One Decade…

Oh hey it’s the middle of November.

Thanksgiving is next week.

I haven’t written anything here since the middle of September.

Because reasons. A lot of reasons.

It’s November 18th.

Ten years ago today I spent eight hours sitting in a Caribou talking to a boy I met on the internet.



My twenties were full of a lot of bad, BAD decisions. But an insomnia-induced whim to create a profile on a free dating website I’d never heard of resulted in the single greatest thing to ever happen to me.

A whole decade.

That’s a long time for someone who had resigned herself to being single for her entire life.

I’ll take it.

And another several decades on top of it, please and thank you.

December 2, 2007 … the first picture of US

He was twenty-five. I was twenty-eight. We look so damn young. Because we were, I guess.

The Seven Year Itch…

Seven years ago I married a boy I met on the internet.

Statistically, we should be seeing a decline in our relationship at this point. The Seven Year Itch is something that actually happens according to research.

I’d say for us, the longer we’re together, the better we get.

Does that make us special?


Not really.

Plenty of people survive statistics.

My parents have been married for fifty years.

It’s not always rainbows and giggles and arguments with stuffed animals. We have ugly conversations and disagreements. We get stressed and irritated and snappy. But we communicate—even when it sucks—and we tend to talk everything to death. Things are far from perfect, but we’re US.

And I love US.

I can be my whole, awkward, weird, inane, obsessive self, and he tells me he loves me for all of it.

He is my sanity and my saving grace.

I love him more than I ever thought possible to love another human being, and I love him more every day.

I always have these elaborate plans in my head for commemorating our anniversary in writing, but really, simplicity works better.

Seven years.

And not the least bit itchy.

Things unseen…


Here’s the thing about life:

It happens.

Sometimes a whole lot of it happens all at once and leaves your mind spinning.

When life happens, I feel compelled to write about it. I’m a writer and writing about life comes with the territory. It helps me work through the convoluted mess that is my brain. It helps me remember when things happened. But the problem I often run into is that there are certain things that I want to do justice when I write about them. I want to be coherent and detailed. So I start planning and plotting, and that leads to over-thinking, and then I get overwhelmed, and then suddenly it’s months later, and WTAF how is it the end of April already?



In abbreviated bullet form. Because if I try anything else, it’s not going to get done. And I need to get this done for my own sanity.

1.) Bob got a new job. He wasn’t looking for one, but an opportunity presented itself and he decided to pursue it. He’d reached a dead end for growth at his previous job and this new one has plenty of growth potential. It’s a similar position with a somewhat similar company, but a very different environment, and so far a much better fit for what he wants out of his place of work. There are a multitude of pros and cons, but the pros outweigh the cons, and even after the first week he was noticeably less stressed and run down. It’s been a full month now and so far, so good.

2.) My grandma died. She was 99—six months shy of her 100th birthday. She had seven kids, eighteen grandchildren, twelve great-grandchildren, and one great-great grandchild. She’d been on the decline for a few months and her mind was mostly gone. My mom called me on a Sunday afternoon to tell me it was coming and by Tuesday she was gone. The funeral was on a Saturday and we had beautiful, sunny, warm weather (In February! In Minnesota!) for being outside at a cemetery. The fresh air and sunshine were a great relief after a full Catholic service OY. Now Bob and I no longer have any surviving grandparents. And that really sucks.

3.) When I went for my annual physical, we discussed my allergy issue with raw produce and my chronic sinus inflammation. I got a referral to an allergy doctor and tested positive for eighteen out of thirty-nine common allergens. I am allergic to cats (no surprise, cat exposure = week-long recovery), dogs (!? that’s news to me), dust (and we have the dustiest house ever), and all things nature (ragweed, grass, trees, oh my!). I got validation on an Oral Allergy Syndrome diagnosis (it has NOTHING to do with eating organic) and was told DO NOT eat raw fruits and vegetables. I also tested positive for nut allergies and that’s an automatic EPI-PEN. And fun story—insurance does not cover an EPI-PEN, it’s $537, there is no generic, and it expires after a year. While I’ve never had a severe reaction to nuts (just the oral allergy issue), I’m still at risk for a life-threatening reaction. So either I spend a large sum of money on something I’ll likely never use (and throw it out when it expires) or I save the money and risk an unexpected reaction and be completely unprepared for it. (Either way, it’s still a trip to the emergency room.)

4.) I have more appointments that need to be made in the never-ending marathon of figuring-shit-out, and that involves making phone calls, and panic attacks over trivial bullshit like picking up the phone fucking suck. Panic attacks, in general, fucking suck.

5.) There is no shortage of family-related drama because toxic people are incredibly difficult to get rid of.

6.) The A/C in my car is dead and that’s a repair bill I don’t care to see. But warm weather is on the way, and a car with black interior is pretty much a one-way ticket to heat stroke for someone who gets overheated pretty much daily in the shower. God. Dammit. Joel.

7.) Writing is kicking my ass and as I’ve talked about ad nauseam—when the writing isn’t happening, everything else in my bad-addled brain goes to shit.

8.) We spent $537 on the damn EPI-PEN.


I’ve been trying to write something worth reading for today, but the words just aren’t flowing.

I think this quote best sums up what I’ve been trying to put down on paper.

Bob and I are connected at the brain.

If people witnessed a fraction of the completely shameless inanity we get up to when left to our own devices…well…they’d probably be a little concerned. But I bet they’ve never had nearly as much fun as we do.

Happy 2 years, Robert.

I love you more than caramel-filled chocolate.

Three Years…

Three years ago I was sitting in a Caribou across the table from a boy I’d met online. We’d been conversing online and on the phone for close to three weeks and it had finally come to our first date…face to face.

We spent almost EIGHT HOURS sitting there together, talking about everything and nothing, holding hands, staring at each other and out the window, awkward and shy, and by the time we finally left that place, we both KNEW.

The following weekend was Thanksgiving and we spent the entire four days together, we met each other’s families, and said, “I think I’m in love with you.”

The very next week I was railroaded into taking a month-long leave of absence from work. I started to fall apart. Bob held me together.

We spent two full weeks together over Christmas and New Years. I was on my involuntary hiatus from work, Bob had vacation time to burn. It was exactly what I needed.

In January, almost two months to the day of our first date, I moved in with Bob. I moved out of my home of twenty-eight years and into the house that Bob lived in. It was one of the most terrifying things I have ever done, but it was also the best thing for me at that point in my life.

A month later, I lost my job. I got fired because I wasn’t “enthusiastic enough to be [there].” I fell apart. Bob put me back together.

Seasons changed, Bob took care of me while I healed. My dad had two strokes and brain surgery to fix an aneurysm. I fell apart. Bob put me back together.

We made it to our one-year anniversary. Bob and I went to Noodles & Company for dinner and Caribou to get smoothies for dessert. We’re simple like that.

Sitting in the car in the parking lot at Caribou, sipping our smoothies, I asked Bob if he was going to walk me to the door when he brought me home from our date.

He paused for a moment and with a little smirk that usually precedes a smart-ass comment said, “How about I just ask you to marry me instead?”

For the tiniest of split-seconds I thought he was kidding. Then I saw the little black box in his hand. He held it up and opened it, revealing the ring, the ring that I had picked out months before while wishful window shopping online.

I. Was. Floored.

I was truly not expecting him to propose then. I knew he’d ask me someday, but for some reason I had it in my head that it would be far off down the road. It was a complete shock when he did. It was perfect.

Winter came and went. Spring was rough as I went through a major overhaul with my medications. And then we moved. We left behind the slumlord’s house from hell and moved into a much nicer place with fewer roommates.

Summer saw the planning of a wedding. Not a traditional wedding, a Bob and Sara wedding. We do things our own way.

September 19, 2009 we got married by a judge with four guests and a photographer in attendance. It was perfect.

We were married just two months shy of our two year anniversary.

Settling into married life didn’t take much adjustment. Not much changed but my name and our rings. It was fabulous.

Fall, winter, spring…summer came and we finally had a wedding reception. I drove myself [unnecessarily] to the brink of insanity planning our [casual] party. Things went off without a hitch.

Summer flew by, fall brought the arrival of a new nephew and as we approach the coming winter, we’ve arrived at our third anniversary.

Three years.

It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long and yet, it feels like forever.

We’ve been tested a lot, it hasn’t always been perfect or easy, but we’ve never questioned our relationship.

I love him more each day. He is my saving grace. He is my everything.

Happy Three Years, my Robert. I love you with everything I am.


I never imagined myself marrying a younger man. (For a lot of years I never imagined myself getting married but that’s a story for a different day.) Boys mature so much slower than girls. Why would I want to be with someone younger than me?

Then I met Bob.

Granted the very first picture I saw of him I thought he was fifteen and not twenty-five. My initial instinct was to panic—he’s three years younger than me! This could never work! And then we started talking.

Age gap? What age gap?

Oh ye of little faith.

Today is my husband’s birthday. Today he is twenty-eight years old. Today he turns the age I was just turning when I met him.

I love him more than I ever thought possible to love someone. He is my entire world.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart. I love you with all my heart.

30 Days of Blogging…Day 9…

30 Days of Blogging…

Day 9: A Photo You Took…

I took this picture of Bob on our wedding day. It was just the two of us in the garden before everyone else arrived. We were walking around and I was taking pictures of the garden. He wasn’t paying attention and I snapped this picture. I didn’t put much effort into the composition but I just really like the way it turned out. Probably because I can sit and stare at his profile for hours. I love my husband so very much.