The Trouble with Hobby Lobby

Since Marc, Bill, and I have moved out to the farm and the farmhouse, I've been in nesting mode. And with nesting comes a lot of Pinterest, and wandering around God's gift to the modern world: Hobby Lobby. 

Since we've moved Marc has also turned into quite the carpenter. He's made a bench for our kitchen table, a coat hanger, and another bench for our entryway. It all looked amazing, but in typical Brianna fashion, I thought it needed the "Joanna Gaines" touch. Which brought me to hobby lobby. That's where the trouble started. 

The bench Marc built for the entry way had three little cubbies I needed some baskets for (excellent hiding place for knick knacks and whatnots when I don't want to organize my mess). Well, while I was in Hobby Lobby, I got lost in the decor, pillows, and fake plants. I left with not only baskets, but a decorative pillow and a little baby plastic plant to decorate our bench. 

When I got home I nervously and slowly dropped the bomb on Marc. I told him I got a couple more things, ALL ON SALE, while I was at the store. Like usual, he smiled and told me how things are always more than what they need to be and "sales" are a scam and blah blah blah. The point I caught was that he was open to what I bought and that he trusted my judgement. 

So I set up all my new first world things and stood back to take a look at it all... not bad but something didn't look right. I wasn't sure if the pillow and the fake plant looked cheesy. The plant really looked realistic, but a real plant would never be stuck in a bench with no natural light near it. But I left it all set up to test out if I liked it or not. Give it some time to marinate. 

That's when Marc came in and I asked him to tell me what he thought. Now Marc HATES throw pillows; thinks they are completely unnecessary and ridiculous so I had already prepared myself for some kind of comment about that. He just looked at it and said he wasn't sure he liked it. Fair enough, I didn't know if I liked it either, yet I pressed him for more about WHY he didn't like it. 

So he was honest and said, "It just looks tacky to me. I don't understand why you like it." 

Now this was a totally normal comment, and one that was not meant to be hurtful. Yet when I heard that, my female brain translated it to, "I hate that! You have tacky taste and I don't get why you even picked that out!" 

I was hurt so I just said "Okay." Took everything but the baskets out and packed it all back in the bags for the drive of shame to be returned. 

As I packed everything up, I just kept repeating to myself "You have bad taste." Over and over in my head. I wanted to say something to Marc, but I knew what I'd internalized wasn't what he had said and it certainly wasn't what he had meant so I just kept it to myself and tried to get over it. 

Bad idea. The longer I let it sit, the more I couldn't forget about it, and the quieter I got. I can only be quiet for so long though so I finally spilled it all the next morning on Marc. I told him that it was stupid but I couldn't get over it till I told him and I explained that when he said that the pillow and plant looked tacky, I internalized it as though I had tacky taste. 

As I said it I realized how ridiculous it sounded (and still sounds so I'm a little embarrassed to share this), but man it felt good to get it all out! Marc apologized and assured me that he thought I had good taste. Now we joke about it every now and then and poke fun at Hobby Lobby and throw pillows.

Learning how to communicate is a funny thing isn't it? And the longer I'm married, the more I'm seeing how emotional I am, and the more I'm trying to learn when to let things go and when to vocalize them.

Bottom line is to marry someone who is willing to listen to you when you're being ridiculous and work through your emotions with you... ANYWAYS! I recently had a crafternoon and made a wreath! And I got all the materials to make it at... (drumroll please) HOBBY LOBBY! 

Here are some pictures of my DIY. And everything was half off ;) 

Why I'm Not Allowed to Drive

With the close of wheat harvest 2017, I've been getting a lot of questions about whether I've been helping drive grain cart or semi or any of the other machinery. While most of the inquiries I assume are not serious in nature (most everyone knows I moved to the farm from suburbia 6 months ago) but all the same I think I need to set the record straight on my current track record.

A little under a year ago, while I was visiting Marc and the farm, some friends, Marc, and I decided to go four-wheeling. Marc and I rode in the Gator with Marc's dog, Bill in the back, while our friends Chris and Sarrong took the other two four-wheelers. 

Naturally, I wanted to drive, and my obliging boyfriend gave me the keys and some loose instructions on the brake and the gas and blah blah blah. Off we went! 

At first things were going well, I was a little hesitant and took my time; staying on the little dirt paths left by trucks and four-wheelers who had traversed before me.

"I'm basically a pro." I thought and simultaneously stomped on the gas pedal a little harder. Nothing terrible happened so I decided to off-road a little bit. At first, Marc helped direct me which way to go so as to avoid felled trees and the river, but as we zipped around and my confidence went up, he stopped paying attention. 

It was so exhilarating to be driving around with my long-distance boyfriend, hair flying in the wind (which I always imagine looks like perfect Pocahontas hair), and the smell of exhaust burning into our clothes and hair. I completely got wrapped up in the romance and splendor of it all that I stopped paying attention too... 

All at once my heart skipped a beat, not at the romance of the situation, at the impending doom I had placed our little party in the Gator in. We were heading down a hill a little too fast and a little too lop-sided. It felt like I'd roll the Gator if I stopped, so I eased off the gas but kept driving. While I'm trying to process what to do with my limited experience - Marc starts yelling "Stop. Stoppp. STOP!" at me. What he was saying didn't really sink in until I looked over and saw my beaux leap from the passenger seat out into the chest-high grass. Then I stopped. 

My eyes swept from Marc, to Bill, and then paused as I passed back by Marc's seat. A fairly large stick, attached to a felled tree, had impaled the passenger seat and was poking right where Marc's farming tush had seconds before been resting. 

I couldn't say anything. I turned the Gator off and just sat there, hands covering my mouth and nose. Marc didn't say anything either. But we were silent for two different reasons. I was shocked, scared, and embarrassed, while Marc was frustrated and in pain. Even though the biggest butt-impaling stick had missed him, several other smaller sticks had made minor marks in his chest and leg.

As I sat there petrified that I'd almost killed my boyfriend and his dog, seconds felt like hours. 

"Are you okay?" Marc finally said a few seconds later, "Here come here." He leaned in over the seat and gave me a kiss. "It's okay, we'll replace the seat." ...

What a guy. 

Thankfully, now we look back on that story and laugh and see it as a moment we were able to see how we reacted to accidents. Marc also still has a little mark on his chest where I almost shish kabobed him, and he uses it mercilessly to get his way in little arguments. 

So that, in a nutshell, is why I am not allowed to operate farm machinery. I ride along and entertain instead... at least till the Gator memory wears off. ;)