lance tribute
A road trip is essentially just a long drive from one place to another. However, the nature of driving dictates that you have to stop all the time, to get gas, to pee, to eat, to go back and find your sunglasses that flew off when you dumbly stuck your head out the sun roof to make sure the inflatable tube was still strapped on properly. And without the proper partner in crime, none of these stops, nor the hours of boring-ass time behind the wheel, would be nearly as pleasurable.
So this little statement is really a tribute to Lance, who came with me to the Montana wedding despite not really knowing anyone there, and without whom I wouldn’t have had to stop every 45 minutes to pee (believe it or not, I can hold it longer than him!) thereby getting to see countless rest-stops, gas stations, highway-side wilderness, and the amazing 50,000 Silver Dollars establishment.
There actually was 50,000 silver dollars in here, see!
We were also the only couple that I know of who made use of the turn-of-century double-seated outhouse at the wedding to both go pee at once. Too much information? Sorry. Anyway, not sure what I’m trying to say exactly, except that having to do stuff by yourself all the time isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Like, even when someone pissed you off because they refused to skate the slippery Missoula skatepark with you, then suddenly they’re the one behind the wheel driving the really shit leg with the late afternoon sun blazing like brimstone through the windshield. And I guess that's what love is. You know what I mean?
Much discussion was had over the insanity of this two-man outhouse. However, when you think it about, it really does save time, and no one has to wait outside holding anyone else's purse, et cetera.
After enough glasses of wine, you start seeing like the "party mode" on your digital camera.
Photography of Lance.
More photography of Lance, featuring me as a pregnant woman.
Massive Montana post!
When it comes to getting married, I don’t care either way. Do it or don’t. Spend a year planning a huge bonanza, or procure a marriage certificate and throw a BBQ. Whatever! But I will say that Annie and Justin’s wedding held this weekend near Bozeman, Montana was a fairy tale wedding in all its magic and awesomeness. I couldn’t believe it, but even I choked up when I saw her walking down the aisle—a crisp white flower on the arm of her dad all handsome in his navy uniform—and of course I was fully in tears during the best man’s speech, all about perfect matches and the dearly departed and lots of both humor and sadness. The candlelight and the white Christmas lights, the old people and old friends, the Johnny Cash and Iron And Wine, the thunder storm rolling in from the South, the first dance to Band of Horses, the smell of new rain coming in off the orchard, all the Maker’s Mark and rich red wine … I don’t know, it cast a spell on everyone, I think.
Oh, and the cake. I could write a whole paragraph about the cake, about how it was bedecked with tiny daisies and about how it was a concoction of the most delicate lemon frosting spread over a deep, dark chocolate cake infused with ghostly hints of raspberry—when you put it in your mouth, you immediately thought of fawns prancing around in the dew of a meadow at dawn … I could go on, but I’ll stop there, and just note that even many drinks deep, I was floored by its loveliness.
Not much more to say besides that. It was a quick trip, with lots of driving, lots of blue sky, lots of sun washed rivers and mountain peaks off in the distance. For the record, I love Montana. Without further ado, some pictures from the trip.
I'm wearing my mommy's dress from 1964. I felt like a cupcake.
A sniper shot of, "And now, you may kiss the bride!"
Pre-thunderstorm view of the rolling ranch-lands awesomeness.
They is now Mr. and Mrs. Eeles hyphen Fast, or whatever....
Turn of the century tools on one of the shacks in the orchard.
Why am I doing that with my arm?!
Jardine and I, post cake, pre dance.
We hit the road the next morning, too early of course. Here, outside Butte, with piles of mine-tailings off in the distance.
The essence of Montana.
The fresh bear track we saw on the beach of the below god-given river spot we found by a rest stop outside Missoula.
Rest areas in most states are seedy places rife with tumbleweeds and the smell of outhouses, but rest stops in Montana are gorgeous jewels of nature. See above.
Sunset over the Columbia River Gorge. Tired-eye-induced hallucination. 85 mph. 43rd street exit off the 84. Couch. Pizza Hut cheese pizza. Bed.
Relative Truce
Not much to report around here, so I will report this: a relative sense of harmony has been restored to the house, which now only slightly resembles an animal circus, unlike before, when there were hourly explosions of hissing, growling, and bad attitudes. Yes, Cougs’ desire to be inside loafing and napping has finally outweighed her hatred of the kitten, and so she now tolerates him, only slightly mind you, but she does.
Oh, and this is exciting. I got stung by a bee in the neck. It was at Beaverton skatepark. I showed up around noon, and the park was mysteriously empty. It was weird, like aliens had descended to aduct every kid sucking on a Monster Energy Drink, which of course would’ve been all of them. But then I realized what had happened … school!!! I love it when school starts, thank god for compulsory education. Anyway, Ashley took a lunch break from Nike and came out to meet me. We were by the wooden ramps jumping around on our skootboards, when I felt something nuzzling my neck. Suddenly—pain! A needle size hot poker had been jabbed into my spinal column. Burning! I slapped at it, a yellowjacket crumpled to the earth, and I squawked to the heavens, whilst a juicy red welt bloomed from my ear to my jugular. I carried on with my day.
What else? Lovely weather we’ve been having. Actually, we went to the Sandy River on Friday afternoon and it was so splendid and quiet. I didn’t see any diapers or poop, and it actually really did feel like nature. We just stood out there in the current submerged up to our belly buttons, watching the icy water rush past us and seeing how every now and then a luminous leaf would pass by suspended in the stream—not floating on the surface, not scudding against the bottom, just tumbling down there somewhere in the middle, like it was trying to swim or something.
(Note: above photo, not the Sandy. the Clackamas, actually, which happened on Saturday)
Vegetables Don't Need Predator Protection
A reason to be vegetarian:
I'm not on a soap box or anything, I'm just sayin....
Vegetables don't get eaten by wolves. And slaughtering rare magnificent animals to keep hamburgers in our hands seems, well, dumb.
The Glamorous Life of a Homeowner
Me + shovel + 5 hours = Above trench for electrical line to garage (the old one got severed by a tree root)