Four Years A Bride: The Finale

Haven’t read the other parts?

Part I  Part II  Part III

After I had totaled and flipped my car, my view on life completely changed.

As I had stated in my last post, I was tired of being lonely.  I was tired of being strong.  I was tired of being so self-reliant.  Honestly, I was just tired.

I had been working 80 hours a week for four months at that point.  When I had one day off, which was very far and few between, I would just sleep for 14 hours.  I didn’t even enjoy my days off.  When I was dating Alex, I would see him at night, and if I only had to work one job, I would usually sit on his bed with him and talk, and we talked about everything.  Slowly, he had not become only my lover, but my best friend.

After I had flipped my car, I basically lost my job at the deli.  My manager put me at 23 hours a week, which was my main source of income.  She said that after flipping my car, I wasn’t reliable anymore.  My other job was paying well, but between student loans, car insurance that went through the fucking roof, rent, and basic living expenses, I was maxing out a credit card just to survive.

My mother had told me that if I ever asked her for rent money, she would mail me a ticket to fly home.  I would ship back only the necessary stuff, and give away the rest.

So when I was figuring out how I was going to survive, I would usually burst into tears.  I liked Minnesota, but Alaska, to date, is the only place where I’ve ever felt that I fit in.  It was the only place that I could be 100% true to myself and not feel scorned for it.

And if this blog hasn’t given you any insight: I’m really fucking weird.

I remember sitting with Alex, telling him my woes, explaining that I might have to move home, and unfortunately, we would probably have to split.

I don’t do long distance relationships, we wouldn’t be able to afford to fly back and forth from Minnesota and Alaska, and I honestly couldn’t see doing a long distance.  He asked me what he could do to keep me in Alaska, and I joked and said, “Well, there’s always marriage.”

We had been talking marriage a little more seriously.  Because you obviously know someone ridiculously well after two months of being together.

I laughed, but he didn’t.  The next day, we decided to go out to eat.  It was a few days after I had flipped my car and I was still a little sore.  We went out to eat at the Wolf’s Run, which was my favorite restaurant in Alaska.  They were mostly a dessert shop, but their dinners were ridiculously good.  It was pretty early so we were the only ones in the restaurant.  It was stunningly quiet, and once we sat down and the waitress left, Alex took my hands and gave this huge speech.

He told me that his life was a puzzle, and I was the missing piece.  That he had never been in love so deeply before, that I was the other half to make him whole.  He said a lot of mushy stuff and I thought it was sweet, but I didn’t quite get what he was getting at.

“So Leah, my love, my life, will you do the honor of marrying me?” he asked me.

Because I’m so fucking romantic, I responded with, “Sure, why not?”

As you can imagine, the look on his face was priceless.  He put his face in his hands and started to laugh.  “Leah, I’m being serious right now.”

My eyes grew wide.  “Oh shit!  Uh, yes!  Yes, I’ll marry you!”

To which we kissed across the table.  The waitress came around with our hot chocolate and we told her we were engaged.  She just smiled and asked for our orders.

The rest of the night we walked around, figuring out how to tell our family.  I emailed my mom and she didn’t believe me until it was Facebook official, which is the only official that you really need.  Alex’s mom found out via Facebook.  Pretty much the whole family found out about it via Facebook.

Since most of you are probably wondering… he did not propose with a ring.  He was fresh out of basic, he was just as broke as I was.  Alas, this is likely my Alaska side coming out.  To me, rings are usually impractical.  I don’t really care for jewelry.  Alex couldn’t afford a ring and he told me he was going to buy me a big shiny rock someday.  He felt bad that he proposed without a ring, but for me, it wasn’t important.  I wasn’t marrying a ring, I was marrying him.  I knew he loved me, I could see it whenever he smiled at me, or held me, or even when he would talk to me.

My friends felt the same that I did.  A wedding ring is material, it will come in time.  I’ve met several people who didn’t get a ring until they had been together for years.  It wasn’t a big deal.

However, when Alex told his coworkers that he proposed without a ring, they couldn’t believe I said yes without a ring.  A lot of people I knew on base told me that I was stupid for accepting without a ring.  Even here in Louisiana, people told me that they would never accept a marriage proposal without a ring worth at least two grand.  Something I will never, ever understand.

So, on my 21st birthday, two weeks after he proposed, on Valentines, he took me to a jewelry store and let me pick out an engagement ring.

I went over to the sapphires because I really don’t like diamonds and I found a small sapphire ring.  It was $200, and I felt awful finding something to expensive.  However, I really liked it.  I showed it to Alex and he told me that I should pick something more expensive, and I told him no.  I liked simple.

My engagement ring and wedding band.  Total cost was ridiculously low.  And awesome.

My engagement ring and wedding band. Total cost was ridiculously low. And awesome.

So he bought me the ring and I got it sized, and I haven’t really taken it off in the past four years.

On February 28th, the justice of the peace in Fairbanks was meeting us at the chapel on base.  She was two hours late.  One of my best friends in Alaska was there, her mother was there, Alex’s shop chief and his wife were there, and my mom flew up at the last minute to be there.

The justice of the peace was awful.  She stood before us and said, “Do you?  Do you?  Okay, you’re married.”

I remember standing there for about forty seconds before saying, “Can I kiss him now?”

She looked shocked.  “Sure, if you want.”

So we kissed, and we were married.  My mom said she didn’t even have time to get the tears worked up.  My friend’s mom and Alex’s shop chief witnessed the wedding.  From there we went to where I worked and bowled a few games with Alex’s shop.  My mom bought me a cheeseburger and a bottle of Mike’s hard lemonade, and that was my wedding.

Thanks to my friend Marissa for having the thought of bringing a camera that day.

Thanks to my friend Marissa for having the thought of bringing a camera that day.

The next day, we went to the Ice Art Championships in Fairbanks with my mom, and that was my honeymoon.

About four months later we had a “real wedding” in Las Vegas, where I had a fancy ass dress and more of my family attended.  Where I had a horrible wedding photographer.

But that’s okay, because I got the best possible thing out of the entire situation.

I got to gamble in Vegas while totally and completely hammered.

Oh, I got to marry Alex too.

So yeah, that’s how I got married.

Credit to my sister in law for taking this picture.  It looks far better than any of the professional pictures.

Credit to my sister in law for taking this picture. It looks far better than any of the professional pictures.

Alex, happy four years.  You’re the Samwise to my Frodo Baggins.  You’re the Gandalf to my Bilbo Baggins.  You’re the precious to my Gollum.  You’re my lover, my friend, my husband.  I know we drive each other batty more often than not, but I love you, and I want to have at least another 40 years of happiness.

How did your spouse propose to you?  What kind of wedding did you have?  Do you lack the romance like me?  Let me know in the comments!

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Crazy Yacht Parties: Tales Of A Crazy Biatch Bonus Round

Have you read about Marjorie before?  If so, continue, if not, here’s some context.

Part 1   Part 2   Part 3   Part 4

 

So, of course, Marjorie had a lot of other stories that I just couldn’t fit in because they just weren’t as bat shit crazy as the rest of her stories, but there was one that I remembered, and I thought, “My god, this would get me so many views and people might use these stories in work seminars to explain why you should avoid crazy—I SHOULD TOTALLY TELL IT!”

So, alas, here is the story of how Marjorie told me about how she threw a party on her yacht when her dad died.

Yes, you read that right.

Marjorie claimed to be a gold digger.  However, I thought gold diggers were supposed to be extremely pretty and hot and pretty much super models, something that Marjorie wasn’t.  She wasn’t ugly by any means, but she was fairly average looking, and on the heavier side.  When I think gold diggers, I think more along the lines of Kate Upton.

Definitely not Marjorie

Definitely not Marjorie

However, she said that in her home state, she had a bunch of sports cars and sports boats, and even a yacht, because her sugar daddies and ex-husbands believed in taking care of her in the best possible way.

At this point, I figured that she must be delusional, but I smiled and let her continue her bat shit craziness.

She told me that her dad was a military officer and she had 5 or six siblings, I forget honestly.  She said that she and her siblings all hated their dad, but before she told me that, she said that her dad died a few years ago.

I told her I was sorry and her response was something along the lines of, “Oh it’s no big.  We all had a huge boat party to celebrate when he died.  We were so drunk!  It was so crazy!”

When I gave her a look of horror, she went on to explain.  “Oh, my dad was a total asshole.  We hated him.  So we had a big party on my yacht to celebrate him dying.”

Because, you know, that’s what you do when someone dies.  Have a party on a yacht.

She went on to explain all the things that they did on her yacht, and how they all did their greek mythology worship, which to me made no sense.  A friend of mine who is extremely well versed in greek mythology laughed quite a bit when I told her Marjorie’s “religious beliefs” because Marjorie was totally and completely misinformed about what each god represented.  Also, it was increasingly difficult to follow her stories, they kept changing.  I’m sure if she told that story now, the party would have been on her own private cruise ship, because her sugar daddy owned Princess Cruises or something like that.

I don’t know, I just know that the stories seemed to never end.

What is the craziest thing you’ve heard people do when someone dies?  Did you enjoy the stories about Marjorie?  Let me know in the comments!

I’m Out-Weirding Everyone

It’s no secret:  I’m bizarre.

Really bizarre.

I tell people this when they first meet me, and they usually say something like, “Oh my god, me too!  I like to play videogames when I’m home, I’m like, so weird!”

Then I hug them, pet their hair, and whisper in their ear, “Oh sweetie, you’re just a novice, let me tell you about the major leagues.”

My new job is full of people from everywhere.  We have pacific islanders, Caribbean islanders, one Midwesterner (me), a couple Floridians, a couple from Washington, and so on.  I think we only have one person actually from Louisiana, but he lived in Seattle and Hawaii for a number of years so he doesn’t really count.  One gal is from New Orleans, but Nawlins isn’t Louisiana, it’s just Nawlins.

While they are a little eccentric, I seem to always weird out everyone when I decide to open up and say something bizarre.  For instance, it was cold the other day, so I hugged my coworker to warm her up.  She said, “Oh my god Leah, It’s just so damn cold!”

So I replied, “Would licking help?”

Except two people.

Except two people.

Because, you know, if you lick someone, they jump around and scream from how grossed out they were. I thought that this was a generous offer, but her reaction was to jump away from me and hug my other coworker, exclaiming I was trying to lick her.

Another day, another coworker asked me if I could twerk.  So instead of saying yes, I begin to twerk.

And a lot of our clients saw.

And I did not care.

And the cake topper, one of my coworkers who seems to enjoy the eccentric that is I, she asked me to run around the building after we had closed, waiving my arms and screaming, while she did it as well so she could share it on snap chat.

And since she’s the size of my left foot*, in the video, you see her running fast and screaming while waiving her arms, and you see me, my belly bouncing, my ass clapping, while I’m going “AHAHAHAHAHHA!”

And I sent it to Alex, to which he told me he was proud.

So if you meet me in person and tell me, “Oh my god, I’m so weird, I get drunk and scream!”

I’m going to hold you, stroke your hair, and whisper in your ear, “Oh sweetie, you have no idea what weird is.”

I am going to blow your fucking mind

I am going to blow your fucking mind

If you hold me and tell that to me, I’m going to want proof.  Maurna may have me beat with her third nipple and her infatuation with her vagina, which didn’t weird me out, it made me want to go visit her to prove it.

Because, you know, I hate being shown up.

Do you think you’re weird or nerdy?  Prove it.  Tell me a really horribly awkward story that proves your weirdness.  

*My coworker is really short and very small in general.  Her head only reaches my shoulder and she’s a very sweet little thing.  I love working with her.  She’s great.

All Hail The Lord (Cthulu)

Alex’s best friend was luckily stationed with us here in Louisiana.  Last year, he had to get shoulder surgery because the military messed up his shoulder so bad that he could no longer lift his arms higher than… Well, his shoulder.

Since there are no military hospitals near us, they sent him to a catholic hospital.  When he told us this, we couldn’t help but laugh, because this particular friend is a very avid atheist.  He doesn’t throw it in our faces ever and is incredibly respectful to those who are religious, but it’s not his bag.  Which makes religious debates with him incredibly interesting and not blood thirsty.

He’s also quite a troll.  He loves to just stir the pot on stupid stuff to make others look stupid, which has two side effects: It’s incredibly hilarious to watch him talk to people, or situations get awkward.

Such a troll.

Such a troll.

 

When he was admitted to the catholic hospital, he was given a series of questions to answer, and he told us all about it.  The military first said that he was faking the pain in his shoulder, but they later found that he had huge air bubbles in his shoulder, showing that he was not faking it. The doctors were even surprised at how much pain he must have been in.

Anyways, getting off topic.

When he went in for the surgery, the doctors started asking about references and people to call in case things went south.  The last question the doctor asked caused his troll tendencies to expel in the strongest manner possible.

Doctor: So, what religion are you?

Friend: Cthulu is my lord and savior.  All hail Cthuhlu.

All shall bow down.

All shall bow down.

The doctor, without skipping a beat, begins to write and speaks outloud as he’s writing.

Doctor: Athiest.

Right as they were starting to put him under, the doctor and assistants, nurses I guess, all joined hands around him and said a prayer.

Here’s how it went down, according to the Troll.

Doctors: Heavenly father—

Troll: CTHULHU!

Doctors: We ask that you guide us safely through this surgery to ensure that this young man comes out stronger.  We ask this in your name—

Troll: ALL HAIL CTHULHU!

Doctors: Amen.

He said that shortly after they put him under and he woke up with his shoulder in great shape.  He can even move his arms above his head again.  Which is a relief.

He said he had Cthulhu to thank.

Do you know anyone who is a troll?  Ever have an experience that made others incredibly dumbfounded and weirded out by the stupid shit you say?  Tell me in the comments!

The Most Awkward Interview

So I went to a job fair earlier this week in Shreveport.  I’m trying more and more to get myself out there so that I can have a shot at doing something with my nearly completed degree— but I’m finding it’s really difficult to do.  I’m getting to the point of applying for everything because I just need a job.

Which is something I don’t mind.  I like to stay busy, and I can only write so much.  Between writing a short book and half way through rewriting it, I need to get out of the house so I can write more for this blog and come up with more horribly awkward stories.

I was finally able to attend a panel interview for one of the casinos, and I was really excited because it has taken me forever and a day to finally get noticed by the casinos.  I was extremely excited.  Practically dancing.

So I show up to the interview, resumé and college transcripts in my hands, white knuckled with my hair straightened and my make up making me look like a mature adult.  I was so ready for this.

We all get in the order they want us to get in, and the Human Resources woman stands up in front of us.

“Good Afternoon, congrats on getting to the Panel Interview.  You’re going to give us a thirty second introduction, telling us why we should hire you, then do a celebrity impersonation.  We want to see how outgoing you are.  We are the best, so we only hire the best.  You have thirty minutes.”

I was the second person to go, and I was terrified.

Now, I should clarify.  I was on the speech team for four years, so the public speaking part wasn’t really a big deal.  But whenever I gave my eight minute long speeches, I would spend hours practicing each part, figuring out exactly how I was going to move my hand, how high or low my voice was, and so on.  Anyone who was on the speech team knows exactly what I’m talking about— even in improv there wasn’t a lot of improve—everything has some sort of preparation.

So I’m talking to the women around me, and I had no idea what to do.  Here’s the gist of the conversation.

Woman 1: Celebrity impersonation?  Could I do Dr. Phil maybe?

Me: YOU ARE NOT THE FATHER!  Wait, that’s Maury…

Woman 2: You could just be a crazy woman claiming that he’s the father (while pointing to the only man on the panel)

Woman 1: As hilarious as that would be, probably not the best idea.  Maybe I could do Miley Cyrus.

Me: What would you do?  Just go up there and twerk?

NAILED IT!

NAILED IT!

The three of us start laughing hysterically, giving us very strange looks from everyone in the room.  By the way, there was about 30 of us at the panel for an interview.

Woman 2: Do you think we could just go up there and sing a song of a favorite musician?

Me: I think I’m just going to do Robert DeNiro— You talkin’ to me?  Are you, talkin’ to me?  FOCKER!

More laughs.

Woman 1:  I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

We talked a bit more, doing more random impersonations.  Unfortunate for me, the song “Don’t Stop Believin” was stuck in my head.  It was seriously the only song I could even think of.

The first woman goes and is friendly and does a cute impersonation, but I tried to really set the mood.

When I walked up there, I felt my stomach churning.  They look at me and say, “Alright ma’am, why should we hire you?”

I go on a ramble about how I’m educated and well-traveled and I’ve worked in customer service and I’m a fast learner, then I finish my rant with saying, “And I’m not easily embarrassed, which I shall prove by singing you a Journey song.”

To which I sing, “DON’T STOP!  BELIEVIN! HOLD ON TO THAT FEELINNNNNNNNNNGGG!”

Like this, but ten times worse and more awkward

Like this, but ten times worse and more awkward

Then I froze, because the entire room went completely silent.  It was a huge room, and I had to sing at the top of my lungs just to be heard.  But I forgot how well my voice carries.  The maintenance guys 100 feet away stopped to hear me sing.

I felt my cheeks turn red, I’m glued to my spot, then I hear one clap and I quickly run back to my spot as applause bursts out.

A woman a few seats down tells me that I have quite a bit of soul for a white girl.  No idea if that’s a compliment or not.

The woman sitting next to me and does her bit, then says, “I’m going to do Miley Cyrus, wrecking ball.”  Then she began to twerk then yelled “I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL!” while twerking towards the front table.

I would like to point out, this woman was old enough to be my mother.  Laughs all around.

Everyone did something different, but each person was trying to outdo everyone else, so my little song didn’t do too well.  I did not make it to the next panel.

The reason why?

“You came off as very shy.  Try to loosen up next time.  Also, you should apply for jobs that don’t require experience.”

So I went home and did the dishes.  Alex nearly had a heart attack.

And that, my friends, is the most awkward, yet awesome, job interview that I’ve ever had.

Maybe  next time I’ll do the opening hysterical bit from The Producers.

I'M HYSTERICAL!

I’M HYSTERICAL!

 

Ever have a job interview that you were not prepared for?  Anything you think I could have improved on?  Ever been asked to do something for people that you had no idea how to go about it?  Let me know in the comments!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

You’re My Aphrodite

Alex and I have decided to save on our water bill by always showering together, so when it was once sexy to shower together, it has turned into more of “HAHA! BOOBS!” and we usually just poke each other’s belly fat while having philosophical conversations never lasting longer than five minutes.

Where Romance Goes To Die

Where Romance Goes To Die

The other day, I must have looked less ragged than normal and Alex smiles at me, kissing my forehead and whispers, “You’re my Aphrodite.”

I’m flattered, and trying to remember my Greek mythology, and trying to not get in trouble for not saying something romantic back, I quickly respond with, “You’re my Hephaestus.”

Dead Sexy for a Troll

Dead Sexy for a Troll

He pushed me away.  “Seriously?  You had a plethora of Greek gods to choose from, and you choose the stupidest god there is?  The one god that everyone on Olympus hates and is always treated horribly unfairly?  Also, the ugliest god on Olympus?  You think I’m ugly?!”

Of course this backfired on me horribly.  We are just no good at this romance crap 

“He was married to Aphrodite!” I protest.

“Yeah, and she cheated on him nonstop with every other fucking god on Olympus!”

“Fine, you’re my Apollo,” I state, thinking that makes it better.  Of course it doesn’t.

“Oh yes, because I’m such a tan, beautiful athlete with a wild temper.  Try again.”

I’m getting frustrated.  “Fine, you’re my Zeus.”

Alex laughs.  “Then you’re my whore of a wife Hera who also happens to be my sister.”

“It’s funny because your sister and I kind of look alike,” I retort, to which he begins to bang his head on the wall of the shower.

“Why do I even try to be romantic anymore?” he asks, then showing himself out of the shower.

And that, my friends, is how I have artfully killed the mood between Alex and I without even trying.

Have you ever had an instance where you’re trying to be sweet back to your significant other and it just totally backfires?  Have you ever called someone a sweet pet name and it was horribly insulting?  Let me know!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

How A Scentsy Warmer Broke My Toilet

Okay, to be fair, it was mostly my fault.

This story happened when I was living in Alaska, shortly after I got married.  Alex and I were still in the honeymoon stage, we were just getting to know each other still, and I thought that absolutely nothing could ever go wrong in my life because I’d already survived shit creek in my teen years.

This particular night, it was a little balmy at -45 degrees, and I was tidying up the house.  I had my scentsy warmer filled to the brim with cubes so my house smelled of lavender goodness.  Since I had hardly any furniture at this time, mostly I was just vacuuming.  This was actually before I had Luna or Sahara, so mostly the vacuuming was just getting the dust off of everything because we had nothing but gravel roads in rural North Pole.

I decided that the cubes had used all of their scents and instead of dumping the hot wax in the garbage like I was supposed to, I decide to be a true idiot and dump the hot wax into the toilet.  It solidified immediately, making a huge chunk of cold wax in the toilet.  Since I don’t want to stick my hands in the toilet, I decide to flush.

Now, for those of you who are not engineers, let me explain what happens next.

  1. The flush starts to act funny because the wax gets really cold in Alaskan piping.
  2. The toilet stops working
  3. The Empress Majestic Dodo (me) decides to keep flushing, which it can’t because the giant ball of wax is stuck in the piping.

So, obviously, the toilet begins to flood the bathroom.

And after a few minutes, it starts to flood the hallway.  Then the bedroom.  Then the living room.

Alex was at work until midnight and it was around 8:30 at night.  I start to full blown panic.  We didn’t have a plunger because we never thought we’d ever clog the toilet, so I just keep flushing, hoping that it will start to work again eventually.  When the water is reaching the living room, I know I have to call Alex.

Me: Hey, honey, do you have to stay at work tonight?  Can you quite possibly come home right fucking now?

Alex: No, it’s Red Flag right now, I’m stuck here until probably one in the morning.  Why?  What did you do?

Me: Did you know that you’re not supposed to flush hot wax down the toilet?

Alex is quiet for a few beats.  I’m pretty sure he was banging his head against the wall, considering I heard a few thumps while I was waiting for him to respond.

Me: The entire apartment is kind of flooding right now.

Alex: Did you put towels down?

Me: I honestly didn’t even think of that.  I’ll do that.

Alex: I’ll see if they’ll let me go home since you’re trying to ensure that we never get our security deposit back.

When we got married, we married our towel collection as well.  He had a bunch of pretty, white towels and all of my towels were either a light tan or a dark burgundy.  Since I’d had them for a couple of years, I figured the color wouldn’t bleed at all so I throw every towel we have on the floor to soak up the toilet water.  The toilet eventually stopped flooding, but it still wouldn’t flush.

Alex was home about twenty minutes later, to which we put the towels in a garbage bag and head to Fairbanks to get a plunger.  After the thirty minute drive to Wal Mart, we stop at the laundry room in our apartment complex to wash all of the towels.

Naturally, I am not my mom who is a wizard at laundry and do not think to separate the colors from the whites.

All of our towels turned pink.

My husband declared me the Majestic Empress Dodo.  Never again, am I allowed to fix the toilet.

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!