Jeans, jeans, the magical fruit

I attended a wedding this weekend in which the groom wore jeans and an untucked shirt. 


The father-of-the-bride wore jeans too. And so did all if the guests except me, the bride, the mother-of-the-bride and a little girl in a black tu-tu.


Untucked, Cowboy thought to himself.
Jeans? I thought aloud.


I wasn't so much appalled as I was intrigued.


I've only attended three North Dakota weddings, so I can't say what a traditional one looks like. But much to my despair and all I thought was right in the world, I think more weddings should come dressed in jeans. Or untucked shirts. Or tu-tus. Whatever. 


Because while weddings are a formal occasion, a marriage is not. If anything, a marriage should be the most informal relationship a person has.


informal |inˈfôrməl|adjectivehaving a relaxed, friendly, or unofficial style, manner, or nature 
Formalities in marriage should be as unfamiliar as a Big Mac on a Hilton sister. You need to wear a retainer at night? Sexy. Your first kiss was with your cousin? Weird, but I love you anyway. You need to cuddle? Take my arms. 
This relationship, bound by law, expects devotion, honor and protection of another, until death parts. So even on PMS days, low-income days, rectum-spasm days and bad-hair days, two people, previously unrelated, make a promise to love and to hold, through good times and bad. It's a formal commitment in an informal relationship, to love a person for exactly who they are and how they may change, forever and ever. 
The person you marry should see you without makeup, and tell you you look better without it. She should accept your beer belly, but take you for walks and cook you steamed vegetables anyway. A marriage is a union between two people, who they are, who they were and who'll they'll become. 
Yikes.
Maybe we get over our marriage fears by dressing them up in things borrowed and blue. 
We grow up in a society where it seems "weddings" are not only synonymous with, but more important  than, the marriage itself. Like, we may spend our entire savings account, but I'm sooo having ice sculptures of fairies and lilly pads at my wedding. And I want orchid center pieces and a midget DJ too. They represent who we are as a couple. 
Really?
If a wedding is synonymous with marriage and who two people are as a couple, mine would come dressed in pointy toed shoes in mid-January, or... pajama pants when I get off work at nightfall. We'd listen to Christina Aguilera, dance the Cupid Shuffle and feast on mom's homemade peanut butter balls.
Now that's something to celebrate. 
To be clear, I'm not against weddings and I'm not against marriage. I'm just against the Hallmark-ization that comes with celebrating two people who chose to partner their parenting skills and checking accounts with each other. 
Everyone is entitled to the wedding of their dreams, and the day is, in fact, special. Celebrate the love, celebrate the forged family and celebrate the opportunity to visit with people you only hear from on Christmas cards. 
I'm not saying throw out your top hats and turtledoves, I'm just saying the celebration is a day. But the marriage is a lifetime. And if you're lifetime is dressed in jeans, why should your wedding be any different?
Loves,Katie

man bag

Me: That's a cute looking purse you got there.
Cowboy: That's not a purse. That's my coyote-hunting sachel.

You decide.

Country picnic

At city potluck picnics, children play, men show their muscles and women dress in summer clothes and gossip about the neighbors and friends who didn’t attend.

Summer clothes: Apparel that is totally unsuitable for outdoor activities, namely short dresses, beaded jewelry and sandals with heels. If you don’t believe me, check out these stiletto-savers, designed to protect your sandals from the sand. Seriously.

In the country, both women and men where t-shirts and jeans shorts.

Jean shorts: Apparel no city girl EVER wears because the clothing is too short, too long or too unflattering. Unless she’s 7, denim in that pattern does not occur naturally on city-folk. Jean skirts maybe. Or capri shorts. I don’t even know a store sells jean shorts for women. But really, they aren't unflattering and jeans shorts may even be practical. But that still doesn't mean I'll wear them...

The country girl in my told me to wear capris. They’re more sensible. They’re more conservative. And they’ll hide your pale skin, she said. But the city girl in me wanted some sun (tan). And she knows how to bust some cap.

So a dress it was. With polka dots. And a necklace so long it caressed my belly button. And white, chucky-heeled sandals accessorized my "Pistol Packin' Pink nail polish.

No one stared at me when I arrived, but maybe that’s because they were wearing sunglasses. And tennis shoes.

You can’t be playing softball in that, they said.

(Not "you can't play softball," rather, "you can't be playing softball" in that)

But my question was: Softball?

Where I come from, the boys play softball and the ladies drink lemonade and talk about where they got their hair highlighted.

What do you mean softball?

That’s OK, they said. We’re playing egg toss first, anyways. Husbands and wives are on the same team.

(awkward pause)

And, er... boyfriend and girlfriends too.

So there we were. Me in my dress and Cowboy is his cut-off sleeves, throwing raw eggs at each other.

Don’t mess up, Kate, I whispered to myself. DO NOT mess up.

The first tosses were fine. Toss. Catch. Baby step back. Toss. Catch. Baby step back.

One couple down.

Phew, we didn’t get last, I thought.

Then another. And another.

Pressure’s on, I thought.

Standing 12 feet apart, Cowboy lofts one to me, 5 feet short.

Oh four-letter-word, I said, recalling my days as a tomboy and diving for that egg like it was a Hail Mary Pass and I was in the end zone.

WHOOO HOOO, they cried.

She caught it! ...in heels! one said.

Now put that picture in the paper, said another.

After a victory dance mimicking that of Chad Johnson, Cowboy and I had two other teams to beat. If we made it this far, we might as well aim for total egg shell domination.

At least until it was my turn to throw.

Suddenly, I didn't care about the mud in my toes or the wind flying up my skirt. It didn't matter that the breeze had blown the curls out of my hair or that mosquitoes were biting at my legs. I didn't even notice the pink rings on my shoulders left from a cocktail of perspiration and red spaghetti straps.

My arms, by the way, are made of steel, just ask those 40 pound sandbags. But tossing an egg 15 feet is well, quite a feat.

So instead of tossing the egg and letting it land short, I side-armed the egg like a baseball, chucking it from Point A to Point B.

It broke.

Egg yolk all over Cowboy and his cut-off sleeves, staining his t-shit and soiling his redneck dreams.

He’ll need new clothes, I thought. ...So if this is country, I dreamed, hand me another egg.

wallet wise

I read in a women's magazine that random acts of thriftiness are no longer taboo.

For example, if someone compliments your sweater, you no longer have to blush and hope they don't notice it's last season, the magazine said. Now, you have the freedom to say "Target clearance rack!" and not feel ashamed.

Let me tell you something.

This is not a trend. This is PURE North Dakotan.

Up here, people mock those who carry purses that cost more than $50... $40 even. Why would you spend more than $50 on a wallet-carrier when you could save your money and spend it on a $1,000 crossbow at Cabela's?

When I visited the clinic for my annual check up, my doctor knew how much each prescription cost and which was the best value. I don't know if you'll want this one, he said, it's 50 bucks a month.

The sales associates at clothing stores suggest you buy what's on sale, rather than what's full price.

I bought $4 coffee once, and the co-workers made fun of me.

So this "trend," this supposed new-fangled rhetoric, was stolen straight from the Upper Plains. And let me tell you something else. It has never gone out of style.