Make Marriage, Not War

Hooray! You're here! I was hoping and wishing that you'd still be here when I got back from my trip... and here you are! I'm glad you made it because you are cordially invited as my guest, via pictures, to the wedding of Molly Petrik to Chris Healow.

This past weekend I traveled afar to a beautiful place called Missoula, quietly nestled in the mountains of Montana, hippies abounding around every street corner. Sarah and Adam Rassier, Kyle, and myself, headed to the land of the very free on Thursday morning. The occasion? An outdoor wedding of a childhood friend, Molly Petrik, to her beau, Chris Healow. It was well-worth the 13 hour drive in our tan Camry.

Adam's road rage driving techniques made for some interesting moments along the way, but we miraculously all made it there in one piece. These questionable instances include, but are not limited to: flying past a frightened student driver on the highway, profuse horn-honkage, a death-defying grizzly bear encounter, getting a little too up-close and personal with the median ("Is this a lane? Are we in a lane?" .... "Oh whoops, no, this isn't a lane at all"...[quick sudden jerk to the right]..."There."), and seemingly attempting to break the sound barrier (between you and me, let's just say we made excellent time). For all you mothers out there: our seat belts were in-tact the entire time. We arrived at the Mountain Valley Inn in Missoula Montana, precisely at 5:10pm. Here are some pictures of the weekend's events, as promised...a story board, if you will (and indeed, you will):

1) The rehearsal dinner in the park. Shortly after checking into the Mountain Valley Inn (heretofore known as the MVI), we revitalized our butt-to-seat laden bodies and found our way to the park for a pig roast feast. I like to call it a feastival. A party, as you all are well aware, is simply not a party until a deliciously meaty pig carcass arrives in the back of a rickety old Jeep, driven by a portly yet jolly gentleman in suspenders.

2) The North Dakota Gang. North Dakota was generously represented at the rehearsal dinner. From left to right: Sarah Rassier, Adam Rassier, Kyle Labrecque, I am the stunning vision in white, Jake Carolan, Jenny Carolan, Kris Smetana, Jason Nisbet's head, and Matt Nisbet.

3)The world's best pants. After the rehearsal "feastival", we putted back to the MVI. Before turning in for the evening, we stopped by a friend's hotel room, where, much to our astonishing elation, we were greeted with a gift of fleece pants. I refer to mine as "Heather and the amazing technicolor fleece pants." I am uncertain as to whether these pants are actually as amazing as they appear in the photo, or if the pant models are merely "working the pants" all too well.

4) Here Comes the Bride. The creek-side wedding the next afternoon was held at a beautiful estate nestled into the mountain-side. The guests and groom sang George Harrison's "Here comes the sun," while the wedding party and bride walked down the grassy aisle. The sun did indeed make an appearance, and temperatures soared to over 90 degrees. Fear not, however, this little white Norwegian-Irish girl applied SPF 50, as well as a double dose of Secret (it's strong enough for a man, but PH balanced for a woman).

5) Bring on the Funk. The girls were decked out in little silk halter knee-length numbers, while the boys donned brown linen pants, a striped blue shirt, and brown suspenders. The officiant was the couple's music professor (Dr. Funk, appropriately). Molly and Chris wrote their own heartfelt vows, and there wasn't a dry eye for miles.

6) The Other Happy Couple. Kyle and I after the wedding, just steps from the ceremony site. I wore my hair down, and slightly curled, for as long as any sane human can tolerate in that magnitude of heat...21 minutes, 38 seconds exactly.

7) Things are Heating Up. When beads of perspiration began to overcome my cotton smock, I gathered my locks and threw them up in a pony tail, as seen here.

8) Down Came the Rain. Clouds loomed over the area not long after, but the rain just missed us. The welcoming cloud cover cooled off the event to a comfortable 75 degrees. Check out that gorgeous view! I checked for ticks at least four times after coming back down the hill; I am happy to report that I was and still am tick-free.

9) Let them eat Buffalo. The wedding feast consisted of salmon, roasted buffalo with huckleberry sauce, asparagus stalks, some sort of cous-cous/quinoa concoction, iced dill potatoes, and a bun. I decided that it doesn't matter where you come from or what walk of life you choose to take, everyone loves a good bun. I, myself, am no exception to that rule.

10) SPEECH! SPEECH! Upon the commencement of the meal, the microphone was open for well wishes or stories for the new couple. Here, the parents of the bride look on. As a high school friend, I felt as though it was my utter obligation to share an embarrassing story of dear Molly. I stormed the mic and received an uproarious applause. Kyle greeted me back to my seat with "You really know how to work a crowd!" Thanks babe!

11) The Garter Toss. When the speeches came to a close, a few people insisted on speaking a bit more. When the speeches came to a close again, the evening's festivities were soon underway. To kick off the night, the bouquet was thrown, and the garter tossed.

12) Reunited and it Feels So Good. We Three Amigos: Sarah, Jenny and Myself, workin' it at the reception...kissin' the boys and makin' 'em cry! Yowsa!

13) Dancing the Night Away. After the Citronella Tiki Torches were activated, Molly and Chris had their first dance as husband and wife to the music of a live folk band. The music was oh-so contagious. By the second or third song, the driveway dance floor was filled with swirling, twirling bodies until the wee hours of the evening. To listen to the bride and groom's song, click here.

14) So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, See ya Later. We said our sorrowful good-byes, and headed back to the MVI for the night. Kyle and I were starving and ordered a delightful pizza at 2:00am, when pizza tastes best. We dined on our usual pepperoni and cheese until our bellies could take no more. After checking out of the hotel the next morning, (You're forever in our hearts, MVI) our tummies were yet again eager for sustenance. "What better place to fill your gut than Famous Dave's BBQ?" we all thought. And so we dined on ribets and chicken baskets until our little hearts were content.

It was quite a delightful trip, and I thoroghly enjoyed myself during the entire adventure...it was hard to say goodbye. If e'er you need advice on how to survive hippies or renegade drivers, look me up. I have plenty of pointers.

Peace out,

H

Missoula or Bust!

Welcome back! Seeing you here is the best part of my day.

Thursday morning I am off to beautiful Missoula, Montana. In case you aren't familiar with the area, it's just 3 miles left of NoMansLand, and 560 miles west of MiddleofNowhere. Hang a right immediately after the vast expanse of NothingForMilesandMiles ...just look for signs, you can't miss it.

I will be attending a wedding there, clad in bare feet. I got a pedicure this morning, just for the occasion. My toenails are now a luscious pearly pink. I feel pretty... oh so pretty...

You can assuredly expect a full report on my outing (complete with photographs in full technicolor) when I return home early next week. I can hardly wait to share them with you...the suspense is already killing me!

As previously stated in an earlier post, my procrastinating ways have yielded packing until this evening, mere hours before the trip ... just think of all the time I saved doing absolutely nothing for all those hours! I must get to packing. Alas, time is slowly creeping away and I must cut short our meeting here this fine evening. I have so much to tell you, but it simply must wait.

Feel free to catch up on past blog posts until I return. I would love to hear what your favorites are! Have a wonderful weekend! Until we meet again...

Peace out,
H

No Further Questions, Your Honor.

You're back! You never cease to amaze me!

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I am at liberty to say that after weeks of endless rain, I can now declare the sun: officially shining!
"But Heather," you say, "Why are you at liberty to say so?"

My, but how funny you should ask. My fellow citizens--and Kyle--I have been potentially selected to honorably represent all that is peaceful and just in this fair county of ours...to serve, and protect...to keep those innocent who have not yet been proven guilty by penalty of law, and to lock up the poor sap who so much as looks at me the wrong way. My congressmen, my Americans, my census talliers, and my proven felons: you have potentially chosen me to represent you in your time of treachery and need. Yes, I am a potential juror--ready to report for duty.

The trials and tribulations of a juror's duty sentence are far less than that of the accused lug in the hot seat. I will do nothing but my best to ensure that justice has been fulfilled. I can see it now... I am quite positive that my defendant/plaintiff (thank you, Judge Wapner) experience will be exactly like that of a movie courtroom scene. If not, I intend on making it as such.

I will walk in with glasses on. My hair will be loosely tossed in a messy bun, held up by a yellow number 2 pencil. This, I assume to believe, is known as "lawyer chic." My fellow Americans--and Kyle-- let it be known: there is no time for such nonsense as "hair ties" when a young man's life is at steak. Banana clips and scrunchies of every color and texture are immediately meaningless in such a consequential event...even the holy grail of hair ties--the velvet scrunchy--suddenly pales into insignificance. The number 2 pencil has been, and always be, a symbol of authority of utmost importance. Veteran attorneys scoff at those donning any other number. Also, in any question of authority or status of rank: bite-marks always beats no bite-marks.

I will, no doubt, be sporting a simple dark brown pant-suit circa 1991, with black clod-hopper dress shoes. My pant-legs will be precisely 2 inches too short, and my black nylons will have a run in them, exactly 6 inches long.

I will walk to the jury bleachers with my clip-board in tact, and a black clicky-pen in hand. There will be a low murmur of "is-he-or-isn't-he?" whispers that fill the air. No one will speak above 5 decibels. The room will be a floor to ceiling cherry/walnut wood facade, with a fan radiating every 5 feet across the ceiling. The windows will have vertical blinds that sway with the circulating air of the fans, and the light that passes through each length of blind will cast dusty light beams across the room, one of which, shining directly into my left eye. While no smoking is permitted in the building, cigarettes will be smoldering in ashtrays in random spots throughout the room, drawing swirly gray mists up to the walnut ceiling.

When the trial commences, I will cross my legs, and rotate my clicky-pen upwards, 90 degrees, and, with a furrowed brow, begin to chew. This action subconsciously dictates to all parties involved, that I am heretofore primed and prepared to heed opening arguments. If the pen has not yet crossed the oral threshold, I am not yet attentive, nor alert. Every two minutes, I will uncross, and recross my legs in the opposite direction. Once opening arguments indeed proceed, I will squint, and listen, occasionally nodding my head. I will not actually be listening, as I tend to daydream within minutes, but that is irrelevant.

I will stand proudly and announce a verdict: "GUILTY! HANG HIM! TRAITOR!"
The judge will reprimand me: "Miss, the trial just started! Take your seat or we'll have you escorted out of here."

I will, indeed take my seat, and proceed with the rest of the obligatory "fair trial." Guilty or not, my mind is already made.

I will embrace the potential experience. Some ask, 'is it worth it?' ...Is missing a few days work worth a minimal $40 dollars a day? If it's good enough for Rachel Ray, by gum, it's good enough for me. Is it worth being isolated from society for a week? I consider it a perk. Is it worth sitting on a walnut bench all day to grant some stranger a chance at freedom? If it means I get to wear a hand-me-down pants-suit: you betcha.

It is my American duty, and my dear dear pleasure to serve, honor... and convict. Calling all Potential Felons: See you on the stand...and good luck...you'll need it.

Peace out,
H

HOLD EVERYTHING!

Welcome back to the blog. I can't remember the last time you looked so stunning... and you smell fantastic.

Had I known you'd show up looking so fabulous, I'd have run a comb through my hair (maybe even have fired up the curling iron), and made myself look a bit more presentable. Although, looks can be deceiving: even though I may be donning an old pair of worn out blue jeans and a scraggly ragamuffin tee, I am nonetheless "dressed for success." Ladies and gentlemen, today I came face to face with a pivotal national crisis--a potential catastrophe to all mankind: a terror so perilous, it would have driven a lesser man to solemn tears of defeat... and through all unspeakable odds, I victoriously prevailed!

Today... yes, today...I lost my Visa check card. And that's not the only thing I lost--I went crazy trying to find it. I looked absolutely everywhere, including places I knew, with absolute certainty, that it was not. There is a general process that every person goes through when they have lost something of significant importance:

You complete your shopping routine and head to the checkout counter, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that is about to rear its ugly head. After unloading your items, the clerk gives you a total. You open your wallet and realize disaster has stricken. This is known as the "oh crap" moment. Whether or not you have anyone with you, you always declare your misfortune-- and always out loud:
"Where's my check card?" you say. "I know it was in here yesterday...?"
You look to the cashier for emotional support--she's not having it, she's witnessed this on 3 separate occasions this morning alone. Realizing this is a troublesome situation, you turn to the person standing in line behind you with that uneasy "I'm not sure how this happened" smile. He doesn't care either, he's got places to be and people to see. He returns your non-verbal communication and responds with the standard "Lady, you better figure out something real quick" eyebrow lift and eye-roll (this is also accompanied with an intentionally louder than normal inhale/exhale combination). Your attention now revolves back to the clerk, but you don't have to murmur a word, as she's already putting your bagged belongings below the counter for re-shelving. When a quick but thorough body check yields no results, you admit defeat and head back to the parking lot.

As your mind races with possible Visa card locations, you furrow your eyebrows in worry and quickly walk back to your vehicle. At each intersection, one eye is kept on the changing stoplight while the other frantically searches the console of the front seat. At major intersections, both hands come entirely off of the steering wheel, and a full vehicle cavity search is performed within an arms-length radius. The process continues the entire way: searchsearchsearchsearchsearch--green light! ... ... ... ... searchsearchsearchsearchsearch--green light! ... ... ... ... searchsearch--where on earth is this th--green light!

When you reach your final destination, you mumble incessantly...repeatedly recalling aloud each and every step taken since you last saw your plastic life-source...
"Okay. I know I had it at Walmart yesterday. I'm almost sure I remember putting it back in my purse after that. Did I go anywhere else? Oh yeah, I swung through the drive-through. I'm sure I would have realized if I didn't get it back from him, you'd think I would have noticed. Walmart, drive-through... I mean where else could it be? I know I had it at the checkout counter last time, and I'm sure I put it back...".

Immediately marching inside,you check every possible nick and cranny of your home, in this order:
1) your wallet.
2) your car.
3) your wallet.
4) the kitchen table.
5) the table by the door.
6) your car.
7) every pocket of the pants you are currently wearing.
8)the couch cushions.
9) every pocket of the pants you wore yesterday.
10) the computer desk.
11) your wallet.
12) the refrigerator.
13) the kitchen cupboards.
14) every pocket of the pants you wore 2 days ago.
15) the car.
--pause to yell at everyone for not helping you look--
16) the computer desk.
17) the junk drawer in the kitchen.
18) your winter coat.
19) the garbage.
20) your bedroom floor.
21) every pocket of every pair of pants you've ever worn.
22) your wallet.
23) the computer desk.
24) the couch cushions.
25) the kitchen cupboards.
26) the laundry room, including the washing machine, dryer, and lint trap.
27) your underwear drawer.
28) your car.
29) your wallet.
30) the refrigerator.

Then, as if a bulb literally bursts into light above your noggin, it dawns on you--the exact location of your beloved Visa Check Card: the top dresser drawer, precisely 2 inches from where you last placed it. Immediately upon retrieval, the card is hoisted into the air, and from the bellows of your innards, you triumphantly shout: "I FOUND IT!!!" In a voice so loudly that those you've corralled to double check the basement can hear your victorious battle cry. Family members roll their eyes and continue on in their normal lives. As a calming relief soothes every fiber of your being, you feel as though you can conquer anything.

With another crisis averted, I can now ease into bed, knowing I'll be able to charge another day. Attention world: you have my permission to start spinning again.

Peace out,
H

When life hands you lemons...

Oh, hi there! I didn't see you come in. This really is a pleasant surprise! Come on in out of the rain and dry off ...stay a while.

According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA)'s National Severe Storms Laboratory (NSSL) based in Norman, Oklahoma, and also renowned Weather Channel Meteorologist Kristina Abernathy: it rained today. I suspected such an atmospheric behavior when I looked out my window this morning, and that suspicion has indeed since been
confirmed. While I do adore a ferocious thunderstorm (although the concept of "hail" was much more exhilarating before I upgraded from "big wheels" to 4wheel drive), I do believe it is time yet again, for bright and cheery skies.

The summer season seems to bring with it a nostalgic feeling of simpler times. I have always looked forward to the warmth of the sun, and carefree days spent soaking in it. When the sweltering sun is too much to bear, and cash is sparse, 6 year old marketing geniuses line the streets with refreshing beverages, for a mind-blowing 10 cents a cup. The real money makers will charge extra for the straws... that's where the real profits are. I know this, because I, too, was a young sidewalk entrepreneur.

Take my advice, kids, because I learned the ropes the hard way, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life:

Years ago, on a peaceful summer day, I drug our old wooden kiddie-sized picnic table (hey whatever happened to that thing, anyways?) to the corner slab of boulevard outside our house. This spot had huge potential - a corner lot - catching traffic not only travelling north to south, but east to west, as well. The stage was set; all I needed was the perfect elixir of sugar, water, and an "ade." The most important decision: would it be "lemon"? The safe choice? Or dare I make a clever switch to "kool"? The general public would surely never see it coming! I threw on my star-shaped sunglasses, hopped on my pink flowered banana seat and sped off to B&D Market. The faster I rode, the 'tinking' sound of plastic flowers sliding up and down my spokes dwindled to the mere whir of rubber on concrete.

By the time I reached the store, I had already confidently pinpointed the perfect summer potion: pink lemonade. How could I go wrong?? I threw my purchase in my plastic faux wicker basket, and rode home with the same raw fury as before. My mother (under my instructions, of course) carefully mixed the rosy concoction to a tee. It was as though she had done this a thousand times. Meanwhile, I grabbed the finest white lined paper money could buy, and the necessary Crayolas to accurately portray my product. In mere minutes, I created a masterpiece: "Lemonade - 10 cents." In my eyes, the adjacent depiction of a glass of pink lemonade was uncanny. The ice cubes seemed to dance on the page. What simple-minded passerby with any common sense could pass up such an irresistible bargain? I grabbed a jar of change and boldly marched into place.

It was a hot day... I knew it would be hook, line, and sinker. A short moment had passed, and I quickly made my first sale (not surprisingly). Shortly thereafter, a young couple stopped to quench their thirst-- already I was up 30 cents!! Then... I saw it... bright, shiny, and green: the station wagon of all station wagons; and she was packed full of parched men, women, and children. JACKPOT! I waited there on the curb, cool and collected, pretending not to notice as the mother approached my humble stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I estimated at least 8 bodies in the backseat of the car, give or take a few - I can't be sure, this was no time to gawk.

"It's 10 cents?" she asked.
"Yep!" I said. "10 cents."
"Ooh, looks pretty good!" she kindly remarked. On the outside, I smiled and accepted the compliment. On the inside, I thought,
"Of course it looks good, lady, this is the best lemonade stand within 5 blocks of here. You'd be hard pressed to come across nectar this good again in a very long time."

[On a side note, sometimes my perception of myself in my own thoughts takes on a "newsies" character, standing on a dim-lit alley corner flipping a nickel in the air with one hand, the other in my pocket, talking out the side of my mouth-- I'm not sure why.]

"I'll take 6 cups!" She said with delight. I vigorously began to fill 6 cups of pink lemonade 3/4 of the way full, handing her each one as I finished. Soon, every child in the wagon had a cool drink. I awaited my prize. She opened her black snap coin purse as I extended my hands in anticipation. As she placed a shimmering dime in my hand, I reached for my jar of change to seal transaction number one. I placed the silver in the jar and began to extend my hand once more, (by now, giving her plenty of time to rummage for 5 more coins) only to find the coin purse not only closed, but hastily being stuffed back into its larger counterpart...I was speechless. I stood there in disbelief, my mind stirring - She couldn't possibly think that it was all 10 cents!? Could She?? She knew it was 10 cents a cup - didn't she?? How could she make that mistake? It's so obvious! Maybe she's getting more change in her car?? I gave her the benefit of the doubt while I stood there, stunned.

"Thank-you!!" She waved, as she closed her car door.
"Thank you!" I answered back, unable to come up with anything better to say.

I was duped! A cute little 6 year old like me! Taken advantage of, by a nice lady in a Ford Station Wagon! I waited until the car was out of sight to pull the sign from the table. I marched back inside, enraged by the previous events. I grabbed my trusty Crayola Marker and altered the sign to it's true intentions: "Lemonade - 10 cents a cup." I sold a few more lemonades before wrapping up sales for the day. I gathered up my meager profits and closed up shop. The recollection of that day's tragic events will forever haunt my memory. I like to think that at some point, sometime, somewhere, she remembers me too - a cute little girl with pigtails, just trying to make ends meet, in the sweltering heat of summer.

Sometimes when life hands you lemons, it's not so easy to make lemonade...I guess you have to hope life also hands you a whole lot of sugar.

Peace out,
H

The Room Was Filled With Clapter

HERE YOU ARE! I've been looking for you everywhere! ...I should have known you were here all along.

Let me first address the hideous elephant in the website: It has been a while since my last post. I was swamped. I still am, but you are far more important to me than that, and nothing should ever come between us like that again, don't you agree? You made dinner for two and set the table; I said I would call if I was going to be late, and I never did. I do sincerely apologize. I feel as though we are at that place in this literate relationship of ours, where we can forgive and move on...a year from now I imagine we'll all think of this silly happenstance and laugh--you'll see.

In order to regain your gracious trust and faithful attendance, I give a nod today, to you, the reader. Give yourselves a round of applause. Rarely in life do you get the opportunity to applaud your own self, so I suggest you really let loose and give yourself a downright standing ovation; really let yourself have it, really make a scene. You deserve it. Throw in a cheer--a little "woo, woo!" There's no need to explain your completely rational behavior to others. Proudly applaud, and let applaud.

I think there are 3 times in life when we can deservedly and acceptably applaud our behavior...

The first phase of rooting for ourselves begins in our first years of existence, from womb to age 2. As infants, small accomplishments become seemingly enormous and practically super-human feats of strength and agility to our nurturers. The mumbling of a little one's first comprehensive words engages parents, now elated by their little prodigy's new talent, into a raging fit of encouragement--"Look how smart you are! Momma's little Punkin! Yayy!! [clap-clap-clap] Can you say it again? Can you say it again? Yayy! [clap-clap-clap]" Again, the young bundle of joy delivers an encore performance and applauds his new-found skill. The glorious cycle of praise, clapping, and laughter (clapter, if you will), continues: a valid excuse for self-applause.

Perhaps had I known, at such a young age, that being "so big!" was merely an amusing game, I may not have vigorously applauded myself as I did, each time I threw my drool laden hands in the air.

Soon the tot's first birthday arrives, and, of course, this incredible achievement merits an elaborate party. Every year, living rooms across America are filled with droopy Mylar balloons, blue crepe paper that is constantly being re-taped to the textured ceiling, donkey tails pinned in error as a random assortment on the wall, and a clueless 1-year old who has no idea that today is his birthday. "Today is your birthday," we all tell him, "These are your friends." "Yayy!! [clap-clap-clap]" All applaud, the youngster again finds himself gleaming with adoration of his big day. Again, clapping for ones self is in order. And why not? After all, you didn't make it to this day just by inadvertently filling your pants and committing acts of pervasive drooling; it was hard work, and should be rightly rewarded with applause. The cake is wheeled out soon thereafter, with an edible image imprinted into the frosting. "Today is your birthday," he is reminded. Cameras flash from all angles as the birthday boy jubilantly delves into his cake, pausing to applaud his efforts between shoveling cake into every crease of his skin. After Mom whips a freshly damp washcloth from her hip holster, the crowd and the guest of honor again applaud his cleanliness.

Every word of this example, by the way, is strikingly identical to your last few birthdays in life..."Today is your birthday, these are your friends." And you you didn't make it to that day just by inadvertently filling your pants and committing acts of pervasive drooling, either (Depend, anyone?). Again, one's own applause is completely acceptable.

The second acceptable self-applause phase is when the child grows up and enters the world of business. Approximately 1/4 of a working man's work week is consumed by meetings (although more often than not, 3/4 of the attendees have no idea why they are there). With suit and tie in check, a keynote speaker enters the room. All involved scribble notes into a notepad (always with a "clicky" style pen, never another kind), and exchange ideas on how to improve the net growth of banana sales, or how to reduce the environmental impact of plastic wrappers, or why clicky-style pens are such a necessity. The discussion ends, and the room breaks out in every one's own applause, which is always preceded by "Nice work, everyone. Let's break for lunch [clap-clap-clap]."

The third phase, of course, is when you faithfully return here to frequently read by daily shenanigans. My fellow readers, I thank you. Give yourselves a round of applause. You deserve it.

Peace out,
H