Married

We got married this morning at the court house.

We brought our best friends, Ren and Sam. 

These two were our match-makers, so we owe them about 30 million dollars apiece. Ren and Sam, your checks are in the mail. They're dated May 18, 2078.

County officials stashed us in a tiny, bizarre hallway while we waited for the judge to marry us. We, umm, got a little silly. And loud. The secretary reprimanded us for being too noisy.

Ian loved the pretty flowers.

The judge who married us was featured in the hallway. Her portrait loomed eerily upon us.

The county officials then led us to a conference room. 

Ren and Sam found it highly emotional.

Which made us highly uncomfortable.

And then we went to the court and were married.

Sam reminded me to throw the bouquet. Sam wanted the bouquet. Sam fought for the bouquet. 

"Give me my bouquet, bitch."

Ren took video footage of the ceremony. I posted the link below.

The judge insisted on calling Ian by his middle name, "Michael." By law, I must now call him Michael. Or Mikey. Or Michelangelo, when he's feeling like a ninja turtle. I love you, Mikey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y90ZDp9Wav0&feature=youtu.be

Engaged

During the week he wakes early while I continue sleeping. Every morning in the hazy light, he leans down to kiss me good-bye. I'm usually burrowed under covers, and I hear him laugh as he searches for me.

When we arrive home from work, we hug and sway, spinning around slowly. It looks like we're dancing. Ian asks, "Why do we do that?" I reply I don't know, but it's comforting.

Later I chance upon an article that explains the science behind something we already know: rocking relieves stress and provides comfort. It's why mothers rock babies to sleep and people sway back and forth at concerts.

The New York Times recently published an article about the brain on love: "If you’re in a healthy relationship, holding your partner’s hand is enough to subdue your blood pressure, ease your response to stress, improve your health and soften physical pain."

It sounds obvious, but it goes a long way in explaining why I've felt so calm over the past couple of years.

We constantly scheme about our next big move: enterprises, non-profits, homesteading. We're still so poor we can only dream of some things. We share politics and ideology. We share a similar approach to life.

When I was younger, my friends dubbed me "Logical Laura." When Ian and I began dating, my practicality was one of the first traits he noticed.

One night in those early days, he remarked, "You're very pragmatic." I replied, "Yes, I am." It's a trait that makes me feel disconnected from other women sometimes, but it's a trait Ian admires. I can be myself.

One of Ian's friends suggests a nail polish color for me, and Ian instantly feels amused. I haven't worn nail polish since I was a kid. He knows me better than anyone.

I sometimes feel like I bring him down. When we began dating he would send me romantic messages, and I would feel embarrassed and wouldn't know how to respond.

Ian: "I tried to romance you."

Laura: "I know."

Ian: "You weren't into it."

Laura: "Nope."

He expresses himself with ease. He talks about his day, the people he encounters, how certain plants and animals make him feel, why he loves nature, and the things he's learned. He people watches all the time. He's intuitive.

I'm often quieter. I find it difficult to express myself sometimes. It drives my mom nuts. He knows when I'm upset because I grow very quiet.

We attend a party where I laugh and joke with friends. A guy makes harsh comments to no one in particular. I shrink back, silent and suddenly exhausted.

Ian whispers in my ear, "Are you okay?" I whisper back, "Yes."

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes."

So we go home.

He is a gentle man, so gentle that we make off-colored jokes about the domestic violence he supposedly incurs and then roll with laughter.

We go to a thrift store, where he examines the tools and spots some shelves he'd like to buy. He also sees a dainty picture book about cats, containing a drawing of two tuxedo cats who resemble his own. He opts for the picture book. He chuckles at himself: "I could have gotten shelves but instead I got a book about cats."

He loves tinkering with electronics, taking things apart and putting them back together. And, of course, he loves the natural world. He sees a beauty and calmness in nature that many people overlook. He plaintively wonders why modern society eschews the natural environment. His favorite word is "sustainable." 

We talk about our past, about our bikes and pets and parents and the things that brought us joy and the events that brought us heartache.

We talk about the present, which wholly encompasses the two of us. When I think about my life now, I think of Ian. And we talk about the future, a future we will share.

Ian and I got engaged in early December 2011. Over the next several months we quietly told friends, prompting many, "Well, duh" reactions.

Since our first date in October 2010, we've done everything together. Every decision is a mutual decision: every dinner we eat, every show we watch, every appliance we buy.

Ian is my first truly serious boyfriend, the only one I've lived with. I remember feeling nervous about sharing everything with him, but it quickly became innate. I became a part of him and he became a part of me.

I can see crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles and gray hair in his widow's peak. I look at him and try to envision what he'll look like when he's older.

He's two years older than me. When I was 19, I took a sociology of marriage and family class. My professor warned, "Ladies, marry someone a few years younger than you if you want to avoid widowhood. Women outlive men."

I think of that and hope he and I live for a long time yet. I realize that I don't mind growing older, because I will be with him and he will think I'm beautiful. We crawl into bed late one night, and he tells me I'm beautiful. I suddenly feel shy even though he's told me many times before.

We both agree that we already feel married. In my own quiet way, I feel jittery with excitement. I can't want to become Mrs. New Daddy.

Some Rooster: The Miraculous Transformation of Jonathan Fuzzy Proctor

Over the past two months, the chicks have shed their down and acquired feathers. Except one.

John Proctor went through a patchy, raggedy stage like his sisters, and we assumed he was on the verge of morphing into a feathery monster who would soon be kicked off the homestead, right into our bellies.

But sometimes miracles happen.

John has always had a different look to him. As a baby, his giant forehead gave his face a perpetually intense look.

He was the only chick to calmly pose for close-up photos. He was the first chick we could identify by name, and he was certainly the first chick we grew attached to.

John Proctor never grew feathers. Instead, he shed his down and promptly grew a mound of fluff. What we had initially pegged as a large forehead grew into an impressive Afro.

John-John is rapidly growing into one of the fanciest roosters we've ever seen. Ladies and gentlemen, we think we have a Silkie Bantam.

We first considered the idea when my parents visited the chickens a few weeks ago and stared at John, perplexed.

Laura's mom: "That can't be a rooster. He has no feathers. Maybe he's a late bloomer?"

Laura's dad: "Maybe he's a guinea?"

Then we went to Mansfield and saw a huge cage full of Silkie Bantams. We also saw this sign:

Silkie Bantams have an extra toe. And John has an extra toe. Everything clicked.

We can't eat such a special, fancy rooster. He's a doll. His bottom half has puffed out into a fuzzy hoop-skirt. His 'fro grows by the minute.

He has begun to crow, albeit a half-crow, in that screechy, adolescent voice boys acquire during puberty.

He's the gutsiest of the chickens. When we release them from their cage and let them play in the yard, he ventures the furthest out. He also herds the other chickens and keeps a protective eye on them.

When we scoop up the hens, he peeps furiously, upset that the girls have left his sight.

Ian: "Listen to John. He's mad that I took his bitches."

In short, we are crazy about John Proctor. Being so elegant and fluffy, I've started calling him Jonathan, and his full name is now Jonathan Fuzzy Proctor.

If you were worried we were going to eat the boy, then worry no longer.

John-John is here to stay.

When We Visited Missourah

Last weekend, the city's biggest musical festival rolled into town. Booze, rock and roll, and frenzied partying engulfed the city. And were where we? Why, in the the most rootin', tootin' place known to man: Mansfield, Missouri.

If regular updates on cat vomit and chicken poop haven't reeled you in yet, I'm positive an entire post about Mansfield, Missouri (population 1,296) will leave you on the edge of your seat, frothing for more Winiferd in the Burbs.

As a child, I adored the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I still do, in fact.

I pick them up every few years or so and delve into sensual descriptions of Almanzo Wilder's family dinners. It's complete food porn. You haven't fully considered the beauty of buttered toast until you hear Laura Ingalls Wilder describe it in intricate detail.

Then there's the fact that the Ingalls family is always inches away from blizzards, wolf attacks, panther attacks, Scarlett Fever, and starvation.

Don't look away; the entire family might die at any moment. The books are often desolate and depressing. So you can imagine how much I love them.

Ian and I headed up to Mansfield to see the Laura Ingalls Wilder farm house and the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum.

I saw it once before as a teenager, but you can never see enough of the Wilder museum. (I was a very cool teenager).

At Rocky Ridge farm, home of Laura Ingalls Wilder

Yep. Still got it.

More excited about the foliage

Whatever. Let's continue freaking out over the house. I want to live in the house.

I thought Ian was mildly bored by the Wilder museum which was full of patch-work quilts and rag dolls, so I tried to point out things of interest.

Laura: "That's Carrie Ingalls. She looked like the Wicked Witch of the West."

Ian: "Wow. She did."

Laura: "Poor thing. She was sickly in the books. And she kinda got hit with the ugly stick."

Ian: "Who's that?!"

Laura: "That's Pa Ingalls. Isn't he terrifying? He had light blue eyes, so that's probably why he looks like he has no eyeballs."

Ian: "The camera stole Pa's soul."

Then we watched a short video and learned Laura's daughter, Rose, had a donkey named Spookendyke.

Which led to hours of hysterical giggling in the car, as we yelled out "Spookendyke" in horrible Dutch accents.

And, err, yelling about the little Dutch boy who stuck his finger in the dyke... STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Laura: "We should get one of those miniature, fuzzy donkeys and name it Spookendyke."

Ian: "No, I'd rather get a goat and name it Spookendyke. I want Spookendyke to make cheese."

Ian and Laura: <Stare at each other>

And then we died. The End.

After geeking out on all things Wilder, Ian and I drove to Baker Creek for the annual spring planting festival. Baker Creek is awesome because it sells heirloom seeds. (Ian wanted me to say that).

Actually, Baker Creek is awesome because it has a pioneer village named Bakersville.

Laura: "It's like an episode of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman!"

Ian: "Is it? I never watched that show."

Laura: "Oh yes. It came on Saturday nights at 7. I watched it compulsively as a child because it was so dumb. I couldn't turn away. It was like Seventh Heaven in that regard."

Ian: "I see."

Laura: "I mean, Dr. Quinn was curing cancer before cancer existed."

I discreetly tried to snap photos of everyone's pets. There were lots of Winnie look-alikes:

A freaked-out cat on a leash:

Laura: "Look, Ian! Those sheep are playing together! They're playing chase."

Ian: "Umm, I don't think they're playing..."

Laura: "Oh. Oh my. This is just how children learned the facts of life in the 1800s. How authentic."

We saw tons of roosters, hens, and baby chicks. The baby chicks were for sale, and Ian had a brief bout of chicken baby fever.

What? Doesn't the pungent odor of chicken feces give you baby fever?

He pondered the possibility of buying a few more chicks, but I squashed that because I'm mean and we have enough pets.

Ye olde porta johns, out on the range

Sun-baked cookies

Our Music Fest

Little Hippie on the Prairie, listening to olde timey music

Finally, did you know there's a skating rink in Mansfield? It was across the street from out hotel.

It was the most red-neck place we'd ever seen, which is saying something. This was the entrance:

We were convinced we had walked into a prostitution sting until we saw three little girls wearing roller blades.

So we skated and it was fun. And it was the best trip ever.

I leave with a picture of the last of the Ingalls blood-line, Rose Wilder Lane, daughter of Laura Ingalls Wilder, with her beloved Maltese dogs. Ian surreptitiously snapped the photo when no one was looking.

I think this proves I'm the heiress of the Wilder legacy. Please send me my royalties. And let me live in the house.