Ever'body-and-his-dog knows that I don't do Valentine's Day. Romance continues to baffle me, and T-Bird says I take a lot of the "fun" out of it. He uses the term "Buzz Kill".
I decided to give The Romance Thing a solid try anyway and shoot for a nice evening with my old man. Contrary to popular belief, I really do love the S.O.B..
We opted for take-out pizza from Pizza Hut because nothing says "I Love You" quite like pepperoni and cheese.
We cruised to Pizza Hut, and parked on the side of the lot. It was just gonna be a couple of minutes and we'd be on our way back to the house, so I stayed in the truck. I'd make a good bird dog. I sit in the truck an awful lot, but given the options of staring at auto parts and other Boy Toys or People Watching, I opt for the truck every time.
I have a great view of the bar next door, and that could be entertaining as Hell. I've staggered thru that door a time or two myself (sorry, Mama).
I kicked back in the seat and was thinking that, although there have been so many times I wanted to strangle him with my bare hands, or cheerfully shoot him in the back, there isn't anyone I would rather be with than T-Bird.
Sorry.......that's as Romantic as I get.
Two women exit the bar and shuffle across the bar parking lot to the dumpster. An older woman and short, chubby, much younger chick who I completely and utterly despise.
I could do an entire post about WHY, but it's the stuff of Springer-type shows. This is the kind of woman they used to run out of town, and for good reason.
Suffice to say: There's an ass-whippin' comin'.
A man steps out from behind the dumpster and joins the two women, and they stroll off together.
Several minutes later I was beginning to wonder what happened to my husband and my supper, when I saw the two women cross the lots and go inside Pizza Hut.
When they come out a couple of minutes later, the guy joins them in the Pizza Hut parking lot and words are exchanged. Judging from the motions they are making, the words are rather.....heated.
I can't hear it all clearly but I hear my husband's first name. His name simply does not belong in her mouth and I would very much like to slap it out.
The man is obviously pissed off, stompin' his feet, and The Trick (sorry, can't help it) is now saying: "you met him here last week" and "it's cool".
Hmmmmmmmm.......oh please, do tell.
The two women are trying to drag Neanderthal Man back to the bar and calm him down when they come to a stop behind my truck.
RIGHT behind my truck. It's dark in the parking lot and even darker in the truck. I'm slouched down in the seat.
They have no idea that I am on the place.
I hear, very clearly, "WELL MAYBE I OUGHT TO GO INTRODUCE MYSELF TO THE BOY".
He's wrong about that.
(1.) T-Bird has had more than his share of fights and he has one philosophy: There Is No Such Thing As A Fair Fight. Get the bastard down and work him over until he doesn't want any more of you......EVER.
(2.) He isn't alone. If he makes a move I'm gonna come out of the truck like a Bitch-In-The-Box, and Jack ain't got shit on me.
I can back-jump him in three strides.
He's mad as Hell and acting like he wants to go inside the Hut, the chicks are holding him back, and I'm hoping that they have screwed up our order and T-Bird does NOT come out of that door.
He's gonna step out into the parking lot with his hands full and he's not going to be expecting a fight with a Squatch. I can't just sit there and let that happen.
I have no cell phone to call him and warn him. My gun is in my dresser drawer. Grandma's blackjack is packed away in my keepsakes. My Rapala and baseball bat are in my car. My pocket knife and Xact-o blade are in my purse.....and my purse is at the house. I'm not wearing my shit-kickers and my belt is virtually useless. Fashion, not function.
There isn't one single thing in the cab of the truck that I can use, and nothing in the truck bed to grab because Hubs is a bit of a Neat Freak. Unarmed Rednecks. Un-freakin'-believable.
I do have The Element Of Surprise however. They don't know that I am just five feet away.
This is getting more ridiculous by the minute and I desperately want these clowns to go back inside the bar.
I just sit quietly and hold my breath while the older woman is pleading "no no no" and tugging on his arm.
They finally drag The White Trash Hero back into the bar and I breathe a HUGE sigh of relief. About three minutes later my oblivious Old Man and pizza are out the door and crossing the lot. I'm too old for this shit and was happy to be gone from there.
I relay the events to Hubs and tell him to watch his back. He says he doesn't worry about that because the creep just wanted to put on a show to impress the girls.
Come to find out, he had spoken to the two women when they came inside The Hut and all he said was "hey" because he was trying to get to the crowded counter.
He DID meet The Neanderthal last week because he ran into all three at Pizza Hut the week before. I knew he hadn't been to the bar but had forgotten about the pizza we snagged the previous Friday. Oh, the Tantalizing Lure Of Pepperoni Lover's Pizza with extra cheese.
I'm guessing that she told the guy that my husband said something to her when she went inside or he's been bothering her somehow and she's playing some sort of head game here. Dangerous stuff, that.
Let me post a warning to The Neanderthal and The Trick on a piddly-ass little blog that nobody reads:
What? It's not FAIR to issue a warning that the the recipient of said warning will never see?
"Go ahead......lick it......you know you want to. No biting."
Those were my words to The Boss's husband Thursday morning after he stuck his nose in my Personal Space.
He was leanin' over My Personal Joy and inhaling. I don't believe in teasing chained animals, particularly chained men, but he makes it too, too easy.
I had wiggled The Goods in his face the day before and got this response:
"Oh yeah! Why don't you just bend over, drop your drawers, AND SHOW ME SOMETHIN' ELSE I CAN'T HAVE??!??" He actually yelled at me!
Poor thing. Chained to the wall.....with Heaven just out of reach.
Sucks to be him...........
He wasn't bent over sniffin' any of my, uhhhhh, Physical Atributes.
He's chained to a diet.
He was lustin' after my breakfast biscuit.
People, you can snoop thru my purse. Rifle thru my panty drawer if it blows your skirt up. Read my text messages if you don't have a life.
Cop a cheap feel if you just feel lucky and we'll sort it out after the fact.
Touch that biscuit and you will bleed.
It's the best part of my day and I will not share.
The Dear Lady at the diner splits a homemade buttermilk biscuit in half, spreads a little mayo and mustard on the halves, and crams pan sausage, scrambled eggs, and a slice of cheese in it with a little salt and pepper.
The biscuit is exactly like my grandmother's biscuits and they are made from scratch fresh every morning.
This concoction has so much grease in it that it soaks thru the wax paper it's wrapped in, soaks the paper bag they put it in, and I have to clean the grease off of the counter when I've finished it!
IT'S WONDERFUL! It'll make your tongue slap your brains out!
I wolf mine down at The Big House and it was sittin' in a puddle of sausage grease on the kitchen counter when Bosslady's hubby found it.
It'll blow his diet all to Hell and all he can do is smell the thing.....and wish.
He's stuck with a bowl of instant grits for breakfast and my biscuit smells better than Chanel No. 5!
He left the kitchen.
I may never buy cologne again. Sausage grease dabbed behind the ears is the way to go.