I live in marriage central.

Weddings are BIG BUSINESS in Utah.

I’ve been married twice (twice is more than enough. Trust me.).

I’ve been married a total of 12.5 years.

9.8 years of them have been with my husband, Jonathan.

I’m 33-years-old.

The average marriage age here is much younger than the national average. I attribute this to the majority of this society considering out-of-wedlock co-mingling of hoo-hoos and peepers to be a metaphorical stoning offense.

Heck, there are still a few doe-eyed young couples here whose first kiss is on their wedding day.

I married way too young. I was a 20-year-old idiot who was far too immature, indecisive and YOUNG to handle something as complicated as a marriage. I am not surprised it failed;there were too many factors that went against it. Besides the mismatch of the two of us, I had very little relationship experience that was positive. I didn’t have enough life experience*.

*I really kind of wish I had been all sorts of trampy in my younger years and gotten it out of my system. I have this feeling that I should have just nailed anything that would have screwed my Shamu-sized self back then and just been a slutty ho of a teenage girl.

(I wasn’t, despite WHAT everyone thought.)

I mainly spent my teenage time with my best friend doing lame photo-shoots in her basement. I did occasionally sneak out with my high school boyfriend and let him feel my boobs but that was about it.

It’s easier to forgive the sowing of wild oats than when you are a wild teenager than when you hit your 30’s and 40’s and freak-out with a mid-life crisis.

I kind of regret not doing it.

Of course, I was such a SERIOUS, MELANCHOLY thing as a youth. I was a THEATER PERSON! I wore BLACK! And CRYSTALS! Which were held by a DRAGON’S CLAW around my neck! I was never without my COMPLETE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE!

So, the whole “Girl’s Gone Wild Thing” may not have exactly jived with my high school personality. Although, I suppose I could have just glued a wooden sign on my locker that had “Ye Olde Whorehouse” burned into the wood or something.

Where was I?

Oh, yes…weddings.

No offense to anyone who has married here in my home state or the predominant religion (Mormonism), but Utah weddings have some very deep cliches associated with them.

Like having bridesmaids and flower girls when, um, there is no use for them in a Mormon ceremony. Or having the same-old, same-old food like a nut cup, mint with the local temple printed on it, dollar sandwich served with the pre-requisite non-toxic slush punch and mini-eclair on the side. Or having the wedding in the local ward house gym with balloons or streamers put up in an attempt to hide the basketball hoop. And let’s not forget the blown glass temple wedding cake toppers and tiny scrolls by the wedding book that have the “This day I marry my best friend” poem on it.

It’s all too precious for words.

There is also no dancing at Mormon receptions. Not because it is outlawed, it just isn’t done. Which is a good thing because dude…most people in my state cannot dance and end up looking like complete asses when they attempt to do so. (Ehem. They also apparently cannot spell “BLATANT” for the life of them.)

Now watch, I am going to piss off someone who had their reception in a church gym or served mini-eclairs and non-toxic slushy punch at their wedding. Or that loved their wedding poem tied up with curling ribbon, coordinating bridesmaid dresses and the like. I’m not a hater;I had almost all these things between both of my weddings, so there.

And I would do it differently if I could go back.

Now that I think about it…maybe my big problem isn’t so much about the weddings as it is about the marriages.

I love that my first marriage gave me my son but I was in no way prepared for that level of “BIG”.

My second wedding was pretty chill.

While I don’t know if I was any better prepared, I had a good wedding. I knew that I had a better chance of making it work with Jon than I probably deserved. He is a good balance for me and I love him. I had a great wedding dress (Made by one of the best seamstresses on the PLANET. Go buy an apron. You know you want to.). My buffet had good food and people had a good time. I had a bag piper and it was fabulous. It WAS in a ward house gym, but I could have cared less. I wanted to elope, but Jonathan had never been married and wanted a reception. I was glad to give that to him. He’s a sweetheart and man…Have we been through a lot.

To hell and back, really.

Over all? I am not sure if I am good at being married. I try my best (and often not even close to my best) but I often wonder if I am just too damaged.

Too full of baggage.

Too full of bad memories and disappointments.

Just too…TOO.

I have a lot of regrets. I have hurt and crushed people. I have been hurt, crushed.

Sometimes I feel so broken and bitter I don’t know if I will ever be whole again.

Normal.

Fixed.

I know that people that love me would give a lot for that to happen; I just don’t know if it ever will.

Now that I think about it, maybe my big problem isn’t so much about the weddings or the marriages as it is…

ME.

I blame my husband.

It’s so unfortunate. He’s been so good about knocking since “The talk”..

Poor kid.

He’s going to need therapy after this week.

And possibly some new retinas. I think they are probably seared off from being subjected to his parents *macking like wild sea otters.

*”Macking like wild sea otters” is a term to describe sexual mating. It is often confused with the term, “Macking like wild sea sea lions”. The two are entirely different. While both are polygynous, the mating pattern of Otariinae, or sea lions, is initiated by the female. Mating behaviors may or may not include female texting male to come home because the female is dressed up like a Catholic School Girl and has “American Woman” playing in the background.

“Macking like wild sea OTTERS” , or enhydra lutis, is entirely male dominated with the bulls aggressively mating with females that enter their territory. Basically, if a Tylanol PM hung-over female simply scoots over to warm up her feet on the male and snores a little bit, this will be taken as a sexual green flag and the male will go to town while the still half-asleep female lays highly dormant (although there may be an occasional lifting of the cranium to indicate a posture of ‘WTF?!”) until the mating process is completed and she can just go back to sleep already.

Hello, Looney Tunes Bloggityworld!

This is Loralee. Or rather, I should say that this is the tiny segment of Loralee’s mind that represents logic, rationality, and balance. (Yes, I know that I don’t talk a lot here. I SAID I was tiny, ok?)

Loralee has had a bit of a rough go of it lately and so I thought I would make a little list of things she needs to remember to help her out.

DON’T FALL BEHIND IN YOUR LAUNDRY. It makes you feel bad, there are clothes everywhere and once you fall behind it is just damn hard to catch up. So? Get off your ass and go put in a load already.

HONEY, YOU ARE NOT THE BLOGGING POLICE. It’s not your responsibility to make sure the blogging world is fair or that idiocy and offensiveness be corrected. Just don’t engage, chicka. DO NOT DO IT. It is not worth it and it’s just feeding the fire, so shut your pie-hole for once. It will just make you feel worse in the end if you start a brouhaha.

(I really thought about putting this down as number one but the pull of clean underwear was too strong. Sorry.)

TRY TO CONTROL YOUR NEED TO PEE DURING A MARATHON 16-HOUR CAR TRIP WITH YOUR INLAWS. Ok, I know that you have had three children and sometimes it just hits with a fury. Even if you are in the middle of buttfreakingnowhere Idaho and there is literally NOWHERE to pee for miles and miles I can see that part isn’t your fault. You also have no control over there being no bathrooms in the area, so peeing outside was the only option there was. And, I can ALSO see that you had to lean up against the side of the van because your plan to go pee in the bushes was thwarted because there were clusters of thorns on them the size of big, hairy donkey balls. (THAT would have been bad. Ouch.)

However, IF you are outside peeing and IF you have to lean up against the side of the van to pee, you really need to double check the space you are peeing on because your sister-in-law’s flipflop may have fallen out of the van door and you MAY PEE ALL THE HELL OVER IT.

It will cause much embarrassment and shame for you, although the rest of the people in the van will get a kick out of it. (Except for the owner of aforementioned urine-soaked sandal, of course.)

DO NOT GO NEAR THE COMPUTER AND/OR HAVE ANY HUMAN INTERACTION TWO DAYS BEFORE AND AFTER YOUR PERIOD STARTS. Really, it’s just not a good idea. You are always so damn pissy and emotional. You get caught up and twisted in things that will not matter or seem like a big deal once your hormones calm the hell down. So? Get a little calender and circle all your dates in red with a big reminder to realize what is up and to not engage, ok?

STOP LOOKING AT YOUR DAMN STATS: Because they are in the toilet after BlogHer but it will be ok. Seriously? SERIOUSLY.

YOU’RE OFF VACATION AND ARE FINALLY HOME. CALL YOUR IN LIFE FRIENDS BECAUSE IT’S BEEN FOREVER AND A DAY SINCE YOU’VE SEEN ANY OF THEM AND YOU MISS THEM.Because there is nothing quite like a friend who is right in front of you that you’ve known forever, is there?

And finally…

DON’T USE YOUR TEETH. THAT little tawdry tidbit is from your husband, Jonathan.

Jon Deal has the run of the joint while Loralee is at BlogHer.

For reasons which will become clear starting in the next paragraph, this will likely be the only guest post he ever does.

As we out here in the Internet hinterlands all know, BlogHer 2008 has commenced, or is about to commence and holy crap, the whole Internet (at least the “mommy blogger” subset of the Internet) will just NOT SHUT UP about BlogHer; we who remain behind in our hovels are stuck with more than a few ambivalent feelings.

The “I’m not going because…” sentiments can be categorized and classified as follows (really, in no particular order):

1. I’m not in that “in” crowd anyway.
2. Nobody likes me.
3. I hate everyone.
4. It’s in July and I molt in July. The BlogHer people KNOW this and yet they keep scheduling it in July year after year. There would be feathers everywhere. So embarrassing. It’s like they are out to get me.
5. I’m afraid I’ll meet and subsequently drool on a so-called “A-list” blogger I have been dying to meet even since I fired up a browser and pecked out my very first and truly lame post on that stupid blogspot.com site I used to do and then through a set of freak and frankly suspicious circumstances, death and destruction will rain down upon my whole family and we just had the floors re-done and you KNOW how death and destruction can simply RUIN hardwood floors.
6. I don’t have a thing to wear.

(Possibly #5 only applies to me. Your mileage may vary.)

BUT!

I am here to dispel those feelings of self-doubt and self-loathing. Well, the last one anyway. Seek therapy for the first three reasons, a competent medical professional for the fourth and thank your lucky stars you don’t have to deal with number five.

I noticed that a few days ago, a lot of people (women, duh) were drop dead panicked about “What do I wear to BlogHer? What are you wearing? Holy bean on a stick, SOMEONE PLEASE CLOTHE ME!”

So I sent this email to a few people. I share it with you now. Because that’s how I roll.

(And because Loralee told me to. And she scares me.)

Ladies…

Since I see from your twitter feeds and blog posts that you are all kind of freaking out about what to wear at BlogHer, I thought I’d set your minds at ease.

Here is a detailed list of the clothes I am packing, though not necessarily wearing while at BlogHer:

• Black short sleeved tee-shirts (one crew, one v-neck, they go with everything)
• Some handmade jewelry I bought from someone’s Etsy store
• This darling plaid skirt and oxford cloth shirt, even though the skirt makes my hips look huge and is way too preppy
• Jeans (2 pair)
• Floral skirt with matching pink stretchy, lycra blend tee. (Scarf to match)
• Sweatshirt/sweater that goes with all of the above (S.F. == cold sometimes, even in the summer)
• Strappy sandals for fashion during the conference and comfortable shoes for walking around the city (feet might get cold walking around)
• One black dress that can go casual or formal depending how I accessorize it.

Wait…

Something’s missing….

Oh, right!

I’m not going to BlogHer, and I am neither a woman nor a gay man who cares about wardrobe. (I keep forgetting!)

I’m just a boring old hetero man, who decided not to go to BlogHer this year, but will probably go next year.

But seriously… black tee shirts go with everything! Can’t miss! (So sayeth my wife, who has 14 million in her closet)

Have a fun time!

Jon “yeah, I’m a little jealous, I should have just gone, but I didn’t feel comfortable about being one ‘those’ guys at what essentially amounts to an all-female group hug” Deal

P.S. I used to live in the SF Bay Area. Take a sweater/sweatshirt/jacket. It can get mighty chilly in SF, even in July. Seriously, take something with long sleeves.

—jon

So there you go! There is NO reason not to go to BlogHer next year. Heck, you could probably still catch a plane and crash the party.

See you next year.

*Hello, my lovely readers. It’s Loralee. I’m having a wonderful time and hope to hop on here before the end of things (I will not drone on and one about the convention, worry not.)

This post made me snort so loudly my “Heavenly Bed” at the Westin is SHAKING. I heart Jon Deal with the power of a thousand burning suns. If you are not reading him you should be.

HOWEVER!!! Jon forgot to add his OTHER emailed BlogHer instructions, which were as follows:

“I am going to give you a list of people to make out with while you are at BlogHer.

(A chaste, friendly sort of make out session, of course, I’m a married man after all)

Here’s how it will go…

You walk up to the person (for example… Angela from Fluid Pudding

“Hi, Angela! I’m Loraleee, but that’s not important right now.”

“Hello, Loralee, nice to meet you. Why isn’t that important?”

“Because I’m here on a Mission, Angela from fluidpudding.com” [Don’t forget to CAPITALIZE the word Mission when you say that!]

“A Mission? Whatever do you mean by a Mission?”

“Put down that knitting and stand up, Angela. You have to be standing in order for this to work.” [Angela is one of those crazy knitter people, but I adore her anyway. (chastely, of course)]

Once she is standing up, start humping her leg and then scratch my URL on her arm and sing out “Jon from Ransom Note Typography thinks you are the bees knees!” Feel free to make up your own little tune to go along with this. Something in a bright major key, I think would work nicely. Practice something in B-flat on the plane, OK?

Thanks! And I’ll get you a full list of people whose legs you’ll be platonically humping before Wednesday.

Kisses,

Jon Deal”

Soooo worth mentioning, no?

BTW-I don’t kiss and tell, yo.

Heh.

** Jon here again. I feel I need to clarify that last email, which A) possibly should never have seen the light of day (*ahem*), and B) could be misconstrued as “that Jon fellow is über-weird with the leg humping talk. Make sure he never comes near me. I’m afraid he might want to make a skin suit out of me.” Where I come from the time honored “hump your leg greeting” doesn’t carry any sort of sexual connotation, I assure you. It’s just how we natives say, “Yo, dude, you are awesome! Want to go get a moon pie and hang out at the mall?” Plus, it’s not humping so much as it’s “knee bumping” on a grand scale. (Hence the “bees knees” comment.) It’s just a traditional greeting, I promise.

***We really need to stop meeting like this, Jon. People are going to start yelling, “GET A ROOM!” (hee.)

Dude, no one is going to think you’re a creepy guy, although it is sweet that you clarified.

AND I DID ASK YOU BEFORE POSTING IT. (While I just can’t be afraid of you after reading your post about being mistaken for your daughter’s MOTHER, I WOULD be afraid that there would be no more awesome blog lunches in the big city in the future if I hadn’t!!!)

As a former Utahn transplanted to the Midwest, I’d like to take a moment to warn you non-Utahns about this pretty little state I used to call home and the one Loralee currently resides in.

(By the way, my name is Casey, I call a little blog moosh in indy. my home, hi, how are you?)

First of all, don’t let all the snow fool you. Utah is a desert. Utah is a desert that will suck your skin of any and all moisture it possesses within moments of your arrival. Bring lotion and slather liberally.

Second. Salt Lake is very high in altitude. This means two things. Less oxygen and you’re closer to the sun. Which means you will huff and puff up every flight of stairs no matter how fast you can run a mile at sea level and you will burn to a crisp much quicker. Bring a bottle of water and sunscreen, drink and slather liberally.

Third. There is an enormous lake thataway. It’s called the Great Salt Lake. It’s really salty. Don’t go in it after you have shaved and be aware that when conditions are just right there is something called “Lake Stink.” And trust me, it’s a whole new kind of stink.

Fourth. Want to move here? Just know it’s really bloody expensive. The house I grew up in was bought in 1981 for $40K. It sold in 1998 for $189K. Today? $500K. Ridiculous.

Fifth. Drivers. Utah drivers are stupid, idiotic, psychotic, insane, aggressive, rude, impolite and most of them drive large overpriced SUV’s. Driving in Utah is not for the faint of heart. Be prepared to honk and flip off liberally. Seriously, before I come I have to spend an entire day readying myself for the death derby on Utah’s roads.

Sixth. If you eat outside in Utah, especially a sandwich, it will be turned to toast in a matter of moments. Dry air + soft bread = See dry skin reference in numero uno.

Lastly. Utah is pretty. Both in people and surroundings.

Forbes names Salt Lake City the vainest city in the nation. No doubt. Plastic surgery billboards are everywhere. Everywhere. And it’s just not fair to the rest of the country how pretty Utah is. (Well, the top and bottom of Utah at least, I’ve still never learned to embrace that whole sagebrush thing going on in the middle.) So be prepared for pretty, but don’t look too long or that soccer mom in the Escalade with run. you. over.

Thank you for taking time to learn about this state from someone who knows best. A native. And if you could let me know about any other states crazy drivers I should watch out for I’d appreciate it. But I doubt anyone has worse drivers than Utah. Seriously.

Good news though? Lots of pretty things to look at in your sideview mirrors while the PTA president on her cell phone in the Lexus SUV is chewing you out.

Characters:

ME:At work, probably wearing sweat pants, my ratty Simon & Garfunkle tshirt and an uncomfortable headset.

HETTIE:Very ancient and confused old lady with a gravely voice and think southern accent. Loves Jesus but drinks a little.

“Hello, blahblahblah.com. How may I help you?”

“Is this Jackie Turhune from somewherethefreakin Alabama”

“No, ma’am. This is “blahblahblah.com”.

“I need to speak to Jackie”

“There is no one named Jackie here, Ma’am”

“Oh. This isn’t 1-xxx-xxx-2255″

“No, Ma’am. This is 1-xxx-xxx-2555.”

“Oh. Okay”

Click

Ring…ring…

“Hello, blahblahblah.com. How may I help you?”

“Is this Jackie”

“No Ma’am. This is blahblahlbah.com.”

“I need to speak to Jackie Turhune from somewherethefreakin Alabama“

“Ma’am. You are dialing the wrong number. You need to dial 2255 and you are misdialing 2555.”

“Jackie isn’t there?”

“No, Ma’am. This is an online gardening center. I am an order desk.”

“Do you know Jackie?”

“No, Ma’am. I don’t. I am in Utah and Jackie is in somwherethefreakin Alabama.*”

“You know where Jackie lives?”

“Yes, Ma’am. You’ve told me the other 10 times you’ve called. You are dialing one digit wrong.”

“Oh, Okay.”

Click

Ring…Ring…

(Repeat this type of call about 5 more times, each time trying to explain why she is getting an order desk instead of Jackie)

“Hello, blahblahblah.com. How may I help you?”

“NO, MA’AM. YOU ARE STILL DIALING THE WRONG NUMBER.”

“Well, I only have one hand. They cut the other one off”

(Long pause. The drama queen in me wanted to know why the freak they would cut off a hand, but there was no way I could spend more time with this woman on the phone. Maybe a gator got it.)

“I am very sorry about that ma’am. Maybe you will have to wait to talk to Jackie until someone can dial the phone for you.”

“Are you sure Jackie Turhune isn’t there?”

“Yes. I.am.very.sure.”

“Could you dial that number for me?”

“No, ma’am I cannot dial the phone number for you.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Well, I am not an operator for the telephone company. I am also in Utah and you are in Buttfreakingbayou, Lousiana*. I would have to drive an hour to get to the Salt Lake City airport, fly to Lousiana, land in Shreveport, take two cabs a bus and most likely a riverboat to find your house, then dial the phone.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Click

Ring…Ring…

(Repeat a variation of THIS call about 5 MORE times. I am not exaggerating. AT ALL. By now most of my co-workers were gathered around me listening to the comedy that ensued.)

“HELLO! This is absolutely NOT JACKIE TURHUNE from somewherethefreakin Alabama. This is LORALEE from blahblahblah.com.“

“Is this Jackie?”

“NO! This is NOT JACKIE!”

“Could you give Jackie a message for me?”

“Ma’am I am not answering the phone for you anymore. Goodbye.”

Click

Ring…Ring…Ring…Ring…Ring…Ring…Ring…RING…RING…RING! RING!! RING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Hello?”

“Is this Jackie?”

“Why, YES! It IS! This is Jackie Turhune from Somewherethefreakin Alabama! If this is Hettie from Buttfreakinbayou, Lousiana, please rip up my number and never, EVER call me again!! Thank you!!!”

Click

No, I don’t work at this call center anymore, or anywhere anymore, but if Jon were to get hit by a bus tomorrow, this would pretty much be all I am qualified to do despite having more college credits than most PhD students. (And no. Just waltzing in and getting a degree in SOMETHING is not an option. It’s a long story.)

Yippee.

I’ve been thinking and worrying about it lately. It seems like everything I am good at is low-paying, non-paying or generally non-marketable. If I don’t think of something to do with my life, I’m going to be stuck having conversations like this forever.

*My apologies to any bloggity readers/friends from Somewhereinthefreak Alabama or Buttfreakingbayou Louisiana. No offense meant.

Thank you for all your thoughts and words from yesterday’s post. I still have very little information and am basically sitting here feeling anxious and worried and kind of nauseated. I thought at this point that I would be able to do something to help. You know, like running around ripping up sheets and boiling hot water and wailing, “I don’t know nothing about birthing no babies, Miss Scarlett!”, or something. That I would be busy, busy, BUSY contributing and helping.

The reality is far different.There is nothing that I can do right now and it is driving me absolutely BATTY, so I’m going to write and try to get my mind off of things until I have more information.

Remember when I said I was going to make a goal to stay off of Diet Coke, caffeine, carbonation, and aspartame until I was finished with The Messiah?

I DID IT.

I didn’t cheat even once. I didn’t even take Excedrin.

After my performance, I was STARVING. (Performing takes a lot out of you.) I went to dinner with my hubs and some friends. After thinking about it for a minute, I ordered a Diet Coke. I had had a really stressful, shitty day and I had turned away from it so many times in the past, I just wanted one. The last time I had soda was weeks before and knowing it was going to be a long time without it, I made the most of it.

See?

So?

I got one. With Lime. Mmmm….

I was so happy when it came out.

“HELLO, LOVER! Let us go into a dark corner and make sweet, sweet love.”

Even the condensation on the outside of the glass tasted yummy.

However, when push came to shove and I really looked at taking a sip of something that I had stayed away from for so long, I really hesitated. It was almost scary, actually. “Will? Won’t I? I’m scared! Hold me!”

I hemmed and hawed for about 2 minutes. Finally, I took a sip…

“DEEEEELICOUS!” It was almost an orgasmic little party in my mouth. (I cringe at the pervy Google searches this will produce.)

Afterglow. Sigh…

So, there it is. I imbibed in “The Dark Waters” once again.

Thing is? While I liked it, I barely finished my one drink and I used to go through at least three of these puppies in a meal.Besides proving to myself that I could actually give up a huge obsession in my life and not die, my main goal in going without it for so many weeks was to break the “Chain Drinking” habit that I’ve had. I wanted to be able to have Diet Coke be a “Treat” instead of a NEED.

I am also going to try to stick to being caffeine-free. Luckily, caffeine-free sodas are plentiful in Utah, so I will always try to go that option first and stick to smaller sized sodas instead of my usual 44 oz. size.

If I am thirsty enough for a 44 oz, I’ll stick with water or SoBe Lean.

Thanks for listening to me drone on about this trivial nonsense. I feel better and it got my mind off of things for a little bit.

I’m happy I have a place to go.