Friday, December 31, 2010

Come A Little Closer Now Baby...

(This is a repost from my prior blog.  But it's real, people!)

Earlier this week, ThatManILove and I had a movie date.  We split salad and lasagna at at Pizzeria Venti, then headed to the movies.
We went to see "Date Night", the comedy with Steve Carell and Tina Fey.  The movie had probably been at our theatre 2 days, so we knew that most likely, the theatre would be crowded.
We were the first couple in the theatre, so for once, we sat in the middle of the second row from the top.  (We’re usually side seat aficionados.)  Our theatres are of decent size, for a mid-size Texas town, so there are plenty of seats.
We were early, and I was talking long distance to an old friend from North Carolina, and having a good time. ThatManILove was playing poker on his crackberry.  In about five minutes, a couple came and sat down on our row, about three seats down from me on my right.  And five minutes later, another couple came and sat the exact same distance from ThatManILove, on his left.
ThatManILove starts muttering.
Then, six people, who obviously go to the movies together all the time (I’ve seen them) came and sat...directly in front of us.
I’m still on the phone with my friend, and whispering the play by play to her.  She’s laughing hysterically, and I’m trying not to do the same.  ThatManILove is starting to steam.
People.  The entire theatre was empty.  No one was on the side seats, no one was seated in the lower section.  
The “Dancing Boxes” (what I call the previews) start, and I get off the phone.  But not before 4 people come and sit directly behind us.  I kid you not.
ThatManILove was grumbling.  I turned to him and asked him, “Did you order those special attractant pheremones from one of those funky 1-800 numbers or something?  Because these people are sticking to you like glue, baby.  Glue!” recap, we were instantly surrounded by 2+2+6+4 people.  The theatre didn’t fill up.  So, Including ThatManILove and myself, there were now 16 people in the theatre.  All smacking on their popcorn, kicking our seats, and talking amongst themselves.  Surrounding us.  In a theatre that probably seats at least 200 people.
And we were dead smack in the center of the top section of 12 seat rows, totally and irrevocably surrounded.  You just can’t get much closer than that.
I think we’ll repair to the side seats next time.

Thursday, December 30, 2010


ThatManILove is out on a job.  I could swear he said he’d be home early today, and was wondering what we might be able to do over the holiday weekend before I went back to work.  
I told him the quicker he returned to the house, the quicker he could finish painting the kitchen and we could get away.  I could get some out of town clothes shopping done since I’ve just dumped almost my entire closet...and aren’t there some major New Year’s Day sales? 
I emailed him for his status mid-morning, and he said he now has to stay overnight and will be back home tomorrow.
Guess I’ll go run errands and get my chores done.  Like my expense account.  And my personnel evaluation.  Fun stuff like that. You know, stuff I need to do prior to year end anyway.  Stuff I’ve been putting off.  
Maybe my New Year 2011 resolution will be to quit procrastinating.
Or maybe I should reserve that for New Years 2012.  What do y'all think?

Crazy Stuff Happens in Oklahoma

I promised to post some of the funny stuff that happened while we were in Oklahoma, so here goes.
One night last week in Tulsa, we decided to go to the Hard Rock Casino for a couple of hours.  A friend, Doug, was in town, so we picked him up at his hotel.  We all made promises to each other we’d only stay for a couple of hours.  I already said that, didn’t I?
Yeah.  Doug doesn’t even like to gamble, and just went to spend time with us.
We don’t gamble often, nor do we stake big bucks.  I don’t play table games.  ThatManILove doesn’t play slots.  So, we’re often apart once we’re in the casino.
Doug would go hang out with ThatManILove, then he’d come play some quarter slots with me.
I quickly got tired, and so did Doug.  We agreed we’d go rescue ThatManILove and go back to our respective hotels, so to the tables we went.  We quickly found ThatManILove, so started watching.
The blackjack dealer won’t let a bystander hang around long, and ThatManILove was on a mini-roll.  I turned to the quarter machines right behind the table, so that once Doug talked him into leaving, I’d be right there.
Doug comes over to my machine, and we play together for a minute.  Then, Doug says, “I’m gonna go get some of his drink.”  
Fade back about five years.  We’re in Las Vegas, with friends.  Serious gambling friends, the kind that know what they’re doing and do it well.  It’s been a long night, I’m major bucks ahead, so I tell ThatManILove I’m going to bed.  He’s not been doing well, all night - our friends have been teasing him that the ATM machine is NOT a slot machine.
I go to bed, and several hours later, ThatManILove wakes me up.  He’s a little under the weather, and figured out that the waitress kept topping off their bloody marys without permission.  At that point, he decides he’s never going to drink and gamble.  
Back to Doug.  I said, “ThatManILove doesn’t drink!”  Doug said, “Okay.  I’ll be back.” And back he comes, with ThatManILove’s drink.  He said, “We’re sharing.”  I said, “Ooookkkaaaayyyy.”  We laugh.  I’m ready to go, but Doug keeps telling me ThatManILove is on a roll.  There’s lots of activity at the table, laughing, whooping, so I acquiesce.
And then Doug says, “I didn’t know ThatManYouLove smokes.”  I say, “He doesn’t!”  Doug grins, and says, “Really?  Look!”
Sure enough, ThatManILove is dangling a lit cigarette from his fingers.  Foiled again.
Finally, we leave.  I’m driving, as it’s obvious that once again, that waitress, who must have migrated from Vegas to Oklahoma, has been surreptitiously topping off ThatManILove’s drink.
We get to the Renaissance, which is a square shaped hotel.  We go up to the Club floor, to get water for our room.  We get back to the elevator bank, which opens up to a big waiting area.  We’re waiting for our elevator, and ThatManILove is talking, talking, talking.  I’m trying to keep him quiet for the other sleeping guests, which only leads to a lot of giggling and laughing between us. 
I take a step back, and he takes a step forward, still talking.  I decide to give it a test. I take another couple of steps back, and he matches me.  It’s like we’re perfectly matched...we could have been on Dancing With The Stars.  I back some more,  and he follows me all across the waiting room, until we’ve completed a perfect figure eight, finalizing our little impromptu dance in the elevator.
We get to our room before I crack up laughing and explained to him what he’d done.
He loved it, and has laughed about it ever since!
I love this man - this man who doesn’t ever drink when he gambles, and who certainly would never smoke in a casino!

Hog Hunting 101 - Or, Josh, That Hog's Gonna Kill You!

The first afternoon at the King Ranch, the guide took everyone out to blinds to hog hunt.  Since I can hunt hogs here anytime, I decided to take my camera and just take pictures. Some of my coworkers, it turns out, have never hog hunted.  We were dropping people off, some one to a blind, some two to a blind.

And two to a blind was the setup for the next scenario.
Josh and Dustin decided to go to the same blind. En route, Ross, the guide, was giving them directions.
Ross:  Shoot a young sow (a female hog), preferably less than 120 lbs.  The meat will be better.
Josh and Dustin:  Okay, no problem.
Ross:  Since you’re both going to be in one blind, you might want to use the OneTwoThree shoot method, shooting at the same time.
Josh and Dustin:  We can do that.
Around dusk, we start making our way back to the blind.  We get to the blind, and see no one.  Then, we see the guys walking around - Dustin has one of those headband lights on.  They are looking for the second hog they shot - it’s hard to find, in the dark.
We give up, and go back to the blind, where Hog #1 is laying.
Ross:  Okay, that hog’s the perfect size.  Only one thing.  Where did y’all take your animal sex classing course?  That hog’s a boar.  And how many times did y’all shoot it?  It is torn flat up!
Dustin and Josh are embarrassed.  Ross, giving them grief, takes them through the processing guide, the hog is gutted, and placed in the back of the pickup.  We drive around for a bit, looking for Hog #2.  Finally, we give up, and head back to camp.  The guys are recounting their adventure.
Ross takes a minute to explain where the best place is to shoot a hog (behind the ear) and gives the guys more pointers.  We find out that neither of these guys have ever been hog hunting, which explains a lot.  
We’ve not gone 2 miles when we run upon another herd of hogs. 
Dustin:  Can we shoot a hog?
Ross:  Step out of the truck slowly, and load your guns quietly.
This takes so long, the hogs go back in the brush.
We drive again.  We round the corner, another herd is road feeding.  Ross stops the truck and tells the guys to get out, get ready. and shoot. They do so.
First rattle out of the box, Josh shoots that hog clean behind the ears.  The hog drops.  Ross and I look at each other in amazement.  The boy definitely listened during his tutorial. The hog is in death throes, but not really going anywhere.  Josh turns around and looks to us for advice.  Josh and Dustin both get out of the truck, guns ready.
Janie:  Go cut the jugular.
Josh runs halfway to the hog, then yells to Dustin:  Shoot it, Dustin!
Dustin shoots the hog.
Janie:  Josh, take your knife and just go cut the jugular!  Get it out of its misery!
Ross echoes my instructions.
Josh gives Dustin his rifle, and runs up to the hog.  The man is adrenalined up!
And then, he takes out his handgun, and shoots the hog in the head.  Not once, not twice, but thirteen times.  He empties his clip plus in about two seconds.  And then, he runs back to the truck.
Ross and I are bent over, laughing.  I have tears rolling down my face, I can’t even breathe.  We are both in shock.  I look in front of the truck, and Dustin is laughing so hard, he has been forced to put down the rifles.
Josh, still 9-0 on adrenaline:  That  $%^&&* hog was gonna bite me!
Janie:  No, he wasn’t!  That was his body shutting down!
Josh:  Yes, he was, he was going to bite me, I know it!
Janie, when I could talk:  Dude.  You should have just cut his throat, seriously.
They load the hog up into the truck, and we laugh all the way back to camp.  I tease Josh.
Janie:  Josh-man, your form sucked when you whipped that pistol out.  No way did you do what you were taught today in the shooting school.
Josh:  Oh, man.  I didn’t think about that.  I was shooting close to my feet, wasn’t I? Do you think my steel toed boots would have deflected one of those bullets?
Ross:  Negatory, Night Rider.
Josh:  (Silence.  Dead silence.)
Lord have mercy, you cannot pay for stuff like this.

Shoot Like a Girl (aka Don't Be A Drama Queen)

Scanning the online news today, I saw the headline "How To Live Longer" on

One of the topics was “Don’t Be A Drama Queen” and you’ll live longer.
Who writes this stuff?
The article had some great points, though, for couples...
Fight fair.
Women’s hearts suffer when they hear or make hostile comments.
Men’s hearts reacted badly when confronted with domineering words.
Please note the article did not define a Drama Queen to be male or female.  (And baby, I’ve seen both!  Remember, I hang out a little bit with golfers, shooters, AND team ropers.  Whinier people I’ve never seen - but I won’t go there.)
Well, okay then.  I’ll make you a deal, honey darlin’, ThatManILove.  I won’t tell you what to do if you don’t get hostile.  Bueno?
Agreed? Truce-amundo?
If we can’t agree, then let’s agree to repair to the ol’ shooting range.  Our shotguns are of the same quality and caliber (even though I did win my Beretta Teknys, give it to you, then beg for it back.)  But I’m NOT an indian giver - and you were so sweet to let me have it that day I shot 89/100.  Notice, I ran right to the gunsmith and he cut the stock down for a custom fit - for me!  Have I told you lately that I love you?  But, I digress.  Back to the case in point.
When and if we disagree, let’s just take it to the sporting clay range.  Let’s work it out there.  Okay?  Then, you’ll be dominated without hostile words, and you’ll live longer.  Just pure-d talent will prevail.  And we’ll both take our aggression out on those little clay targets.
In other words, rope up, cowboy, and shoot like a girl.  Your girl!
Love, me.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Men and Directions...

I absolutely, positively have to get ThatManILove a GPS. Oh, 

wait!! He has one IN HIS TRUCK!!!! Hello, honey? You know, 

you're not driving the Powerstroke anymore, right? 

You can put that town in LaToya's NavGav and you won't have 

to call the Janie aka "MapquestItForMeHoneyWillYou Hotline" 


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

If You Gotta Go, Take One Second to Clean Up After Yourself.

Two movies in two nights may be too much.
Or I drank too much water before, during, and after.
I found myself going to the bathroom.  Not once, but twice.
People - public restrooms are a must.  I try not to utilize them. But sometimes, I just have to, ya know??   But, people, it would be great if all of you decided you’d clean up a little after yourselves.  I mean, Lord have mercy!!!
I felt like I was in a movie myself, as I walked down the aisle of stalls.
Looked in the first one....unflushed...I just couldn't.  
Second - paper all over the floor...wet paper.  Ummm, no.
Third one - locked.
Fourth one  - open, looked somewhat clean, but don’t statistics say most people go in the fourth one?  SKIP.
Fifth one - dirty again, indescribable.
Sixth one - Handicap - I started limping and went in.
Where’s Mr. Clean when you need him?
Limp to sink.   Soap, soap, soap.  Turn on water - it’s freaking c.o.l.d.  Lather anyway.  Rinse.  Again, cold. 
Cold, I think, on purpose.
Hand air dryers?  S. L. O. W.  And not hot at all.
I left there with one thought, having gone through surgery and all.
Some type of instant self catheritization device that's sterile, and easily disposable.  Surely I can learn it, just for movies.  And it’s gotta spread less germs that the public restrooms at the movie house.

Don't make me go buy Depends, people.  Just clean up after yourselves in the public bathrooms.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Toga! Toga! Toga!

If you follow me on Facebook, you will at least know part of this story.  The part where on November the 13th, or so, we were invited to our first Toga party to honor one of our friends for her 50th birthday party.  It was a surprise party.
I have never been invited to a toga party.  Nor had ThatManILove.  We vacillated about going, but in the end, our love for the honoree won out, and we cowboyed up and decided to take the plunge, as it were.
We live in West Texas, so I figured EVERYBODY would do a cowboy toga.  I wanted to be different.  Saturday morning of the party, I had a brain wave - possibly my first original thought.  We decided to go gothic Toga.  I researched on the web, and as far as I can tell, no one had ever done that, or at least posted pix on it.  

I thought it was a great idea!   We were gonna go goth toga!!  Oh, yes, we were!!  Once convinced (I am a salesperson after all!), ThatManILove let me have my way with him.  I painted his nails black.  Put eyeliner and black lipstick on him.  Died his hair with temporary hair all over, except for red sideburns and at his temples.  He looked quite distinguished.  Earlier in the day, he acquiesced to go shop at Hot Topic to get all the studded bracelets, hair dye, collars, funky earrings, etc.  while I went and got the black fabric, crowns, fake tattoos. The “etc.” ThatManILove picked up at Hot Topic even included a dog chain leash.  (I said, "Honey.  A Leash?  Ummmm...there might be a fine line between gothic and S&M, and you may have crossed it with that leash/collar deal - but we were the hit of the party!)  He even spray-painted a pair of his steel toe boots black so as to further look the part.  He did ALL of this on one condition  - that he would dress up anyway I wanted if I would promise that I would have him back to regular status by Monday, when he had a 5 day frac job out in the field. And I did promise, and deliver.  Well, I thought I did, anyway.

Here are pictures.  Mind you, these were taken at the end of our night, as we were leaving.  Which was imperative because my careful design of my husband's toga FAILED.  Miserably. At first, I wasn't worried, because I thought the pants he had on underneath were ski pants.  He quickly informed me they were the silk underwear you wear UNDER ski pants, and thus were somewhat...revealing.  We gathered our gear to leave post-haste.  Here, he is holding what is left of his toga.  But he's cute, isn't he?

But now, here’s the part two of this story.
It’s been six weeks since that Toga party.  Six weeks, people.  Last Friday, we drove from Dallas to Ardmore to see Elder Son and meet all his cowboy horse trainer compadres.  We decide to meet at a local eatery called Two Frogs.  (It was good, too!)  It was a grey, dreary kind of day, misting a little bit.  We all drive up at the same time, and Elder Son is walking in with us, after we all get the requisite hugs.  
Elder Son:  “Dude.  What’s up with your hair?”  The cowboys are walking up to meet us in the parking lot about now.
TMIL:  “What do you mean?  I just got it cut.”
Elder Son:  “No, I mean, why is your hair pink?”
TMIL:  “My hair is not pink!”
Elder Son:  “Yeah?  Looked in the mirror lately?”
I looked over at ThatManILove, and about busted a gut laughing.  I couldn’t stand up.  I had a hard time meeting the people we were there to meet, because I couldn’t see for the tears running down my face.
People, I live with this man!  And granted, he’s been out in the field a bunch, and home rarely, I didn’t see that his sideburns still carried a tint (though very becoming) of pink...left over from the “temporary” red hair color.  Six weeks later.  And our hairdresser didn’t even say a word about it.  
Six. Weeks. Later.
I kid you not.
And we’re meeting all these rough and tough cowboys, one of them a world-renown horse trainer, for the very first time.  So much for good first impressions.
I absolutely could not quit laughing.  Elder Son was just shaking his head.  So, of course, I had to confess that we went to a (1) toga party, as (2) gothic emo peeps, complete with (3) black nail polish, goth makeup, studded bracelets and dog collars, AND show pictures. 
The first thing they all hooked on?  The dog chain hooked to ThatManILove’s studded collar. 
Well, it could have been worse.  At least they didn’t call him sweet cheeks or something like that.
These rough and tough cowboys could have been like the lady at the Starbucks window the Sunday morning following the toga party.  ThatManILove, every Sunday, goes and gets us burritos, a Sunday paper, and Starbucks.  And when he handed his money through the drive-through window, our  sweet barista, who knows us by name, said one thing when she saw his black-painted fingernails.
“What the hell?”

He was so embarrassed that we went straight to the nail salon and got all that stuff taken off pronto.
It’s never boring around here.  

(PS - Jack, don't you even think about making him some kind of freaking bit/bridle.  This was a one-time gig.  Savvy, senor?)

Yeah, baby, it's all still there.  Now let's get the hell outa Dodge.  Vamanos por las casa, senor!