10 Years of Marriage…We Never Saw it Coming

Mr. H and I swore we would never get married to anyone.

We didn’t buy into everlasting love or soul mates or whatever you want to call it. We thought all of that was complete and total bullshit.

At the time I had a ton of piercings, in every imaginable part of my ears. I remember enjoying the pain each time I went in to get a new hole. I guess I wanted to show that pain on my body.


When Mr. H and I first met, we were both with other people. Mere pups at the ages of 21 and 22, I was trying to win back an ex that I had dumped and he was living with someone he didn’t love.

We certainly weren’t looking for anybody.

At the time we had our hands full with people we thought we should be with. The rest of our energy was spent doing what most kids do around that age. Working shit jobs and partying.

That night my ex-boyfriend’s gay brother, Juan, invited me to come over. A big group was going out—including my ex. I thought this was my chance to get him back.

I strutted into Juan’s apartment, dressed to kill. I wore a hot pink cheerleader skirt with a studded belt, black stilettos, and a black tank that said “rock n’ roll” right across the ta-tas.

Before I could find my ex, I found someone else. Mr. H sitting on the couch, devastatingly handsome and staring at me like he was meant to look at me all along.

Because of his incredible looks and style, and the fact that we were around our gay friends, I assumed that he was gay. I soon discovered that Mr. H was undeniably straight, and that he was also in an unhappy relationship with someone he didn’t belong with.

Despite our significant others being present that night, we had long conversations in various sections of the gay club. On the balcony, standing side by side  in the hot Texas summer night. Sitting on the pool table, with dance music blasting so loud that we had to press our mouths to each other’s ears.

I’m really not the kind of girl to purposely steal someone’s man away. And I didn’t that night.

But months later, I learned that the hot pink cheerleader skirt had left its mark. After I confided to Juan that Mr. H was hot, he shared this juicy info, and we were set up on our first date.

And, that’s when Mr. H played the ultimate card. He could dance.

From there, it was all over. Those self-destructive ideas we spouted off that love was unattainable, that we didn’t need/want happiness, that we would never find our match.

After we got together, I took every single earring out of my ears. I didn’t need to be reminded of pain anymore. I was making room for something else.

britt and hugh

There is no grand engagement story to tell. We mutually agreed to get hitched and my engagement ring was a piece of hemp string.

Though we tried to elope, family and friends wanted to be a part of the celebration. So, we chose Vegas.

Ask any of our friends and family that came, and they will tell you that our wedding was unforgettable. Because it was a complete disaster.

Have you guys seen the movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral? It was like that, but the Vegas edition. (Don’t worry, nobody died.)

We got married at the Greek Isles Hotel, which was formerly the Debbie Reynolds Hotel. I know this, because I had stayed there for a dance competition back in high school.

Oh yeah, neither of us are Greek. But the place was cheap and it had a decent looking gazebo.

Sadly, the hotel where we got married—like most of old Vegas—is no more.

The Greek Isles Hotel became the Clarion Hotel after that, until they recently imploded it to make room for some new monstrosity with no character. Funny thing was, the elevator shaft remained intact after the explosion. (Here’s a video.)

the venetian

On our wedding day, it was over a hundred Vegas desert degrees and my family came into my dressing room right before the ceremony, begging me to move it inside. I made my sister check it out for me to make sure it wasn’t too churchy.

When she returned, she said: “It’s not churchy, but it’s…”

“What? What is it?”

“It’s very Greek. There are scenic paintings and columns.”

I laughed and we went for it.

Our minister was from New Jersey and he was three sheets to the wind.

He screwed up our names multiple times, so that we even questioned if we were legally married. The guests sang our names in unison to help him get through the godawful ceremony.

Most of it was difficult to understand, because he was slurring. And, there was a strange, irrelevant story about his schoolteacher daughter at the end that we still do not understand to this day.

On our way out to the crappy limo, an Elvis impersonator pointed at us from his neon stage while he sang. We were dying with laughter.

It was perfect. It was so us.

I always warn people about big weddings. I see couples get so stressed out, worrying about silly flower arrangements and going into debt.

None of that matters. The wedding should be a celebration of love, and that can be done anywhere for next to nothing.

And hey, here we are ten years later.

playboy bunny

We got rid of our wedding rings on our fifth anniversary.

We were camping by a lake in Wisconsin, sitting around a fire, drinking beer. Mr. H and I began discussing our wedding rings, which were as chintzy as they come.

Did that piece of jewelry symbolize our love somehow? We decided it didn’t and chucked our wedding rings into the bushes.

I can’t begin to tell you about the experiences we’ve shared, the crazy things we’ve been through and the awesome times we’ve had.

I do know that our love fuels my fiction. Every romance, every heartache, every fear, every wish comes from our story. It’s the only way I can express so many years of beautiful moments.

Those of you who have read my books may have noticed a recurring theme…how love can save us.

I suppose the core meaning of love is different for everyone, but I believe that love is the one thing in the world that has this kind of power.

Mr. H and I knew this from the start.

So, we decided to take a chance and save each other.

The End of A Physical Perspective

Many times I considered giving up on blogging. I always joke around with people that it’s a full-time job, because it kind of is.

If you’re not writing a post, sharing on social, responding to readers, and commenting on other blogs (tired yet?), you’re thinking about your next post and possibly the post after that.

But whenever I think about the “work” that goes into blogging, I think about the “awesome” instead. It’s actually quite easy to do, because there has been a lot of awesome.

Almost three years ago I started this blog, and I am not lying when I say that I had absolutely no freaking clue what I was doing. I knew that it was a big commitment, which is why I shied away from it before and why I refused to take on the responsibility at my job at the time.

I just knew. It’s a lot.

Back then I started a blog because I needed a platform as a writer, especially an Indie Author who nobody would have a chance of hearing about otherwise. I heard phrases like “build a tribe”.

Build a tribe? How in the hell am I supposed to do that? Is anyone ever going to read this crazy shit?

At first, nobody really did. Except for family and friends…thanks, guys. xoxoxo

But then, I started meeting people in the blogging community—people I had never met and had no association with my family or friends who might have forced them to visit. There were some likes, even a few comments, and eventually they shared.

I first came up with the title for this blog, A Physical Perspective, when I felt like I needed some sort of title.

It was thought of on a whim. I remember standing over my dining room table on an evening after work or something and writing it on a notepad.

It’s open to interpretation, which I won’t go into here, but I started thinking recently…who cares?

And, I listened to my people.

It’s very rare when any of you guys even use that name, because you say “Britt’s blog”. So, going into another wild year with this blog, I have ditched my old name.

Many of you were here the other day for Zen’s Life Enthusiast post, and you commented on the new look. Thank you all for your sweet compliments.

I think the space better represents who I am and what I have to say. There’s no need for a fancy blog title that leaves you scratching your head about the meaning.


This is Britt’s blog.

I am a flawed human just like everybody else, and all I do is write nonsense that sometimes makes sense. I am a Life Enthusiast, because I am flawed…and that means I’m alive.

Thank you all for being here. I’m excited to share many more of life’s ridiculously gorgeous moments with you…my tribe.

My Thoughts in the Wind

my thoughts

I had a romantic notion about Twitter the other day.

Come on now, hear me out.

I was watching one of my favorite movies that I hadn’t seen in ages. Stealing Beauty.

This is my coming-of-age movie I’ve seen about a billion times. Bernardo Bertolucci directed it, and though it’s in English, it has all of the things that I love about foreign films.

Nakedness is celebrated, not shunned or exploited. It’s slow-paced, not action-packed. It’s peaceful, not violent. It’s artistic, not shallow.

The soundtrack is awesome—Billie Holiday, Portishead, Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone, and Hole somehow work seamlessly together.

The main character, a young American woman named Lucy, is on a journey of self-discovery. Liv Tyler plays the part masterfully, with depth and a quiet beauty.

She travels to Italy in the summer to stay in the countryside with some family friends, to wander around and have her portrait painted.

All of it’s gorgeous—the scenery, the people, the food and wine. There’s also some regular napping and weed smoking.

Sounds rough, I know.

Her deceased mother was a poet and Lucy is a writer as well. Being that I idolized this character a bit, I wonder if it influenced me to become a writer in some way. Perhaps.

She keeps a journal with her at all times, scribbling her youthful angst and woes. I even copied her journal, with an envelope glued inside of the cover to harbor pictures.

But Lucy doesn’t keep what she writes.

She tears the piece of paper out of her journal and either burns her thoughts over a candle or releases them into the wind.

It’s a lot of what I do now in this online writing world I live in, especially on Twitter. I write my thoughts and set them free, often forgetting they ever happened.

Sometimes my thoughts are caught by another and read. I am reminded of that thought, whether it was meaningful or not.

But I smile, because someone connected with a little piece of me.

Then, they let my thoughts go in the wind. They travel on to others, caught and read once more, or they disappear, never to be seen again.

I don’t know why I thought this, but I’m kind of in love with the idea.

My Awakening City

I’m a sucker for cities on a weekend morning. With nobody rushing off to work, the restless streets are hushed and vacant.

I started a new Saturday morning tradition.

I drag my ass out of bed, then get dressed in mismatched Yoga clothes. I wander over to the boulangerie right when they open, before the line goes out the door.

I grab a fresh chocolate hazelnut croissant and a latte. Their comforting smells warm me.

This morning I felt inspired to capture my awakening city.

I took the kind of photos I could never take during the day, without people thinking I’m Crazy Stalker Lady.

If any of the local businesses in my neighborhood look at their security cameras, they’ll either think I’m planning a heist or just another starry-eyed tourist.

Let them think what they want. I had to share this beautiful secret.

Sleepy bakers are preparing for the pandemonium, not yet cloaked in flour or sweating beneath their aprons. Though that will all change soon enough.

St Honore Bakery

A couple shares a quiet cup of coffee together, enjoying the empty cafe before they begin their day.

St Honore Bakery long table

The library on the corner awaits the invasion of eager minds. The chairs sit still, watching over the books as they sleep.

Multnomah County Library Northwest

Cutlery echoes from the restaurant opening for brunch. The sandwich board sign is set out, directing crowds inside for hot food and cozy conversation.


The tavern is unusually silent and clean. Liquor bottles rest against one another behind the bar. The old fireplace is cool, but you can still catch a hint of wood in the air.

McMenamins Pizza

Slowly, darkness succumbs to morning light. A runner flies past me, more cars ease down the street, and doors swing open to welcome the day.

My city is awake.

McMenamins Tavern and Pool


Thursday Night

cat stars

Something interesting happens on Thursday nights. I’m usually wiped out from the workweek, ready for the weekend.

But the self-doubt never fails. I ask myself…how in the hell will I be me again?

You know what I’m talking about, right?

That little bit of sacred time when you get to do whatever you want. Whatever that may be.

No deadlines. No meetings. No schedules.

And, cue panic.

The panic to live. To try to get everything done in a couple of days—the laundry, the grocery store, the exercise, the relaxing, the creativity, the lovemaking.

Thursday nights always happen the same way for me. I’m tired and moody, but after a couple of necessary beers and some laughs, I unlock myself. I remember what it’s like to be me again.

We never talk about Thursdays. We talk about Monday blues and Friday fun.

I don’t know why, but on Thursdays, a couple of hours before I go to bed, I become me again. Thinking about things that mean something, looking at my husband like I haven’t seen him in ages, realizing how damn beautiful he is.

A couple of months ago I started a new job and I remember thinking on a Thursday night—how am I going to keep up with it all? My marriage, my cats, my apartment, my family, my friends, my Yoga, my running, my blog, my novels, my “me”.

That night I wrote the opening scene to my next novel. Crazy as that sounds, after three books and no fame, I’m going to write another.

Because I have to. Because I can’t help myself. Because this is me.

This novel will be a departure from the historical fiction novelista many of you know me to be.

I’ve decided to go forward, just a little, to a time just beyond now when we haven’t learned from the mistakes of history, when we’ve become a world where the people in charge (the government, the dictator, the tyrant) forbid love.

Because love is the one thing THEY can’t control. And the funny thing is, if we all just loved more…the world could be so much better, perhaps peaceful even.

Hell, wouldn’t that be something?

The working title for my next novel is Virasana. It’s a Sanskrit word for one of the few Yoga poses I just cannot do, but an amazing one nonetheless.

For those who practice Yoga, you’ll smile at my choice. The English translation is pretty awesome.

The main character is a reluctant heroine with the power to command nature at her will—something she doesn’t understand, something she learns is her greatest power.

In the opening scene the main character is on the edge of a cliff, alone in a familiar place where her and her man used to be together, side by side. Everything is fragrant and green, the newness that comes with spring.

I can’t make any promises on a release timeframe, because I have very little time to write.

I haven’t touched this since I first wrote it that Thursday night, but I’ve looked at it many times and knew that it was right. I don’t have time to continue with it right now, but I hope to soon.

For some reason this particular Thursday night I decided it was time to share it.

This is what I have so far…

I got so used to you sitting beside me.
It was all a routine…like breakfast.
But you were better than breakfast. You nourished me like nothing else.
For a good while there—um—I guess I felt full. Maybe even stuffed.
Can you believe that?
Stuffed on love, on you.
Well, not anymore.
I’m always hungry for you.
Actually, I’m starving.
But, hey. You’re not here anymore, are you?
Come on.
Pretty please.
Say something, release me.
You’ve got nothing?
Alright, fine. So, where was I?
Oh, yeah. You’re not here anymore, are you?
The grass and the dandelions have reclaimed your space. My tears have watered them, helped them grow. My lips have made them tender and alive.
How in the hell did I do that? I’m so dead.
That would be too easy.
Under the earth where nobody can see me.
I’m dried out, alone.
Above the earth where everyone can see me. Everyone.
That’s more like it. That’s hard.
Real hard.
Hey—um—I have a question for you.
Yeah, you. You’re the only one I know that can answer it, so listen up.
What’s this excuse for a world without you by my side?
Come on.
Pretty please.
Say something, release me.