully) with this supposedly-cat-loving man, scolding him for his neglect.

But at least twice, I said out loud, “I feel sorry for the guy.”

But what I didn’t say aloud was that–in at least some small way–I am this guy.

Now, it might be true that when we had moved all my crap earlier that day, it was just regular old dust and shedded cat hair that covered most of my possessions, (as opposed to actual dead cats).

And when I had to give away my kitty to a family friend before the move, I think she (the cat) was in perfectly healthy condition. (“Think,” because I hadn’t taken her to the vet since…ever. Okay, procrastination will be covered in a separate post. Later.)

But, would a healthy person who keeps her home orderly and in control ever have to admit this? :

A couple of years ago, I found a small turd–produced by an unidentified source–on the middle of the floor in my house. And after a few seconds of concern, I scooped it up, threw it in the trash, and then pretended that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

My brain, at this time, recognized the factual information that something or someone had pooped in my house, and that the thing was not the cat.

Appropriate action(s):

• call Animal Control?
• call a friend or family member to help search the house to locate source of said feces?
• go to store and purchase live trap?

Good news: any of these answers qualify as correct.

And yet.

Reasons appropriate actions were not taken:

• wasn’t sure if the impoverished Illinois county I lived in even had Animal Control.
• family members lived out of town; friends in the area were busy putting kids to bed.
• probably also had graduate paper to write or entire novel to read by next day.
• no local store at which to purchase said trap (nor money with which to purchase it)

Consequences:

• Being greeted unexpectedly–a full day or two later–by a live, mid-sized possum in my living room. At 9 p.m. on a Friday night, when I was sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and watching True Blood.

Imagine the look on my face, (and the noises I made), as I bounced and scampered across the room, alternately trying to get a look at the thing (to make sure it was still there/that I was not hallucinating) and to get the hell away from it.

Imagine the sound of my voice when I called my landlord– and then, when he wasn’t home, my friend Emily, who had to talk me down and try to convince me to throw a laundry basket over the vile thing (which, by this point, was eating out of the cat’s bowl).

(The landlord, eventually, came over with a broom and got the possum outside. He did not, however, do anything to make sure the house was properly protected from future animal intrusions, meaning this would not be the last visit from a woodland creature to my living room.)

The moral of this story is that, thankfully, while I was not actually hoarding possums (oh God, please don’t let that be a future episode on TLC), I can relate to feeling so overwhelmed, and so unable to solve problems, that the problems themselves–ranging from too much clutter, to inertia and stuck-ness and helplessness in the face of being alone–just become the “normal.”

The other moral is that if you find an unidentified turd on your carpeted stairs and you don’t actually do anything about it, it’s probably time to–among other things–let go of the crafting materials you’re not using. (Do you really think Martha Stewart, for one, would live among opossum?)

EDITOR’S NOTE: I wrote the following post, like another I posted recently, back in September before I got married. So you will get to enjoy knowing that what you’re reading about as “upcoming” has actually happened. Oooo irony!)

Chapter 1:

One is the Loneliest Number… if You’re Over 25 in a Small Town (And Even Kind of Makes You Feel Like You Smell Bad)

I’m the last of all my close friends, and the last by several years, to get hitched. (The last time I was asked to be a bridesmaid, George Bush Junior was in office and I still went “out” on Saturday nights to some place other than the video store.)

For a long time, before I met Chris, being single made me feel like a pariah.

In Sex and the City, being a singleton is sexy. But in rural America, I felt like I’d been cursed with some strange disease–one that some people had heard of, and assured I would eventually get over, (but for which they had no recommendation on getting cured).

When each one of my friends “married off,” (a phrase I’m putting in self-conscious quotes because I hate it, but can’t think of a better way to say it right now), I’m ashamed to admit that my happiness for them was tainted by a serious case of self-pity.

It wasn’t that I wanted to get married, per se. For most of that time I wasn’t even in a relationship, let alone dating (because in the sparsely-populated area where I lived, there was seemingly no one to date. Insert “keeping it in the family” joke about rural people here, I know you want to).

But I just didn’t want to keep reliving the nightmare of K-12 P.E.

In other words, every flip through the Engagements column in my hometown newspaper, every perusal through the Class Notes section of my college alumni magazine, felt like a personal stab, like I was back in the gym and dying a little bit with each team captain’s selection of kids who actually possessed eye-hand coordination (until eventually the coach would have to forcibly put me and one other sad straggler onto a team).

So, all of this is to say, sometimes during all the stress and petty issues involved in wedding planning, I have to stop and take a moment to remind myself how I lucky I am that the emphasis is on “I’m marrying a wonderful person!” rather than “I’m (finally) getting married!”

It’s kind of sad that I got to a point in my twenties where I honestly believed this would never happen.

In fact, I probably would never have met Chris if it weren’t for the fact that, when I was already into my 30s, I started hanging around with a group of much younger people: a group of early-to-mid-twenty-somethings with whom I was enrolled in a graduate program in English (them full-time, me a “townie” taking classes at night after work).

They didn’t introduce me to my future husband, though–at least not in a direct way. There were maybe a total of two guys who would hang around, and, (in addition to the fact that they both had girlfriends “back home”), I felt a bit maternal toward them, knowing that I’d once babysat kids born in the same year as them.

But I benefited just from being around people whose status in life was a bit more open-ended. In other words, when two of my girlfriends in this group would get emails from guys on an online dating site, their responses were more “Hmm, should I click on this guy?” than  “If I don’t click on this guy, am I wasting my last possible chance at love and maybe marriage and of not dying alone with my cat?”

Being around them made me feel less pariah and more Cool Older Chick Who Can Drive Us Around Campus in Her Car.

So I went from obsessing about the self-imposed SINGLE sign around my neck to being somewhat spunky about my single status–or at least thinking a little more liberally. So I get online myself, with the goal of doing nothing more serious than getting a coffee with some local guy.

(Instead, I ended up emailing and then talking on the phone with, and then meeting face-to-face, a guy who treated me like a best friend, and three years later we’re getting married.

But he still lives two hours away in a small-ish city. So my sad assessment of the rural dating pool–or puddle, if you will–remains unchanged.)

Chapter 2:

Old-y but Good-y

Perhaps it’s obvious for me to point out that wedding traditions and expectations–and the bridal mega-industry–are geared toward much younger women.

When one of my childhood friends got married, we partied so hard at her bachelorette party that I was hungover for what seemed like a week afterward.

Yet when she contacted me recently about hosting a bachelorette event for me, she pointed out that two of the four women on the guest list (including her) are breastfeeding, so they may not be able to stay the night out of town, let alone tie one on.

So I will not sugarcoat it: the truth is, it’s more than a little weird to just be getting married at an age when some of my closest friends have not only given birth multiple times, but have already made reproduction-related decisions involving outpatient surgeries.

I know plenty of people who felt certain in their love when they married in their early 20s.

(One of my closest friends is married to her high school sweetheart, and they are one of my favorite couples. Sometimes when I’m having dinner with them in their farmhouse with their three kids, I have to remind myself that they got together when we still had a curfew.)

But what I’ve had to stop and soak up is the wonderful feeling of certainty, as a bride on the “other side,” i.e., past 30), that I’ve found the right person to be my partner.

I can say for sure, because I have the benefit of hindsight, that if I had gotten married at 24 instead of 34, I would have been taking the biggest step in my life but doing so from what was–for me–a less-than-healthy time, emotionally and mentally.

Having said that, I won’t deny the fact that things like being “given away” by my parents at the beginning of the ceremony have given me pause. Participating as a grown woman in a tradition designed to feel very “Daddy’s little girl”  seems like trying to stuff myself into a little pink tutu.

There’s definitely some strangeness of entering into marriage at an age when I could or (“should” by some folks’ standards) have a daughter getting married not too far into the future.

But at the same time it’s cool to think about the fact one of my close friends’ little girl–a third-grader already–has known me all of her life and will remember being at my wedding.

I like knowing that, because Chris and I are a little older, our friends’ kids–ranging from infants to one high schooler–will be part of the day, and that instead of throwing a bouquet at them, I’ll be tossing them candy.

Chapter 3/Conclusion:

The One and Only Perk of Aging is Giving Less and Less of a F#$% About What Other People Think

Aside from being mature and centered enough to know that I’m marrying the right person, the other big benefit of being an older bride is in knowing that all the little details of the wedding planning–details I watched friends fret so much over–aren’t going to change the way people already see me, (or cause the world to end, for that matter).

I want the event to seem thoughtfully and creatively planned, and I desperately want people to have a good time.

But when it comes to things like not wearing a veil, or not spending money on gold-embossed monogrammed napkins ,(or, um…not getting married in a church), I’ve reached an age where I know that if people don’t like the choices I’ve made, there’s nothing I can do about it. And furthermore, if they’re the type of people to disapprove of our somewhat offbeat wedding, then they weren’t invited and can go jump in a lake (but not the one where we’re getting hitched).

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EDITOR’S NOTE: I wrote the following post at some point several weeks before Chris and I were married in September, but for some reason I never posted it. Probably because I was scared of being cocky and therefor jinxing myself and then, like, dying of shame because I offended so many guests with my non-traditional wedding choices. I will provide another update–an answer to the question posed in this post, i.e., can I stay true to myself as the website offbeatbride.com has been so helpfully encouraging me to do?–at the bottom. Hint: I don’t die.

This week I’ve been having a bit of anxiety about the fact that my well-meaning family members are hoping to throw a shower for me.

While perhaps for many women this would be a source of excitement, for me it’s actually a bit dread-inducing. (Because I, myself, have done nothing but bemoan every single such “party” I’ve ever been invited to. Hypocrite much?)

I’ve tried making some requests to my hostess, and I do appreciate that she wants to throw a party in my honor, but it looks like we’ll be going super traditional (i.e. punch, parlor games, and present-opening. Whee.). I’m trying not to seem ungrateful.

To get through it, perhaps I will remind myself that, even if I’m going to be total hypocritical by having a shower thrown for me, I’ve at least stayed pretty true to my guns for many other decisions involved in the wedding-planning process (a feat that is much harder than it sounds. There’s a bajillion-dollar industry built around bridal peer pressure).

And so, behold, several laws (of wedding tradition) that I have, like Judas Priest, been breakin’:

The Insistence that Tens of Thousands of Dollars Must Be Spent and That the Bride Must Be a Cinderella

(Actual marketing copy from one of the umpteen pamphlets I received from David’s Bridal. Weird use of CAPS are theirs, not mine):

“love your VEIL. It’s as important as your gown, framing your look and defining your style.” [Choice A: a piece of lacy material for $200].) “IMAGINE THE MOMENT all eyes are on you [.]The details are everything when you’re a bride…. The veil makes the bride.”

(Oops. I’m not wearing one. Guess I’m not “made”!)

The Idea that Entire Forests Must Be Killed for the Sake of Elegance

Actual invitation prices advertised by DB: $410.95 for a box of 100. Amount Chris and I paid for our postcard-style invites (which we used ‘cuz we put most of the info on the web site we designed ourselves) : <$30.00

The Acting-as-if-I’m-a-Little-Girl Crap, and the As-If-There-is-No-Groom Ridiculousness:

In other words, we refused to use this kind of wording on the announcements/invites/programs/:

“Mr. and Mrs. [bride's parents] request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their daughter…”

 

The parents are saying it because the bride can’t speak for herself? And the groom doesn’t really want you there?

Look. I do worry a little bit that my parents will see this as a small slight since we’re introducing/inviting in our own words.

I very much want to honor my parents, and to acknowledge their major financial and emotional support for our big day. But seriously? I’m practically middle aged. Having my parents “announce” this event makes me feel like I’m still living at home and they’re still doing my laundry (and I’m hiding cigarettes from them).

NOTE/UPDATE:

We decided to skip best man/matron of honor speeches and just take the mic ourselves to publicly thank the P’s.

I was going to write more about other “laws” we were breaking–like skipping the hideous Let’s- Single-Out-the-Last-Remaining-Single-Friends-We-Have, and-Who-BTW-Are-”Single”-Because They’re-Newly-Divorced, Bouquet Toss–and about how I hoped they would prove to not matter in the end, but I guess I ran out of steam. (Wedding planning will do that to you.)

But the great news is, people seemed to have a good time and appreciate the non-traditional choices we made (or, at the very least, knew us well enough to understand that we’re not uber traditional anyway). If they thought our choice of venue was tacky (complete with its taxidermied deer and campground-style bathroom facilities), they were kind enough to keep it to themselves).

We had music by the Rolling Stones and The Beach Boys in the processional, we tossed candy to kids instead of bouquets to grown women, we hula-hooped, we served ice cream cake instead of wedding cake. And, I’m extremely happy and relieved to report this: We had fun. Chris actually danced.

I broke more wedding traditions than I kept, and I can honestly say I had the time of my life. Literally and truly. (I planned it specifically so that the DJ played that song as the last one of the night.)

As you might know from having read my post about our potentially questionable choice of wedding venue, “C-NOR” (Chris Norton) and I got married a few weeks back. (Yay! Oh, and, btw for my loyal readers: I decided to stick with my last name. So, all that neurosis over punctuation was totally worth it.)

So now I live in Iowa, and not only am I out of the Forgotonia region proper, but I’m actually in something of  a metropolitan area now. (They have bookstores here! And coffee shops! Giddiness abounds!)

So should I keep a blog about life in the “rural Midwest”? I’m not in a rural area anymore. But I was for more than 30 years, and I consider my having grown up on a farm and in a small town to be a defining factor of who I am.

Should I keep the name and just blog about whatever I want to, (with a clickable explanation at the top that says “about the name”)? Or, if change it altogether and create a new URL/address/place for you to bookmark, will I lose you because I already went from Blogger to WordPress (and sometimes debate going back to ye olde Blogger stomping grounds)?

With so many good blogs out there to read, not to mention websites and newspapers and magazines and all the other things competing for our attention, what will make it worth your time to keep coming back? Why should I keep up a blog at all?

I guess the answer will be that if I feel like I have something to say, I will try to get myself to just say it, and hopefully it will be entertaining or valuable to you, too.