8 posts tagged “hurricane hetta”
In case you were wondering, the White Sox just swept the Cubs in a three-game stretch played at home. Although we live exactly one mile north of Wrigley Field, we're Sox fans and are quite happy about this!
Anyway, here's another "Hetta Music" selection. Heather likes her because she sings in a genuine, slightly older style and not the breathy vocal lurching that is so often mistaken for singing these days.
Enjoy!
We've got a circular clock in our bathroom of the Three Stooges, with labels beneath each face. Moe (the ring-leader) has been renamed "Miles", Curly (the bald, nutty one) is "Heather", and Larry (the generally confused one) is "David". At the time I labeled the clock (when we were first married), we actually disagreed as to who was Curly. I considered myself her equal in terms of being looney at the time. I ended up giving her the title of "Curly" out of KINDNESS, you see. I gave up my long-held identity as the nut of the house. Now, I've discovered I'm relieved to play the straight man.
Sometimes I wonder how these three misfits ever managed to find each other. We definitely come from the same planet somewhere in outer space.
We've only alluded to this story a few times, but I'd like to tell you all a bit more about how Heather and I met.
I initially found Heather on a dating website, one set up for those professing some sort of Christianity, including Protestantism, Catholicism, and Orthodoxy. At the time, I was going to a Lutheran church on and off, so I did my very first search on the site with "Lutheran" in the "denomination" category. We discovered later that the system had erroneously converted everyone's "denomination" category to "Lutheran," and so I came across Heather in that search, even though she had put "non-denominational" in that space. (Editor's Note: Had there not been that glitch in the system, I would never have found Heather, because I associate "non-denominational" with Christian fundamentalism, and I am not a fundamentalist and definitely wasn't looking for one. Heather didn't have the same connotation with the term and only meant that she didn't prefer one denomination over another.)
This site is better than most, as it asks some pretty hard questions that everybody with a profile has to answer. One of my favorites was, "How did your last relationship end, and what did you learn from it?" Besides her answers, I didn't mind her photos, either (especially the one in the blue hat). I was in love.
Unfortunately, Heather's subscription to the site had expired, and there was no way whatsoever for me to contact her (the site didn't post email addresses for security purposes). I had her first name, her middle name (because she'd put it under a photo), and the name of her hometown in Indiana. I looked up the town on the Internet and discovered it had a population of 1,800 in the year 2000 (it's now even smaller). I decided, "How hard can it be to find a girl in a town of that size?" So, after writing a four-paragraph letter that took me roughly thirty hours to write, after purchasing a toy pistol with spacey sounds and other cool effects (it would take me way too long to explain that one), and after making reservations in one of the two bed-and-breakfasts in town, I drove the roughly 300 miles to go look for her. No one but a couple of close friends knew I was doing this, and nobody who knew thought I was sane (still don't).
I arrived in town that evening, went for my evening run, and then went to bed. The next morning, while having my free breakfast, the lady who owned the place asked, "So, what brings you to our town from Chicago?" I pulled Heather's photo out of my reading material and said, "This girl." She looked at it and replied, "Oh, Heather! So you're a friend of Heather's." I said, "Well, not exactly. She actually doesn't know I exist. I'm sort of hoping to become friends with her." "Great. I'm going to go call her mother," she said. It turns out Heather's parents lived a block or so down the same street as this bed and breakfast (and still do).
Long story short, Heather wasn't in town, but her mother wanted to meet me. I figured I had nothing to lose and went to meet her. While we talked at the home of the Parks family (Heather's maiden name), Heather, who was in Milwaukee looking for a job, happened to call. Her mother thrust the phone in my direction, and so we talked. I remember very little about the conversation, except that when Heather asked me what I liked to do, I said, "I like batting cages a lot, and I like to play checkers. Checkers are pretty cool." I also remember being petrified. I was so scared, that Heather literally thought I was a much older man because of how much my voice was apparently shaking. The conversation was pleasant, but she certainly wasn't all over me. If anything, she was somewhat distant, which I liked a lot. I mean, for all intents and purposes, I was stalking her. I mean, really. I could have been anybody, including a serial killer. And had she been like, "Hey there, how are you, buddy?", I'd have thought her at least somewhat desperate and would have likely run the other direction.
Anyway, after the brief conversation, I left my gift of the letter and space gun with Heather's mother, paid her to send it on to Heather in Milwaukee, and left. I decided to go for a drive and eventually came across a Nineteenth Century cemetary. Here's what I wrote:
"I am sitting in the shade of this incredibly warm Saturday afternoon. I'm among the dead -- an old cemetary just north of Friendship, Indiana. Cemeteries cause me to reflect on many things, including that the dead are truly forgotten and that life is but a brief blip on the map...In all of what I have done this weekend, I am at peace. Whether this works out or not, I do not care. No, not exactly that. I do care; I merely am not at all concerned as to the results, if any, of my actions today. I am simply glad to be alive, glad that my story continues another day, and very much aware of the story's presence in my life. Gravestone inscription: 'Remember reader as you pass by, / As you are now so once was I. / As I am now so you must be. / Prepare for death and follow me.'"
When Heather got the package I'd sent her later that week, she called me at work (I'd put my business card in it, too), and she was crying. She told me she had a confession to make. She explained that, as a preteen from a somewhat Christian fundamentalist home, she had played with a Ouija board with a friend who'd coaxed her to do so. Now, I don't have particular qualms about such things, although I wouldn't own one and certainly wouldn't encourage anybody to play with one. But, for whatever reason, Heather had felt intensely guilty about the incident since then and had never been able to get the reply she got from the Ouija board out of her head. When she had asked it what the initials of her future husband would be, it replied, "D.M." Always after that, she literally looked for his initials when she thought a guy was kind of nice, but never found "D.M.".
Are you ready? After spending so many hours writing the letter I gave Heather (which is now framed next to her side of our bed), I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how to sign it. I literally spent an hour or so trying to decide. I initially thought of signing it, "Snyder," because most of my close friends call me that. I decided against it and thought I'd go with my first name, but "Dave" seemed too informal, and "David" seemed too formal. "An Admirer" was just plain corny, and nothing was coming to mind. I finally decided that I wanted to be a bit mysterious without seeming too dramatic, and for the first time in my life, signed my name with my first two initials, "D.M."
Maybe you can understand now why she was crying when she called me.
When I eventually asked her if she'd like to have dinner that following Saturday (not during that call, but perhaps the next), she replied, "I'd be a moron not to." Again, Someone was leading the way in regards to our first date. I never go to Milwaukee, for anything. But I had made plans for that very weekend (the one following my trip to Heather's hometown) with a couple of my college buds to attend the "Summerfest" Milwaukee holds every year. I'd never been there before, and I've not been back since. But I was there that Saturday, and it helped me feel like I wasn't moving too fast with my new friendship with Heather. I mean, hey, I was already there, and who'd you rather be with: A hot girl or a couple of fat guys?
That first date was hilarious. Among many other things, we got lost downtown Milwaukee and couldn't find my car, my muffler fell off, we nearly got hit by a flying mattress on the highway, and we ended up eating at an expensive restaurant that "required" reservations while in our black t-shirts (both of us), shorts (me), and jeans (her).
Ten days later, on the floor of my completely unfurnished apartment in the sky, I asked her what she thought of typical weddings (we were talking about whatever even on the first date), and she told me she didn't think much of them. She said that she'd always wanted a small affair with a couple of friends and without the usual trappings of a fancy wedding. So I asked her, "You want to elope?" She looked at me as though not at all expecting the question, and replied in classic Heather-style, "Yeah...I could totally see myself married to you."
One day short of two months since our first conversation, we were married at night by a 72-year-old, retired Baptist minister in his backyard with his wife as witness. And then, off to Niagara Falls to complete the elopement. That was four-and-a-half years ago, and we've never looked back.
Sometimes I wonder -- Am I living The Story, or is The Story living me? I'll probably never know for sure, but I'm sure sticking around for the rest of the ride.
I don't know how many parts this thing's going to have, but I guess I'll just keep writing until I'm done. Will that happen?
I'm rarely annoyed by Heather. It's not that she's never annoying, it's just that we're on that same sort of annoying wavelength, and so I'M not annoyed. I can't say that for Miles. He's visibly annoyed more than he's not (not really). But he does get peeved with her pretty regularly. Interestingly, she loves that because she tries very hard to bug him.
I don't know that this is hilarious about Heather, but something missing from our culture is present in her -- she's the same day in, day out. Our celebrities and politicians, in particular, are consumed with "reinventing" themselves. Heather has changed her hair style, hair color, and to a degree her clothing preferences during the time I've known her, but she's not a different person than the one I first met.
Have you ever run into an old friend or family member and realized to your horror that this person isn't who you used to know? This happened right before my eyes with someone very close to me (at least she should have been). By the time all was said and done, I had no clue who this person was any more. It was pathetic, very sad, and very, very scary.
One of my most important mentors once said to me, "Tell me what you value, and I'll tell you who you are." I've come to really believe that. When someone changes to the extent that you feel you no longer know that person, it's their values that have changed. When a guy goes from pleasantness towards women to taunting every female he meets, his values have changed, plain and simple.
Heather once told me that she always knew she wanted someone more intelligent than her. I teach her about stuff, but she teaches me how to live.
It's like 3:30 am, and again I can't sleep. My whole schedule is way off. So I felt like posting some photos of when Heather and I first got married.
This one's in our foyer right before we left to go to my mentor's house.
We were married in his backyard on a Wednesday evening (because he wanted to meet her before he married us, and because on his semi-retired schedule as college counselor his first day of work was a Tuesday -- Tuesday he met her, Wednesday we got married, Friday we left for Niagara Falls, and a week later we told our families). He's a 74-year-old, unconventional, now fully-retired minister.
This one is of Heather waiting for the "L" in her $20 wedding dress from Victoria's Secret.
The purse and shoes were from a thrift store, as is most of what she wears. We've got some pretty great thrift stores in Chicago. Oh, we took public transportation to a car rental at the last minute because my car had broken down. In the photo, her shoes are off because they were killing her feet.
Heather began playing with the color and length of her once were married for a bit.
Here's orange...
here's pink...
and here's purple.
I liked all three. She says bald is next. Hmm...
Heather is a food hog. By her own admission (and apparent glee), she has an impossible time taking her time when she's eating something she likes.
When we were going out (it lasted one day short of two months before we eloped to Niagara Falls), I took a 300-mile detour coming home to Chicago from Cedar Point in Ohio and spent four hours with her. I found a pretty expensive chocolate shop along the way and bought her something like a half pound of assorted chocolates.
She was excited to see me, but ecstatic to see the chocolates. She made absolutely no pretense of being "dainty". There was something earthy, sensual, and extremely intriguing about the way she literally devoured the entire box in front of me. Half the box was gone before she knew what she was doing.
I guess most women have a special relationship with food that men will never understand. When we were dieting, for example, Heather would dream about food and daily envision herself dancing around the room with a piece of pizza, kissing and talking to it.
Probably the most significant item I take away from this is Heather's lack of facade. She is what she is and is rarely even aware of the social need to have a front in most circumstances. So, in the example of the chocolates, she wasn't even aware of the fact that I might think poorly of her for her masterful piggishness.
If I had thought poorly of her, however, I wouldn't be worth a thing, let alone worthy of sharing a life with her. To embrace another human is to embrace everything. I've never been hung up on crap like that anyway. I'll take a genuine food infatuate over the woman who pretends to eat healthy while she gobbles Twinkies by the dozen when no one is looking.
Okay, so I'm married to this female who calls herself Hurricane Hetta (you gotta have some kind of name when you're a bloggin'), and people may wonder what it's like to live with her.
First, I never really know what to expect. As her mother often says about her, "There's never a dull moment." As her hubby, I play the straight man, much like George Burns of Burns and Allen (another old time radio reference). I am the humorless, monotone, NORMAL one compared to her.
NOTE: You should know, before I continue, that I am NOT normal. I am known for jumping clothed into bodies of water, banging my head on whatever I can find (such as the little knobby thing on the top of a cymbal stand ["Hey Mom, I can bleed REAL good!] or on those swinging signs that to go over the cart escalator at IKEA, just to get laughs), and finding every way known to man to injure myself (hey, I've only had three surgeries to repair stuff since 2003, so I shouldn't feel too bad).
Back to the truly funny one. For kicks, I subscribe to my wife's RSS feed and occassionally find that she's posted on her blog and hasn't mentioned it to me. The most recent entry? Describes me as getting to make a "deposit" into a cup for fertility testing and being aided by her in the process! I laughed so hard I got a headache. I mean, I'm not the world's most private guy, but to tell the whole frickin' world about such a thing is just too much like her. And to not say anything about it, and then to ask me, "What? What?" while I'm laughing my back end off at what she wrote...
It's just too much, man. TOO much. And this is just the tip of the iceberg. Wait until you find out what she said when I asked her to marry me!
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