wedding photo sneak peak

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm kind of loving me some cowboy hat :)

More to come...

His and hers decorating: seeing green

Cowboy informed me yesterday: *not* every room in the house can be green.

I don't want EVERYTHING green. Now that's just crazy. We picked out cherry-stained cabinets and a sand/black counter top to coordinate with the gray ceramic tile. See? No green. All I ask is the walls...

I don't see the problem, I said.

It can't be green everywhere, he said. You want to walk into every room and see green??

Suddenly I'm having second thoughts about this marriage.

Um... yes?

If it's this or the antlers, I truly don't know what I'll chose.

I blame my father.

oh deer

Can we talk about this mounting thing again? Cowboy asked as we strolled no where in paticular.

It was one of those weekday nights where we could be together and just be. Light skies mixed with light winds reminded us of last year when winter coats and snowstorms were more frequent than April showers and all the May flowers.

What about it? I asked, anticipating the only disagreement we've ever had and not solved.

Cowboy wants space in our house for the heads of animals he's shot... the birds, the rodents and especially the deer. He thinks it will give the home and outdoor ambiance. I don't disagree. I think it will look like a cemetary.

I just don't think this man-room idea is going to work, he said. Mounts need higher ceilings.

When it comes to interior decorating, Cowboy and I match like pink and navy blue: feminine, masculine and flattering on any skin tone. He likes earthtones and I prefer neutrals and greens. He prefers simple and I prefer practical. Awesome.

But our design has one flaw. Cowboy blueprinted a house with high walls specifically for the shrines to fallen fauna.

Naturally, I'd prefer a shrine to Satan.

Even when I design this man-room idea, he said, it won't have enough space for the bucks and their antlers, he said.

This is working better than I expected, I mumbled to myself. Originally, I told him to hang such artifacts in the mud room where the water heater and dirty shoes go. No one will bother them in there, I said. Exactly, he said, because there's no room for them in there.

The man room was my middle ground. Build me a house with a kitchen, two bedrooms and a writing space. When we assemble the addition, you can have a man room with camo curtains and antlers on the wall. I'll never go there and I'll never complain.

I can't build those walls as tall as the house itself, he said. But the antlers need tall walls. Astetically, it's unattrative.

Unattractive is death in the living room, I said. We may have dead creatures in our home, but they'll reside in the freezer where they belong.

We continued to sashay the sidewalks I fear my children will never recognize. Where we'll live, roads consist of gravel and stone and "side walks" are made only when a person creeps through cramped space. Stop lights don't exist and parking meters are as distant as Tiger Woods and Elin Nordegren.

Deer mounts honor the animal, he said. They recognize its dignity and valor.

If you wanted to honor it, you'd bury it, I said. Do you stick the heads of dead grandparents on your wall?

Mounts seem a little barbaric, and maybe they are, he said. Maybe that's why I like it. Can't we make some sort of compromise?

Hello! I said. Living here is a compromise. Have you met MoNa? She's especially bitchy to the Northern Plains...

I know, but hunting and nature are just part of who I am, he said. I just think we should find a space for them in our home.

I shook my head. Space for them means none for me.

To be continued...

In-law insanity: Cowboy meets the fam

Afraid but not alone, I’d driven those miles many times in three years. Five hundred miles to my hometown.... turn south at Fargo and you can’t miss it. 

Cowboy and I were driving to Omaha. A trip my Volvo could do in reverse, but one foreign to the man from Up North.

The journey was one of endings and beginnings. Vinny’s final voyage was Cowboy’s first. First to Omaha, first to the family, first time to meet the in-laws in Iowa. 

Terrified, I’d taught him the card game of my birth. Euchre. Known as the game of bowers where the right Jack is higher than any ace, some in-laws attempt a first game with my uncles, and then never return for a second. 

Don’t let that happen to you, I said to the Cowboy. You have to get to know them. They aren’t going to get to know you.

I’m not worried, he said.

Well I am.

Cowboy’s good with meeting new people. He doesn’t shy away from shaking hands and story-telling, the customary get-to-know-you rituals. But my family is as tough as it is big. (My mom is one of 11 children and I’m one of 39 cousins. We served 60 people that Saturday.) If you’re going to bring someone new into the family, they seem to say, he has to impress us. We won’t bother to impress him. In fact, it’s the opposite. The uncles find it funny to scare future family with phrases like “With which hand do you smoke your crack?” and “Don’t trump my ace, you bitch.”

Without knowing it, Cowboy was under the second-most pressure of any decedent of of Eldora and Paul. My father is known as one of the most vicious. Known for his taunting and teasing, many cousins warn their mates to avoid him.

The only uncle worse is one of three Uncle Bills. For those unfamiliar, you’ll know him by his neck: it’s thicker than my thighs. A two-time war veteran, Jujitsu champion and narcotics enforcement officer, Uncle Bill searches all the boyfriend’s pockets and wallets... in search of paraphernalia of the drug and birth-control persuasion.

Uncle Bill wouldn’t make it for Easter, but I was scared anyway. I won’t baby-sit you, I said. I can’t. You’ll have to make conversation with people you don’t know all on your own. 

Don’t worry about me, Kate, he said. I’ll be fine. 

You don’t understand.

My mom, though, she knew it too.

She and an aunt took me dress shopping, a custom customarily sans-man. 

You’re going to let him meet your grandmother, without you? she asked.

Guess so, I said, shrugging my shoulders like I didn’t care. And when it comes to my grandmother, I didn’t. I cared about their first impression, yes, but was I worried they wouldn’t hit it off? No. 

Play cards with her, I said. And when she tells you to eat something, just do it.

Six hours, 60 wedding dresses, and the one I’d picked out weeks before later, we arrived at a home minus one Cowboy. 

He’s at the boat, Grandma said, gambling with the boys. 

So, what’d you think of him? I asked.

Well, he kept leading trump aces, she said. An evaluation meaning: he’s got work to do. 

*Sigh*

The next morning, grandma’s kitchen resembled an elementary cafeteria with relations eating with their fingers and crowding the center table. The noise level rivaled that of Superbowl Sunday and one child even stood in the corner and covered his ears. Oh wait... that was my dad. And then another child threw jelly beans at my aunt. Oh wait, that was my dad too.

Cowboy didn’t seem to mind. He did OK with names... all except for one. I introduced him to my Aunt Karen, but he called her Aunt Shirley. He learned the names of my cousins and remembered the names of the relations he’d met gambling the night before. 

Signs pointed in the right direction, but the true test was when I left him to his lonesome. Anxious for my bridal shower, another sans-man activity, Cowboy navigated the river of uncles and moseyed over to the big kid’s Euchre table. At the big kid’s table, only experts are allowed, as the number of players double and the speed of play triples. 

My mother, myself and my grandmother at my bridal shower in Manchester, Iowa. Thanks for the photo, Aunt Bev. :)

You’re going to leave him with the uncles alone? my cousins asked. 

*Gulp*

Do you know how many times we’ve walked into places where he knows everyone and I know no one, I answered, nonchalantly. This happens to me all the time without so much as an introduction. This is my one chance to get back at him, I said, wiping the sweat from my brow.

By the time I opened my presents and read from recipes I’ll never be qualified to cook, even if I’d wanted to find Cowboy, I couldn’t. He talked to one cousin about wiring projects and an uncle about cattle. Words like “Cat 5” and “cattle magnet” escaped their lips. Words foreign to me, but cozy to the Cowboy.

I may have driven him 600 miles from his land of origin, but with my family, he was already home.

had it been the first date, we'd ne'er had enjoyed a second

Ok, I have lots and lots and LOTS to write about, but until then, I have this short story.

Cowboy and I celebrated the anniversary of our first date Friday by dining at the restaurant in which we shared our first meal. It's the nice restaurant in town and of course, the most expensive. (That's how you know it's a small town... because it's THE nice restaurant in town rather an **one of** the nicest)

He wore Wrangler jeans and Cowboy boots and I wore a little black dress, because that's how we roll. We are our own people. Manifested in attire we wear.

He treated me better than that first night, opening every door, spooning my appetizer and this time, I even let him pick me up at my apartment. (I said I'd meet him there, the first time, heh).

To quote his sister: "What a loser."

But I was in a state of mush, totally lapping it up like a thirsty puppy on an August afternoon.

Cowboy held my hand, took my coat and ordered for me. When he told me I was beautiful, I agreed.

But when the check came, his wallet didn't.

Did I leave it in the car? he asked. My other jacket? Let me go look...

Sure enough, no. He had no wallet. No cash. No credit card. The jerk thought opening doors and flirty compliments would get him a free dinner? He was wrong. I may have paid the bill, but he paid later... in the form of washing my dishes and vacuuming the carpet ;)

Boxers? Nope. This one is briefs.

I've got a long (see: length of House Bill 3200) update on the way. I promise. But in the meantime, allow me to update you in brief.

* Cowboy and I drove 788 miles in a borrowed car to visit my family for Thanksgiving.

• Said family wasn't expecting us.
• I should have majored in lying... oh wait I studied PR. 

* While visiting, Cowboy flashed his house plans like a pedophile on the playground. 

• My 23-year-old brother questioned why a person would chop trees to cook food in an oven kept in the living room. A conversation regarding wood-burning stoves and their heating capabilities ensued.  
• Framing for Cowboy's house begins this weekend. If you have a hammer, you're invited. Double points if yours is pink (like mine).
• I was a little embarrassed by my brother's city-dom until...

* We ran out of fuel 40 miles from home and couldn't fill up because it was after 6 on a Sunday. Even on one of the biggest travel days of the year, small town gas stations in North Dakota CLOSE. Cowboy said we could call Triple A. I disagreed. Now, Cowboy's left ear is slightly longer than his right. I'm going to blame it on his bling, despite his un-pierced ear. 

* Cowboy asked if our roadside badger-sighting "blew my mind." Yes. Much like my reaction to Einstein's theory of relativity, Beethoven's fifth and Pluto's dis-planet-ness, so blown is my brain right now. Kind of like yours, if you could just hand me your deer rifle, please.

* For the winter holidays, Cowboy said he'd prefer a makeover to traditional gifts like hammer saws and bathroom slippers. I'm starting with his wardrobe. Next time you see him, he'll be wearing a paddy cap and argyle sweater vest. 

* We played Nintendo 64 like it was 1996 again. I got so aggressive, I "rammed the shit" out of Princess Peach's face. 

Oh yeah. Don't miss that one. 

PS: Here's a shout out to the person/people in Tanzania who read my blog for 64 minutes yesterday. Jambo to you :)