My dear friend and honorary little sister, Karen, recently popped a link up on Facebook from a site called Thought Catalog: “I Want a Tuesday Kind of Love.”

As soon as I was finished reading it, I was struck by how much of it resonated with me, and reminded me of life with my husband: our practical-yet-silly, remarkable-yet-routine-at-times, life-changing-yet-comfortable little world.

My parents have this kind of love, too. That’s probably why I was able to see the potential we had when we met, but mostly I was startled by how comfortable Gradon made me, and how quickly. That’s a funny thing, to be sure: to be thrown off track by the arrival of balance. But I was.

In the years prior to meeting him, I’d done the usual amount of idealizing and romanticizing and pining that many young women do, especially those with any sort of access to romantic comedies and love songs and magazines with headlines on the cover like, “10 Tips for Your Most Amazing Relationship” or “Finding Mr. Right… Right Now!”

I was too dumb to duck my head down out of the clouds at times, and too heartbroken to get up from my fainting couch and keep walking, at others.

Gradon’s arrival on the scene made me realize that my romance novel — not the one I’d been handed, but the one inside of me — looked a hell of a lot more like a Day Planner.

It’s not sexy, but it’s true.

But it’s also not without bumps in the road.

This very weekend, we had two arguments, after not having any arguments for quite a while. They were both fairly dumb arguments: I’ll spare you the gory details, but one involved me not apologizing (I did something stupid and didn’t seem even remotely sorry, and he became upset at my lack of sorry), and the other one involved me ignoring something he wanted to do because I was being… uh… ignorant. So, if you’re keeping score, I was the cause of both of them… but his taking offense lit the match, and I added the requisite fuel with my response.

In the first instance, I got quite upset and emotional, and ended up tearfully apologizing (eventually.)

In the second instance, I apologized at first, but then went absolutely ice cold, and got mad that he got mad.

Here’s what they had in common, these two arguments: they were both, while about something, not really about the something they were about. They were evidence of two overtired people with busy lives and some very specific pressures and situations to deal with who slowed down long enough to let themselves get cranky, and who needed to take that crank out on someone who wasn’t going to freak out in a problematic way.

If you freak out at someone on the T, you might get beaten up.

If you freak out at work, you might get fired.

If you freak out at a friend, you might get a reputation for being an ass, and more importantly, lose a friend.

If you freak out at someone in a store, you might not get your ice cream.

Freak out at your spouse? Maybe some yelling. A slammed door? Sure. Perhaps a silent car ride, one way.

At least that’s what it looks like for us, because that’s all we let it be. We believe the flip side of loving and cherishing all the ordinary aspects of being in a relationship and the day-to-day awesome… well, it’s being practical about the moments that suck, too.

If I don’t expect the best days to be roses and sunsets and unicorns, I can’t let the bad days be the Apocalypse. And, if anything, that’s been the hardest part of marriage for me.

I’m good at caring for my partner in practical, simple ways, and at not building up romantic gestures as the be all, end all of love. But I’m not quite so good at realizing that conflict and fights and hurt feelings are not the end of the world.

If I hurt a friend’s feelings, I worry they’ll never speak to me again. If I upset my parents, I feel like I’ve broken their hearts instead of just pissing them off a bit. And of course, I’ll do it again to everyone in time, even if I don’t mean to, and then I’ll fuss some more until I’m bright red and sleepless and not just a little loopy. It’s not my best quality. Ask anyone who knows me well.

But to be honest, it took me by surprise in my relationship. I always thought I’d have a healthy attitude towards conflict in marriage, since I’d seen my parents fight (unlike many of my friends), and their fights never led to the end of their relationship (unlike many of my friends’ parents.) As it turns out, however, my natural tendency to develop the worst case scenario isn’t as selective as I’d like. Or as Gradon would like.

We’ve worked on it, though, and will continue to.

We’ll patch up, and we’ll move on.

We’ll learn to handle our stress better in time, and to recognize when we’re experiencing it.

We’ll learn to listen first, to forgive faster, to drop things once they’ve been dealt with, and to keep the drama to a dull roar.

I didn’t know I was a Day Planner until I found the man I wanted to be with all of those days, from Sunday to Saturday… even if we argue the night before.

And on this Tuesday, because of him, I remain very much in love.

It seems funny to do an “About Me” page since, well… the blog is “About Me.”

But what is the Internet for, if not redundancy?

I was born in 1974, along with People Magazine, Dungeons and Dragons, the Volkswagen Rabbit, and UPC labels.

Despite this, I am not a celebrity, a wizard, as compact as I wish to be, or digitally scannable.

My actual birthday, April 19th, would later see many newsworthy events, among them the end of the Branch Davidian Standoff, the tragedy of the Oklahoma City Bombings, and the election of Pope Benedict XVI.

Other baby girls born that year? Kate Moss, Posh Spice, Alanis Morrissette, Jenna Jameson, Natasha Henstridge, and Andrea Corr. Good heavens.

The boys? Steve Nash, Derek Jeter, Jose Vidro, Tim Henman, and Leonardo DiCaprio.

I don’t think I have anything in common with any of those people. I’ve certainly never dated Gisele Bundchen.

I have a BA in English and Political Science, partly because I meant to go to law school, but mostly because both subjects allowed me to be incredibly vague and meandering.

I’ve worked as a nanny, a barista, a camp counselor, a program director, an election official, a marketing content specialist, and a multi-genre freelance writer. Now I write a lot of different things for a living. Most of which you likely have not read — and if you have, you probably don’t know I wrote it.

I’ve never: been on a reality show; thrown a firecracker at anyone; been arrested; thrown a fit at anyone in customer service; caused a car accident; written a book; or killed a man just to watch him die.

I spend way too much money on organic ANYTHING, and would rather be outside, given the option. Unless there are bees. Granted, bees are organic, too… but you have to draw the line somewhere.

I have: jumped off a cliff; been suspended from a bible school; eaten a spider; thrown a javelin into the sidelines of a track meet by accident; and consumed 35 shots of espresso in one day.

I have taught: windsurfing; snorkeling; basic grammar; kindergarten art; and how to administer epinephrine to a navel orange.

I am: married to the world’s most patient man as of October 2011; klutzy; emphatic; email-addicted; a hand-talker; prone to wheezing laughter; and vehemently opposed to a lack of cowbell.

I know how to: make a really good pie; grill the tastiest lemon chicken known to man; swear in eight languages; convince almost any baby to stop crying; break multiple bones (of my own) in a single mishap; and do convincing accents over the phone, if need be.

I refuse to: call any man “Daddy” except my father; cheer for the Broncos or the Cowboys; eat anything banana-flavoured that isn’t a banana; wear pants with more than three zippers; run naked through the streets of Bountiful, Utah; or put on shoes unless I have to.

I might try to: write a novel; go kiteboarding; live in Prague, appear on a billboard in Times Square; buy a pair of shoes I actually like; and stop doing that weird thing with my nose. Or not. Anything is possible (though I don’t see my nose changing anytime soon.)

I’m better at laughing than crying. Logical, abstract, measured, and messy, all at once.

I probably like hockey more than you do.

I love my mom and dad.

This blog isn’t about anything; it just is.

As soon as it manages to be about something, I’ll let you know.

Just a note to say:

You are beautiful. Really. Everyone thinks so, whether they say it or not, and you see it or not. This is not a world designed to recognize your uniqueness and loveliness, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are both unique and lovely. On the days when you feel otherwise, realize that you are both an unreliable narrator and an unreliable set of eyes. I see you. And you’re beautiful.

You’re not a bad person because you don’t like to talk on the phone.

The concept of age becomes more fuzzy by the year. Stop worrying about how old or young you are, and how people see you as a result. If you’re young enough to laugh unabashedly at something ridiculous, and old enough to be accountable for your mistakes, you’re getting it right, whatever the number might be.

Somebody, somewhere has a fetish for exactly. how. you. look. No matter how you look. Thanks for the affirmation, Internet! And gah.

You can do everything right as a partner, and your partner will still irritate the hell out of you at some point. Same goes with parent and child, employee and boss, friend and friend. No one has yet figured out how to prevent this, besides locking one of you in a windowless, soundproof room where you can’t get at each other. And even then: “Must be nice to be locked in a windowless, soundproof room, I have to take the BUS!”

Fake laughter is like Tofurkey. You’re not fooling anyone. And if you are, they’re probably just delirious with hunger.

If the book or movie still seems boring when you’re halfway through it, put it down or turn it off. Even if it gets better at that point, you’re going to be watching it through 50% bored eyes.

People who set their watches and clocks ten minutes ahead to avoid being late always know they have ten more minutes. We’re only actually that dumb when we’re telling ourselves that ice cream eaten from the carton while standing by the freezer doesn’t count.

Never, ever have the last word. Because who wants to stop talking?!

Messy, sobbing, heaving crying for an hour feels unequivocally better than trying not to cry for 24 hours, and then you can splash some water on your face and do something else. Sometimes you have to climb in the hole for a bit to see it’s not all that deep.

Don’t implement efficiencies where the time spent actually brings you joy.

“Once burned, twice shy” is optimistic. “Once burned, twice burned, three times burned with therapy, four times burned OK OK FINE” is more like it.

If you’re going to hold a grudge, hold it upside down so all the blood rushes to its head and it croaks. There. Problem solved.

Making eye contact is a great way to let friendly people know you’re friendly… and to make demon eyes at bad people. Either way, you win.

Any “natural remedy” that involves 3 gallons of salt water is a bad idea.

It is okay to forgive and be done. Continuing a relationship is not required as proof of grace, but walking away when the right time comes is clear evidence you’re extending grace to yourself, too.

If it smells bad, don’t eat it. Even if you convince yourself it’s fine, some small part of your mind / stomach will still be going WHOA WHOA WHOA WHOA WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE

You don’t have to like that show / song / style / word / food / place / book / shoe / person everyone else does. At least 50% of them don’t really like it anyway… they just want to feel like they’re getting it right.

Tights aren’t pants.

Make sure you spend as much time being yourself as you spend defining yourself. Let people think what they want.

Be good at one thing, be okay at a few things, or be passable at lots of things. Or inherit.