my wedding was so fun i want a divorce so i can do it all over again

I haven't written in a full, calendar month. My fingers itch, my mind burns and I have so much to say even deaf people tell me to shut up.

I'm married now.

My mom said I could skip writing thank yous for a night and moms are always right. Except when they tell you to clean your room, don't pick your nose in public and iron your Catholic school girl skirt before you wear your pajama pants beneath it. Otherwise, they're right EVERY time.

Mom told me to go to a coffee shop and ignore the tiered chip dip sets and Longaberger baskets sprouting through my loveseat, but I prefer to stay home where the food is free and pants are optional. Did I just overshare again? I'm out of practice. Sorry about that. But seriously, creativity can not be confined to clothing. It's unnatural.

Anyways, if you missed the wedding, you missed an evening of great steaks, great dancing and goooood-looking cowboys. All the fears of tears I'd had flattened like the North Dakota landscape. Eyes watered with tears of joy, except for when the best man thanked me for proving Levi really wasn't playing for the other team as he and his friends had suspected. Those may have been tears of rage or truth...

Note: the maid of honor prepared a toast and leaned on note cards for support. Unlike the best man, she considered her speech beforehand and even presented me a gift. The best man, well, I'm not sure he practiced, but I laughed anyway. The maid of honor may have spilled the beans about me dancing in the halls, memorizing the choreography to every new Brittney and Christina video, but she didn't mention the time we got lost in foreign countries and accepted rides from strangers, got flashed by said strangers, got smooched on camera by other strangers, etc. Now that I think about it... those all occurred in France. I'd like to say that country is whack (a saying I picked up from my mom) but it was an American in Rome who wore a scrunchie in her hair, tears in her eyes and capri pants where her man parts used to be. She screamed all night in the bunk below me and when the she didn't get her way with the U.S. Embassy the next morning, she replaced her high-pitched "Heather" personality with "Stephen" the baritone. The hostel we stayed at was supposed to be segregated by sex, but I guess in Italy, gender is a matter of preference.

But back to the wedding.

Levi and I developed a code before the ceremony. If we felt an onset of tears, we'd talk about the weather. OR SO YOU THOUGHT, suckas!

Fifty percent chance of rain, I'd say, if I worried my eyes would trickle.

There's a 92 percent chance it's already raining, he'd say if he felt the same.

The goal was to distract each other: Think of a funny story or find the drunkest cowboy and dance with him. We could keep crying at bay that way.

We never needed it, but it was good to know it was there.

Part of the reason we didn't need it is because I'm a buffoon. The most sentimental point of the day, the part where if you don't cry, your heart is full of charcoal and you probably ate babies for breakfast, I totally biffed it. Not literally like I fell down the aisle and my dad caught me, but biffed it, like, I forgot about the moment entirely.

See, dad and I navigated the nave like we were celebrities. I felt like Lindsay Lohan... all the cameras and people I knew... I couldn't pay attention to the sacredness of the service or the fact that I was supposed to hug and kiss my dad as he gave me away even though I ain't nobody's possession, OK ese?

So the pastor had to give us the ol' hint-hint, nudge-nudge and I still had no idea what he meant. My dad kissed my cheek before I realized it was the big moment I insisted the photographer capture even if she took pictures of nothing else. Sorry dad. I'll make it up to you at my next wedding?

And then I missed the other big moment too. The first smooch as husband and wife. I was so relieved about not fumbling over my vows or my voice cracking as I sucked back the sniffles, I totally neglected the nuptial nuzzle. We'd even practiced. The pastor watched. But no. I ruined the moment. Again.

So since the ceremonial smooch didn't go as planned, Levi and I had plenty of chances to redeem ourselves.

That's another new thing about this blog. We're married now. Levi gets a name although I'm still not convinced he gets a deer on the wall.

Anyway, many, many ching-chings were made in our honor at the reception. The kind of ching-chings requiring the bride and groom to stand up, swap spit and continue with their meal. I'd rather see crazy American-in-Rome-woman's chest hair than pucker in public, but the 252 guests didn't seem to mind. I played along until the cake was served. Chocolate cake... with raspberry filling. Attention must be paid. Kissing can come later.

Usually kissing comes in the honeymoon suite. Perhaps you're afraid I'll wander into the waters of don't-write-that-where-other-people-namely-coworkers-can-read, but fret not. This story completes the evening without over-sharing... I don't think.

We get into the room and it's over... finally over... a momentous occasion I wanted to celebrate and mourn at the same time. Part of me wanted after-party and part of me wanted sweat pants. Amidst my ambivalence, the phone rang.

Who is calling the honeymoon suite at 1 a.m.? Mom, now is NOT the time for the talk, OK?

It wasn't my mom and it wasn't my dad or any other member of my crazy family although I wouldn't put it past them.

Who is this? Levi said into the receiver like he figured it was a telemarketer or something.

Who is this? The voice replied.

No... tell me who this is, Levi said with an authority I've heard him use only around electricity and deer-head decorations.

Tyler Aaaa.... the voice said before Levi hung up the phone and unplugged it from the wall. We're still not sure why he called or how he got the number. But the story is one of my favorites of the whole evening. I won't tell you who Tyler is, suffice it to say he was on Levi's side of the guest list, and as it sounds, would have prefered his side of the bed too.

Gah! I went too far didn't I? Shucks. I ruined it. I'm a wedding ruin-er.

Well. That sums up the wedding night. At least for now. Perhaps tomorrow I can tell you the tales of the wedding morning and the succulent seafood I caught on our honeymoon.

Stay tuned.

You tear, you're toast

As the days draw near and the details emerge, I have to comment on how not-stressful this wedding planning is. Sure, I turned bridezilla once or twice, a detail or two was forgotten and my fiance keeps threatening not to marry me unless he's wearing a Cowboy hat. But otherwise, life is good. Wedding planning is good.

The only part I dread is the wedding itself.

See, as much as I like to write about myself and my relationship and reveal a little too much, standing in front of a crowd, possibly crying, puts me out of my comfort zone. This is why couples elope, people. That and for the price of a photographer, you and three friends can take a Grey Goose and Godiva trip to Las Vegas. Who better to marry you than Elvis? He steals the show, and the attention, anyway.

So I've come up with distractions:

* the bridesmaids are wearing dresses and hair of different styles. Stare at them. Judge them. Envy their matching heals. Anything to take the eyes off me.

* My wedding singer is a natural alto, but her range is so wide, she can hit notes higher than some sopranos. Look at her. Creep on her. Leave your glasses at home because she will surely shatter them. No boring tunes for her. Her one requirement is to "knock everyone's socks off." If she can't do that, she's fired... kind of. :)

* The vows I chose are the "I do" ones, where the pastor says all the words so if my voice cracks, I say one sentence and I'm done. Champagne, anyone?

* If all else fails, I instructed my little brother to light the church on fire. He's good at this. When he was five, he cut the cord to a plugged-in and turned-on lamp. I promised him I'd use the wedding loot as bail money. Fancy a trade, officer? Three mixing bowls and a Longaberger basket for the tall Colorado kid with tan skin and dark eyes who looks nothing like pale, short me.

So I need your help:

No crying at my wedding. Please. No matter the maid of honor, the grandmother of the groom or the groom himself, you tear, you're toast. No five-tier wedding cake for you. If you start crying, then I'll start crying and then I'll cry because I didn't want to cry. And with all the water, North Dakota will flood again. Embarrassing. But what's more embarrassing for you is when a lady in white dress slaps you on the face and says "pull yourself together." No one will ever forget it. You're in the small towns now. :)

Sometimes I mess up, although it's very rare.

I don't see any gophers here anymore, Cowboy said from the deck of his mom and stepdad on the evening of his birth.

The four of us meet up that evening for corn on the cob and steaks on the grill. I ate every morsel on my plate.

They're still here, his mother said. You want the gun?

I'm pretty sure my mother never directed a sentence like that to me... and apparently for good reason.

Look, there's one over there! I said.

No, Katie, Cowboy said. Gophers don't have wings.

Wedding planning: small-town simple

I always knew TV-style wedding planning was overdramatic, but I'd never planned one myself, so I had no idea.

When people said they took every bit of a year to plan their weddings, I believed them. And perhaps they didn't lie, but Holy Whoa. That's unnecessary if you live in a small town.

In a small town, you only have so many options and of those, you're probably related to or work with someone in each industry. Need a tuxedo? My co-worker runs a shop. Cake? Another co-worker ordered from the same woman. Honeymoon? His uncle owns a resort. Invitations? Ask the crafty co-worker with a scrapbook shop in her basement.

Here's proof of small-town simple: I got engaged two months ago.

Already, I've picked out:

* colors: black, silver and green. No brainers as I was raised in a home with green carpet, green roof and green bedding. Plus, now I'm going to live on green acres. It's only fitting.
* bridesmaids dresses/shoes: ok, they picked them out and I'm not telling you anymore because it's a secret. I'm just jealous I can't wear one too :)
* dress for me: ah, ah, ah-- You'll just have to show up and see :) But I will tell you this, the shoulder pads exceed the height of my head. Pure decadence. I couldn't shop anywhere in my city of residence as we have no bridal attire here. I could though, shop with my mom and aunt and in four hours, the dress and decisions were done. Perfect.
* flowers: white, tasteful and prepared by the best man's sister. I didn't bother to shop anywhere else.
* photographer: not only does she take amazing pictures, but I'd totally friend her on Facebook. The cost of the photos, however, might make me unable to afford it.
* church: sacrifice to Jesus, which is OK because after all these years, I'm due. Plus, the pastor chaired a committee to help people recovering from flood damage. I heart me some small-town connections.
* reception hall/caterer: entree is chosen, now for the sides! It's also the same location where the Cowboy and I met.
* cake: five tiers and about $1 per serving (small-town steal! as some city places charge five times that price)
* invitations: picked out, designed, but not made. Breathe mom :)
* DJ: recommended by the hotel, but costs a good paycheck
* HONEYMOON: less than the Dj...?

Now all I need to do is narrow down the guest list.... and pick out the groom :)

tux shopping ≠sux shopping

So the Cowboy and I tux shopped last night. In American weddings, the bride picks out the attire for the groom, but the groom can't even see the attire for his lovely lady. I think that's a metaphor for life: the gal makes all the decisions and the guy is content with the result. Yes, I think I will live happily ever after now.

For me, my wedding colors are silver, black and green. But Cowboy put his foot down. No neon and no (insert gay slang here) pastels, he said. To him, that meant only one choice was left:

... and no. We were not tuxedo shopping at Cabela's. This was a formal wear dress shop with tiaras and floor-length evening gowns.

Did you know Wrangler makes a formal tuxedo? They do. With bolo ties and belt buckles the size of basketballs.

As for the true image of Cowboy's attire, well that's a secret. It's OK for the bride to see, but for the rest of you, that's just bad luck :) 

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.