I hadn’t planned on stealing that day.  I had previously reviewed the KitchenAid stand mixers on Consumer Reports and decided I wanted the bottom of the line.  I cannot bake.  I thought maybe a KitchenAid mixer was my last hope.  But I didn’t need to spend an extra $5o for attachments I’d never use.

I walked into the store and went to the back where the mixers were.  I saw two models–the one I’d come for and the next one up, worth an extra $50.  There was only one of the model I’d come for, and its box had been opened and taped closed.  I toyed with getting the upgrade but settled on grabbing the resealed box, and proceeded to check out.  As I was walking away from having paid, I told the cashier that I’d just realized the box was opened, and could I swap for one that was new?  He said sure.  I went back to the standing mixers and grabbed the upgrade.  I returned to the cashier who smiled and waved me away.

I walked out of the store not having paid the $50 for the upgrade.  By my inaction, I’d lied; I’d stolen.  And all the while, I thought, “You are a white woman. In a suit. Of course they won’t suspect you.  Walk like normal and don’t act suspicious.”  And I walked.  And kept walking even as the alarm went off as I left.  And even as a guard called to me.  When the guard caught up with me, I calmly explained I had swapped mixers after paying for it and they just needed to demagnetize this box.  She brought me to the customer service counter.

I continued to think, “Stay cool.  They will not notice.  And if they do, play dumb.  They won’t think you meant to steal.”  And the seconds passed like hours.  The cashier smiled and explained to the guard and customer service lady.  It’d all be as I suspected: I’d walk away scott-free with an upgrade.

And in that moment, that very moment I knew I’d get away with it, because, really, who steals an upgrade to a KitchenAid?–in that moment, it struck me.  And I thought, “What are you doing?  You don’t even WANT this model–you decided it wasn’t worth $50 to have this before you even came here today.  And the upgrade is black—it’ll stand out in your kitchen like a sore thumb, a sore thumb you’ll be reminded of ever time you see it.  It isn’t worth it. You can NOT do this.  You are better than this.”

“Oh, wait,” I said to the customer service woman as she had the wand in her hand to clear the magnet in my box so I could leave without setting off the alarms.  “This isn’t what I bought.  This one’s the wrong color.  Let me go get the one I want.”

I left with the resealed box.  And a lot of guilt.  I ultimately returned to the store that evening to swap for an unopened box (had I asked, they’d have told me they had more of the model for which I’d come in storage).

Every time I use the stand mixer, I remember that day.  I still have guilt.  And I still can’t bake.

I’m still incredibly angry at my brother for his drug addiction. The level of my anger is probably equal to that of my pride in him for asking for help, taking rehab seriously and getting himself clean.  Every day I say a little prayer he continues to find the strength he needs to stay sober and I’m truly happy for what he has accomplished.

That said, I’m still waiting for my apology. The real, heartfelt apology. I want him to know that it was me that called Mom every day, that tried to make her smile, reminded her she couldn’t control everything. My Dad travels a lot for work and it was me that she called when she’d find something suspicious. When she realized something didn’t add up., that money was missing, that he wasn’t answering his phone. She called me when she went to surprise my brother at work and he wasn’t there- hadn’t been there for a month-but had certainly left the house in his work uniform hours earlier.  I’m the one my parents told, in terse tones, that they were tired because they’d spent another night driving around looking for him in a bad part of town.

I wonder if he knows how many times I’d call his phone in a night, praying he would answer, so I could text my parents that I’d gotten ahold of him, that he was still breathing and living. I’m sure he was too high to notice the number of missed calls. I wonder if he knows how awful that phone call was, the one where the car had been found but his body hadn’t been. Of course, later, hours later after the rush to the car, the race to the interstate, the phone calls from the police we discovered he didn’t have his car that night, it wasn’t him that destroyed it, and somehow, miraculously all the occupants were ok.

I’m so proud of the man that he has become. I’m so proud that he overcame this. I’m happy we have normal conversations where we complain about work and talk about grandma’s latest antics. My brother, the one who barely spoke to me for three years apparently told his new wife that he aspires to be like me and that my accomplishments make him proud.

I’m proud of him too. I’d be prouder if he said he was sorry.

I’m not married. I’m not engaged. I don’t even have a boyfriend.  In fact, it’s been 7 years since I’ve been in a long-term relationship, but I’m perfectly okay with that fact. After all, I’m only 26 and I still have the world to conquer before I do the lifetime partner, 2.5 kids and dog.

But that’s not for everyone. Growing up in the South leads to having a lot of friends getting hitched at a young age. Two of my closest friends had beautiful weddings a few years ago and there’s no question that they’ve found the ONE.  Because we’re all close, both friends tell me everything about their marriages: the good, the bad, the problems, the fights, etc. I’ve come to the conclusion that their men (who I consider friends) are the walking stereotypes of bumbling dumb unobservant husbands.

Too harsh? Maybe. But the more I watch them, the more I find myself wondering how they put up with it and if this is what marriage is. Case and point:

FRIEND #1: Sarah
Sarah is my best friend; we met on the first day of high school and if I ever believed in soul mates, she’s probably mine. We know each other so incredibly well that I can tell with one word if she’s annoyed or happy. In my speech at their wedding, I jokingly told her husband Mike, “Just so you know, when you marry Katherine, you marry all her friends.” Mike has become a good friend to me, also, but his constant oblivion to people and the environment around him baffles me. It’s not that he’s self-absorbed; he’s just so unaware of things going around him and how his actions affect others.

Because he’s in the military and she’s getting her grad degree, they’ve lived apart for the first few years of their marriage. I see the toll it takes on her; she’s the one that worries about the finances, the future, the logistics of it all. He, however, continues to live his life as if he’s on his own, without a wife to think about. He’s not the cheating, strip club, clubbing/bar hopping kinda guy, but he is the kind that will go buy an expensive cell phone without consulting his wife or think about the impact it has on their bills. When he had to get a new car, he insisted on something too expensive and she let him win even though she was against it too.

He’s surrounded by single military bachelors so his mentality usually slips back into that mode. A couple weekends ago, she drove 8 hours to visit me and surprise him when he and his best friend were visiting me. He was surprised and happy, of course, but spent the weekend treating her like a friend as he constantly wandered off with his friend or read a book while we were in the car. They finally had a fight while we were out and ended up in a busted awkward night for all of us. It pains me to watch her struggle to find a way to make their lives work. She’s sacrificed so much for his career and I wish he would do more to be there for her.

He commented to her that he was a little scared of me because I’m hard on him, so I’m learning to keep my mouth shut. I mean, what do I know? I’m not married!

FRIEND #2: Beth
Beth and I have known each other since we were 7. We went to different high schools and colleges and didn’t reconnect until after the hurricane. Now we talk daily online at work, googling her dream of my future non-existent wedding (I’m eloping) and baby clothes.

She’s due in a few months and I’ve never seen a girl want to be a mother so badly. Her husband, on the other hand, is padding around, waiting for dinner to be served. Being pregnant in the middle of a hot Southern summer is bad enough; having a husband that won’t help out his pregnant wife is worse.  It’s not that he doesn’t want a baby or isn’t excited; he’s just a mixture of lazy and scared that he won’t read books, learn more or wonder how this will impact their finances. So like Katherine, Beth does the worrying, the budgeting, the screws and gears behind it all.

He’s stuck in a job that won’t go anywhere so instead of looking for a new job, he sits idly by playing video games as she searches and applies for him. He complains when she cooks something he doesn’t like (he’s picky) but won’t learn to cook himself.

So what does this all mean to a girl like me? I can’t solve their marriage problems; I can only listen and be encouraging and occasionally push the guys in the right direction. It’s taught me what I don’t want in a marriage and what I do. They have that kind of love that will never go away and the complete confidence that this is the one for them. That’s what I hope for one day. And a guy that can keep up with me!

I was in elementary school when I discovered my mother had interests besides being my mom.  She was offered her old job back, the job she’d quit to raise a family.  She labored over her decision.  I did too.  I knew latch-key kids and didn’t want to be one.  I liked walking home from school and having my mother at home.  Sure, she was cooking and cleaning and not playing with me, but she was present.

In the end, she turned down the job offer.  She said it was because she liked being home for us too.  Looking back, I suspect my father wanting hot meals on the table when he walked in the door had more to do with it.  My father wasn’t an easy man to be the wife of back then.  And my mother’s 1950′s wifely beliefs ran strong.

So when I think of my mother, not as MY mother but as a woman, an individual, and I seek evidence of who SHE is, I find, sadly, very little.

She liked to read.  But often it was prayer books.  She also attended church every day.  And attended a prayer meeting at least once a week.  Most of her friends were through church.

She’d cook, clean, drive us kids where we wanted/needed to go.  She’d grocery shop and sew.  She’d read a magazine after the dishes were clean and we watched TV.  She and my father would go dancing regularly; that stopped before I was ten years old.  I think she liked to fish but had little chance to do that.  And when the opportunity arose, disaster with my father usually ensued.  And my mother was the one that cleaned up the pieces and put the gleam on the smile that covered up the rage that was within my father—the rage that spilled out from time to time.

Once her children were raised and her nest was empty, I saw little change in my mother’s days.  She still read, cooked, cleaned, and attended church.  And tended to my father’s demands.  It was during this time that my father became an elder in the church.  He swapped out his addictions.  And my mother became An Elder’s Wife.  To the best of what I can discern of the evidence, that became her identity.  She is NOT first a mother, a daughter, a woman.  Nor is she simply a wife.  She has a role as An Elder’s Wife.  And she plays it well.  She ministers, cooks, cleans, and shops for the sick and elderly.  She commiserates with those who suffer.  She advises on how to make a marriage work within her religious faith.  She runs prayer meetings and retreats.  She stays busy.

And it is my firm belief that these things she does only because her husband is an elder.   If he’d have instead become a fire fighter, she’d be a Fire Fighter’s Wife and hiding behind that persona, too.  She is like a flower that for so long got so little sun and nourishment that she bent to what little she got.  And now the scars of all that bending are no longer scars but her new skeleton.  And she’s regrown her skin to fit the new bones.

I know she takes comfort in her faith.  Maybe she does because she must.  Maybe I am the one that is wrong to see HER as the broken one of the two of us.

She loves.  That, I have no doubt.  But it isn’t the unconditional love her Bible tells her to give.  But it is the best she can offer.

Welcome to our new blog.  As you can see, it is still under construction.  But soon you will be in our parlor letting your hair down telling your hosts, Madams Lula and Lola, all your secrets.  You know you wanna.  And if your secrets are bad enough, you may just get whipped.  No promises.