Four Years A Bride: How I Almost Died

Part 1      Part 2

After dating Alex about a month, we had already told each other the dreaded L word.  I was sleeping over at his place every day, and nights that I wasn’t at his house, we were texting each other all night because we couldn’t sleep without the other one.  When I worked on base, he would walk to my work, pick up my car, fill it up and go grocery shopping to make sure I ate my veggies.

If there was a rare occasion that we both had a day off, we spent it in his dorm room watching movies and cuddling.  I had been in love once before, but never like this.  It was intoxicating.  When we were together, I felt complete and at peace, when we were apart, I ached for him in a way I never knew a person could ache for someone.

Once a year I would fly home to Minnesota to visit my family, always on my mom’s dollar because I was poor.  She would fly me home, I’d see the dentist and any other medical check ups I needed, mom would take me clothes shopping, my friends would throw a party and we’d either get drunk or just hang out, and so on.  This trip, I remember a very distinct conversation with my mom about my relationship with Alex.

I told her that I was going to marry Alex.  I just knew that I was going to marry him.  Alex and I started joking about it after two weeks of dating, saying “if we get married.”  When the one month mark hit, we were saying “When we get married” and neither of us corrected the other.

My mom told me that I needed to wait at least six months so I could get to know him.  She said that I needed to be careful because he could be someone who is abusive, and to be fair, she made a lot of really good points.  The points she made, honestly, are points I make to people when they mention marriage after knowing someone for a year.

But I was 20 years old, I thought I knew everything.  I told her that we were going to get married probably in June, and while he hadn’t proposed yet, I knew he was thinking of doing it, he had told me as much.

But not this romantic

But not this romantic

My mom tried to talk me out of it and she said she wanted to meet him before I considered marrying him and that we should plan a trip to visit all of our families before getting married, but we lived in Alaska and he was newly enlisted, he was just as broke as I was.    But as always, my mom knew best, and her advice was really solid advice.  But I just didn’t want to listen.

I got my wisdom teeth taken out two days before I flew back to Minnesota, and the day after I was so high on pain meds that I didn’t remember my brother sitting with me on the couch singing Rocky Horror Picture Show.  Nor do I remember my step dad talking to me, or anything.  I do remember yelling at my mom that I wanted a hamburger smoothie and that I had to have Greek yogurt, to which she laughed and told me to shut the hell up.

The day I flew back to Alaska, Alex was going to meet me at the airport.  He had my car, after all.  When I landed in Fairbanks, I was still a little out of it from the meds, but I saw him at the baggage claim, standing there with a worried look on his face.  When he saw me, he opened his arms and I ran to him, refusing to let go of him.  There were a few people there cooing and awing, but we had only been apart a week, and to us, it felt like an eternity.

We got my suitcase and went back to his dorm.  We fell asleep holding hands.

The next morning I had to go back to Fairbanks to find out when I was supposed to work at the deli, and I knew that I had to work that night at the bowling alley, but I was still kind of out of it.  I had to take a Vicodin the night before and I don’t think it was completely out of my system.  I was also jet lagged.  That day, it was mid-January and it was -44 outside with drifting snow.

I was a fearless driver, never afraid of speeding and never afraid of anything happening to me because come on, nothing bad ever happens to me.  I was naïve.

I fell asleep behind the wheel for an instant, going 65 on the highway with drifting snow.  When I woke up, I saw I was going head first into a snow bank, I overturned, spun out of control, and my car flipped and landed in the ditch.

It all happened so fast that I didn’t even realize what was happening.  The car was spinning then suddenly I was upside down, the roof of my car had caved in and was nearly touching my head, the engine turned off, stuff was everywhere, and I was staring at a St Christopher medal that was on my visor.  I saw cars driving by, I saw the snow falling, and the seatbelt was causing me pain for restraining me in my chair.

I actually never saved the picture of my flipped car, but it looked pretty much like this.

I actually never saved the picture of my flipped car, but it looked pretty much like this.

I remembered I started screaming, but it seemed so far away.  I didn’t feel like I was in my body because I was so scared.  I remember seeing a woman a few feet away from my window, looking in to the window.  I started to pound on the window, screaming for help and she ran away.  I was trapped upside down, unable to move, my body paralyzed with fear.  I found my phone somehow and dialed the last number I had called.

It was Alex.

He picked up on the second ring, a little bit of fun in his voice.  “Did you butt dial me?” he said with a chuckle.


Let me tell you, not the best way to go about this kind of situation.  I could only scream.  I remember him trying to calm me down and say it without screaming and I continued to be hysterical, screaming that I was probably going to die because it was -44 outside that day and I was in the ditch somewhere between North Pole and Fairbanks.   Oh, and because I was trapped upside down.  Can’t forget that bit.  The blood was going to my head.

He said he was going to hang up and have the dispatcher call me.  I cried that I didn’t want him to hang up and he did.  A few minutes later a dispatcher called me and told me to stay calm.  In the few minutes where I was waiting for my phone to ring, I pushed myself up into my seat and unclasped the seatbelt and slid to the roof of my car, laying on the ceiling, no longer upside down.  The dispatcher asked me if I was okay, and I told her no because I had just paid off the car and cut the insurance.  She asked me if I was physically injured and I told her no.

However, when you have that much adrenaline, you don’t feel anything.  The fire department, an ambulance, and the state troopers arrived and they asked me if I could crawl to the back seat and climb out the back window.

I had so much shit in my car that I couldn’t leave the front seat.  They asked me if I had a blanket to cover my face and I pulled it over and covered my face while they used a sledge hammer to break the window.  The pulled the blanket away from me and placed it over the broken glass while I crawled out the window.

Since this day was a horrible day, my ass got stuck in the window.  Since I was still hysterical from flipping my car and being totally fucking broke, I started screaming because my ass was trapped in that fucking car.  I think the responders were trying not to laugh at my yelling, “OH MY GOD MY ASS IS STUCK! I’M GOING TO DIE!”

I got into the ambulance and they gave me a once over, making sure I still had feeling in my legs and arms, checking my blood pressure, which was 180 over 120.  Apparently that’s really fucking high.

My eyes were fully dilated, I was shaking, I was cold, but I was alive.  They told me if I hadn’t of worn my seatbelt, I’d be dead.  If it had been summer and there was no snow to cushion the fall, the car would have compressed more and I would have died, if the glass had shattered in the right way, it would have blinded me.  All the conditions were perfect for me to come out injury free for the most part.

As they were telling me this, I realized my hand feel really warm.  I looked down and saw that it was covered in warm blood.  Since my adrenaline was still ridiculously high, I screamed “OH MY GOD I’M BLEEDING TO DEATH!”

A small piece of glass was taken out of my hand and they put a band aid on it, cleaning the blood off.  The cut didn’t even need stitches, but my blood pressure was so high that it was flying out of me.

They asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital, but I didn’t have health insurance so I couldn’t afford it.  They called a tow truck and I waited in the troopers car.  I got my phone and called Alex, telling him I was fine and I was broke and had no idea what to do.  I called my mom and got her voicemail, telling her to call me when she promised to not get mad.  I called my roommate to tell her that I got into an accident and I was okay.  I called my managers at each job and told them that I couldn’t work that day because I had no transportation because I totaled my car.

When my mom called me, she said she wouldn’t get mad.  She promised.  And I told her I flipped and totaled my car. She asked me if I was hurt, I said no.  Then she started to scream at the top of her lungs.  I almost dropped the phone.

The tow truck driver yelled at me because the key was missing from the ignition, but I had no idea where it had fallen.  I thought it was in the engine.  To this day, I have no idea where that key went.  They towed the car to the house I was staying at, and I did the one thing that I had wanted to do since the car started spinning out of control.

I really had to shit.

That whole, “Always wear clean underwear when you get into a car accident,” is no lie.  My god, since the moment the car went upside down, it was painful to hold in.  It was so fucking insane, I was so relieved to see a toilet.  There is no greater happiness than seeing a toilet after you total your car.

Hello beautiful... I am going to destroy you

Hello beautiful… I am going to destroy you

My coworker at the bowling alley offered to pick me up and take me to the Air Force Base to see Alex, and I really needed to work.  I went into work, letting Alex know I was on base, and told my manager that I wanted to work my shift after all.

She said I was fucking crazy.  And she was right.  I should not have worked.

Now one thing, when I flipped the car, I almost died.  I saw my life flash before me, but not like seeing all these things that I had done.  I saw all the things I didn’t do.  All the things I wanted to do in my life.  I saw Alex in a way I never saw him before.  I saw myself growing old with him, I saw him not just as my boyfriend, but as my companion, my husband, my soul mate.  When I was trapped upside down, all I thought through all of that, besides emptying my bowels, was, “If I get out of this alive, I have to tell Alex I love him.”  Alex and I had talked marriage, but I didn’t realize just what that entailed, and after flipping my car and nearly dying, I realized exactly what that meant.  I didn’t want to spend another day without Alex.  I wanted to grow old with him.  I wanted to wake up next to him every day, to fight with him, to buy a house together.  I wanted all that mushy stuff.  I was tired of moving every few months, I was tired of working two full time jobs just to make ends meet.  I was tired of being so lonely.  I was tired of being so damn strong.  I wanted to be able to lean on someone, even if just for an instant.  I wanted Alex to be with me for the rest of my life, and I realized at that moment exactly what that entailed.

As soon as he found out I was at work, he had the troll drive him to the bowling alley.  When he saw me, he went from walking to full blown sprinting. I didn’t even see him enter the building, but my manager did, and she started giggling when she saw him run.  He tackled me, squeezing me so tight I coucouldn’teathe.  He touched my face, he felt to make sure I wasn’t hurt, he kissed me.  He was almost in tears.

To say the least, I found out he felt the same way.

I was only able to work a few hours of my shift.  When the adrenaline calmed down, I was so dizzy that I nearly passed out.  I was trying not to cry.  I was so incredibly exhausted that I didn’t know what was going to happen to me.  My coworker said she’d cover the rest of my shift and my manager said it was okay for me to leave.  I was going to walk to Alex’s dorm, which was about a quarter of a mile away, but my coworker called her husband and had him drive me the short distance.  He offered to walk me to the door, but I said no and walked myself.

When I got to Alex’s dorm, he just sat and held me as I started to cry.  I had no idea what was going to happen.  I couldn’t afford a new car.  I could barely afford my rent.  Alex wasn’t allowed to live off base so we couldn’t get an apartment together unless we got married.  I was afraid of what the coming months had in store for me.

The next day my body was so sore and stiff that I couldn’t even move.  It hurt just to sit up.  So I called into work and my manager had already given my shift away because she knew I’d be sore.  Alex didn’t have a car, and since he’s an asshat in situations like this, he made me walk all over base to get anything I’d need for the next few days.  That was the most painful day of my life.

A week later I was back to working both jobs, taking a taxi to work or having my friend pick me up to go to the base.  My mom gave me a loan of cash to buy a ’97 Buick LeSabre, which I drove for two years.  When I went back to work at Safeway, my manager told me that I was no longer dependable and that I needed to quit or she’d find a way to fire me.

But Alex came to the rescue…


Have you ever almost died?  Have you ever been in a situation where you were given an ultimatum?  Did your significant other ever save your life?  Let me know in the comments!

Why He’s The Bra Guru: A Marital Dispute

In honor of save the tatas month, I have decided to write a post about my boobs.  And about how Alex and I have the same fight all the time.  Here’s a snippet of this particular fight.

Me: Hey, Alex?  For the love of God, stop grabbing my boobs.

Alex: But that’s what they’re there for.  That’s my God given right for being your husband.  I get to grab boobs all the time.

Me: But you’re breaking the wires in my bras trying to go under the bra.  And you’re stretching out the cups so they don’t keep their shape.

Alex: Then stop wearing bras. Problem solved. Now let’s move on to something more difficult like the Ebola crisis.

Me: NO!  If I stop wearing bras, then my boobs will get saggy.

Alex: I’ll just hold up your boobs. Check mate.

Except it's my boobs.

Except it’s my boobs.

Me: You can’t just walk around behind me holding my boobs up all day.

Alex: I’ll do it for you, as a sign of my undying love. Challenge accepted!




Alex:  I’m not the sole reason they break. After all, your bras wouldn’t break all the time if you didn’t wear them.

Me: My bras wouldn’t break if you would stop grabbing my boobs all the time.

Alex: I don’t get why you wear bras all the time anyway.  They always break after five months or so.

Me: They would last a year if you stopped grabbing my boobs!

Alex: Well, you’ve established that I’m your “bra guru”, I’ll help you find new ones when the time comes.

Me: The time comes way sooner than it should since you keep breaking them!

Alex: But I am driven by a desire to grab boobs, and I have sworn to only grab yours as a sign of love and respect.

Me: I appreciate the dedication, but you need to stop grabbing my boobs all the time.


So we came to a compromise.  I smack his hand until he stops.  And he doesn’t stop and barks at me when his hand gets raw from me smacking his hand all the time. Which then I tell him…

“Alex?  For the love of God, stop grabbing my boobs.”

Thus the cycle begins again.

Does your spouse have overy grabby hands?  Does your boyfriend or husband grab your boobs all the time and no matter what you say or do, your boobs seem like magical magnets that nobody can resist? Let me know in the comments!

The Ruffest Day: Saying Goodbye

I’ve mentioned that I had a foster dog named Patch in a previous post.  I have been trying to find him a home for the better part of a month now, as well as rehabilitate him because he gets aggressive with food.

Other than the food aggression, he’s been a very loving, and caring dog.  He would sit on my lap, he would nudge me when doing homework to play.  He was always by my side.

Unfortunately, last night, when Alex was feeding him, he attacked Alex, ripping open his hand.



With the bite gushing blood, we decide that we need to go to the ER.  We put Patch in his crate, and rushed to the ER.  They wrapped up his hand, informed us that you can’t stitch dog bites (They can become pockets of puss) and we waited close to three hours to be seen.

During this three hours, we were socializing with other ER patrons, making jokes, and trying to keep the mood light.

After the first two hours of waiting, Alex told me to go home and wait for him to call me to pick him up so I could let the dogs out.

So I took Luna, Sahara and Patch outside to do their business.  Lo and behold, Patch is being overly affectionate.  He doesn’t leave my side outside, he nudges my hand to pet him, and even rests his head on my shoulder when I knelt down like he was hugging me.

It broke me a little bit, not going to lie.  I hugged him and cried and told him he was a good boy and that heaven was just a big farm with unlimited food and lots of squirrels to chase.  He wagged his tail when I told him this, and I choose to believe he understood what I was saying.

I went back to the hospital to see Alex still in the waiting room.  He was surprised to see me back at the hospital, but when I told him that whenever I look at Patch, I start crying, he understood.  So we continued to make jokes.

He gets called back, and they put him on a hospital bed in the hallway that’s far too small for him.

He's just too big for most beds

He’s just too big for most beds

We decided to avoid the topic of Alex’s hand gushing insane amounts of blood and talk about Alex’s need for Kanel Bullar, a Swedish cinnamon roll that I make whenever my Swedish sister in law visits us from Central Louisiana.  They’ve turned into one of Alex’s favorite foods and I rarely make them because they’re incredibly time consuming and we usually end up eating all two dozen of them in one sitting.

Comfort food of choice

Comfort food of choice

I teased Alex that if we ever divorced, he would have to convince his second wife to get the recipe from my cold, hateful fingers.

Alex responded with a snort, “Oh no, we’re ending on good terms so you’ll cook me Kanel Bullars for the rest of my life.  I’ll make you think the divorce was your idea so you’ll feel eternally guilty for it and make sure that you’re making up for it for the rest of your life via kanel bullar.”

I put my hands on my hips, “Oh, so you’ve thought about divorcing me?”

He laughs, “Every time you leave a mess in the kitchen.”

To which he kisses my hand and we laugh.  We always make jokes like this in times of turmoil.

Oh crap, this is every morning

Oh crap, this is every morning

Shortly after, the nurse informs us that he has contacted Animal Control and I had to talk to the woman about the entire situation.  I told her exactly what happened, we found out that we have to have him quarantined for ten days, then after that I can choose to surrender him, to which he will be humanely euthanized, or I can take him home and try to find him a home.

While I wish I could take him home, let him run in my yard, feed him lots of treats, and hold him close for the rest of his life, he’s not my dog.

He was never my dog.

He’s nothing more than a scraggly stray that I tried to help that I can’t afford to keep anymore.

And it’s killing me.

Alex had his wound cleaned and we were sent home.  We ate a bunch of cake to make ourselves feel better after being at the hospital for nearly five hours, while Patch lays curled up on the floor, next to my feet.

I slept separately from Alex that night because I wanted to cuddle Patch one last time, but Patch decided to sleep on the floor next to me, while I pet him while falling asleep.

I woke up to all three dogs standing over me, Luna licking my face and Alex crawling in next to me, giving me a hearty squeeze.

I made us a big breakfast, making a full package of bacon to divvy out to the dogs.

My stomach was uneasy, as we waited for Animal Control to come to our house.  About an hour before Animal Control showed up, Patch went to Alex and licked his face.  The first time he had licked either of us.  Even Alex was shocked at the display of affection.

When the woman from Animal Control showed up, Patch had his tail wagging and seemed excited.  He happily let her put the leash on him and ran out the door to the van.  He seemed almost happy to go.

I choked back a sob, and watched him leave.  He seemed happy to go.

Maybe he knows that it’s for the best as well.  I think that heaven will be a better place for him.

Luna has been sulking in her kennel ever since patch left.  I think she knows that he’s not coming back.

Poor Luna.  Her buddy is gone

Poor Luna. Her buddy is gone

For anyone in the Louisiana area, Patch is being quarantined for the next ten days at the Bossier City Animal Control.  If you think you could rehabilitate him and get hi the care he needs, I think you can adopt him with my permission.  If not, I completely understand.  There’s nothing more I can do for him.

Have you ever had to make a decision that broke your heart?  Have you ever been in a situation where it ended far differently than you anticipated?  Let me know in the comments.

How To Sell Your Blood Plasma: A Beginner’s Guide

So, you want to sell blood plasma to make a few extra bucks? Such as over 200 extra a month? Let me tell you how!

First, make sure you go there not knowing what you’ll need. They’re going to ask for your license and social security card. You need to forget to bring your social security card so you can run home and grab it!

Once you have it there, you need to make sure that your license and social security cards don’t match. Don’t worry, if you’re married, this is easy!

From there, go to the social security office to find out that they did your name chance incorrectly and you have to redo the entire process again.

Wait a few weeks to ensure that your name change is good.

Don't worry, it's just a little bit of paperwork

Don’t worry, it’s just a little bit of paperwork

Go back to plasma place with your new social security card and drivers license. They’ll fail to mention that the second time you ever enter the building, you have to have a proof of address in the form of a bank statement, so you’ll get denied again. They decide to mail you something to prove that you live where you live.
Go home and wait a few days by the mail box to ensure that you get your proof of address. When you get it, go back to the plasma place, assuming that they still have a copy of your social security card. They don’t, of course, so you have to drive home to get it.

You’re almost there!

You go back with your social security card so they can scan that and your driver’s license again. You have your piece of mail ready, you have your ID’s, now they say that they need your marriage license because your name is in the system as the old name. They ask you to run back home to get your marriage license.

You do this, and since it’s a thousand fucking degrees outside, you begin to sweat horrifically as you’re racing home to get your marriage license.

You get there, you give them the marriage license, and they ask you to go into the exam room.

Except now they can’t let you donate because your body odor is so terrible that you’re going to make everyone sick. They want you to go back the next day with all the paperwork so that you can finally sell your plasma for that beautiful, beautiful money.

But fear not, the nurse informs you that since it’s Louisiana and it’s a thousand fucking degrees, this happens to just about every other person in the summer because everyone is sweating from just looking outside.

It's okay, everyone smells bad this time of year

It’s okay, everyone smells bad this time of year

So now, you just need to go home and drink a bottle of wine to justify your horrible day of using half a tank of gas to make fifty bucks. Also, take a shower and burn your clothing, you don’t want anyone to risk recognizing you in that outfit as the smelly girl who can’t sell her own plasma!


Ever have a time in your life that it seems that no matter how many times you try, you just can’t seem to get something done?  Tell me about it!

Yes, this did happen.  Mostly today.

Sing Me The Song Of Your People (Slightly NSFW)

So this happened recently, and I have got to say it was one of funnier moments that I have with Alex. I had the brilliant idea that we should try to spice things up, and this is not my husband’s forte.  There’s nothing wrong with it, but often times it leads to very peculiar situations.

Me: Hey… talk nerdy to me.

Alex: Beg pardon?

Me: Go ahead, sweet talk me with your nerd lingo.

He takes a long pause to consider the situation.  While he is a romantic, having to do it on the spot causes for horribly awkward situations.  After a few moments, he speaks up.

Alex: Baby, I want to put my skyward sword into your water temple.

Me: … What?


With as much enthusiasm.

He has this costume…

Me: Uh, try again.

Alex, thinking much faster this time, gives a goofy, sexy grin.

Alex: I wanna squirtle on your jigglypuffs. (Then, in a very deep voice) JIGGLY!

Me: Are you going to take this seriously?


I’m beginning to shake my head in wonder and amazement.  I’m trying not to chuckle, because it might encourage him, but my mind begins to race.  How the fuck can I get him to take this somewhat seriously?

Me: How about some role play?

Alex: That’s right up my alley. What class should I be and what level are we starting at?

Me: Class? Level?  What the fuck are you talking about?

He then goes into a very long dialogue about all the different dungeons and dragons classes.  I used to play, but it has been over six years and I’m a little rusty.

Alex:… And I’m going to need to know what level because I need to know if it’s an introduction campaign or if we’re jumping into an epic one. It doesn’t make that much of a difference, but I need to know what kind of established canon we’re getting into before I commit to my guy’s backstory.


He looks at me, as if I’ve just asked him how a toilet is supposed to flush. He throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes at me.

Alex: What. Class. Am. I. Going. To. BE?

Oh sweet fucking Jesus, he’s taking this seriously.

Me: You can be a barbarian….. and I’ll be a Paladin I guess?

To be fair, this is how I see myself anyway.

To be fair, this is how I see myself anyway.

I thought this would work, but I accidently lit another powder keg. Alex goes into another long dialogue, but this time extremely pissed off.  Apparently Paladins are naturally chaste and lawful, not whoring themselves out to other explorers.

I didn’t give it two thoughts, but apparently this is something he thinks about far more often than he should.

So I’m a paladin, level 7.  With huge tits that he can’t touch for two weeks, because of mother fucking roleplaying.

Not only did I not get lucky, but he gave me homework.  I have to read the mother fucking D&D handbook so I can understand his fucking foreplay.

Thanks Gygax.



Anyone else try spicing things up and have it backfire horribly on you? Any similar situations with talking nerdy? Please tell me I’m not alone.


I Pity The Skinny Girls: UPDATE

UPDATE!  I think there has been a misunderstanding on this post.  When I say “skinny girl,” I guess I should clarify that I mean girls who stand in the mirror, wanting to fix every flaw in their body and hate themselves for it.  I mean girls who only value themselves based on what others say or think about them.  I don’t mean the skinny girls who love going to the gym and eating healthy and love themselves, no matter what anyone else says.  If you are a skinny girl who loves herself, you are not a “skinny girl,” you are a fit girl.  If you’re skinny and fit and happy and you do not judge yourself or others based on their appearance, you are not a “skinny girl,” you are a beautiful woman.  There is no need to get bent out of shape and send me hate mail and write inappropriate comments.  If you are loved for the person that is inside of you instead of what you look like, then you are a healthy, beautiful person.  

This post is not about how I hate girls who look better than me, this post is about how I was able to love myself after twenty four years of hating what I saw in the mirror.  This is a post about every girl who thought her self worth was tied to a number on a scale, when a persons self worth is through their actions and through the beauty of their heart, not the beauty in the mirror.  If I have offended anyone in any way, I apologize, I never meant to cause any ill harm to anyone.

Ever since I was a little girl, for as long as I could remember, I knew I was different.

I grew up in a Minneapolis suburb, where most of the little girls were Scandinavian or German descent, like myself, or they were Hmong or Middle Eastern.  The latter two were very scarce until I was in high school though, and looking back, I could tell by just how I looked that I was different.

I had very pale skin.  My mother had read that a child who gets sun burn badly has a much higher chance of skin cancer so she was very cautious to ensure that we never got sun burn, and it resulted in us not really getting any type of tan either since my brother and I would burn just looking out the window.  I was the tallest girl in my class, ending up being around 5’8” once I finished high school.  My hair is almost black and very thick, my eyes are a very dark brown, and I had monsterous hips at age 10.  My body decided at age ten that I needed to fill out so my hips got wide, I got mosquito bites on my chest (those never really grew much), and I shot up, but one thing about myself never really changed.

I was always the fat kid in class.

When I was in fifth grade, at the ripe age of 11, I weighed nearly 200 pounds.  When I was in sixth grade, I was a size 16.  When I graduated high school, I was nearly 300 pounds and a size 24.  When I got married, I was even heavier and a size 26.  I’ve lost a decent amount of weight since getting married and I’m the same size I was in high school, but how I view myself has changed drastically.

I used to be horribly embarrassed of my weight.  I would apologize to my friends that they had a fat friend like me, and they never understood why I would apologize for that.  I would look in the mirror and think I was ugly because I was heavy.  I would stare in the mirror and find every single flaw with my body, and wonder why I was heavy. When I was first married, I banned all full length mirrors in the house, as well as a scale, because I knew that I would obsess over them.  Why are all of those other girls who are skinny so lucky to be like that?

Like any kid, I was teased relentlessly because of my weight.  In my sophomore year of high school, I was playing dodge ball and one of the kids in my class hit me with the ball and yelled “Out of the way, lard-ass!”  I remember sitting in the locker room nearly in tears, so embarrassed.  Not really mad at him for calling me that, but mad at myself for thinking it was true.

I tried every diet, I tried starving myself, I tried making myself throw up sometimes.  But, alas, I just love food and I hated to be wasteful so I ate.  Everything bothered me.

Once I moved to Alaska, I saw that most of the people I knew were heavy, and they were happy.  I still got some grief from people, once even from my manager at a deli I worked at.  She bought me some weight loss pills and handed them to me with a wink, telling me that customers would like me better if I looked more like my modelesque coworker.

But when I hit around the age of 19, when I got into the dating scene finally, I realized something.

Being fat is awesome.

I went on a date with a decorated soldier once.  He was gorgeous, far out of my league when it came to looks.  We went out for lunch and I ordered a greasy hamburger and devoured it.  Because I was hungry.  He commented on that, and not the way I expected.

“This is why I like dating heavy girls.  They don’t eat those shitty salads.  I’m not afraid to order good food.  You’ll order good food too and we can talk about how awesome the food is!”

I had never thought of it like that, so every time I went on a date, I would order what I wanted to order: delicious, greasy food.

Surprisingly, most men I met loved this.  One time, I had someone ask me why I didn’t order a salad and I gave him a look and said, “Seriously?  Do I look like someone who would ever eat a salad?”

He laughed and we gorged ourselves on ice cream.

Other times, I would have some of my guy friends tell me that they secretly preferred heavier women just based on the fact that “I can always be myself around women who have a few extra pounds.”

My eyes opened to the possibilities.  I realized that everyone is self conscious about the way they look, but there’s no reason to be.

I met my husband a couple of years after moving to Alaska, and he was a gorgeous man who is basically the perfect husband.  He’s six feet and seven inches of awkward, gorgeous hilarity.  And what makes him even better?  He doesn’t care about how heavy I am.  He seems to like it, actually.  He’s never asked me to lose weight, he’s never told me I needed to lose weight, and he always tells me that he thinks I’m beautiful.

And I can out eat him at a buffet and he doesn’t even care.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I pity the skinny girls.

The reason is simple:  those bitches won’t be skinny forever.

Being married to the military, I’ve met many spouses who were skinny and would pretty much live at the gym because their husbands told them that if they gained weight, they would leave them.  And I’ve even met men who have filed for separation or divorces because their wives gained weight.

I’ve been to parties with military spouses whose husbands would tell their wives not to eat something because their dress won’t fit after eating it.  I’ve met men who made sure that their wives went on a diet directly after giving birth because they needed to get that baby weight off now.

The only reason I’m working to drop some weight is for health reasons.  I’m trying to work for the state, and the position I want requires me to be able to do a lot of running and shoot a gun with accuracy, and in order to do that I need to be a little lighter and a lot stronger. I’ve been dieting lately, I’ve been seeing a personal trainer, and I’ve dropped over 20 pounds and my body feels stronger every day.

I’m not doing it for Alex.  I’m not doing it for the world.  I’m losing weight because I want to lose it for my health.

To the skinny girls: If your boyfriend or husband wants to leave you because you might be heavy some day, then guess what, you need to drop him like a bad habit.

Your looks will fade anyway and before you know it, your nipples will be knee high.  Salads are not delicious, no matter what you say.  Unless it’s drowning in dressing, cheese and meat.

I know my husband will love me no matter what because he fell in love with me when I had several hour glasses on my figure.

And I know one thing for certain: No matter what, my mom will always love me.  Who else’s approval do I need in order to be happy?

No ones.  Just my moms.

Have you ever thought you needed someone elses approval, only to realize that it was for a stupid reason?  Have you ever hated yourself, only to realize that it was for no reason at all?  I want to hear about your experiences, your struggles, and your triumph to love yourself.


How Marriage Changes Everything In Your Life

I have several friends who are about to get married or who have been with their significant other for a long period of time, and they talk about how excited they are to get married, to which I always say “DON’T DO IT! IT’S A TRAP!” and they laugh like I’m kidding.

I’m not kidding.

It’s a trap.


I think they have a different expectation of what the reality is, so I’m going to go over some of the basics.


Expectation: You’ll have help and it will get done twice as fast, or your wife will do all of the cleaning because hey! Women LOVE cleaning!

Reality: You’ll be sitting on the couch in your sweatpants, using your sweatpants as a napkin, hopping from one room to the other, looking for pants under a mountain of garbage. Note, this is not everyone, but I’ve met more people who have had this problem than who haven’t had this problem. Also, dishes won’t do themselves at mom’s house. You have mother fucking chores that you don’t get rewarded from.


Expectation: Married couples are always friends with other married couples who talk all the time and never have issues telling each other anything! Communication is no problemo!

Reality: Lack of communication causes a lot of divorces. And to be fair, I forget to tell Alex stuff all the time. We talk all the time. He is probably the chattiest person I have ever met. And I talk a lot. But we both talk non stop for hours and don’t say a fucking thing.

Lovin’, touchin’, squeezin’

Expectation: Humping like gorillas.

Reality: You or your spouse will say “Hey, wanna have some fun?” and you’ll respond with “OR… there’s a new episode of Big Bang Theory tonight.”

So then you stay up all night watching reruns of Big Bang Theory to catch up on the new episode. This will go on for six months and then you both will replace touching with ice cream and not care. Note: This can be any show from Dragon Ball Z, to Deadly Women. When you’re married, you can have sex anytime, but reruns may not always be there.


Expectation: Two incomes means we’re rich bitches!

Reality: Two people means twice the bills. Two cars? Twice the gas! Clothes for two! Eating enough to fill a buffet, the works! While I’m technically better off now that I’m married, I have to look like I’m married. Which fucking sucks. I can’t go grocery shopping in a parka and basketball shorts anymore. People won’t excuse it as “Oh she’s just a poor college kid” because they’ll see that shiny little thing on my finger and think “HER HUSBAND ABUSES HER!”

Which he totally doesn’t. I just hate clothes shopping. And washing clothes. And folding. I’m not my mother who is a wizard with laundry and clothing.

Going to the bar

Expectation: Your husband (or if you’re a guy, you) will buy all of the drinks and it will be amazingly fun!

Reality: Alex refuses to go to the bar with me unless I drag him. With a bunch of friends. To which we are both ignored because we have rings on our fingers. Except in Alaska. Alaska men didn’t care if a woman had a ring because there were no women in Alaska. Getting a free drink now is ridiculously hard. I’ve given up.

Work Functions

Expectation: Since you’re married, everyone will think you’re respectable and kind and will act like mature adults.

Reality: Nothing has changed. Except one of you will always be the DD. If you’ve read my blog from the get go, you’ll realize that my husband is always the designated driver. And I am absolutely humiliating at function. As well as nearly half of the people there, because one will drive, and the other drinks for the couple.

So tell me, anything you want to add to the list? Anything you feel should be rebutted? Every couple is different, I want to hear your thoughts! TELL ME YOUR WEIRD MARRIAGE STORIES!

Like what you read? Follow me on facebook! I post all updates on there, as well as weird news stories. Thanks for reading!

Why My Husband is the Best Husband Ever, Y’all

This is my husband

Alex, right before he joined the military and got insanely hotter

Alex, right before he joined the military and got insanely hotter

He is a very tall man, standing at around 6’7.  His eyes are insanely blue, and as you can tell, he’s devilishly handsome.

I’ll be totally honest, I do not deserve this man.  He’s fantastic, but let me tell you what brought on this strange blog post.

I have many friends who shall remain nameless who post stuff on Facebook all the time talking about how they have the best husband in the world.  I always smile when I see these things, because it shows that chivalry isn’t dead and that these couples appear to really love each other.

Here are a few examples of my why friends husbands are the “best husbands alive.”

“Hubby called me from the flight line today to say hi and that he missed me, best hubby ever!”

“Hubby came into my work today with flowers just because he thought I’d like them, best hubby ever!”

“Hubby made dinner.  I know it was only take and bake pizza and he burnt it, but he tried, so he’s the best hubby ever!”

“Came home to the hubby having done the dishes!  Yes, he did a terrible job but it’s the thought that counts!  Best hubby ever!”

Now, I see these and I smile, because I think it’s very cute.  But I also know that I totally have the best hubby ever, and here’s why.


1.  He doesn’t kill my hair with fire.

I have insanely bushy, thick, uncontrollable hair.  The devil himself decided to punish me by giving me hair that he deemed more uncontrollable than a war mongering a-hole.


Me, just after waking up.

Me, just after waking up.

This is what he wakes up to every morning.  First time he saw it he tried not to scream, and when he tried to run his fingers in my hair, we almost had to cut my hair around his fingers because my hair is so ungodly thick.  Hair straighteners tremble with fear at the thought of my hair, and no matter how I get my hair cut, no matter what products I use in my hair, no matter how long or short it is, it just refuses to work with me.*

2. He cleans the house… To military standards

Let me tell you a story.

When I was living on my own, you could not see the floor of where I was living.  My roommates called my bedroom “the pit” because you could get lost from all the crap in my room.  I had two patches of floor you could see and it took a lot of jumping and maneuvering to get from the door to the bed.

Alex, however, is a neat freak, and I mean this in the nicest possible way.  No bedspread would dare wrinkle under Alex’s watch.  When we were first dating, I would go to his dorm room and be afraid to touch anything from how clean and orderly it was.  He cleaned the kitchen floor with a toothbrush for crying out loud.  Everything had a set, exact spot.  The bedspread looked like it was ironed on his bed.  His clothes were organized by color, sleeve length and formality.  I wish I were kidding about this, but I’m not.

So when we got married, he was excited because his thoughts were along the lines of, “Yay!  I’ll have help cleaning!”

My thoughts were, “Yay!  I’m never going to have to clean again or live in filth again!”

As you can imagine, this is really the only thing we ever fight about.

When he cleans, you can eat off the floors. He does dishes so well that they sparkle.  He even sorts the laundry and gets stains out.

This man is a God.


3.  He’s hilarious

IF you haven’t seen my Christmas card that we sent out this year, go read this right now.  What was even better about that instance, it was partially his idea and when I said, I would love to do it, he said “HELLS YES WE’RE DOING THIS!”

And so we did.



In addition he helps me embarrass family members when they visit or when we visit them.  We got our mom to run away from us in Target*

4.  He doesn’t try to stab me with a rusty spoon for messing up the kitchen.

I know I mentioned cleaning and how I’m a slob and how he’s a neat freak, but it is impossible for me to keep the kitchen clean. I try, I really do, but I just can’t do it.  I even worked in a kitchen and all of my coworkers told me that I was the messiest possible cook they ever worked with.

All I made was a bowl of cereal...

All I made was a bowl of cereal…

This is my kitchen.  This picture isn’t even staged (except the chair, I put the chair there on purpose).  When he saw me taking this picture, he got pretty mad.  Something along the lines of “WHY ARE YOU SHOWING THIS TO PEOPLE?!”

I dunno, I wasn’t really listening.

5.  He cooks… better than me

When I first got married I gained over 30 pounds in three months.  Now, everyone says that this is your “happy weight” from when you first get married, but I blame his cooking ability.

You see, he’s a culinary school grad.  He’s a mother fucking chef.  For Christmas he’s cooking a Christmas Goose.  Goose.  Who the hell makes goose?  This guy does.

6.  He’s weird.

I know this is a weird reason, but hear me out.  I’m borderline crazy with how weird I am.  I moved to Fairbanks, AK, willingly.  And I stayed up there after two years of college.  I decided I’d rather have dogs than kids because I like dogs better.  I have no filter when I talk.  I’m educated and I’ll still take the cheap whiskey over a fine wine.  When I shop, even when I could afford it, I went straight for the clearance rack at Walmart and I have shoes where the soles are literally falling off and broken, but since they’re comfortable I still wear them.  I wear mens clothes half the time because they’re comfortable, I curse like a sailor, and I’ll go grocery shopping in a parka, slippers and basketball shorts.

I’m very weird.

And he’s weirder.

He’s awkward, which is what I love about him.  He’s a dungeon master, a nerd through and through.  He likes anime, talks in movie quotes, owns 30+ board games, and always challenges me to be weird in every aspect of my life.

And he doesn’t care that I’m weird, because he still loves me.

Thanks Alex, for being the best husband ever.  Here’s to three years together!

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

*I don’t give my hair enough credit.  I know how to kind of put my hair in a pony tail and I forget to brush it half the time, but even when I do my hair is like NOPE YOU SHALL DIE!

* I’m giving my mom far too much credit, she always ditches us in the store.  However, the last time she did it, Alex and I decided to run up and down the aisles while screaming “MOOOOOOOOOM!  MOOOOOOOOOM!” in a very nasal voice, to which she magically appeared behind us, hissing, “What?  Shut up!” It was awesome.  She doesn’t ditch us anymore.

You Can Never Have Too Many Blankets (My husband disagrees)

After telling this particular story to my mother in law, she said to me, “You can take the girl out of Minnesota, but you can never take the Minnesota out of the girl.”

Truer words have never been spoken.

There has always been a million one thing Alex and I fight about on a regular basis, and it started when we were dating, and we will most likely fight about it until our dying days.


Maybe it’s because I’m from Minnesota, maybe it’s because I hate paying the heating bill, I have no idea.  But I believe there are a few things that make a house a home.  Pictures of family together on the walls,  the smell of food, and blankets everywhere.

Alex believes in lots of food and pictures, but the blankets he just doesn’t get.  To be fair though, he organizes everything in the house and was giddy when he got a label maker, and I believe everything should be thrown in a pile and forgotten about, so I figure this is his little revenge.

I have around twenty blankets, and I’m always scavenging thrift shops for more.  When we were in Alaska, he didn’t really fight me too much on it.  There was one day though, where we had a very thorough discussion on my “blanket hoarding,” or so he calls it.

Alex: Why do we need so many blankets?  We have the down comforter and we have two blankets on the couch, we don’t need anymore. We’re in Louisiana, nobody has this many blankets here.

Me: What if we get cold?

Alex: We have a blanket for each of us.

Me: What if the dogs get cold?

Alex: They have fur.

Me: What if people come over and they get cold?


Me: So what you’re saying is, we should be prepared in case I ever change my mind?

Alex: NO!  I’m saying we should get rid of all the damn blankets to make room for stuff we actually need, like new towels that match and aren’t falling apart.

Me: We have tons of towels, you told me not to get anymore.

Alex: I told you not to get anymore if you’re going to keep the old ones.

Me: And there’s no reason to get rid of the old ones.


Me: No, you’re making this impossible.



The next day it dropped to 40 degrees in the house.  And with the wind and humidity, it was actually miserable.

I think I won.