So, Don't Mess With Texas

I love beginning sentences with “so”. It has a nice comfortable conversational tone, don’t you think?

So I turn on my cell phone on the way down in the elevator at work and put it back in my pocketbook. It immediately starts playing its little message song, irritating as hell. All the other people in the elevator dive into bags and pockets for their phone, then they all turn to look at me. “Oh, that’s mine, huh?” I say as I fetch it out again. It’s a message from my husband recorded a few minutes earlier, so I call him back before I venture outside the building into the cold wind. Now you must understand that my husband hates going out in the evening, despises paying for restaurant meals or booze, and refuses to stand in line for a table anywhere. Imagine my surprise that it’s Friday, prime time for dinner, and my spouse is asking me out on what can only be called a date. My last call of the day had been to a man from Texas. He had some minor Asthma problems but he is a blacksmith, one of those good old two stepping country boys, 6’3’, 200 pounds, and probably mostly muscle from wrangling those horses. After I got off the phone I knew more about him than his wife. He told me if I was out his way I should drop in anytime. I’m thinking about how much fun it was listening to that accent when my husband asked me where I wanted to go.

An hour later we are sitting at the bar of the Texas Roadhouse, an upscale redneck joint near the local mall, listening to Texas boot scooting music competing with car racin’ on the big screen TV. My husband is incredulous as we nestle down at the bar between a 50 something man called “Tweety” and a woman in a black leather jacket with fringe, big 80’s hair, and a tee shirt that says “Dixie Melons” across the ample chest. There is a 40 minute wait for a seat, but Tweedy wants to talk and so does Dixie, so we’re all set. In 10 minutes I find out that my seatmate is a “regular”, loves the music they’re playing, probably has COPD (my diagnosis after listening to the constant cough and raspy voice), has three children and two grandchildren, does sales for a construction equipment, and had been married 33 years when his wife left him and took everything he owned. Dixie and her friends got a table and moved on, so my husband starts talking to much safer looking couple that replaced them. I’m still not wearing my wedding ring, so I guess I’m giving the tweetster ideas. I am obviously with someone, but he’s had more than 5 beers in the half hour while we sat there and is emboldened. When our table number comes up on the board, and my husband goes to get the waitress, Tweety’s arm slips around my waist and he attempts to kiss me. I’m on my feet pretty quick, dodging the bullet, and envisioning the hysterical redneck scene that would ensue if my husband had turned around. The waitress seats us within sight of the bar and Tweety keeps his eye on me the rest of the evening. He stops by the table when my husband goes to the bathroom to tell me I’m a real pretty lady and he sure would like to see me again sometime, so I guess he’s looking forward to our second date.

Back in the car I tell all to my hubby, we laugh our butts off about the whole experience, but decide that once was enough, even though he did say the steak was outstanding. Back at home I pull a vase of pink tulips out of my car and he questions me about where they came from.

“Don’t know,” I reply. “They just appeared on my desk along with a stuffed pink elephant (oh the irony) and a card with no signature.”

I’m not sure he believes me although it is the god’s honest truth. Now would I lie to you? He muses on that a bit and suggests we do something tomorrow too.

“How about we drive to DC and visit some of the museums?” He asks this in a perfectly normal tone and I immediately reply.

“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

This man would rather have two root canals than drive in northern Virginia traffic, but he’s offering because he thinks it’s something I might like. I’m not sure if it was Tweety or the flowers, but I seem to have his attention. I’m not really in a museum mood, plus I have to do the taxes tomorrow since we’re actually getting money back this year because of my Prius. I tell him we need to think of something else. He was up at 8 this morning, went to the grocery with me, carried the laundry downstairs, and came up with a plan for the evening. We’re going to Ashland Coffee and Tea, and listen to the advertised all American Mongrel Music of Page Wilson with Reckless Abandon. Okay, not really my first choice, but a bit classier than the Roadhouse, and the cliental should be a much better class of rednecks, Ashland being a college town and all. Quite a week all in all; the boss hits on me, I get random flowers, my husband is courting me again, and, well, I’m not counting Tweety except in the drunken amusement category. February is turning out to be a much more interesting month than I imagined.

So… I think I’ll wear that new black dress tonight.