nothing new under the sun

32 years ago, my mom wandered into a little shop on a family trip and found this beautiful print. She was pregnant with her second child, my brother Michael, and wondering about how life would change with a new baby in the mix. She saw this picture and it spoke to her: when that sweet babe is in your arms, love multiplies.

She recently gave this print to me and I cried a lot (add to the list of things that make me cry: family keepsakes, the song "landslide", Target gift cards, when Rachel finds out she's pregnant on Friends). I look at this picture and I can feel William's warmth on my shoulder, hear his soft breathing, smell his sweet skin, feel the wisps of his blonde hair tickling my nose. I can practically transport myself back 32 years and see my mother experiencing these same wonders with her little boy. She was there, as I am here, and it was in the caramelly center of those early experiences when she decided that she was smitten, twitterpated, dedicated, all in for motherhood. And that, of course, is what brought me here. We are living this together, side by side, in different decades.

There is nothing new under the sun. Isn't that fascinating? The bible says in Ecclesiastes 1:9 that "what has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." On the one hand, that's kind of a bummer. It kind of eliminates the validity of our desire to truly wallow in moments of self-pity. Those times when we're rundown or in pain or exhausted. When I was pregnant and fearful about childbirth I was constantly told, hey. Women have been doing this since the beginning of time. You're not alone. But in the throes of actually experiencing it, it was like, NO. NO ONE HAS EVER DONE THIS. THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE.

What if you actually were the first person in existence to experience something, though? That would be so legit. Talk about being vindicated in your moment of suffering. In biblical times, yeah. There was a first person for everything. There was a first childbirth, a first stoning, a first infidelity, a first death in the family. Those hurts and pains and life struggles were raw and real and they could actually say, God. This isn't fair. NO ONE ELSE HAS EVER HAD TO GO THROUGH THIS. We don't really get that satisfaction today.

But on the other hand, that's kind of okay. It's comforting. No matter what the circumstance is, you're not alone. After countless generations of lives have been lived on this earth, you can rest in our God who sees, and in the God-given camaraderie of mankind. When you post on Facebook that you just stepped on a LEGO, everyone will be like OH DANG GIRL. We've all been there.

That camaraderie and universal understanding is what makes being a mother so rich. I'm not at a table for one. I'm not experiencing these things on an island. I have generations to back me up, including my own mother and grandmother and siblings and friends. It's such a wonderful place to be. When I look at this print, tears fill my eyes because I see William and I in it. But I also see my mom and Michael in it. And so many other mothers I know and love with their baby boys and these glorious moments that are so unique but so beautifully shared throughout history.

There is nothing new under the sun...but it's certainly my first go around under its light, and I'm going to cherish the brilliance. I'm so thankful for the gift of this life (and the gift of this token of motherhood). If you've ever seen the movie About Time, you'll know what I mean when I say I'd like to spend each day as if I've deliberately come back to this one day to enjoy it. Also, if you haven't seen About Time, stop reading this and go buy it and watch it. Or come over to our house and experience it with Dusty sobbing beside you. That's my favorite.

(Thanks for this gift, momma. I will cherish it. Thanks for being my mother for life.)

going broke for cat mugs

I actually cannot even try to refer to myself as "frugal" with a straight face. I am not frugal. I never have been. It has been both my burden and my pleasure to spend all of my money when and if I ever get any. Dave Ramsey would judge me. He probably knows, somehow, within his magical stern eyebrows that Caitlin Schanaker is not good at this stuff.

When it comes to spending, I think I may be straight-up delusional. I have this very naive, happy-go-lucky perspective that money will always find a way. Because as we all know, where there's a will, there's a way, and my will for shopping is fierce. It's not practical shopping, either. It's frivolous and spontaneous. It's the best kind. Because everything is a special occasion and there are always reasons to go all out. Life is all about those excuses. Weekend getaways and ordering way too much food but still getting dessert and buying the extravagantly expensive and useless trinkets at Anthropologie. I have fallen into the trap that I think many young adults fall into: trying to live the way your parents live, despite the fact that it took decades for them to get there. It's why we're all drowning in debt. It's incredibly sad, and also really fun until you have to start paying your loans back. Right out of the gate, I try to usher myself into adulthood by paying extra for guacamole and splurging at World Market and shopping online and impulse-buying rain boots when I live in Arizona and no one can afford this nonsense.

My husband and I joke often that when we don't think twice about paying the extra for guacamole, we'll know we have arrived.

All of this is being written because I have hit a wall today. It's a wall made of cat mugs. A friend sent me a link to the most beautiful cat mugs I have ever seen, and even though we have a house that is taking all of our time and money and a baby coming out of me this year, I want the mugs. All of them. I want to pay the $60 (plus shipping) for a set of cat mugs.

This is my Friday confession. I sat there staring at these beautiful mugs, cursing Anthropologie, trying to justify a way to buy them. I could just buy one; they're $14 each. I could search online for a coupon. But then I would be missing out on the other colors, and look how nicely they look all together? How lovely would they look, purring on my coffee bar? I could bully people into buying me a housewarming gift, a baby gift (babies like mugs, right?), a super early birthday gift...I could set up a gofundme! That's what that site is for now, right? Providing a way for friends and strangers to buy you silly things you can't afford? America.

Closing out of that shopping window was hard. Not in a real-life way, but in a wow, I think I'm going insane kind of way. Obviously this post is silly and this "problem" isn't a problem at all, but the fact remains that I feel stressed and restless over cat mugs. Over not being able to travel anymore. Over all of the things we still have to buy and fix up on the house. Over feeling like we'll never be in that settled, give-me-all-the-guac place in our lives. I have to try to be frugal, to be smart, to be less selfish and less spoiled and more responsible and more everything.

As much as I like to pretend that I'm not that girl going broke for cat mugs, I totally am. I am her and she is me. I just have to calm her down a little bit.

house hunting emotions (as told by troy barnes)

My husband and I have entered into our first house-buying experience, and I'm suddenly realizing I'm not the greatest at handling this kind of exciting, stressful and emotional journey. I've always been a homebody, and the two of us are probably the most sentimental humans in Arizona. We walk into a house that's for sale and we're like, oh well hello there, destiny, thanks for bringing us to our new place of solace and happiness. The problem is, when it's listed way out of our budget or sells before we can make an offer, we might take it a little too hard. It feels personal. Like we've just been betrayed by the very destiny that promised us so much.

I figured Troy Barnes, a character on the TV show Community, was the best man for the job of illustrating our complex emotions of the past few weeks.

We hadn't actually planned on buying a house this early. But we came across a few local properties, and our interest was piqued. The wheels started turning. What if we bought a fixer upper, lived in it for a few years while we fixed it up, then resold it to provide us with enough money to build our own house (which is our ultimate dream)?

We saw the house for the first time a week and a half ago. We knew right away it was the perfect type of dingy, in need of our tender love and care but not too far gone. It was priced low; most of the houses around our city at the same price are half the size. It had only been listed for one day, so we were confident with our offer and waited the necessary 10 days before the bank would tell us we were officially home owners.

But then, over the weekend, our realtor told us that the bank was rejecting all of the offers. There are a total of 3, we found out, so our initial feelings of being the special chosen ones quickly vanished. The bank wanted our highest and our best. We could raise the offer, raise the earnest money, waive the inspection period (or shorten it)...

Our confidence was shaken and we had no idea what to do. The market began rising as we twiddled our thumbs and lost sleep. Even if we raise the offer, will the other offers raise theirs as well? How can we be sure we beat them to the highest bid? Why couldn't this be a personal interview, where we charm The Bank and make them love us? Is there any way I could send The Bank a basket of mini muffins to endear them to us? Is this a sign? And if so, what's it pointing at? Are signs even a thing? 

So many questions! So much doubt! In the back of our minds we kept telling ourselves that everything will work out either way - if this isn't the house, then we'll move on with our lives and continue saving our money. If it is, then we'll get it...right? 

The Bank is impossible to mind read, unfortunately, but we decided to just do everything available to us. Raise the offer, raise the earnest money, shorten the inspection time. I tried to also send the mini muffins, but they don't like baked goods; they only eat pure gold and our hopes and dreams.

We submitted the new offer this morning. So now we're left to wait again. We'll hopefully know by tomorrow, but while I sit here typing at work it's all just like

and

It's stressful not knowing the future. I know we're not the only human beings with this problem, but it would be so much easier knowing whether or not this is the house. I'm not even sure if there's such a thing as the anything. While I believe God cares about the smallest desires of our hearts, I am not positive that he always tells us direct answers to the decisions we make. Things like where we go to school, or what we have for lunch, or what job we take. Sometimes there are clear answers, but sometimes there aren't. In this time of uncertainty and stress, I have to remember that the future is taken care of whether we're directly lead to purchasing this house or passing it by. We've done everything we can to make it happen, because in our minds it's the house - but dealing with the loss of it will not break us. It will simply be another story to tell.

archives: jimmy jons

Happy Friday!

I decided that today would be a good day to reach back into my blogging history and pull out one of my favorite posts from my first blog, Once Upon a Wife Life. My first blog was dedicated to my friends and family while we were away in Virginia for law school. I posted a lot of personal posts, mostly to keep them updated on our lives in Lynchburg. 

Now that we're back, I've let OUAWL go, although I do need to write a few more posts there to wrap up our time in Lynchburg. All that to say: this was one of my silliest posts. It still makes me laugh. 

I first posted it on June 7th, 2012. Enjoy!

This is from our engagement session with our friend Mike. circa 2010.
He told me to be sexy. I had no idea how.
He said that the key to being sexy is to pretend you're about to say the F word.

Sometimes, I laugh out loud at myself.
It's not because I think I'm really funny (I occasionally think I'm pretty funny) but I'm just really easily entertained, and sometimes when that perfect thing comes to mind, I can hardly contain my glee at my own cleverness.

When we were in Charlotte last weekend, we went into a very high-end department store, Neiman Marcus.
They carry all of the fanciest brand names. I mean, the store name is in cursive, and it's just really obvious that it's not a place where Dusty and I regularly shop. Or ever shop.
We went around admiring the merchandise, and I could have sworn a few hefty men came cautiously in our direction just to make sure we weren't trying to steal anything.

Back off my wal-mart cardigan, dude, it's a fun color and it fits nice.

As we made our way back to the fancy menswear, Dusty began to drool over a ridiculously gorgeous pinstripe suit. It was divine. I nodded my approval, sneaking a peak at the $4,000 price tag on just the jacket. Maybe that's normal for people like Leonardo DiCaprio...or maybe that's just the kind of suit he would buy for his dog, I really don't know. For little ones like us it's a lot of money.
A well-dressed (duh) grey-haired man approached us, asking if we needed any assistance. He had a bit of an arch to his eyebrow that said he was up to no good. We told him we were just looking.

He proceeded to nod and walk back across the glistening tile to another store worker, and whispered, "Eh, just a couple of Jimmy Jons."

Now.

I don't know what that's supposed to mean. My fancy-pants radar was going off, signaling that I should be offended. But that radar is broken (I bought it at a discount) and all that resulted was a fit of giggles. Offended giggles, obviously, but it had us both cracking up, trying to imagine what they must think of us.

We then developed a string of Jimmy Jon scenarios.

Me: "Most of my pants I bought for less than $10...and that's why I'm a Jimmy Jon."
Dusty: "9 of my socks have holes in them, and that's why I'm a Jimmy Jon!"
Me: "Well, I use safety pins to keep my dress intact. Pretty sure that makes me a Jimmy Jon."
Dusty: "Our favorite restaurant is Olive Garden. That, ladies and gentlemen, is why we're Jimmy Jons."
Me: "Ha! I use my panty-hose as a pasta drainer...and that's why I'm a Jimmy Jon."
Dusty: "I buy all my groceries from the bum next door...and that's why I'm a Jimmy Jon!"
Me: "Gee whiz, our entire downstairs is courtesy of thrift stores and Craigslist. We are so Jimmy Jons."

For the record, some of these are true, and some of them are not. I won't say which are which.
I wish I could remember some of the ones we actually said that day, because we were in stitches, we were so pleased with ourselves. Suffice it to say, we're not too upset about being Jimmy Jons.

Then yesterday, I was having a conversation with my friend Becky about fitness. We were talking about getting in shape, and how important it is to keep a tight core, and feel the burn, and bladda yadda work-out jargon.

One of the items of conversation became arms. I think it's especially important to women to have toned arms. The last thing you want is for your under-arm to do a flash-dance in the middle of you waving to the next-door neighbor.
We all want sexy-toned arms.
So I said, "Oh ya. It's a must. Especially in the summertime...I mean...when I put on my new bridesmaid's dress last night, I just kept my arms spread-eagle so there wouldn't be any unwanted skin gathering."
We had a good laugh.
I told Dusty about this conversation, because I thought it was really funny.

After work that night, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up some things for a barbecue we were going to. We grabbed some beans, hamburger/hot dog buns, and then headed down the chip aisle.
A very dangerous place!
I immediately spotted the Puff Cheetos, because I love those, and have been craving them since...the last time I ate them, and realized I never wanted to stop.

This was last year. Proof of our long-standing affair.

After we checked out, I asked Dusty if I could go ahead and open the Cheetos for a pre-barbecue snack.
He said no!
I was upset.

Dusty: "You need to have self control."
Me: Rolling my eyes, "I don't want any of that."
He looks at me critically. We start to walk out the sliding doors.
Dusty: "Oh really? So, what? You just wanna be spread-eagle for the rest of your life?"

Funniest thing he's ever said to me. Except for one other thing, which I can't blog about, because it's super inappropriate.
But I thought I might pee my pants. I had to pause in the parking lot and compose myself.

The moral of the story is, when I think something is really funny, I can't. stop. laughing.
And going on a rant of hilarity is one of my favorite things to do, and I absolutely love that I have so many people in my life that allow me to be ridiculous.
Love you guys :)

Dusty, ya Jimmy Jon, I love ya.

(original post)

afternoon dates

I think there's something about 2pm that just gets to me. 

It's that time of day where uneasiness settles in, boredom maybe. Extreme fatigue. All I want to do is fold up under my desk like human origami, and eat a bar of extra, extra dark chocolate. (Which, by the way, is my new favorite thing. Chocolate has always been meh, which as a woman I've been ashamed to admit - but super dark chocolate is basically the extra bold coffee of chocolates. Score.) 

Whatever you're doing at 2pm, time is against you. It's the afternoon curse. It's some strange alternate universe that swallows you up and wants you to fail at everything you're doing. 

For all these reasons and more, Dusty and I came up with afternoon dates.

Because eureka, coffee solves all my 2pm problems.

We began to figure out that we needed that bit of a break, that little extra time together. 

A time to run outside and jump in the car. Sunglasses on, music up, sigh of relief. 

A spontaneous treat in the hot morbid dead center of that awful, no good portion of our everyday lives. 

2pm. 2-freakin-pm. 

Top/Necklace (shop!): Ruche, Skirt: Modcloth, Sweater: Banana Republic 

Naturally, because we are the way we are, afternoon dates often include picture-taking.

And here, in the Sonic parking lot, was a completely irresistible red tree. You wouldn't even know you were near fresh cheddar poppers and tater tots, by the look of it. Completely wild and on fire with fall. 

On a side note, if you've never owned a true cashmere sweater -- invest in one. Today.

Spoil yourself! You deserve it.

Dusty got this one for me from Banana Republic for our anniversary this past January, and true story, it feels like I'm being kissed by angels all over my arms. 

the leopard cardigan

I think I've mentioned before that I've been consigning a lot of clothes this year.
Slowly cleaning out the excess, trying to be proactive and not lend power to my natural pack-rat tendencies.
For the most part it has been a really positive experience. My closet is lighter, I get a few extra bucks, I feel freer. The possibility of me being an old lady hoarder was slowly ebbing away.

But then something terrible happened. 

It was a few weeks ago.
I saw this Instagram post by another blogger I love, and thought, cute outfit! (See her full outfit post here). Love the green, love the leopard. Fun play on patterns.
Then I realized, bingo! I have a similar ensemble sitting in my closet, waiting to be worn.

You see, leopard is my love. It was a romance that struck early on in life, and that kind of nostalgia seems to last for a lifetime.
Naturally, when my bachelorette party came along, my best friend/maid of honor chose leopard and sequins as the main dress code. It was a fabulous event!
While we were out shopping for the perfect leopard dress, we found a white leopard cardigan and grabbed it as a possible backup in case I wanted a glittery dress with a leopard accent.
I ended up finding a fun leopard dress and one of my other friends wore the white leopard cardigan, and it's been sitting in my closet ever since. I've never actually worn it before, but it has been sitting there, happily reminding me of that fun-filled night surrounded by my best girl friends.
Because I am a pack rat and I'm way too sentimental about everything. That's just the way it is.

I went to my closet to grab the necessary ingredients for this fantastic outfit, and the cardigan was gone. 
I blinked in confusion, knowing exactly where it should be. I knew it by heart. Third in from the right side, right next to that brown cardigan with the rhinestones all over it that I've had since before junior high.
Maybe...could it be in the laundry?
I checked, even though I knew I hadn't worn it ever, so the chances of it being in the laundry were highly doubtful.
The panic was rising in my chest, because I knew what I had done.
I had thrown it into the black hole of consignment. 
I sprinted out to the car, hoping that it would somehow be tucked in the trunk somewhere. That it had magically avoided being in the big bag of giveaways I had taken there days before.
No such luck. I had no one to blame but myself.

Despite this, I went back to the consignment shop, probably looking like a crazed person as I stared shrewdly and expertly thumbed through every rack like a private investigator out to catch a thief. I even imagined some weird lie I could tell, that would persuade the owner to help me find it and take it back.
I found every other sweater and cardigan I had donated, except for the white leopard one.

For some reason this moment made me want to run out into the rain and scream,
"I KNEW IT! I told you all it would be this way! THIS IS WHY I KEEP EVERYTHING!"

Instead, I took a slow walk in the rain, basking in the tragic irony of it all.
I got in my car and told myself to keep it all together, despite my shattered hopes.
It's kind of hard to be that upset when I'm the one who made the mistake.
Or maybe...the fact that I'm to blame made it that much harder!

To put things back in perspective, we are talking about a cardigan here. Not a loved one (well, not a human loved one). And despite the fact that I gave away my back-up bachelorette cardigan, I was able to successfully find a leopard cardigan this weekend at Ross. Faith in humanity was restored. My inner child rejoiced. And my dear husband simply shook his head.

***UPDATE***
When I arrived at work the next day, the girl at the front desk was wearing my cardigan. 
I couldn't even speak.
I went up to her later as I was walking out and said, "Hm. Nice cardigan."
She said, barely even looking at me, "Oh, you too! Have a great day."
I don't know how, but I interpreted this as the most sinister of insults.

I posted my discovery on Facebook and people who don't read my blog just thought this girl had stolen my cardigan -- while that wasn't the case, the non-theft was still quite bitter.
Good thing I love my new cardigan.

Dress/Necklace (shop!)/Shoes (shop!): Ruche, Cardigan: Ross, Bangles: Kate Spade

dress to vest: outfit 9

It's official, I invested in a vest and have been bested by the love of the vested. Wait...
Yeah. Anyway! Outfit 9 featured my new vest love with a dress!

I'm a big fan of small purses.

There are many reasons why, but first and foremost is that the more room I have in a bag, the more I put into it.

It's like a magnetic pull; if I have an adorable and giant bag, I turn all crazy-like and just start shoving things into it that have no business in a purse.

6 packs of gum, sachets of lavender potpourri, broken necklaces, batteries, 2 cameras, garbage. Just plain ol' garbage.

Obviously with so much gum, it was also filled with gum wrappers.

It got to the point where my husband would unwrap a piece of gum or candy or his McDouble (not really) and just throw the wrapper in my purse, because, well. That's where it went, wasn't it?

I'd ask someone to pass me my purse and they'd cry out in shock, hefting my Barney Bag across the room exclaiming, "What's in here, bricks!?"

Sometimes, yes. Why not? Why are you looking at me like that?

Dress: Ruche, Vest: Kohl's (shop!), Shoes: Zulily
Necklace: Francesca's

Cleaning out my bags became a really intense ritual.

"It's time," my husband would say and I would sigh. "Okay...okay. You're right."

Then I'd dump it all on the floor, make giant piles of "keep" and "toss" and then vacuum all of the loose lavender off of the floor.

Small bags are simple. And nice. And force me to make life-changing decisions about how many gum packets I have room for, and whether or not I really need 4 EOS lip balms in there at all times. 

Cheers to small purses. To not allowing the Barney inside of you to create a mass of nonsense in your giant purse. And if you have a giant purse and keep it organized and clean and attractive, with no old melted caramels in the pockets, then I nod respectively in your general direction while acknowledging that we have nothing in common.