Editorial note: I was thrilled when I read in my dad’s blog earlier this week the terms “bloodbath” and “vice-like squeeze”  in reference to the market. As a personal writing challenge, I will attempt to use both of those terms in the following post… about being a bridesmaid.

I’m preparing myself to participate in a wedding as a bridesmaid for the third time. My first two attempts found me unmarried and, to be perfectly honest, uninterested in many of the goings-on of wedding etiquette. I’m truly amazed that I made it to the bridal showers with a gift, let alone with the obligatory games I was expected to prepare.

This time however, I’m more excited than ever before to participate in the blessed nuptials of my dear friend. After going through the whole bloodbath myself, I remember with sincere gratefulness the favors that our friends and family bestowed upon us - small details that made the day as memorable as it was. I remember our close friends flying in from all over the country to make it to our wedding despite the fact that they had been married themselves only a few days prior, or were to be married a few days afterward. My sister-in-law slaving away to bake our wedding cake and transport it safely from New Jersey to the reception. Friends and family picking up instruments they hadn’t played in years to practice over and over again for our processional and recessional.

So this time around, I have the opportunity to get all dolled up without fearing I’ll forget to have the officiant sign the marriage license. Instead I’m thinking up clever and creative ways to show my friend how much I love her and make her day a little less stressful. (Any great tips?)

Plus, I owe her a lot cause the bridesmaid dresses she’s looking at are GORGEOUS. Although after all the steak I ate in Argentina, I’m preparing myself for the vice-like squeeze it will take to get me into any of them.

It has officially begun. The time of year when I turn up the thermostat and Matt promptly turns it down. Thirty minutes later, I sneak into the dining room to push the needle a bit higher, hoping he won’t notice. While I’m in the bathroom, I hear the forced air turn off. I then proceed to put on a hoodie, an extra pair of socks and my robe (affectionately known as The Lime Green Monster) heading into the living room to sulk on the couch. Matt turns on the kettle to make some tea and kisses me on the forehead. AS IF THAT IS GOING TO HELP THE SITUATION!

Is this familiar to anyone else? I’ve resigned myself to spending all winter under a down comforter. And slipping arsenic into his chamomile tea.

From Daily Daguerreotype

A few years ago my good friend Steph sent me a “Virginia is for lovers” t-shirt for my birthday. It was one of those inside jokes that always makes me smile whenever I put it on, or whenever Matt pulls it out of my dresser because I haven’t gotten around to washing the whites yet and he needs something to go under a dress shirt.

While Virginia is a beautiful place and certainly one for lovers, I have to argue that after visiting Bariloche, Argentina, there is no place on earth where it’s easier to fall in love. Everywhere you look is a scenic vista that takes your breath away. And then you sit down to a dinner of grass-fed beef and local Malbec, it’s hard not to want to pour compliments out on every person in sight.

I’ve set this photo as the wallpaper on my computer because in one look it sums up all of the emotion that I felt while on our Argentinean vacation. This is the man I love and the place where I fell in love with him all over again.

When I was in college I sent Matt a flirtatious email informing him that I had just purchased a black Fender strat and needed someone to teach me lead guitar licks. He wrote back promising that he’d teach me the pentatonic blues scales if I drew some hand studies to hang in his apartment. Right about then was when I started telling people (including the guy I was dating) that I was going to marry Matt Hofmann, darnitalltoheck! Five years later, my ringed fingers can make it up and down the neck of a guitar rustily playing those blues scales, but I never got around to those hand studies. So here you go. Different medium, and a few years too late, but here it is.

From Daily Daguerreotype

We decided not to do gifts this year since we’re blowing our life’s worth to go to Argentina. But he’s taking me salsa dancing tonight, which is My Favorite-ist Thing To Do Ever. And Matt, I’ve got a gift for you. For the first time in about 45 years… I SHAVED MY LEGS!

Editor’s Note: He’s a hunka lunka burnin love. And here he is, your all-time favorite blogger, Matteo.

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Writing blog posts is a tiresome task for me unless I’ve got a worthy muse.  Or a nice bowl of mueslix. Today’s muse is my heart-on-her-sleeve, reserved yet resolved partner for life, Priscilla Band Hofmann. The mastermind behind this dope website you love to frequent. You may read this web log because you find what she says amusing.  You may come by to take a gander at the daily daguerreotype.  You may even come by to get a glimpse of her secret thought life that for some reason compels you to return each day.  You’ve learned a lot about the woman behind the light blue and yellow mask, but I want to give you insight into the day to day, dog walk to dog walk Experience.

The morning begins with our two alarm clocks playing call and response. Her alarm clock is across the room because there’s no room for a bedside table on her side of the bed. Why, you ask, is there no room? Well, because Berlin sleeps there, of course! Haven’t you been reading this blog at all? The needs of fluffy animals preclude any attention to her otherwise marginal personal preferences.  She’d happily stumble across the room 3 times a morning to hit the snooze (a bad habit I’m afraid I’m responsible for) just so that at any point in the night she can reach her hand down and scritch Berlin’s snout.

My schedule is variable, so I see Priscilla at different points during the morning routine. A few of my favorite elements: the sheet wrinkle mark on her cheek, the non verbal greeting/shrug during the first few lucid moments of the day, the pre-glasses grimace.  She’s never pretended to be “of the morning,” and why should she? Nothing fun happens in the morning. She’s got other parts of the day to focus on.  And as she will tell you, at any point in time she is having more fun than 9 out of 10 people in the immediate vicinity. Read those numbers and weep.

Throughout the work day there will come an occasional text message. Actual examples: “Guess who got a burrito with beans!”, “You are a reticulated giraffe.”, and “I love you more than I love Ikea.”  If one were given the task of summing up an individual’s personality based solely on that person’s text messaging, she would be a prime candidate. I mean, how much more would you need? Those of you who know her personally: Am I wrong?

But of course she’s so much more than that.

One of my favorite movie lines comes from As Good As It Gets with Jack Nicholson, or as we say in my family, Uncle Rich.  He plays an author who, when faced with the question of how he so accurately depicts women in his books, responds blithely: “I take a look at a man. Then I take away all reason and accountability.”  Priscilla and I battle about how different we are—“why do you have to be so rational all the time?” “I’m sorry, I just don’t see it any other way.”  For me, the five years we’ve been together have been an exercise in viewing the world through the eyes of a dreamer.  She may lament her generalist ways, but I’ve seen more great things accomplished by her in the past five years than I may be able to claim in my life.  Over 5 grand raised for breast cancer with 120 miles clocked on blistered feet.  A child in Burkina Faso comforted by her letters.  A workplace filled with people who know her faith.  Could any of these actions be called rational? And who’s keeping who accountable here?

Our evenings together consist usually of flopping on the couch in front of AFV and laughing at the fat guy on the slip’n’slide.  We do this because the work day is taxing.  Priscilla is a live-to-work turned work-to-live adherent, taking her highest joy from kicking back and enjoying the company of her family: the love-hungry puppy, the recalcitrant cat, and the guy who can’t seem to stop registering for more night classes.  Does she complain? Sometimes. You’ll have that.  Why shouldn’t she? I mean, I would.

But she lives for it. She lives for the good things in life: the excitement, the meaningful relationship, the connection between best friends.  Never let it be said that we’re only at half-throttle.  Because for her, that’s not a life worth living.  And I’ve learned volumes from this outlook.

Her music taste? Common knowledge. Her love for animals?  Please.  Her encyclopedic knowledge of sports? Bob Costas, go change your diaper.  We all know these things about Priscilla. But what you don’t know, dear reader, is what words can’t express.  And those things I will hold dear to the end, and gleefully keep all to myself.

Editor’s Note: So I know you’re chomping at the bit to hear from Daniel Fox, and I assure you that you will. But today’s post is being interrupted by a different guest blogger. That blogger is Priscilla’s relational side that needs to say a few things to her husband. She was going to post this on their upcoming anniversary, but a situation has arisen which adds both urgency and necessity to the picture. The whole world needs to hear because it’s the only way she can appropriately give weight to the her dreadfulness and the nature of her beloved.

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Monk,

I’ve spent the past five years of my life with you, which is the longest amount of time I’ve maintained interest in ANYTHING. I know you blame my short-term interests in my love of Animaniacs as a child; the show you claimed was for “hyper kids.” When you’ve climbed into bed, pulled the comforter up to your chin, and closed your eyes, and I suddenly run into the room to jump on the bed flopping all over your chest and crying out “Wake up! I want to play!” I can totally understand why you need to find SOMETHING to blame, even an innocent cartoon.

But I haven’t grown tired of you. And I can’t see myself ever growing tired of you. On the contrary, I feel like I’m just starting to get to know you. You’re the most complex and fascinating person I’ve ever met. I love the way your brain works, and I love that I don’t even really know how your brain works. I fell in love with your brain five years ago even though my brain could hardly keep itself focused on your brain because you kept walking around… being all tall, dark and handsome and whatnot. And that can NOT be blamed on Animaniacs, thankyouverymuch!

Before I met you I was erratic and unpredictable, even to myself. I haven’t lost my urge to do spontaneous things, nor have you doused my creativity. Instead I can walk forward with the plan (that was planned out!) and follow through on it (for the first time ever!) because with you I feel… safe.

I could never put into words the respect I have for you. You knew going into this how much I idolized my dad, how much I wanted to be just like him. And now I can say, and I know my dad would be happy to hear, that you are the one I want to be just like. I’ve never met anyone with such an inherent understanding of truth. Someone whose judgment is rarely blurred, and whose word is never compromised. You are a man that others respect, a person that others want to follow. And that’s why it makes complete Calvinistic sense to me that I wound up with you. Because it’s clear to everyone involved that I need your assistance in that area of my life.

With you I’ve found someone who embraces his inner nerd and adores mine. The plethora of jingles we’ve written about our pets is proof positive of that. With you I’ve mellowed, and can now appreciate the viewpoints of others who might disagree vehemently with me. With you I’ve found courage to try things I only ever dreamed of, knowing that to you I’ll never be a failure. With you I’ve learned that I don’t need to shout, or stand upside down on a rooftop, because I’m going to be heard.

I’m always going to be heard. You have no idea how good that feels.

And I’m always heard even when what I say is Bad News Bears.

We have worked so hard to develop that safe, communicative place with one another. After all of the hard work and all of those trips to see our crazy marriage counselor, you’d think we would have it down pat. But alas, I wind up thinking only about number one as has been the case lately, and I am a total jerk to you. I’ve dropped the ball, let you down, and hurt you.

Hurting you makes me feel more manic than all the heartache I’ve ever felt in my life. It makes me want to run away. And if I had a bike, I’d hop on it and drive to the end of the street and sit by the stop sign in hopes that being that far away from you would make my insides stop twisting. But my insides would twist away, because I can never have back the time I spent being hurtful to you, putting myself first, and acting like a child.

A week from today is our anniversary. Four years. Anniversaries and birthdays should always be a time of celebration, but somehow with us they’re always the days that wrecking balls are dropped on our relationship. And here we are, a week before that date and the wrecking ball has fallen and you have, for the 4,579th time, forgiven me. You have loved me and taken me back. You have fought for me and on my behalf. You have once again shown me that we can make it through anything.

A boy once kissed me and afterwards I looked up at him and said “You are SO out of my league.” It was the statement that did the whole relationship in.

But everybody here knows it, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. MATTHEW HOFMANN, YOU ARE SO OUT OF MY LEAGUE. I don’t care if it goes to your head because it SHOULD. And I know that it won’t do the whole relationship in, because I’ve said worse things to you and we’ve survived.

All of this needs to be said to you NOW because I want next Thursday night. I want our anniversary for US. Just like I want 10 days with you in Patagonia… all to myself. Because it’s not vacation if you’re not having sex.

And maybe on Thursday night, maybe then we can sit at the dining room with takeout from Bobs Food and a glass of cheap wine and revel in each others’ company. You choose the music. Seriously.

I owe you my life and my sanity and all of the happiness that I currently possess. It’s all because of you.

Entreat me not to leave you or to return from following after you. For 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 will I be buried. May the Lord do that to me and more if anything but death parts me from you.