the story of the immortal orchid.

In 2015, James bought me an orchid for Valentine’s Day.

Lucky for me, my orchid is thoroughly documented on Instagram.

James and I were on our way home from a weekend in Minneapolis. It was Presidents’ Day weekend, so Valentine’s Day was just a few days past. We stopped at the Walmart in New Ulm for whatever reason (I have since quit Walmart altogether – it’s been about three years since I was last in one), and I spotted a display of teeny orchids in little Valentine pots. They were marked down to five dollars apiece in an effort to clear them out post-holiday. James saw me looking at them and purchased a happy pink blooming plant.

Fast forward a year and a half. I am a terrible plant owner (I know this), but I love to have them anyway. Few things make me happier than blooming flowers. Anyway, in that year and a half, I had more or less forgotten to water my orchid. The blooms had long withered and dropped, but the leaves of the orchid were still green. So there had to be some life in there, right?

RIGHT.

Out of absolutely nowhere, my orchid burst into bloom. It had arisen from the dead with absolutely no help from me. I was overjoyed – having been under the impression that orchids were difficult plants to nurture and raise, imagine my surprise when, after a year of neglect, my orchid bloomed just the same.

 I would like to say that experience turned me into a top-notch and attentive plant owner – that I faithfully fed and watered my orchid and gave it the care it deserved all along.

Yes, I did remember to water it more… but I was still pretty bad at it.

I don’t deserve this orchid.

But yet, it keeps blooming.

 My little orchid blooms once a year for about a month at a time, and I have no idea why. Each time, I am shocked. Each time, I take photos of it, convinced I will still somehow kill this unkillable orchid and will never see its gorgeous pink blossoms again.

My orchid is blooming right now. It’s got four happy little flowers on it now, with several more buds to go. They last a surprisingly long time, bringing me joy in the deep winter when I need it most.

 James is under strict instruction not to purchase expensive cut flowers for me for Valentine’s Day, my birthday, our anniversary, or any such flower-giving occasion. For one, he’s allergic to most pollens, so why should he suffer? Also, flowers are expensive AF. I’d rather spend the $50 on dinner and drinks. I love flowers, but I can’t stomach the cost. If James does get me flowers, I ask for a favorite (calla lilies, tulips, ranunculus, sunflowers), but don’t you dare spend more than $20. James says he’s been shamed by florists for this price limit a time or two, but I like what I like. I am perfectly happy with a bundle of flowers from HyVee, or, season permitting, wildflowers gathered from a ditch. That’s my style: free ditch flowers.

This year, James did not purchase an expensive bouquet. He did, however, bring me a TALL orchid from Target. 

It is gorgeous and full of happy pink blooms, like my little four-year-old diehard orchid. I am super scared of this big orchid – the little one is shockingly resilient, but will the big one survive my hands-off brand of plant parenting? James apparently has faith in me, as he bore witness to how well I did with the little orchid. I hope the big orchid is as forgiving as my little one.

Happy anniversary, little orchid. We’ve been together four years now, and even though I have failed you time after time, you have never given up on me. Thank you for being you. Here’s to another many years of me forgetting to water you and you blooming anyway. You are the best.

(Now that you’ve got an orchid sibling, I will try to do better. I really will.)

grievance corner: Mr. and Mrs. James Jarvie.

James and I have been married for almost six years now, and it’s been pretty fantastic. I have no complaints.

Actually, no. I do have a complaint.

Mr. and Mrs. James Jarvie.

I HATE THAT SO MUCH.

You know how everyone has a few things that are ultimately inconsequential but just stick in your craw and make you irrationally angry?

This is my number one.

Just thinking about it now is making my pulse accelerate.

When James and I first got engaged, I was planning to keep my last name. The name “Bjorklund” is awesome, after all. James was initially disappointed, but he grew to accept it. But a few months before our wedding, I changed my mind. I decided to take Jarvie as a last name and move Bjorklund to my middle name. This was to be my gift to James – a symbol that we were starting this chapter of our lives together as one family.

(I have a whole other rant about how women are expected to change THEIR last names, but that’s a topic for another time.)

So on our wedding day, I was no longer Calla Shelaine Bjorklund, but Calla Bjorklund Jarvie.

(I did make damn sure that we were NEVER introduced as “Mr. and Mrs. James Jarvie” on our wedding day – we were always announced as “James and Calla B. Jarvie.”)

And that was all good and well… until we started getting mail.

Upon seeing my first envelope addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. James Jarvie,” I LOST MY SHIT.

I went on a full-on raging tirade to James about how this form of address completely negates me as a person by removing every bit of my identity and reassigning it to him. While his FULL NAME is in that address, I exist only as “Mrs.” I am no longer an individual – I am just someone’s wife/property. That is not ok with me, nor will it ever be.

Now, I know I was reading too much into it – the people who sent me that mail certainly don’t think of me as James’s property. It’s society I’m railing against, and these poor mail-senders are victims of societal brainwashing.

The title of “Mrs. Jarvie” grates on me by itself. Luckily, I am not often in a situation to be referred to as “Mrs. Jarvie” – just every other week when I go to do story time at the Ellsworth school. I have been volunteering there for nearly five years, and over time, I have evolved from “Mr. Jarvie’s wife” to “Mrs. Jarvie” to the kids, so that’s something. But there’s the identity thing again. When I am Mrs. Jarvie, my identity is only in the Mrs. And a Mrs. could be literally anyone. “Jarvie” is my husband’s name. Where am I?

Poor James never intended for me to feel this way when I changed my name. Honestly, since we live in a small Midwestern town, even if I had retained my maiden name, guaranteed I would still be referred to as Calla Jarvie.

And what of my nonexistent/theoretical future children? That’s a whole other thing. They will be half Jarvie and half Bjorklund – that’s just how it works. But to give them the last name Jarvie makes it seem as though they are Jarvie and Jarvie alone. Will they also have the middle name Bjorklund? How do we show this is important?

So what do I do to fix the “Mr. and Mrs. James Jarvie” problem? Turns out, there’s not a lot to do. James and I have taken up what I like to call “the tiny rebellion.” Whenever we get a wedding invitation addressed to Mr. and Mrs. James Jarvie, we send back the RSVP reading “Mr. and Mrs. Calla Bjorklund Jarvie.” I would be shocked if that changes anyone’s perception, but it makes me feel better.

I also try and keep the “Bjorklund” part of me as visible as possible. Just because I am married does not mean I am any less Bjorklund. I include “Bjorklund” in my email signatures, on my checks, and on my business cards. Our return address stamp says “James and Calla B. Jarvie.”

I do want you to know I have no ill will to anyone who was happy to rid themselves of their last name and adopt their husband's. Some might revel in being addressed as Mrs. Whatever. That's awesome; good for you. All I want is for that not to be forced upon me.

The Jarvie in my name is an important part of my life, but so is the Bjorklund – and I don’t want to have to sacrifice one for another. I will always be a Bjorklund, but now I’m a Jarvie as well – and I love being both.