My Sister's Wedding- Chapter One: The Land of Moronic Drivers.

My sister got married this weekend.

It was a five-day, four-night stay in Eastern Washington and the Idaho Panhandle, but my bags said otherwise.

So did my brother as he tried to play Tetris Master by fitting everything into the car.

"Look at this pile," he said, pointing to all of my bags- which included my clothing bag, my makeup bag, my laptop/book bag, my handbag, and my shoe bag.

"And then, look at this pile," he said, pointing to my husband's bag, and the bag for Marley.

"So what? How often does your sister get married?"

Exactly.

Not only was my sister getting married, I was hosting her bridal shower and her bachelorette party, and she's getting married on top of a mountain in Kellogg, Idaho. Plus it was my mom's 50th birthday, and my dad's and my birthday during this vacation.

You bet your ass I had a lot of baggage to bring. Literal and otherwise.

I took a half day off of work on Wednesday, and what a half day it was: I got a Birthday Breakfast Potluck.

That's right-- I got a potluck. Most of the time when people at work have a birthday, they get a card and a cake. And we have a lot of people in the Apparel department, so we are usually good on our cake intake.

And I got cards, and a vase of flowers complete with an attached Hello Kitty balloon. Do my co-workers know me or what? They are awesome and made me feel so special that I'll admit, it was hard to leave that day.

We took off for the six-plus-hour drive to Spokane from Portland, stopping on the way for Marley to potty. The first stop we made was right outside of the Tri-Cities in Washington, and it was 100 degrees out.

It was certainly a drier heat than Portland, but 100 degrees is 100 degrees. We're talking blow-dryer-in-your-face feeling. And with a fair-weather dog who was refusing to potty, it was very frustrating and sweaty.

When we finally rolled into Spokane earlier that evening, I suddenly realized why Spokane has a road-rage problem:

1- there is no North-South freeway.

2- everyone drives slower than the speed limit.

My husband accused me of using my "asshole driving" skills a few times when coming home to visit family a few times back, and now I could rub it in his face now that I could feel his frustration growing.

When a bright yellow Nissan truck nearly blindsided us thanks to changing into the lane we were changing into without even signaling, we knew immediately we were trapped in the Land of the Moronic Drivers.

We finally made it into Deer Park (a very small town north of Spokane) at my mom's house.

And the drama began.

Look out for Chapter Two: The Drama Begins

Posted whenever the hell I get to it.