Ramblings: My wife left me, and my dog's dead

I've mentioned before some things you're obligated to do as a Texan, and attending at least one concert that falls somewhere in the country music genre is definitely on the list. So I'm currently in the frantic process of readying the house and kids for a babysitter, sticking a Costco pizza in the oven for their dinner, and unwrapping a new DVD (Monsters vs. Aliens) so they will at least be occupied with something other than creating utter madness while the poor girl's here.
We're going off to the Zac Brown Band concert--Jeremy's current favorite. He's played their cd so much that even the kids know all the lyrics--even the ones about drinking beer and sticking parts in the sand. I wasn't too excited when I heard them belting those out. They've got alot of good songs, and even though I'm not a huge fan (that's an understatement) of most of the whiny or honky tonk country music out there, I'm looking forward to a night out with dinner and music.

So I'm about to go dust off my skin tight Wranglers and my snakeskin boots--at least I'll blend in a little that way, even if we're the only ones not drinking beer and sneaking dips from the chewing tobacco in our back pockets. Just kidding about the outfit--I haven't owned Wranglers since I was 11 and rode wild horses in horse shows. Or when my brothers and I got dragged on the longest family vacation ever--a ROADTRIP from Texas all the way to Canada in our awesome old blue Suburban, complete with stops along the way for about 10 rodeos and a really rip-roaring (note the sarcasm) Alabama concert.

Or the time when I got shoved at George Strait at a horse sale to get his autograph. You're welcome Aunt Carol, a.k.a. George Strait Super Fan. I'm pretty sure with my giant poodle perm hairdo and huge round glasses, that he thought I was mentally challenged. And who would be rude enough to deny an autograph to a mentally challenged, poodle-haired, four-eyed super-fan in tight Wrangler jeans? I think he even bought a really expensive horse after that. But you can see why after all those experiences I developed a fear of Wranglers. Post traumatic Stress Disorder, for sure.

Anyway, I'll report later how the night goes---and whether the babysitter is still alive when we return home. And how/if I survived all night with Wrangler bums everywhere.

And Grandma--I'm looking for tickets to fly up there and give you a big SPANKING (after a gentle hug, of course). And you tell that ornery heart of yours to stop taking breaks--it's not allowed and we won't tolerate any more of it! Maybe I'll even bring some Wranglers with me to give you a good laugh...