Monday, 5 November 2012

Whichever Comes First, For Better Or Worse.

The secret to marriage is knowing that there is no secret. You just fumble along like everybody else, wondering if you're going to make it through.

I had a beautiful black and white wedding photograph of Dave and I printed off and framed. Before our first year of marriage was out, I pegged that beautifully framed photo so far off our back deck I didn't even see where it landed. Why? Because marriage is BULLSHIT that's why.

Months later, the broken and forlorn photo was found out in the bush. I just laughed and stuck it up on the fridge.


A little grubby and water-stained. 

Last Friday we watched the stunning Lorraine and her new husband Wade excitedly cut their wedding cake.

It was magical, inspiring, and so full of promise. Congratulations, beautiful people!

Exactly seven years ago today, Dave and I were cutting our own wedding cake:

It doesn't take long to cut a donut!

Recently, Dave and I finally watched our bridal dance in full, for the first time ever. CRINGEWORTHY.

We actually took private dance lessons for two months beforehand, to blow everybody out of the water during "Fly Me To The Moon." Unfortunately neither of us knew that I am not one to be "led" by a man, ever. I completely stuffed the whole thing, it was a shambles ...  quite telling, really. You plan and plan, expect something completely different to what actually happens.

This past year has possibly been our biggest ever, together. We keep falling in love, over and over. I tell you what, when I have this guy in my corner .... I can do anything.

I woke up yesterday morning like I always do - full of panic, doubt, and worry. He walked in and asked if I wanted a coffee. I told him I didn't feel good. He told me it doesn't matter how I felt, I was loved. When I think about how much I have grown and learnt since I've been with him, I cry.

Yesterday I gave him a new teapot to celebrate seven years marriage, twelve years together. It's teal, to match his motorbike. And it's a teapot for one - I leave for India in less than a week. I told him that while I'm away he is to make his cup of tea like he always does, so ridiculously early every morning ... and think of me.

Last night I read this out to him, I'm not sure who wrote it.  (Sunday left it as a comment on Sweetney's blog almost a year ago and I've never forgotten it.)

I WOULD DATE YOU SO HARD, AND THEN MARRY THE SHIT OUT OF YOU.
THEN RAISE THE FUCK OUT OF OUR KIDS!
AND GIVE YOU ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING LOVE AND SUPPORT YOU’D EVER FUCKING NEED.
AND PAY THE HELL OUT OF THAT FUCKING MORTGAGE.
AND THEN WHEN THE GUTTERS ARE CLOGGED I’LL GET UP THAT FUCKING LADDER AND CLEAN THAT SHIT UP WHILE YOU STAND BY THE KITCHEN WINDOW COMICALLY JUDGING MY WORK.
AND THEN WE CAN VACUUM THE FUCK OUT OF OUR CARPET SO HARD THAT WE’LL HAVE TO GET A NEW ONE.
WE’LL WASH OUR CLOTHES SO GODDAMN FUCKING HARD. FORGET NO RINSE, WE’LL USE HIGH FUCKING SPEED.
BUY A FUCKING MINIVAN TO STUFF OUR BEAUTIFUL FUCKING BABIES INTO IT AND DRIVE THE FUCK OUT OF IT.
THEN WE CAN GO SOME FUCKING PARENT-TEACHER MEETINGS AND MEET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR KID’S TEACHER. THEN JUDGE THE SHIT OF HER IN THE CAR.
AND WE CAN THEN PILE ALL THE CHILDREN IN THE FUCKING MINIVAN AND GO TO THE STORE AND SHOP FOR GROCERIES SO HARD THAT WE ACTUALLY HAVE TO MAKE MORE THAN TWO TRIPS TO GET ALL THAT SHIT INSIDE THE HOUSE.
AND THEN COOK THE FUCK OUT OF OUR KITCHEN UNTIL WE HAVE NO FOOD LEFT AND WE FEAST ON THAT SHIT FOR FUCKING DAYS.
I WILL EAT THE FUCK OUT OF YOUR HOMEMADE COOKIES.
THEN WASH THE SHIT OUT ON THE DISHES TOGETHER UNTIL OUR ENTIRE HANDS GET FUCKING PRUNEY.
WE’LL WATCH OUR KIDS FUCKING GRADUATE AND MOTHER FUCKING TEAR UP LIKE THE BADASS BOSSES WE FUCKING ARE.
WE WILL GROW SO DAMN OLD TOGETHER, WE WILL LOOK LIKE FUCKING RAISINS.
I WILL FUCKING TELL YOU EVERY SINGLE SECOND HOW MUCH I FUCKING LOVE YOU.
HOLDING EACH OTHER’S FUCKING HANDS SO HARD THAT WE SHIT OUR SELVES.
UNTIL WE DIE AND ROT AS MOTHERFUCKING CORPSES TOGETHER.
TIL DEATH DO US FUCKIN PART.
HAPPILY EVER FUCKING AFTER.




Davey Gravy, happy goddamn anniversary. Who knew we'd get here?

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