It’s A Dangerous World In Here

Since Billy put this pretty little ring on my finger, I seem to have lost the ability to not accidentally abuse my hands in any number of ways. I can’t help but think about how when I was little, the only redeeming moment of visiting the dentist’s office would be putting those plastic adjustable birthstone rings from the reward toy box on my hand after my check-up. The rest of the day would be spent shopping with Mom and admiring how gorgeous my hands were and silently bubbling over about the real hardware I would be rocking some day. ( I didn’t care if I’d have to put it there myself. Where you at Bey, Kelly, and Michelle? I depend on ME.)

Well, now I have the most beautiful piece of (real) bling on my left hand, and I can’t seem to keep the surrounding extremities intact. In the last three weeks, I have found myself in normal everyday domestic situations that have lead to blood, sweat (okay, no sweat really), and a few suppressed tears.

Scenario 1: Cutting Up Pineapple. I never liked pineapple. In fact, I always hated it. That is, until the Super Senior Year of College Taste Bud Revolution of 2010, when my senses decided to become preoccupied with every kind of food I had previously despised. Except olives. Gross. But oranges, dark chocolate, pineapple, etc., suddenly became in frequent rotation of my Crazy Intense Random Cravings Cycle. Anyway, fast forward to 10:07pm on a recent Sunday night when, while waiting for Bill to come home from work, I had to have pineapple. I, of course, decide to use the giant chopping knife I am wielding to attempt to scoop pineapple out of the rind, subsequently giving the index finger of my infamous left hand a good hack and leaving a bit of a gash big enough to nauseate myself for a good 5-10 minutes.

Scenario 2: Making My Fiance Dinner. Bill is a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Well, really he’s a “food-in-general” kind of guy, but who cares about logistics. So in an effort to make him dinner on his break after the 6 o’clock news, I have marinated chuck steak hanging out in the 400 degree oven Well, what goes better with steak than roasted red potatoes? Chop ’em up, toss ’em in olive oil, sprinkle ’em with garlic salt and Italian seasoning. Lay ’em out on a baking sheet, insert ’em in the bottom rack of the oven. Slide left pinkie knuckle the entire length of the inside of said 400 degree oven’s glass door before brain registers searing pain. Wait, that last part doesn’t sound right.

Scenario 3: Decorating the Guest Bathroom. I have a guest room! And a guest bathroom! And I’m really excited about it! And while my budget does not include brand new bathroom finery, I have an aged yet passable set of a soap dish, lotion dispenser, and tooth brush made out of broken dark red glass pieces fashioned into a mosaic pattern. Here I am, washing the last few years of storage off of the small collection. First the soap dish, then the lotion dispenser, and finally the tooth brush holder. This tooth brush holder is basically a small clear drinking glass with a mosaic base, and while it looks like the glass could easily come out of the base, this is entirely false. I give the base a twist. It doesn’t budge. I give the base an exponentially greater, uninhibited twist. I end up with a shard of glass stuck in my index finger.

Expert Tip for Navigating Domestication: Keep a steady supply of bandages handy in fashion-forward (read: small child friendly) patterns.

My bandage of choice? Curad’s My Little Ponies.

Image

MLP 4 Life. (Modeling credit to my friend Christian, who I forcefully encouraged to don the MLP with me after his only slightly more traumatizing go-cart flipping accident.)

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Apparently This Is How It Works

Little girls have big dreams. We dream of being veterinarians. Or movie stars. Or in my case, marine biologist/ballerina/pop star/soccer players who have big houses and lots of ice cream. We dream of graduating from college, having amazing clothes and big bank accounts. We dream of meeting someone who sweeps us off our feet, makes us complete, and will be our best friend for life.

Well, what the manual doesn’t tell us is that some dreams do come true, but probably not the way we planned. When fairy tales meet real life, it’s messy, frightening, and beautiful. Those dreams come in fast, and whether or not we have our shit together doesn’t matter. You sure as hell better be ready to swing, because life is only pitching fastballs.

This is how it happened to me:

So I’m going about my business, having best friends like these and nights like this.

There were nights that started like this…

…and ended like this.

I graduated from college. I traveled Europe. I had big girl jobs, like teaching kindergarten and working as an advertising account executive. And when those big girl jobs didn’t turn out like I hoped they would, I did what any smart, ambitious, self-preservingΒ  young woman would do and voluntarily went back to hell… er, grad school.

Then I met Billy and fell in love.

HARD.

And we’ve just had the time of our lives.

I finished my first year of grad school.

And Bill and I moved in together.

And then he asked really important questions.

And we smile about it. A lot.

But now strange things are happening. I am engaged to my live-in fiance. I cook dinner. I clean my house. I get excited about organizing and wedding planning and grocery shopping, and I squeal when I go into Bed Bath and Beyond.

But also…

I am in grad school. (Read: class, homework, full-time internships, horrible pay, zero sleep, too much coffee, general insanity.)

My house is a disaster.

I am broke.

And I mean BROKE.

And I am happy.

Life is happening. It doesn’t quite look like I expected. BUT – it’s actually better than I ever imagined, and in my heart and in my soul and in my mind, I am so ready for all of this. But do I look like I’m ready on the outside?

Hardly.

But frankly, I prefer life to be a little messy.

Especially if that mess is a hot one.