Posts labeled “Marriage”

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

In Honor of Troy Leishman, my Sister's Husband

Troy joined the Anderson family through marriage nearly 26 years ago. When Monica started dating Troy there was a general inquiry by the younger siblings about who Troy was. Since there seemed to be an army of Leishmans in Rexburg, exactly which Leishman was this Troy? One of the first identifying pieces of information was the front window of the Anderson home on Apache Avenue. A pair of oversized, nearly body-length windows faced the street from the dining room. Among one of these windows, was something that looked like a bubble, or maybe a lodged marble inside the glass. Having never taken notice of it before, and having asked for clarifying information to link to this new boyfriend, we were invited to look and see this curious malformity in the windows. We learned it was not in fact a lodged marble, but the crusted tomb of a small BB bullet shot from a BB gun in the street. Did we live in a gang-ridden inner city? How had this window not completely broken? Why didn’t we grow up cursing the fool that had shot at our home?

“Well, several years back the Leishman boys shot at the window. At least we think it was the Leishman boys. We’re not sure if it was Todd or Troy, but they were always together.”

Wait, this was the guy that was dating Monica? Keep in mind this piece of history wasn’t ingrained in our minds like it was in the window, it simply came up when we asked. But it definitely left Troy in the market of already having some making up to do, at least before he was given the green light to be Monica’s Number One.

Wait….so this kid who shot BB guns in neighborhoods, he was the same Leishman kid who had the cheesy permed mullet when he was in High School? The very one.

Two strikes!

Nonetheless, the window remained and Troy was welcome into the home. After all, the mullet and it’s accompanying rowdy lifestyle were years ago, and there was a polite sweetness to this now newly returned missionary.

As you now know, Troy did in fact become Monica’s Number One, and as far as the Andersons were concerned, Troy didn’t strike out. He even batted a home run. He got the girl! They were married less than a year after their courtship began.

Watching a loved one become a wife or husband, seeing them start their own family, cultivating their new family culture as they bring their own history and expectations, well this is always a curious thing. By the time Troy was given the green light from the Andersons and got himself a pretty little wife, we loved and respected Troy.

We knew that:
A) If Troy was raised as a hunter, and passionate outdoorsman, and
B) Monica was a Coach’s Daughter and grew up in a sports family, then
C) Which culture is more annoying? What would their new culture be?
D) Are all sports people rude jocks? Are all hunters weird rednecks?
E) Would Monica be left with new little ones and be ditched every hunting season? Or worse...
F) Would those cute little babies eventually grow up and (*gasp*!) have their own disgusting mullets someday too?

You think this is an interesting math story problem, but it’s actually a trick question. Because what we haven’t told you thus far is that there was an underlying foundation that was shared by BOTH families. And what that shared culture was, well it trumped everything else. What was it? It was the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was faith in a God who was in fact our Father in Heaven. It was devotion to family, and faith in the goodness of people. It was obedience to a living prophet, and a patient outlook on the work required to raise children.

So how did that translate into the welding of this new family culture created by Monica and Troy? It meant that Monica had to get used to the man of the house not being gone for basketball games, but gone a bit during hunting season. It meant that Troy had to cut his hunting season short sometimes so he could stay home and help with the kids.

Apart from the horrible general stereotyping that has happened so far in this little essay, there was the individual personalities and quirks of Monica and Troy, and that’s where it really gets interesting. Because Monica wasn’t just a “Coach’s Daughter”, she was and is a very capable, smart, independent woman. She can do complicated math in her head at the same time she is blazing creative energy into sewing, cooking, or crafts. The girl can’t sit still and she takes no crap! She is generous to a fault, and yet has a hard time disguising her frustrations at self-absorbed or lazy people. THE GIRL GETS IT DONE.

What about Troy? As you well know, he wasn’t just a “Crazy Hunter”. He was and is a patient and kind man. He built relationships with rough-mouthed construction workers as easily as he did with sports coaches, sanctimonious clergymen, or retail clerks. He started a company by his boundless work ethic, then he made it a thriving business because it became synonymous with integrity and a job well done. Not only did he work his tail off, he still made time to water-ski, snowmobile, dirt-bike, hike, fish, and garden. The man dies at 47 but has left a lifetime of adventures with his wife and kids. That’s because his outdoor lifestyle wasn’t just a man’s club, it included his children and wife as well.

Speaking of children, how could such a macho outdoorsman hold all the tiny hearts in his hands? Babies and little children flocked to Troy. He cuddled and loved on his own kids, and when they grew up he didn’t stop. There was many a church and family function where Troy was swaying a baby, carting around a toddler, or playing with children. He was an expert at playing and he was pure in heart, and children loved him for it.

For our sister and daughter personally, he was a doting husband. He respected her spitfire while simultaneously tempering it. He adored his children, and allowed them the space to pursue their own unique talents, even if they differed from his own passions. Monica and Troy’s work ethic was only matched by each other. There have been many meals delivered, clothes mended, adventures organized, and literal refuge during other people’s personal life “storms” given freely from Troy and Monica.

Not only did Troy not strike out, but he kept batting home run after home run.

Home run #1 – Jaden Troy Leishman

Home run #2 – Alexis Maryn Leishman

Home run #3 – Danner Wade Leishman

Home run #4 - Sage Christine Leishman, and

Home run #5 – Regan Leishman

These kids were and are a testament to the beauty of Troy and Monica and their life together.

Together, these two were a force to be reckoned with! It literally took the thrust of a million pounds of snow careening down a mountain to separate them. Nothing else could have torn them apart.

There again is another trick, but it is the last. For there is no death, but only change. Troy has taken an unexpected adventure away from his sweet Monica for a time, but he just needed to scout out the place. He’s finding the perfect spot to set up camp, gathering wood for the fire. In the meantime, there is work for him to do. For although he couldn’t take his gun, his fishing pole, or his snowmobiles with him to the other side, he took what really made him the man he was and is. He took his testimony, his love of his Savior, and his undying duty and love to his family. He took his joy in the gospel.

That joy remains here with those remaining behind, although in a bittersweet and complicated form. That joy will at times be shrouded behind sorrow, woven in with fatigue, or twisted in with regret, but it will be there. There must and should be joy in the life Troy lived, in the love that he gave, and in the generosity he offered to anyone and everyone he met.

Until we meet again dear brother.

Troy's obituary can be viewed here

Labels: Apache Avenue Memories, Marriage, religious musings

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Kidd Family Camp 2013

Since 1999 I have been invited to The Mister's extended family camp. Back then, it was aunts and uncles, Grandma n' Grandpa, and cousins. Being the oldest grandchild, The Mister of the House was the first to bring in an "outsider" via marriage.

The tradition for family camp was going strong for a couple decades before I showed up. Grandma and Grandpa and Aunts and Uncles have watched the metamorphosis that I now witness: little punks, puberty, adulthood, marriage, kids, repeat.

We are getting to be quite the group. Of course there are some that are far away and could not make it, and they were missed.

This year I decided to document camp with a fun little project. Individual camp portraits were taken with something from camp that represents that person's favorite color. I have to add that I just finished a Family Reunion with my siblings, and it was out-of-state, and I was lacking time and energy, so no such documentation occurred there, but it was not for lack of love.

With that, I now present The Kidd Family Camp of 2013 and it's smart and incredibly good-looking attendants:

Type rest

Grandpa Jack was particular about his blue. Azure blue. I finally grabbed my hat with some blue-green jewels and it seemed a little closer to his mark.

Grandma Darling in her camp chair that leans back. Comforts at camp can be hard to come by, but I dare say we were spoiled.

Sorry Carol, the Doritos and Dr. Pepper didn't make the cut. This picture was just too perfect.

You needed the perfect sunlight to catch the undertones of "midnight blue" in this motorcycle - sunlight which I didn't have. Doesn't diminish the cool factor right? When I'm ready to play out my mid-life crisis I'll just borrow this haawg and head to the desert.

Cherie isn't able to spend all of camp for health reasons, but we caught her this night wearing her favorite color.

Sorry Matt, this picture is not in black and white. Good one though.

Purple is tough, but I think we caught some mountain majesties in the background. Someday, when I have an empty nest and truckloads of patience, I'll have Janet teach me to make a real quilt. She is a fabric artist.

Greg shedding some grandpa love on a burgundy sleeping pad.

This is a woman after my own heart. I wish she would revamp my entire wardrobe.

The fabric arts live on, via daughters of Janet. A purple skirt being stitched was stolen for this photo op. Lovely.

Josh creatively posed this himself, covering all the colors on the croquet stick but his favorite.

Dear drought, you provided excellent focus for Abby's favorite color.

His blue tie-dye is swallowing the red. Get it?

Mom conjectured red because Ben loves Elmo and Lightning McQueen. Donate to Ben's rare disease here.

Norma was just considering changing her favorite color to aquamarine (that is a good one). For now, the Christmas Queen holds on to this classic holiday hue. This is how you organize drinking cups for your massive family.

Purple really is my favorite color. But white has made such an impressive leap on my list that I decided to go with white.

The kid is obsessed with water, so we went with blue.

Holly and Adam both stated they don't have a favorite color. They pacified me via green. BTW, how can a designer NOT have a favorite color?

Who goes back to law school after having a couple of kids? Kristen and Marshall do that's who. Wow!

Clay is a successful non-profiteer and Jen runs a classic design agency.

I'm not sure how I'm suppose to get to know my new nephew when his family moves to INDIA, so we'll just thank the internet in advance for keeping us up-to-date on the lives of these fellow travelers.

I thought about "sciencing" my results, but honestly right now my brain hurts. Seriously, blue and green kindof bossed the show right?

Labels: Marriage, offspring, Olsen Multimedia

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Garden Tour: The Careful Gardener

Today's Garden Tour is a quiet, thoughtful, garden in the back of a comfortable cottage. The tended gardener is always quick to say he's not fit to give advice, but his raspberries look about forty-eight thousand times better than mine, and they speak louder than him.

Having a grandparent endure when you yourself forge into motherhood is a good thing. You get that eternal perspective and want to know about their life, instead of wanting to avoid their crunching shoulder hugs (when you're a kid).

My own sweet Grandma Cooper made it through 3 of my own kids, but marrying into the Olsen Fam scored me the persistent grandparent influence that continues today. So yeah, in case it wasn't obvious, this is The Mister's Grandpa (and Grandma). He's the Gardener, so let's have a visit shall we?

There's something about the industry of this garden that is wonderful. Grandpa amends the soil every year with his own compost. Grass clippings from the yard mulch paths to retain water and suppress weeds.

PVC pipes section off areas of the garden and different connectors bring water to drip-lines holding culinary water. No water waste, a direct drink right to the plant. This also helped him to completely stop watering his onions in July so they were sweetened and hardened off in time (mine are still green). While the onions were sweetening in their drought, corn and squash kept getting the water they needed.

In case you sit on your tooshie all day on the computer, or live under a rock, this summer has been brutal in the dry and hot department. I assumed he was watering his garden everyday to beat the heat, so I asked: How often do you water?

He said it was only every 3-4 days! I just look at the squash, and when they look like this:

I watered them.

When he was a squash, he didn't say he was kinda thirsty. That was Mrs. Olsen superimposing herself as thirsty squash. Grandpa was 100% body language, and it made me laugh.

Works for me!

How old would you say this tool is? See the smooth stained grain? The clear strong tines? How old? How old?

Here's another look:

What if I told you this tool was over 60 years old? Would you believe me?

Because it is that old! He's had it for years and years (same with his wheelbarrow, and a bunch of other stuff!). I've had a rake for 10 years and the handle has already rotted out. Why? Because I get an urge, I rake, whack the weeds, then I remember I have sour laundry (or hear chocolate) and run into the house. Later I can't find my rake and it's rotting in the garden getting watered every day.

This could be in part a lesson about how things were made better in the olden days, but if that's all you want to focus on then you're missing out. I figured that if you're an impatient jerk then go to McDonald's instead of helping Grandpa in the garden. Because he will rake, or till, or dump, then he will take that carefully coiled hose and wash every speck of dirt off. Chocolate doesn't speak to him until he's finished what he set out to do! He leaves it to dry on the hook, and a few hours later puts it away in his garden shed.

Also don't forget a new coat of varnish on the wood handles every year.

So he hangs onto things, and not in an unhealthy hoarder kind of way. He's my careful, thoughtful gardener. He's the same way with human relationships.

The same care is taken with his fruit trees. He didn't necessarily love having pictures taken of all his hooks and jimmy-rigging to train the branches, but it serves my point right?

God bless the kid that mows this lawn every week.

Cantaloupe trained on a fence.

Some crazy melon he's growing (can't remember the name)

Here's his favorite tomato. It's small and ripens to a glorious orange. It was bigger than him and was delicious!

So in all this care, pruning, guiding, cleaning, drying, watering, I marvel at Grandpa's garden knowledge and persistence to do the job right. Weeds aren't given much of a chance because he does a little work every day.

I think what amazes me most when I eat the fruits of The Careful Gardener's labors is that he's doing all of this while his hands are shaking all over the place. Not sure why such a gentle soul needed a lesson in patience, but he's mastering it with shiny stars.

I like this picture because he was holding out his favorite tomato to show me. The front is out of focus because his hands start doing their little dance.

A shaky hand never tended so steadily. Heck, a steady hand never tended with such precision.

I don't want to leave the impression that Grandpa does all this work himself. After their bounty is brought into the house, Grandma still prepares and preserves their fruits. Here's the storage room with a line of peaches right from their yard.

He grows 'em. She washes, skins, pits, slices, packs, and cans them. Who has the tougher job here?

Grape juice too!

She also cans pears from their tree.

Wait, what's that Grandpa? Is that a mouse?

"Oh she put that down here to trick me. Scared me half to death."

Aren't they cute?

Labels: Garden Tours, Marriage

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

In Our Lovely Deseret

This summer while the chickens snuck into the garden,

and Rainbow Girl and I milked Betty the Goat,

on the milk stand built by The Mister of the House,

where if you kept a watchful eye you would catch frequent summer accidents averted by toddlers-with-initiative;

and even wobbly-headed newborns became bright-eyed infants before your very eyes (although you're not quite sure how),

...well while all of this happened at The Olsen's over this summer, the flowers bloomed and dangled pollen like candy-bait for kids.

Except pollen isn't bait for kids, just bees. And boy did they work!

Out of two hives we set up this spring, we harvested just ONE this week. The other hive swarmed, and we lost the majority of that hive (plus their delicious honey). But how could we be too sad when we pulled in this harvest?

Have a looksie!

We borrowed this honey extractor from a like-minded neighbor. What a blessing to have like-minded neighbors! The Mister of the House donned his special bee jacket, smoked the bees a bit so they would be nice, and pulled out 7 panels of honeycomb.

After shaving the tips off the combs, we placed the panels into this extractor and cranked the heck out of it!

I pulled some nylons off from my fungus-ridden feet and put them over the valve at the bottom of the extractor.

Those were clean, Gomer. What're you thinking?! But see all the waxy crappy that comes out with it? We used clean new stockings to serve as a filter.

We didn't have the specialty bee cutting knife, so for a second we worried that our cuts were so sloppy we would be wasting too much honey. So we set up more filtering over bowls, just to be prudent.

From 2011.FARM PICS

I think people used to chew this wax back in the olden days, which was probably a healthy alternative to chewing tobacco. Look how much there is! In the future we may try to make some candles or chapstick or something, but for now, it was enough of a sticky mess just to process the honey.

We had TWO pitchers that we hoped we could fill with the honey. Here's us happily filling our second pitcher. The progression of the slow but steady fill went like this:

so in the end we filled THREE pitchers full of honey, plus some here and there in extra bowls. All in all, we pulled out about 30 POUNDS of honey! Isn't it absolutely GORGEOUS?

The next morning we put out the sticky spent panels by the hives, and the bees went to work pulling in the wax and leftover gooey. What good little bees.

I totally facebook-bragged about this haul and heard all sorts of ego-inflating comments. In reality, this is truly the work of The Mister of the House. He is an AMAZING farmer guy. I am his biggest cheerleader! Love you dude.

Labels: garden, honeybees, Marriage, offspring

Saturday, April 9, 2011

irony

Today is Saturday, and my last post was just a few short days ago. It feels like it was forever ago. The trial and pain of being a ripe-for-the-harvest pregnant woman left me reflecting on "pain" and how that mini-trial, and its grouchy self-imposed symptoms, left me suspecting that should I really endure a major trial like cancer, there was a risk I might be in the bitter category (as opposed to the sweet communion category).

So yeah, a real trial that has the risk of life, or perhaps the risk of financial suicide. Maybe both. A trial (and I can see more clearly now: a blessing) that came to the earth just a few short hours after clicking "publish" on the hypotheticals of pain: a beautiful blonde boy, born at 7:55 a.m. on Tuesday April 5th, weighing a staggering 9 pounds 10 ounces.

Since that time I have pondered the ironies of this crazy week.

How The Mister of the House and I chose a birthing center, so we could receive professional treatment outside the annoying protocol of a hospital birth.

How this decision was also based on the fact that a normal safe birth at a birthing center would cost considerably less than a normal safe birth at the hospital.

And how, apart from the terror-inducing screams that bellowed from the innermost parts of my soul as this giant baby passed through the birth canal, I enjoyed a childbirth that was quick, healthy, attentive, and safe.

It's no wonder that we were shocked when just 5 hours after giving birth, during which time I enjoyed a full one-hour cuddle session immediately after his arrival, a time when I nursed him twice, a time when we cooed and sniffed and laughed at the unforseen odds of getting another blondie, well were just a little confused and shocked to be following an ambulance whisking our offspring to the NICU at the hospital just a few miles away.

Ironic that such a big healthy boy is so sick! Infection in the lungs, attending rise in blood pressure in the lungs, putting undue work on his little heart, and a seven day run of IV antibiotic fluids.

Ironic how we relished the thought of not being in the hospital, and how I now live there. Ironic how the hospital staff, and their annoying protocol, saved and is continuing to save my son's life.

Ironic that we planned on returning home the same day for an informal birthday party, and we haven't been home since (well at least me and the babe).

How my sweet and thoughtful blessing way necklace is around my neck everyday, but with another accessory: a NICU PARENT badge.

And more importantly, the irony that this pain is so much more real when compared to the pain I complained of on Monday (although valid: come on! I had a nearly 10 pound kid in my gutt).

And the sweet revelation that God is ever mindful of our family, and especially our little boy, and how we feel lifted up by his spirit through this unexpected detour we are taking. Through the tears, and the heart-to-heart conversations, The Mister and I have felt a sweet communion as we reflect on the possible and shocking changes this may bring to our family.

And ironic how we feel so blessed! Our family has been amazing and supportive. Our little giant is making A-MAZING progress in the NICU. He is growing stronger and is now getting all of his sustenance from me (yay!).

We are hoping to go home on Tuesday. Please keep baby Gideon in your prayers for a quick recovery.

** I have so many pictures I want to post! I will update them as soon as I am able. Thanks for all your prayers and concern for our family.**

Labels: breastfeeding, Childbirth, Marriage, pregnancy, religious musings

Thursday, December 2, 2010

Looks Like Heaven?

The evening of Thanksgiving, just after dinner, turkey nap, and a movie night with the whole family...my husband left on a 12 day trip to Asia. This with school and schedules just around the corner, and bitter below-zero temperatures, winter storm warnings and a little farm...and me. Alone. In charge.

Gone is my morning person, who wakes up and gets Rainbow Girl to practice the piano before school, who takes fresh water to the chickens and goats, and fills the chicken feeder, refreshes the hay, shovels the walk, and is off to work by 7:30 am.

I told myself to not get to the end of the rope before the end of the day, because no back-up was coming! My thoughts went to my sister-in-law Kristen, who sent her husband to Iraq just as they were starting their little family.

I think I would not make the best army wife.

Lugging the 4-gallon jug of water every morning and in my head I feel picked on. Boo hoo! I love the farm thing we've got going on, but this thing would not be happening if I was flying solo.

I think of my friend who just filed papers for a divorce after waiting for a year for him to stop dating another woman (he didn't. jerk.). I think of my neighbor who just lost her husband while her youngest is still in high school. Like me, we have all been left to shovel the 2 stupid-freaking-feet of snow that fell on our sidewalks and driveways last week by ourselves.

I think of them and wonder how I could manage this as a permanent fix.

I can't.

So for now, with technology and a thriving heart, I haul the water in the mornings, shovel the snow, help with homework, get babysitters for errands...and instead of sending a prayer or a curse: "did you notice all the extra work you left for me when you decided to take off?"...I send an email. Or a skype.

Mrs. O: How's the 80 degrees punk! The stupid snowblower isn't working!

Mister: Did you put gas from the yellow gas can?

Mrs. O: *Huff*

Mister: I miss you.

----or-----

Mrs. O: Can't talk. I just got pooped on my head in the chicken coop! Disgusting!

Mister: Sorry! Love and miss you.

-----or-----

Mister: Hey Rainbow Girl, I tried some Pringles that were shrimp flavor and they were pink!

Rainbow Girl: Ewwww...sick!

-----and------

Mrs. O: We're about to kneel down for family prayer, want to kneel down with us?

Mister: Okay

Mrs. O: (later): In the prayer Rainbow Girl said "Thank you that we could have some sort of contact with dad"

Mister: Some sort, that is cute.

Mrs. O: I know, right?

So for now Thailand and Hong Kong, you left me wanting but secured me some much needed sympathy, some well-wishes, and even i-miss-you's and i-love-you's. You smell like heaven, I think. Please send back The Mister of the House with exotic cheap goods and a newfound appreciation for my awesomeness (or just some sympathy would be nice).

Ten-Four.

Signed,

Cold and Lonely

p.s. The real heaven appears to notice my predicament because some neighbors have come and cleared my driveway...twice! That's always good to tame a wife's wrath. Thank you real heaven.

Labels: Keeping it Real, Marriage, travels

Friday, June 18, 2010

Why I Fight

Because I've already made it to the ten year mark in my marriage, and I want another ten (or fifty): I'm a fighter.

Because my kids will eventually grow up and have an email account, and will possibly get solicited by perves inviting them to get enlarged: I'm a fighter.

*gosh I hope that never happens

Because sex is a beautiful symbol of marital unity: I'm a fighter.

Because I was a business owner for 6 years, and think employees should be paid for job skillz and not addictions: I'm a fighter.

Because I think women should be admired for their brains, and not their boobs: I'm a fighter.

My sweet Grandma Cooper, who passed away this year.

If you agree on at least one of these counts, then I invite you to become a fighter too!

[An embedded video from another website was here; it is no longer available.]

How can you help? I mean really help?

Join the facebook group "Help FIGHT THE NEW DRUG Win 100,000 Dollars" and then vote for them every day. Don't worry, they'll send an email reminder with a link, which let's be honest, can get pretty annoying.

But has there ever been an easier way to fight?

Labels: kiss, Marriage, sex

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Week of Love: Va Va Va VooooOOOM

What good is a Valentines Week of Love without some talk about love-making right? This won't be out of hand, I promise. But first, a story about my sweet and GIANT (and by giant I mean 6feet1inch) little sister, Niki.

So in case you're new here, Mrs. Olsen plus her family are Mormons. That means your goal is to marry in the temple, which is a clean and holy place. And a peaceful place too. To marry there, you have to meet several faithful requirements, one of which is to not be a fornicator. God does love a virtuous woman, this I know. Which means that sex is a wonderful and scary mystery to the average virginal Mormon girl getting married for the first time.

For most people who think that lives on TV are standard, this (being a virginal Mormon girl) is NOT normal.

So my little giant sister Niki, bless her little heart, has left her western landscape where Mormon Culture was prevalent, and is now standing out amongst the heathens of the East. *wink*

Which means that Niki, who already stands out like a sore thumb because of her freakish height, is now standing out because she is young, a wife, and has more than 2 kids (East Coast Standard). Her hubs is in a medical residency, and is just about the ONLY guy that is NOT single, and definitely the only one that has kids.

A fellow resident recently gets married, and Niki and her husband arrive at a get-together to meet and greet the doctor and his new wife. When the new bride meets Niki, who is funny and friendly (and honest...bless her little heart), they start talking about how the wedding was. This led to talk of the new bride's amazing and extravagant honeymoon all through Europe.

So get this, this is my brave sister honestly confronting these rare missionary opportunities denied her in the west:

"Yeah, our honeymoon wasn't that awesome. We were supposed to go to a cabin but that didn't work out, so we just drove to Boise, Idaho. But we are Mormons ya know? So we hadn't had sex before we got married so it didn't really matter where we went cause we hardly left the hotel anyway. (Laugh)"

Pause.

Silence.

Upper-Crust East Coaster says NOTHING, looks at my sister like she's a freak and walks away.

Can I just say that she is putting herself out there and is ready to answer your questions about her religion! I LOVE HER. Boise, Idaho? For real? And since I'm injecting myself into this conversation, here's Mrs. Olsen giving upper-cruster a beeeech-slap for not having a sense of humor...or respect.

Well, my sister is right. You get married and hardly leave the hotel room during your honeymoon and you figure things out without the stupid Sex in the City girlfriends sharing tips and one-upping each other in the bedroom. You are alone, you and your spouse, and you learn to:

*share bank accounts
*plan meals
*go to church together
*share dreams
*work jobs to achieve dreams
*go to school without your folks paying rent anymore
*learn love languages
*pray together
*stop taking road trips cause you have bills to pay
*get a purpose
*support
*sacrifice
*serve

and when you aren't UNITED in the above department, how is it you can UNITE physically without a sort of spiritual schizophrenia?

SEX is the ultimate symbol of a united life in the financial, health, religious, parenting, retirement planning, working, building a home, and loving a family department.

I don't say this to ostracize those that live differently from me and my weird little sister. People are still beautiful, even if fornicators. And little sisters far from home, raising 3 kids and supporting a husband who works 90+ hours a week, going to parties and telling it like it is...will ALWAYS be beautiful to me.

With Love,
Mrs. Olsen

Labels: Apache Avenue Memories, Marriage, religious musings, sex