Kevin chose moderation and had a hamburger and fries.

I…did not. I had a hamburger and fries and a chili dog. *hides face in shame*

But I have no regrets. Tomorrow is a new day, fresh with no hotdogs…err…mistakes in it.

Haha. Break it down.

It was a hot Friday in June. This June. So like, one month and a couple of days ago. I was doing what any good gardener does early that morning — watering my precious plants. That day my husband had to be at a professional development seminar about 15 minutes away, so he was up early that morning as well. I had lots planned for the day. The next morning we were leaving to fly back east for our extremely delayed trip to visit his parents and a few other family members. There was laundry to be done, dishes to wash, animals to care for, and of course, because I don’t do things until the last minute — bags to be packed.

Kevin leaned out the back door to tell me he was leaving. I smiled and waved, continuing on with my task. Watering took me about another 10 minutes and then I decided to plant a shrub that had needed to be in the ground weeks before. It was on the front porch so I headed to the back door to take a short cut through the house. The handle turned, but the door didn’t open.

Hmm. Must be stuck.

I pushed harder. Nothing. The deadbolt was locked.

Now, I wasn’t immediately angry. Just aggravated. Like I said, history of breaking and entering and all that, I’m pretty good at getting out of jams. I’m resourceful. So I assessed the situation.

1. There was no going through the backdoor. It’s brand new with good locks and there’s just no messing it up to get in the house.
2. My phone was in the house
3. Every other door into my house was locked.
4. All the windows were locked.
5. All of my harmless neighbors had already left for work.
6. I wasn’t sufficiently dressed to go knocking on doors. It was 8 a.m. Can I get an “amen” from a lady who knows what I’m talking about?

It was much worse than I had originally thought.

But then I remembered. We have a really old door on the back of the garage that needed to be replaced anyway, so I thought I could just knock off the door knob like they do in movies and make my way in.

First I wanted to see if I could slam into the thing with my shoulder and get in that way.

I hurt my shoulder. The door didn’t move.

I grabbed a brick and went at the door knob. Bang. Bang. BANG. Nothing. I should tell you that the door knob was already pretty badly torn up from when my old dog, Lulu, had her nervous breakdown and would chew on it. And the underneath side of the door. Thanks, Lu. I wouldn’t have made it inside the house if it weren’t for you. I went at it with the brick for another 10 minutes or so with no results.

Then I grabbed the hoe. Stuck it behind the door knob and thought I could just pop that thing right off there.

Then I broke the hoe.

As a last resort, I tried to stick my hand up under the door to see how much further up the door knob was so that maybe I could unlock it. It was a long way. I tried unlocking it from the other side with a stick. Didn’t work. I tried pulling a MacGuyver and using some tough grass as a key. I think you can imagine how that went.

While my hand was under there I felt the ax handle and I pulled it out.

FYI, there’s no ax head on the end of the handle. Just so we’re clear.

I tried loosening the door knob with the ax handle. That didn’t work. Then I tried breaking away the bottom of the door with it. I did see some progress there, but I was quickly losing hope. I had been locked out for about 40 minutes at this point and was nearing tears. There’s just something about being locked out of your house, you know?

And then the dog walked over and laid down beside me and I knew — I was going to die out here.

With one final burst of adrenaline, the kind that makes me believe that YES, I can give birth to a baby someday like my ancestor did out in the woods without any IV drips, I grabbed the handle and plowed through that door. Chopped about a quarter of it down. I reached up under that door and unlocked it.

Sweet relief. I was in the house. And as soon as I was inside, the phone rang. I ran to answer it, out of breath for so many reasons. It was my mom.

“I have been trying to call you. Why weren’t you answering the phone.”

WAIL.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I…was…locked…out of the house [sobbing commences].”

“Well how did that happen?”

“Kevin locked me out!”

(I should probably mention that my time outside had been spent alternately praying and plotting how I would kill my husband.)

“Well, he didn’t mean to.”

And then she laughed. And I was in no mood for it. She could tell and we weren’t on the phone much longer.

As I was in the middle of typing a not-so-nice text message to my husband, the phone rang again and I answered it all pitiful, expecting it to be my mom again.

Instead, it was an administrator calling to set up an interview with Kevin. An interview for a job that he needed. That we needed. There was no time for being upset. And that was nice of God to intervene in that way because, seriously? I was about to Throw. Down. For the next 45 minutes I had to work on contacting Kevin at this meeting he was at, which proved to be very difficult when he had his phone on silent, but I finally managed to get a hold of him. He had the interview right then and we found out a few weeks later that he got the job.

And that’s how I busted through the door with an ax (handle).

Long before I stepped on my first flight (3 years ago at age 22) I was a fan of the A&E show Airline (it’s streaming on Netflix so go check it out!). It was an early reality-based TV show that actually showed what the people of Southwest Airlines did on a day-to-day basis and not some cooked up drama. I love flying through BWI because most of the time I see one of the ladies that I used to watch every week. The show is really entertaining (to me at least, but you have to keep in mind that at the time I wanted to be a flight attendant) and can be hilarious at times. I mean, drunk people in an airport, trying to get on a plane. Or drunk people who have missed their flight. Or drunk people who swear they aren’t drunk and if you don’t let them on that plane then by George you’ll regret it because they are missing their own wedding to a person they met in the bar at this very airport one month ago (actual plot from an episode). Common denominator here — drunk people. Coming from a family of teetotalers, drunk people are hilarious to me, especially the ones making royal fools of themselves in public.

The thing is I’ve never run into anyone drunk in an airport. Ever. Haven’t witnessed a scene of any kind. But Airline had prepared me for what I might encounter, so whenever I was boarding the plane in Denver to fly to Philly and felt someone bump into me and sort of get all up on me, I tried not to react because I had an idea of what I might be in for. Well, then this woman started shaking my shoulder and saying, “Excuse me, excuse me please, can you tell me where I need to be?” Her voice sounded familiar and I turned to check out the number on her boarding pass to help her find her place in line.

Oh. My. Lands.

It is a drunk.

It’s Meredith from The Office.

DRUNK MEREDITH.

Okay, it was Kate Flannery, but in my mind I am thinking DRUNK MEREDITH FROM THE OFFICE IS RIGHT HERE. I am not sure how many different faces my countenance contorted into at that moment, but I know my eyes were as big as saucers. Somehow I remained composed, checked out the number on her boarding pass, and told her that she was in front of us.

All the while, Kevin is deep in conversation with this guy about the Big 12 and what’s happening to it and yada yada, he doesn’t even notice that DRUNK MEREDITH is standing right in front of him. She is a pretty tiny lady, but still. So I’m kind of jabbing him but he doesn’t really respond because he’s used to me doing that sort of thing. And because I’m afraid he’s going to miss this or that the internet won’t believe me when I return with my tale, I dig around for my phone and snap the best picture I could get in that lighting. My real camera is a little too serious looking and I didn’t want to scare her or think I was some weirdo.

He finally responds to all my poking and prodding by turning around and saying, “Do you see who that is?!” And I’m thinking, No, I’ve only been poking your ribs for the past minute in a half to annoy you. But I just nod. By this time, Ms. Flannery has started eating an Egg McMuffin and I was really really hoping that Kevin would just let her be. But do you know Kevin? Okay. And the thing is, he’s sneaky. Quiet. Almost a creeper, but not quite. He’s very good at jumping out and scaring people. And really, his cunning is rivaled only by that of some African jungle cat. I’m pretty sure we put it on the table during our premarital counseling that he is never allowed to sneak up on me or scare me in anyway. Like my mother, I am highly susceptible to those types of attacks.

And what did Kevin do? He leaned down next to her and whispered, “We’re really big fans of the show.” She turned, smiling, enjoying her Egg McMuffin and said, “Aww, thanks.” That began a conversation between the two of them that I listened to but really didn’t participate in because it’s DRUNK MEREDITH and all my life I have wondered what I would do if I encountered a celebrity of any caliber and what I did know was that I would not be annoying. Shoot, sometimes I hate it when people start talking to me out of the blue. Imagine if people did that everywhere you went. That sounds like my worst nightmare (next to the movie Breakdown, but you know what I mean).

She was gracious and very pleasant, answered Kevin’s questions about her favorite episodes to be in (The Wedding), and went on her way to her seat. Whenever we got off the plane 4 hours later I asked Kevin not to bother her again, even though she didn’t put off the vibe that he was bothering her. And what happens? She approaches him while we’re waiting for our baggage and strikes up a conversation! What a nice woman.

Kate, you’re the only celebrity I have ever accidentally run into. And only the third famous person I’ve met in my life (the other two being Nicholas Sparks and Tom Lester aka Eb from Green Acres). And it was really nice to meet you. Thank you for putting up with us crazy Office fans.

And the best part, by far, is what she said to Kevin when they first started talking. “Sorry I’m just eating an Egg McMuffin and not drinking.”

Here’s where I’ll admit to you that the Blues Festival going on in town wasn’t exactly our cup of tea. There were lots and lots of bikers. Really, the town was over run. There was a lot of stuff you couldn’t get to or see because of the large crowds this festival drew. I would love to go back and check out what I missed.

The one photo I took of any bikers.

Later that evening went a little ways past our cabins to The Rowdy Beaver.

Kevin had a steak. I had what I always have, given the chance…

…a pound of cold shrimp. Yum.

I wonder how much I would have to eat to get The Gout. That’s what we call it around here. I had an uncle one time who came down with The Gout. Not “gout,” The Gout.

Then we drove down some winding mountain roads to go see a natural bridge that it turned out you had to pay for and we weren’t into paying to see it. I mean, you couldn’t see what was on the other side so you didn’t know exactly what you’re paying for. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve been to the state fair and have seen the sign for the “Man Eating Chicken.”

I did take a picture of a rock though.

And then I had Kevin stop alongside the road so I could get a shot of this house. Because it looks like the same house in my favorite children’s book — The Year of the Perfect Christmas Tree by Gloria Houston. The illustrations by Barbara Cooney are fantastic.

By the end of that day I was ready to get back to our cabin, relax, and enjoy a long bath, a cup of tea…and a Slim Jim.

We spent our first anniversary in Eureka Springs, Arkansas at The Grand Treehouse Resort. I had heard good things about it from a number of people, but the credit goes to Aura for the idea. When she posted some photos from the place on her blog a while back I knew that we had to visit. We were not disappointed.

When Kevin called to make our reservation there was one cabin left — Sanctuary Treehouse. They were expecting a lot of people in town over those few days for the Blues Weekend (which we would learn more about later) and so we went ahead and took their last cabin. It was perfect.

And Kevin liked the door.

One of my favorite things about the cabin was the symmetry. I’m so OCD that repeated patterns can really get to me, but give me a room that is about as perfectly symmetrical as it can be and somewhat minimalist…and I’m in heaven. Really, from the moment we stepped through the door I knew why they named it Sanctuary.

Of course I couldn’t pass up the symmetry. Perfect photo op. Also, FACT: I meant to have pictures taken at our wedding with Kevin and I together with our Macs — him with his white one and me with my black.

Loved the bed. The sheets were comfy and again, the decor of the room was so relaxing. Couldn’t have asked for anything more perfect on our anniversary.

My one complaint was the big window up there. I loved it during the day, but between 5 and 6am on a weekend that you want to get some extra sleep? I needed some blackout curtains. BAD. For the record, thanks to the early sunrise I saw my husband awake the earliest I’ve ever seen him on a weekend.

Loved the tub, shower, and sink. I took every opportunity to get into the tub that I could. It was enormous.

Oh, and I almost forgot…

Just as I almost forgot to take a picture before we devoured it. The owners have The Most Fabulous Cheesecake waiting for you in the refrigerator, along with some delicious orange juice. Even Kevin, who doesn’t enjoy regular cheesecake, liked the chocolate (he gets whatever cheesecake is loaded down with peanut butter, chocolate, and cookie dough whenever we go to The Cheesecake Factory).

The balcony was the perfect place to have my 6am cup of coffee. Just enough breeze, not yet hot, and the flowers…you see them? They are exactly the same color as the stained glass windows in the entry. They carried their theme very well.

Next up, I’ll share some of our experience in town. It was…interesting. And we weren’t expecting what we walked into. Which was almost equivalent to the Sturgis Rally.

Then the verse hit me. The verse that Kevin and I first memorized together whenever we were still doing that.

But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if anything but death separates you and me.” – Ruth 1:16 & 17

I’ve kept it a secret from almost everyone until now and I’m only telling because it feels particularly timely.

Where you go, I will go…

This little Oklahoma girl’s heart is right here. It does not want to leave. And I think that inscription felt safe because I never expected it to be challenged. I meant it, but I didn’t imagine “going” might mean “leaving.”

How a year can change a situation. Within two months of our wedding we were both working in the same local school, both happy, excited, and getting acquainted with our new jobs. It wasn’t until about 6 months later that we heard rumblings. And then rumors. And then concrete bad news that some people would not be coming back. The first people to feel the cuts would be the first year, temporary contract teachers (Kevin).

Our jobs are up in the air. At this point, neither of us know if we will be coming back and won’t know for possibly 2 weeks. I won’t lie, it’s scary. Not scary because I think we’ll starve or lose our house or our cars or anything like that. We are already blessed beyond measure to have a support system that simply would not allow that to happen. But it’s scary because I’ve never been there before. Never been without. Never truly in need.

The thing is though, both my husband and I have faith. Sometimes I’ve wondered if I have it easier than other people because I can’t remember a time when I doubted that God would come through. I know not all people see that as a positive, but I don’t care. Kevin and I have made it to this place where we don’t know what is going to happen, but we know that we’ll make it through, no matter what we have to do to make that happen. Things may not go as planned, but we will be okay. We may not know where we are going right now, but we are going together.

(And because I never did, I’m posting some of my favorite wedding photos after the cut. Sorry if the cut doesn’t work in readers!)

And so it continued. Anyone I met in college knew me as Liz. But it beat all things. I don’t know what it is about me. Perhaps I am entirely forgettable. I hated it that people would approach me for the second, third, sometimes fourth time and would introduce themselves to me.

“Hi, I’m…Liz.”

My personality isn’t loud. Unless you are someone I am close to I wouldn’t even dare to call it bold. But introducing myself as “Liz” over and over again got so tiresome. Not only that, but do you know the kind of hit one’s tiny little heart takes at the thought of being forgotten — multiple times?

After 5 years, I tried to give it up. I’m still forever introducing myself as Elizabeth. No one ever called me “Liz” or one of its variations until college. My little nickname is what my husband knows me by and calls me on a regular basis. I’m fine with that. A bit like the Keira Knightly Pride & Prejudice when Mr. Darcy only refers to her as Mrs. Darcy when he is “completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.” That, I can deal with.

I’m such a fickle creature. On one hand, I loved that some people felt close enough to shorten my name. On the other, I hated the assumption that my given name was something as short as “Liz.” (No offense to those it belongs to.) I never felt any affinity for the nickname. The only pet name that ever seemed sweet and like something I could handle being called on a semi-regular basis is the one my Granny calls me — Lizzybeth. It’s better than my older cousins calling me Lizard Breath as a child.

Don’t go getting any ideas though.

Do you have any nicknames? Where did they come from? How do you feel about them?

Thank you, @LamarOKC.