I know where I am.

I am in a land of boots and beer, and men who two-step and call me “ma’am” or “sweetheart”.

Actually only a couple of men have called me “sweetheart” and they were quite a bit older than me, though spiffy in Western shirts and jeans.  I was asked to dance at the local bar (I was sitting alone, listening to Hot Club of Cowtown, because Son #2 had to rush back to the condo for a little while), but I refused.  I told him I’d hurt my shoulder.   He said, “Sorry, honey, be well,” and moved on to a hot young blond who said yes.

I’m not in the habit of lying, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  He looked like Johnny Gimble, which is a good thing.  And everyone dances with everyone at these bars, but…I’ve been married since I was 18 (when the drinking age was 21) and never learned the Fine Arts of Bar Behavior aside from the Playhouse Bar in Clark Fork (another story for another time).

But these Texas men are sweet, with lovely manners and friendly smiles and a kind way about them.

And they know what they want:

Love to you all,
MorePie, who is not going on any job interviews anytime soon