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I’m Louise. Blogger. Wife. Designer of TruLu Couture Veils + Accessories.  If you’d like to know more, check out my bio.

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Entries in Life (82)


The Cosmic Order

So I got email from The Ex last week. It was Facebook email, the account I never check. It was maybe a week old? A little less? The Ex, or Big D, as I feel more apt to call him, wrote me that his brother had died.


My mind instantly jumped to a weekend spent skiing with Big D and his younger brother, who was just  a year older than I am. We went to Mammoth Mountain, California,  and had a fantastic weekend of skiing all day and sitting in the hotel hot tub afterwards, just talking and drinking some and having a grand time. Little sleep was had because The Brother had horrid sleep apnea and I swear, it was just the most nerve wracking thing to hear ever.

Flash forward. Years after the first break up, then the second. A third? A fourth? I’d lost count, really. We never really broke up and got back together; it was more like we’d drift apart, not speaking and then drift together again when we’d had enough of missing each other.

Our fights didn’t include yelling or harsh words. They were the silent kind. Much deadlier than the loud ones. Yes, just like farts. We knew  that our fights weren’t about his meddlesome sister, or his poor communication skills. We knew that it wasn’t the differences in religion, or my inability to separate him from his family’s money. Big D was The One Who Wasn't The One. Nor was I his One.  You know what I’m talking about here. We all have one. We all have our version of Carrie’s Mr. Big. The one who seems right, but then is  actually so very, very wrong.

When I finally broke with Big D I had to shove and run; cut him out. I had to shake off all remnants of what had been. We had The Conversation.  It would be our last conversation for a long time. I had served up an ultimatum right before I’d fled. I needed him to do something. A gesture, more than anything else. I needed him to come to me, for once. And he couldn’t. And it broke our hearts. One of the reasons he gave me for not coming to me was The Brother. When he had talked to him about moving, The Brother begged Big D not to go. I felt it was incredibly selfish and made me upset with The Brother. He’d had Big D his whole life, why couldn’t he share?

I knew, deep down and was able to admit it later that it wasn’t The Brother who kept Big D from me. I did blame him just a little at the time though.

A year or two later, I got an email from The Brother. Big D was very sick and in the hospital. He’d contracted some infection in Chad, where he was on a mission trip with his father helping build schools and hospitals and shit. He’d come home and immediately left again for Colorado to a camp for blind kids. He ended up in a Denver hospital,  part of that time being VERY scary in regards to his health. 

I don’t know if The Brother sent that email on his own accord, or if Big D had requested it. Either way, each brother meant  well. That email helped mend an amazing friendship that has now lasted 16 years.

All of this back story is to address an “oh-my-god-all-is-karma” moment that makes me believe over and over again that things happen they way they should. For some reason or another Big D broke my heart when he chose his brother and family over me. But I know now it was supposed to be that way. And not just because of The Candyman and not just because Big D married a beautiful girl who I actually like,  but because he stayed and was a part of his brother’s life.  What was my temporary heartache was Big D’s time spent with his brother, time that was cut drastically short.

He’s an uncle to The Bother’s 7 and 4 year old sons and will most likely step in in a fatherly role in the future. Those boys will need a man to tell them about their amazing father.

I haven’t yet spoken to Big D about his brother. I texted him as well as left an extremely awkward voicemail (I think I actually used the word “condolences”). I told him to call when he was ready. It hurts my heart knowing how this death will affect an old friend. 

I do know that the one peace I can find in this event is that Big D made the right choice. For all kinds of reasons.

Life is short. Make it count.

The Brother, Me, Big D at Mammoth Mountain, March 1998.

In Heartfelt Memory


The Brother


The Sunday Post


Though a poorly edited one and with a limited vocabulary, I do consider myself a bit of a writer.

I never said I was good.

I feel my heart of writing missing in the last few weeks, mostly because I’ve been so consumed with my new job, figuring out a new schedule and managing my stress levels. My mojo has been a bit absent in my writing.

Though I’ve been dying for it to come out, it’s been a little overwhelmed lately. “It” being the creative-side brain that needs to chill the fuck out and write something half-way readable.

I’ve poured myself an early Sunday afternoon glass of champagne to chat with you guys about an idea I had that hopefully everyone will have fun with.

I have so many blogs that I love to read. There are Writers who embarrass me with their witty reparte and clever linking of life, love and sarcasm.  There are those who are fearless. Those who are funny. The stylish. The brave and the loving.

Amongst many bloggers, there are groups who communicate outside the blog world. We interact with each other. Blogs have convinced me that people aren’t who you think they are are first blush. Blogs have taught me not to stereotype. Blogs have taught me that I have a horrid vocabulary.

As a blogger, and as someone who writes a bit more reservedly now (because all sorts of people read this crap), there are posts that I dream of writing one day. Fantasy posts, if you will. They vary in style.

I dream of being the first to post a cool semi-celebrity wedding. Like, I’d love to have been at Amy Carter’s (President Jimmy Carter’s daughter) wedding.  Or Chelsea Clinton. I think I’d love to go to politically charged wedding. And be the first to post about it.

I dream of writing the post of all secret posts that won’t ever get posted. [nevernevernevernevernevernevernevernever]

I dream of writing the post to the boy who broke my heart the worst. [I’ve been mentally writing it for a good decade.]

To the woman who was the biggest bitch. [Naweisniak, I fantasize verbally tongue lashing you to death with sarcasm and a feeling of total inadequacy in all that embodies you in mind and spirit.]

The the best teacher [Mrs. Reyes], the worst teacher [Mr. Voss]. The odd, weird people who permanently changed my life, whose names I can’t remember but whose actions continue to linger around my consciousness, oblivious to the time, long since past. [Like the strange soldier who ‘rescued’ me from the middle of the train tracks in Iwakuni, Japan; who actually scared me more than the train would have since I purposely stopped there to feel the excitement of the nearby train.I wasn’t really in danger. He was acting overly heroic in front of his buddies.]

But unless you are completely anonymous in your blog (this can be VERY hard to do, by the way), there’s no way to write the posts that nip and snap at your writing mind, like an annoying little fucking shih tzu. So I reached out to a handful of my writing friends (blog and otherwise); the ones who I think write like the wind. I asked them to write the post they couldn’t write publicly, the anonymous opportunity to share thoughts with other brides, whether about weddings, or life and womanhood in general. 

And they are responding. Slowly. With their own blogs, writing and life getting in the way. I really wouldn’t have it any other way. So aver the next couple of weeks, I’ll be sharing some posts from both the anonymous and the public. About wedding, marriage and life in general. I’m excited to share some writing of some people I truly respect.

Do me a favor and show them some comment love when you read them. Nothing makes a writer happier than feedback.  I’m SO excited to share!

If you didn’t get an email from me and you think you want share the  Post That You Could Never Post, feel free to contact me. I’d be happy to hear from you.


The Best Kind of Shopping

Shall I check in? I think so.

It’s been a good while since I’ve had the time to set myself down and have a nice long chat. With my blog.

First things first, I’m learning an incredible amount of really cool shit right now. The Job is satisfying me greatly at this point. Satisfaction is under-rated me thinks. Everything doesn’t have to be O-M-G all day every day. There’s a lot to be said for people working hard to get stuff done. I can appreciate that. And it’s satisfying.

And me and The Candyman are sooooooo excited. We called our mortgage lender to see about qualifying for a home loan.  I wondered if being unemployed for a while would affect my credit. I expected them to tell us I’d have to be employed for a while. I didn’t expect much.

We spoke to our lender and we went through the process. We got incredible news. News that allows us to go house shopping.

House shopping. Like, there’s no better kind of shopping. In a buyers market. With an excess of housing. The housing market has become like one big TJ Maxx. Lots to dig through, but by God, I’ll be damned if I didn’t just hook myself up with a pair of 2010 Stuart Weitzman sandals for TWENTY BUCKS.

We’re looking for some land. Not a lot, but enough. Space. A yard. Trees. Grass. The house. What shall the house be? To get a house on land these days, the house is probably going to be older. And that’s OK. We both like older houses – they have character. We’re not down with the whole McMansion, cookie-cutter style communities. They hurt my heart. 

We’re afraid of too much fixing-upping though. We can do surface stuff, but buying a house and then spending money to do really big things? That scares us.

So we’re looking. We’re going to see a house on Saturday and we’re both really excited. It is missing one key element though: a master bath tub. There aren’t any pictures of the bathrooms on-line. The Candyman called to make an appointment with the realtor and asked about the bathrooms. Apparently, the master bathroom doesn’t have a tub. The Candyman was sweet to immediately discount the whole house in honor of my copious bathing, but I’m not so sure. Might I be willing to sacrifice for the other fantastic things? Mature trees, the half acre lot that backs onto a forest that’s been owned by a church for the last 40 years.  Gas range. Fireplace. Arbor. A pond. But we don’t know what’s happening in those damned 2.5 bathrooms!

And I can’t tell you what this news has done for The Candyman. He is so excited to house shop. I mean, the guy has been shopping for like the last year. He’s OBSESSED with Zillow.com. He looks at houses on his iPhone, oohing and ahhing and “This one has a POOL!” all the time.

What I  know is that if a house doesn’t happen, no worries. The perfect house will find us. I’m about to pee myself I’m so excited to do this. I’m excited to do it with my best friend. To finally, choose a home together and build OUR space.  It’s an exciting time together, don’t you think? I don’t care who says what, I still feel like a newlywed. I totally dig my husband.


I’m Leaving My Doctor…

I had a recent check-up. You know the annual one where you feet don’t go in stirrups.

Last year I had one with the same guy. He seemed a little quirky, but not so much that I regarded him as anything but a trippy little doctor dude. I’d had the same doctor in Nashville for 6 years, so perhaps I overlooked his odd behavior because of my own nerves. We did blood work last time, and I fasted. We discussed my knees at length. My general health. He addressed my concerns as I brought them up to him. I remember feeling a bit awkward in the fact that he asked very few questions and I had to do what I felt like was “over-sharing.”

Today? Today was freakin’ banana-cakes, people. We’re talking totally crazy-pants. Granted, I got there 5 minutes late myself (I had no idea traffic would be that bad at 3:30 in the afternoon!), but then had to wait 40 minutes to see the doctor. I had just finished a rather challenging level of Angry Birds when he finally walked in.

We discussed Angry Birds for what I felt was a little too long. We talked about my knees and my back, like we did last time. He spoke of some exercises I could do to strengthen them. The same exercises he mentioned last time. He even printed them out, like last time.

I brought up checking my kidneys with some blood work since I take an anti-inflammatory on the regular. But then he dismissed what has been an annual test for me since 1998. So I pushed back for it. It made me very uncomfortable because he was treating the discussion like it was a joke. In fact, everything had a punch line. Of sorts.

I have some new freckles on my legs that concerned me.  My dad has had a ton of skin cancer thingies cut off of him, so I’m hyper-aware of any new speckles on my already freckly, sun-ruined skin. He looked at them and told me it was nothing he could cut off, though cutting them off would make him some money. From the insurance companies.

So now, you can color me creeped out.

This was supposed to be an annual physical. I remained dressed.The doctor touched both of my knees and had me bend them so he could feel the creaky joints underneath while we discussed my meniscus. He didn’t look in my eyes, my ears or my mouth. He didn’t thump on my chest, smoosh my innards around or listen to my heart beat. He didn’t ask one single question.

He refilled my anti-inflammatory, had them take some blood (aren’t I supposed to fast?) and sent me on my way.

My insurance covers the visit, but you can bet yourself some money on what I’m going to do next:

  1. Find a new doctor.
  2. Pay for another annual exam out of pocket if need be.
  3. Attempt to interview a doctor as best I can before I step foot into their office. Why should I or my insurance company pay a shitty doctor for shitty service? Who is to say I can’t interview them first? Sure, I can find stuff on the interwebs, I’m sure. But there’s nothing like making a quick phone call, right? Why should I wait for 40 minutes, have my insurance pay for that appointment (what, about $150 or so?) if I can make a quick phone call, get a vibe and possibly avoid the crap I had to put up with today? Oh, and I had to leave work early too. Race across town for the appointment and then sit in nasty crosstown traffic afterwards? No, no, no, no, no. No on all accounts.
  4. That was a long #3.

So I’m leaving my doctor. For failure to communicate. I wonder if I should send him a “Dear John” or if a silent disappearance and request for records will suffice?


One Month In…

The Candyman just handed be a bowl of red beans. On top, a sprinkle of onion and a pat of butter, the way he eats red beans. I’ve never had them this way, but it’s good. The Candyman made the beans himself. Soaked them almost 2 days and slow cooked them with a giant ham bone left over from our dinner a few nights before.

We will probably graze for dinner, as has become our custom as of late.

There’s just no time for the 3-4 course meals I was preparing every night for the last 16 months. There have been lots of sandwiches, microwaved potatoes, take out pizza and breakfast-for-dinner type meals.

I’m still making our lunches. I’ve missed a day or two, but that’s not too bad, right?

But oh my GAWD, I have been eating like total shit. OK, not total. But really bad.

The thing about my new job? There’s food everywhere. There’s a Twizzler thing happening. And who doesn’t love Twizzlers? I love Twizzlers.

There’s some stress eating going on. And ZERO exercise going on. Because who has the freakin’ time right now? I leave the house at 7:15 am these days. I get home around 7pm. I’ve been working like a crazy person.

It’s not surprise. I expected it. And the job is challenging. I enjoy a challenge.

It’s been yet another change in the relationship between me and The Candyman. I’m up earlier then he is. We get home at the same time. We’re both exhausted. We still have to do the dishes and clean the toilets and remember to pay the bills. We spend about half an hour where were actually exchange something other than just information.

Eventually, I’ll need to find some sort of exercise. A gym I don’t hate. A yoga studio that doesn’t totally blow (hot Vinyasa is a JOKE. Someone PLEASE open a Bikram studio here).

The thing is, none of this is gonna happen anytime in the immediate future. Time is of the essence and I want my spare time to be with my husband. It would be nice if we could find a physical activity we could do together (er, outside the bedroom) that we both like. Thankfully, The Candyman likes me on the squishy side, though I don’t particularly like myself that way, so it’s not like I need to worry about a pound or two.

But seriously, the thing that needs to happen is a bit more of a routine. Nothing has been routine since this whole job business started. We’ve had lots of out of town guests, appointments, things going on. Life, I suppose. Is this how it happens?

One thing I’ve noticed is an obvious change in pressure and outside stress. I’ve been managing it really well – noticing the things that have historically, set my jaw. I can recognize them better now, see them more clearly. I’ve had 16 months of work-stress freedom. Perhaps that time was necessary to be a better me. I thought I was in a race and it turns out I was on a squeaky hamster wheel. Not the cool neon plastic ones they have now. I’m talking about a rickety stainless steel number with a little rust happening at the joints.

So there’s that. I feel like I’m growing as an individual, but still don’t know who that person is! How frustrating is that? You’d think I’d eventually figure it out. Maybe one day. Soon.

Anyone else have it all figured out yet? Of what are you absolutely sure of?