He Said, She Said...

He Said...

78 days, 9 hours, 5 minutes and 6 seconds
Or 2 months, 16 days, 9 hours, 5 minutes, 6 seconds
6,771,906 seconds
112,865 minutes
1881 hours
11 weeks

Included in that time is;

The few seconds it took for us to meet outside a theatre in Logan on 7/7/7, and for me to act completely nervous and awkward, (otherwise known as typical Ben to those who know me well).

The single weekend it took for me to wear a dress to impress a girl at a birthday party, and to finish falling in love with someone I only just met that day. (Don't ask me how wearing a dress impresses a girl)

The weeks that followed that proved to me that she is everything I ever wanted.

The excruciatingly long time it took for me to finally get down to meet her parents and ask her father, (who by the way is an avid hunter), for permission to marry her.

The most fun I have ever had on a road trip. (including the wild boar we ran over in the dessert)

The time it took for me to ask her the question that I wanted to ask after only two weeks of knowing her.

And most importantly the word Yes that followed.

After approximately 78 days on September 23rd 2007 I am officially engaged to Cassandra Orr.

I love you Cassandra, you mean more to me than anything in this world, I have loved you since we met, and I will always love you.




She Said...

An independent woman, I've always thought, was a necessary thing. A necessary thing for me that is. And in thinking this I was certain that I doomed myself to a fate of loneliness and ignorance of such. Who could possibly love a woman with such a loud mouth and slightly (understatement) overbearing personality?


Turns out I know someone who can. He seems to think it's fun.


It's strange how it feels as if I'm missing a part of me that is currently somewhere near Salt Lake. Surprisingly enough I' not referring to the several pounds of breast tissue I left in a HazMat receptacle at McKay Dee Hospital four short weeks ago (classy mention I know) but instead I speak of the 6'4" blond hair, blue eyed, perfectly chiseled masculine masterpiece of a man who has the power to melt me with a look, a kiss, a touch, and the ability to take my heart off my sleeve and hold it in his strong and capable hands. He takes care of me when I'm broken or sick, thinks I'm beautiful even when I'm swollen and scarred, constantly impresses me with his knowledge and ability to teach, looks great in everything from a tux to a dress (long story) to the real Levi jeans he wore on the ranch to meet my family, and always makes sure I know how much I am loved.


I call him mine.


And as of this past Sunday night I also call him my fiancée. Yes people, the rumors are wonderfully true! I'm going to marry the man of my dreams and I can honestly say that beside him I make sense.


Knowing that someday I'd amount to something big ( a great writer, great actress, great inspirer, great novice, great grandmother, etc.) I'd always focused my goals on doing things to get me there and usually that required solitary independence. And yet, in the past three days the only thing I seem to be accomplishing is the fact that I am a great emoter. I can quite magnificently emote.


In fact it seems that I've been crying for days. Not tears of sorrow mind you but the kind that fill your eyes and sit there peacefully on your lids until you smile wide enough for them to race down your cheeks, the kind of tears that cover your contacts in such a thick layer of salt that you can't see to drive home, the kind of tears that multiply each time you even think a loving thought, the kind of tears that arrive only when you are wonderfully, surprisingly, and indescribably happy.


So here I sit atop my big squishy bed alone (mind the dog), covered in tears (obviously), and not even attempting to wipe this giddy grin off my face as I switch my bedside lamp on and off repeatedly just so I can look at my newly acquired piece of jewelry in every light and I can't help thinking that it's wonderful being such an independent woman in love with an independent man who makes me the happiest woman on earth.

So here we are: short courtship, long engagement, followed by the wedding of the year and the kind of life they write books about. In fact maybe someday I will.


Benjamin Gordon Coulam I love you today, tomorrow, and everyday of the rest of our lives!

You Call it Tomato, I call it A.D.D.

I like to daydream. I do it not as a mental escapism to avoid my real everyday life (because Lord knows it is anything but mundane) but it's more of an opportunity to live out my Cancerean fantastical ways without having to give myself actual multiple personalities or sci-fi friends. I blame my mental torpor tendencies. I simply can't be bothered with maintaining focus for any lengthy amount of time, that requires the kind of effort I'm just not willing to put forth.

Today while sitting in on some auditions with my boss I drifted. Somewhere between Popagana's suicide and the third Figeroan Count I ended up at "Sam's Club."

"We need more oil for the popcorn machine," I thought to myself, "I wonder if the ice cream maker is still on sale.

Why do I care if it is, I bought one last week and what would I possibly do with two?

Well what if someone you know has a sudden need to make gelato and yet they can't seem to find an affordable mixer and when they ask you for advice you have none to give simply because you didn't pay attention while you were at Sam's?"

At this moment I become acutely aware that the conversation internally is about to send out an external signifier in the form of an "HOLD MY BABY" so I quickly snap back into reality.

The notes I'd been scribbling (in attempt to look like I'm paying attention) read something like this…

"Eyebrow acting is not really acting. Why is his face so red, I'm afraid he might explode. Help me I'm drifting….Sam's Club."

I laughed out loud. Fortunately the singer thought I was digging his pig-latin version of a Little Mermaid song. I swear to God this happened people, I couldn't make this up.

Focus Cassandra, this is business. But musical auditions have never been my bailiwick and the opera patois is quickly lulling me into rapid recidivism.

See audience, even now I've stopped to admire my own ability to use three big words in a sentence. I then moved to a mental debate over whether I should have added the words "cogitate over" in place of "admire" in the previous sentence.

I am a nut case. I should be medicated. I think I have to stop now. I need to go to Sam's Club.

Introducing the Dame...

Yes yes I know I probably should have updated my adoring fans (joke) the moment I became a mother but as with all newborns, mine is quite a handful. My nights consist of about three hours of sleep divided by about 5 hours of trying to keep the baby entertained and out of trouble. The difference between my new baby and most is that rather than crying when she wants to wake up mommy, she just chews on my face.

Introducing Dame Rexabelle Josephine McFierce., more commonly referred to as Sexy Rexy. Sure it may seem like a lot of name for such a little dog but believe me she owns it. She might be the only female I know who is more feisty than me.

She was born January 1st in Oklahoma to a 3 lb Yorkie father and a 6 lb Papillion mother. And no I don't know exactly how that worked out but apparently her pops likes the larger ladies.

When she was 7 weeks old (last week) she took her first plane trip to Utah arriving at the airport just a couple hours after I returned from my vacation to Seattle.

We've been together a week and so far we've gone through quite a lot. She's had her first bath, first nail clipping, first vet appointments, first teeth brushing, and first shopping experiences this week. She has only barked twice, once when I was on my bed and she couldn't reach me and the other time when I took her plate away before she was done.

She's quite the little melodramatic princess (like mother like daughter) and at 1 lb 6 oz you'd think she'd be timid and shy but she's far bossier than I could ever be. She hops around the place like a bunny, likes to chew on everything, loves visitors, and is the best cuddler. She's always the happiest curled up on my chest. Big surprise.

If you get a chance, come visit us… we're both awfully cute. Ha ha.

Here's the first pic I got of her. I asked the breeder to give me a size reference.

Lady Lessons

My second favorite Christmas gift this year was a little pink book with helpful hints such as "A lady knows when it's appropriate to eat the garnish or drink through a straw." As well as, "A lady always wears clean and fresh underwear," and, " A lady doesn't touch other people's children unless invited to do so."

I admit to not being the author's inspiration, I know nothing about being a "lady."

My youth was spent bouncing back and forth between ballet and tennis lessons, my adolescence consisted of sports jerseys, football statistics, and life on the farm, and young adulthood meant learning that it wasn't necessary to physically harm all of the boys in my life and my male torment took on another motive entirely.

Turning 18 brought about the desire to lose my childhood nickname along with my uni-brow and who knew that "one becoming two" was all that was necessary to birth my "feminine mystique." All mystery aside, I was still a work in progress.

I had gone from girl, to brute, to woman and no etiquette classes on the planet were going to put me through phase "Lady."

Years later, after trials and errors and extraordinary life experiences I'm quite capable of blending into polite society. My conversations can be intelligent, my table manners are perfectly polite, and no one can rock a pair of stilettos quite like I can and yet I'm still certain that "The Contemporary Guide to Common Courtesy" was not written about me.

I've been wearing the same fake eyelashes for two days.

I often refer to my apartment as "ghetto."

I'm not certain I can remember my real hair color. Brown-ish?

My vocabulary could make a sailor blush.

I have an irrational fear of mediocrity. And clowns.

I'm currently wearing white and it is well after Labor Day.

Sometimes garnish confuses me.

According to the book, should the Pope, a Prince, or the President show up I will most certainly be ill prepared.