I’m turning over a new leaf. OK, scratch that. I really shouldn’t lie. The truth is, I’m going to try something a little different—I’m actually going to answer a question I got from one of you, my dear readers. I said I’d do that before and did I? No. Geez. Why do I have to be so flaky?

Anyway, Laur posted a comment in response to my last post about the fact that our first 5 years of marriage were, well, hellish. In her comment, she asked the following:

not that i’m sitting on the brink of an engagement or anything, but i’m curious - while you’re on the subject, what rocked your boat those first 5 years? i assume it has a great deal to do with the crap you and your husband had lying around. i’m not asking you to get super-specific (not that i would complain!), but, for the sake of those of us looking in the windows at married life, can you alleviate the inevitable shock a little?

Well, Laur, you have a good question and I’d be glad to answer. And I’ll try to be super-specific.

#1. We were WAY too physically involved before we got married. Does that mean we had sex? Well, define sex. Did we have intercourse? No. But I maintain that sex begins long before intercourse. Let’s just say we were not heeding 1 Thessalonians 4:3-6 (or about 3948 other verses for that matter). So, as a result of our SIN, we developed some pretty warped relational dynamics. Before we were married, our relationship focused almost entirely on squandering the gift of sexual intimacy that should only be shared between husband and wife. And if you’re going to open all your Christmas presents in October, prepare yourself for a pretty crappy Christmas.

#2. If you’d like to get a good hard look at your crap, get married. Because why? Because “becoming one” with someone (Genesis 2:24) is like living with a mirror smack in your face 24/7. (I know this is vague and I can’t quite explain it, but this is the best way I can think of.) When I was single, I was good at tucking away the ugliest parts of my self into dark, out-of-the-way closets of my soul. I knew where they were and I especially knew how to steer clear of them. Well, enter marriage. Now Brian and I were “one flesh.” As he was exploring who I was as his wife, he would stumble upon these dark closets of mine. (You’d think I would have been smart enough to post “Do Not Disturb” signs.) We all have the option, of course, to live in denial which drastically cuts down on your spouse poking his/her nose into places you don’t want him/her to be. It may sound like a good idea, but don’t fool yourself. It’s only a matter of time before your secrets are revealed OR you’ll spend your entire life trying to hide them…but they will inevitably leak out. You’re better off to just deal with it at the get-go and get it over with.

#3. Our expectations were out of sync and influenced heavily by our individual life experiences. I vividly remember the time I first realized this. Growing up, my dad frequently asked me for fashion advice. God bless him, but coordinating a clothing ensemble is not his forte. I had fond memories of picking his clothes out and telling him what looked good with what. It was a little bonding thing that we both enjoyed. So naturally, I once offered a little fashion advice to Brian expecting it to result in the same sort of warm fuzzy bonding feelings. Wrong. Let’s just say my “fashion advice” went over as well as a toot in church. (Uh, that would be, like, flatulence, in case “toot” is new to you).

So, to sum up all this nonsense, here’s my advice:

#1. Live on separate continents prior to marriage. And if that’s not possible, don’t venture down the road leading to sex. IT AIN’T WORTH IT!

#2. Deal with your crap before you get married. (I’m beginning to sound like a broken record…or a scratched CD…depending on your generation.)

#3. Get used to the fact that your husband will be an alien. OK, hopefully not, but just realize that what you thought you knew about him will be thrown right out the window. (Same thing goes for what you thought about yourself and for what he thought about you.) It’s nothin’ to fear. It happens to all of us. Just roll with the punches, girlfriend. And pray a lot because God actually made that alien and knows exactly what makes him tick.

And oh what an exciting roller coaster ride it will be! And then you won’t be able to get enough of it!

Some of you have asked if the Young Adults came to our house yet and indeed they did…and kept us up until 1 am, I might add. I am 30 years old and I’m generally in my jammies by 7:00 pm. Even Especially on Friday and Saturday nights. I just don’t think 1 am was particularly good for me. But I was suckered into it because the night they were here happened to be the night we changed our clocks back one hour and it was amazing how easily they convinced us we were coming out ahead. But then I thought, OK, so now we are going to bed at midnight instead of 1 am. Am I the only one who’s noticed that we are still missing two hours of sleep since we would have normally gone to bed at 10 pm? Anyway. This little rabbit trail serves no purpose whatsoever other than to say that apparently we are old married farts trying way too hard to be cool young adults.

As I was saying, they came. With the exception of me talking way too much, I think a good time was had by all. By the way, that’s one thing I don’t like about myself. I talk too much. And I lack clarity. And I so often don’t finish my sentences. I know I do all these things and yet I still do them. This is what I call the Paul Syndrome. You know, “I don’t understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I don’t do it. Instead, I do the very thing I hate.” (Romans 7:15)

Anyway, hi second rabbit trail.

OK, so basically we told them how NOT to date and stuff. We talked about how horrible marriage can be, or at least how horrible it was for us, and I think we accomplished our goal of scaring the bejeebies out of them as best we could. I’m only half joking. You see, I’ve got a pet peeve and it usually comes in the form of “…and they lived happily ever after.” Gag me with a spoon (why the Spirit of Valley Girl just came over me I have no idea). But I think living “happily ever after” is a bunch of crap. Maybe I should have included that in my list of marriage pointers too: (1) deal with your crap, (2) don’t marry a loser and (3) “happily ever after” is a big, fat, stinking lie. Why? Because marriage takes WORK and a whole lotta work in our case. Hollywood would have us think otherwise, of course, because who wants to end their movie with the guy and the girl finally getting together after all kinds of hoopla only to get divorced a year later? It wouldn’t sell because it’s too much like real life.

I’m not saying marriage isn’t happy. I am definitely happy being married. (But I certainly wasn’t the first five years, that’s for sure.) I’m just saying people so often jump into it quickly, with the expectation that things are going to move right along nicely with nary a bump in the road. Oh yeah, and if there’s a bump, well, there’s always divorce. I say no. You’ve gotta go into it REALLY MEANING (imagine that) what you say when you say “until death do us part” or you are doomed from the start my friend. By the way, this would be another appropriate time to emphasize point #2 which is DON’T MARRY A LOSER. A lifetime’s a long time to live with a loser.

Looking back, one thing I think we failed to do in all our expounding and carrying on was to talk about God’s grace, forgiveness and redemption. The fact of the matter is, God’s got this uncanny way of turning what we have totally screwed up into something completely amazing. This whole concept BLOWS MY MIND. How He works this out, I have no idea, but I ain’t asking questions. Not that it’s a good idea to screw up in the first place because the process of redemption is generally painful. And who wants pain? So again, I feel compelled to say, DON’T MARRY A LOSER. And don’t be a loser either, for that matter. In other words, DEAL WITH YOUR CRAP. Yep, I think that pretty much sums it up.

I’m about to lose readers. I might just even get my first piece of bona fide hate mail…or at least my first piece of “I would have expected more from you” mail. Why? Because I’m going to let you into my head and now you’ll really know what and how I think. And I’m afraid it won’t be pretty. Especially because I’m the pastor’s wife. Oh yeah. I also might toss around the “s” word (although it’s not what you think).

As a matter of background, you should know the facts…

Fact #1: My family and I are in search of a dog. Scratch that. I am in search of a dog and my family has agreed to go along for the ride.

Fact #2: I have an ugly competitive streak that, when challenged, often causes me to throw good, common sense and/or judgment directly out the window. And sometimes I just plain sin. Of this, I am not proud.

So…

The other day we were at the dog shelter when I laid eyes on the most adorable dog you ever saw. But here’s the problem: I was unable to get close to the dog because two chics had PLANTED themselves in front of his kennel with the clear intention to prohibit anyone else from seeing him up close. Obviously they wanted him. Ahhh, but now, so did I. The game was on.

I inched my way just a little bit closer to the dog. I wanted to get a better look at him, but mainly I wanted to let Chics #1 & #2 that they now had competition. Well, as I moved in closer, Chic #1 moved just enough to push me out. She did it on purpose, of course, and that thing in me I call “my competitive spirit” (just because it sounds good when really it would be more appropriately called “I WILL win no matter what the cost”) kicked into high gear.

But then, much to my satisfaction, I discovered that thing which can be so elusive, so hard to find, so difficult to determine—the weak spot. While she was so busy pushing me aside, she was muttering into her cell phone “Hurry! Get down here as fast as you can because there are other people looking at the dog!”

Ah ha! Apparently her hands are tied, I’m thinking. I take another look at her and it’s clear she’s probably in her late teens, not quite old enough to adopt an animal herself and so she’s gotta wait for a parent.

Now as an aside, I have another confession to make, another hidden issue that is silly, immature and a sign that I most certainly need to work more on my inner child. The truth is, my “competitive spirit” is never so intense as it is with teen girls. I can play softball all summer with lots of lovely, more mature women (read: 40+) and never really get riled up. But put me up against a teen girl and I become an absolute nutcase. I think the root of this issue goes all the way back to high school basketball. I played for three years and we never, not once, ever, beat our rival team. IN THREE YEARS. I admit, I’m still bitter about this fact and clearly have not worked through it. I probably need to repent or something. Anyway, back to the story…

So, to recap. I see a dog. I like the dog. Two TEEN girls also see the dog and want him. They push me out. I’m ticked off. But not too much to determine their weak spot—they have to wait until their mom can drive to the shelter in order to move forward with the adoption process.

So, at this point, I did as any reasonable person would do: I marched directly to the lady at the front desk and told her, very calmly, that there was a dog we’d like to see. “My application is on file,” I said and I was happy to see that she located it quickly. “Which dog would you like to see?” she asked. “The Weimaraner,” I say, at which point I sensed a foreboding presence just off my right shoulder. Chic #1 was breathing down my neck.

“OK,” the lady at the desk said, “the next available adoption counselor will help you as soon as possible.”

“Thanks,” I reply.

As I’m walking away from the desk, Chic #1 goes in for the kill. “I’d like to put the Weimaraner on hold,” she says. Just as I’m nearly overtaken by the urge to clock her, the woman at the desk says something like, “I’m sorry. I can’t put the dog on hold until your mom gets here.”

HA! Point for me.

And the lady continues, “Besides, once she gets here she’ll still need to fill out an application and these people want to see the dog too (indicating us) and they’re first in line.”

HA! HA! HA! I shoot! I score! The CROWD. GOES. WIIIIIILDDD!!!!

And then I make a fatal error. I turn to my husband (who is not really paying attention to the drama) and say something like, “They want the dog too. That girl just tried to put the dog on hold in front of me! I want that dog. And I want it just because they want it and I don’t want them to have it.”

Now, I’m sure I don’t need to point out why this is an error. It is actually a multifaceted error. First, now my husband is on to me. His response is, “Dear, that is no reason to get a dog.” It is also an error for the obvious reason, like, uh, it is SINFUL and I’m glad no one here knows I am the pastor’s wife.

Anyway, so Chic #1 and Chic #2 are now both sweating, as WE now have first dibs on the dog. And I am LOVING this.

The adoption counselor approaches us. Chic #1 and Chic #2 are nearby, eavesdropping. The adoption counselor tells us the dog is not recommended for a family with small children because Weimaraners are very rambunctious and have been known to knock kids down. Chic #1 & Chic #2 breathe a sigh of relief. However, I am not dismayed by this little tidbit of information. (In fact, I already know this is true because we had friends with a Weimaraner and our daughter was knocked down precisely in this way.) Sorry girls, WE ARE STILL GOING TO LOOK AT THIS DOG! AND I’M FEELING AN ADOPTION COMING ON!

We meet the dog and whereas before I want the dog just so they can’t have him, now I want the dog because I have fallen hopelessly in love with him the moment he laid his sweet head in my palm. (My husband is rolling his eyes right about now.)

Speaking of my husband, he’s not excited about the dog. Visions of our children being catapulted into space on a regular basis by this rogue beast, along with the dog’s need for “two hours of hard exercise per day” are not winning him over…especially since he’ll be the one responsible for the “two hours of hard exercise per day” in about 4 months time when I’m laid up with a newborn attached to me 24/7.

In the meantime, the mother of Chic #1 & Chic #2 arrives. As we’re sitting at the adoption counselor’s desk, waiting to put the dog on hold (so we can discuss it further and do more internet research…and also a pretty brilliant ploy on my part, I would say, to further delay the agony of Chic #1 & Chic #2), the mother approaches us. Crying.

“I don’t mean to butt into your business”

In my head: Number 1. Well then why did you? Number 2. Oh brother.

“but my father is sick and has wanted a Weimaraner for a long time”

by the way you just mutilated the pronunciation of the word “Weimaraner,” clearly you don’t know anything about the breed, like, how in the world is your sick father going to provide “two hours of hard exercise per day”?

“and I’ve been rushing down here constantly trying to find him the right dog. I’ll pay you $25 if you’ll let me have the dog.”

What? $25? Are you kidding me? $250 and we’ll talk, lady

“I’ll just leave you alone now so you can talk about it.” (By the way, the whole time she’s standing there, Chic #1 is standing next to her, also crying.) They both walk away.

My husband looks at me, without a word, and it is truly one of those rare moments when I really have no idea what he is thinking. Me? I’m slightly torn and when I say slightly I mean S L I G H T L Y. Mostly I’m rolling my internal eyes saying, “Oh, cry me a river.”

Intermission: I know this is ugly but I’m just telling you like it happened.

Anyway, the adoption counselor comes back from finding someone who knows a little more about Weimaraners. So, whereas Brian was not so excited about the dog before, I can see him loathing the creature more and more with each “We really don’t recommend adopting this dog when you have small children in the house” (looking at the kids) and “Just be aware of what owning this dog will entail” and “Do you have a fenced yard? Oh, you don’t? Oh, we really recommend a fenced yard so this dog can get plenty of exercise” etc. etc. Then, to top it all off, “I’m sorry, but placing the dog on hold requires a $35 holding fee and if you don’t end up adopting the dog, the $35 is not refundable.”

Need I say that Brian’s faced screamed “I AM TOTALLY NOT INTO THIS IDEA IN ANY WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM!”?

So, at this moment, I am faced with a choice. Do I (a) take control of this situation by begging, pleading, manipulating or whatever else I can think of to get this darn dog or (b), and here’s the “s” word, submit?

The answer, my friends, is b…even though I really think this dog is heaven sent and even though I know he has certainly waited all 4 months of his life for me and only me to rescue him and even though it BURNS ME UP TO HAVE TO GIVE THAT DOG UP TO CHIC #1, CHIC #2 AND CRYLADY BECAUSE I HATE HATE HATE TO LOSE!!! And I can just TASTE the glory of the win.

But submit I did. And for good reason. Brian’s a wise man, put in place as the leader of our family by God himself and who am I to mess with that. Besides, quite frankly, I wouldn’t want the responsibility. But before all you pro-submission types go crazy, hailing me as a hero and stuff, you should know I pouted about it a fair amount later. I still haven’t mastered the whole concept—you know, like, I can’t submit and then whine and complain about the fact that I submitted in the first place. I think complaining about it later kind of erases it, but I’m not sure.

Anyway, for the record, I would just like to say that after we turned the dog down, we didn’t accept any money. Crylady tried to give Brian $25. He refused of course, and instead told her he’d be praying for her father. No joke. And he was dead serious too. Why can’t I be good like him, that’s what I want to know.

And by the way, Crylady (and family) never took the dog. How do I know? Because I couldn’t resist going to the shelter two days later and there sat the dog. I tell ya. I didn’t know whether to be happy or mad. They could have at least had the decency to take the dog so I didn’t have to look at his sweet, little face again. And after I had already submitted, no less.

So, where have I been? Well, I’ll tell ya. I’ve been cloistered in my basement watching TV. And I’ve been eating too. A lot. It seems I can’t get enough of either. Both addictions are due to pregnancy of course—at least that’s what I’m blaming them on. That’s one good thing about being pregnant—it’s such a great catchall excuse for all the horrid, unbecoming, entirely unspiritual things I do.

Sitting in front of the TV was the only activity that didn’t exacerbate my nausea during my first trimester. Therefore, I became addicted and now I can’t seem to rip myself away from the beast. And I’m eating so much because I think I’m actually going to give birth to an elephant…instead of a squirrel as previously thought.

I’m so glad my addictions are accompanied by pregnancy for two reasons. First, I like watching TV while I’m pregnant because I cry easier, harder and much more often. It’s so good for my soul. Three Wishes is a particularly good show if I’m looking to have a good cry—which I always am. I inevitably turn into a bawling idiot. Tell me you don’t cry too. Every Friday that show rips my heart out and feeds it to wild dogs. Second, I like eating while I’m pregnant because there is little to no guilt associated with what and how much I consume and in fact, most of the time I am overwhelmed by the feeling that I DESERVE EVERY LAST MORSEL THAT FINDS ITS WAY INTO MY MOUTH.

No weird cravings yet except for beer. Yes, that’s right, beer. Never wanted a beer so much in my life. When I’m normal (you know, not with child) I don’t like beer. In fact, I’m not much of a drinker at all. But what kind of sick joke is it that all of the sudden a beer never sounded so good? The smell alone is nearly enough to send me over the edge. Everyone tells me—actually not everyone because I’ve only told a very select few about my craving for beer lest they think it not very becoming of the pastor’s wife…but that’s all flying out the window as I speak, of course, given that I am revealing yet another of my ugly issues to all 53.4 billion of you. Anyway, as I was saying, the few I’ve confessed my crazed craving to have suggested nonalcholohic beer. I’m just not feelin’ it. So, basically, just feel sorry for me because the very thing I crave I cannot have.

Now, please excuse me. The boob tube calls. And so does that bag of chips and salsa. Hmmm. Sure wish I could have a beer.