Yearbooks, Queso and Middle-aged Teenagers

 

Almost a year ago I traveled to my hometown in East Texas to have lots of queso.  Well, I also went to visit lifelong friends, have a book signing and speak at my old high school, but my main focus was the queso, or in layman’s terms, cheese dip.  You see, queso is not a ‘thing’ in California; it’s not part of the authentic Mexican menus at the restaurants we have in Long Beach or Los Angeles or San Francisco or San Jose or Sacramento or Palm Springs or San Diego. 

Whenever I’ve requested queso, I usually get confused looks.  When I try to clarify that it’s cheese dip or melted cheese, I still get confused looks, although one time they brought me a fajita skillet filled with melted cheese that I had to cut like it was meat and eat it on a tortilla like a taco.  Don’t get me wrong, it was delicious, but I wanted something I could dip my tortilla chip into.  Y’all picking up what I’m throwing down? 

                When I landed at DFW, Terminal A, I made a beeline for Pappasito’s Cantina where they have delicious queso available as early as 9:30 am.  After my craving was sated I Uber-ed to the hotel where I had queso as my lunch (with a brisket taco or seven).  Later that night I had dinner with a friend, and we ate Korean BBQ tacos or some other bougie fusion delight.  After searching for BBQ chicharrons at Whole Foods, Ricky and I called it a night.

                The next morning Juli (½ of the infamous Wood Twins of Red River County) swooped into Dallas proper, flung me into her Buick and we made a beeline for the bustling metropolis of Bogata, TX, population 1,100 (which I find hard to believe, but didn’t feel was my place to say).  After gathering the other ½ (Denise), they asked what I wanted to eat and I asked for Tex Mex, specifically queso.  We drove toward Clarksville and stopped at a tiny, locally owned place and had two different types of queso, yellow and white.  I have returned to the land of my people, y’all.

                Later that night I believe Denise made homemade chicken and dumplings and cornbread and we ate that plus some sock-it-to-me cake and possibly a steak sandwich from Braum’s and maybe a caramel sundae (also from Braum’s) and enough sweet tea to give 36 grown men diabetes.  I don’t know if it’s just men, but when I am on vacation, I have the mindset that I am impervious to the excess weight and gas brought on by such activities. 

Unsurprisingly, the next morning I was in gastric distress.  So much so, that I actually brought it up as a topic at breakfast. Even though Denise and Juli know the real me, I still hold onto the delusion that I am considered fancy by all and sundry and everyone is enamored of me with few exceptions.  I’m not sure what we had for breakfast that morning, but I swear it was tater tots of some sort and possibly leftover queso, which I ate despite how I felt. I didn’t want to be rude to my wonderful hosts.  When I mentioned my ailment, Denise called her venerable mother Dee to ask if she had any medicine for my condition. 

                Not having seen Miss Dee since we moved from Bogata in 1986, I was not surprised that the first thing she mentioned after giving me a hello hug was that it was good to see me and that she had not forgotten that I was responsible for losing Denise’s senior yearbook.  In my defense, I told her I hadn’t lost the yearbook, that my cousin Kendra had lost it, which she had (sorry to throw you under the bus Kendra).  Her response was that it was sent to me and was not returned, therefore it was my responsibility.  Knowing it was true and having always been slightly terrified of Miss Dee, I agreed that her logic was flawless, turned about six kinds of ashamed, apologized again and wished I could have teleported to that restaurant with the two kinds of queso.   I may have a problem, y'all.  

                Of course, Miss Dee being the mother of all mothers, had a remedy and sent Mr. James (her husband) to the rescue of those vacationers who had been eating queso non-stop for three days. When he rang the doorbell at Denise’s house, where we were staying, I opened the door and he handed me a box, stepping back.  I invited him in, but he said, “No, I don’t want to catch whatever y’all have.”

                I laughed and said, “No sir, this is Gas-X, no one is actually sick.”

                He stepped further back and said, “I definitely don’t want none of that” and walked quickly back to his mini-van.  Wise is the one who avoids the turbulence of life, y’all, said the 48 year-old irresponsible teenager.

               Kendra, can you help me out here?

              

Why Would Lionel Richie Want My Frito Pie?

              Now that Fall is back, my thoughts have naturally turned to an activity as much a part of me as the argyle sweater I asked for at Christmas (age 14) and finally, finally (Hallelujah!) received for my 15^th birthday.  That activity is MARCHING BAND, y’all.  I was a big ol’ band nerd from fifth grade through my sophomore year in college.  A trumpeter with a fair amount of talent, I was often chosen to play solos on the field.  I don’t say that to brag, I say that to set up a story about my band experiences that wouldn’t have been as interesting had I simply blended into the formations that changed every two weeks at my small, country high school in the Red River Valley of Texas.

                I had played in concert band for the previous four years but had never participated in marching band as you had to be in high school to do so, at least in that particular school –Rivercrest.  I had no frame of reference for marching bands other than my mother was a clarinet player in the Mississippi College marching band in 1963 and that was the reason she was in Mexico City (for the Fiesta Bowl) when JFK was assassinated.  She never shared any other specifics.  After being a member of the Rivercrest Rebel Marching Band for two years under the tutelage of Claire Jesse, my frame of reference was skewed to something I have still never experienced or even heard about.

                Mrs. Jesse created and taught us a different halftime show every two weeks.  Yes, you read that correctly.  We learned new songs and new marching formations for every home game and the subsequent away game.  We were not required to memorize the music, obviously, as we were taxing our brains to remember the very specific choreography that had to be exact, so the show would work as we only had like 35 members. There’s not a whole lot of designs you can make with that few people, a Blue Moon being one of the ones I remember.  Anything more complex than a circle or square would be interpreted as “People Randomly on a Field…in Big Hats…with Feathers”.  Minimalism doesn’t begin to describe it.  On top of that, we had to learn new songs for the pre-game ceremony at Homecoming.

                One of the upsides of being a talented trumpeter is getting to play a solo.  Trumpets are the coolest people in band, on par with the drum section, if you don’t count the bass drums or cymbals, no offense.  In the Fall of 1984, I was selected to play the solo at the pre-game Homecoming ceremonies.  The song was the timeless tune, Lionel Ritchie’s Truly.  If you’ve never played that melody on a trumpet, let me tell you it isn’t necessarily a difficult piece of music if you were to play it once.  However, repetitious playing can be taxing as there are very high notes which require you to tighten your lips on the mouthpiece to play them properly and I was going to excel at whatever I was doing.  For those who don’t remember, Homecoming 1984 was held on a very wet and extremely muddy football field.  It seemed like it had rained the previous 40 days and nights.  I promise you there were animals lined up in pairs in the parking lot of the football stadium, looking for an ark, people. 

                Cut to me standing in the same spot on the field to the left of the Homecoming Court who were walking very slowly on sunken red carpet, holding the skirts of their Scarlet O’Hara meets Barbie Birthday Cake formal gowns out of the mud, one of them wearing football cleats and another wearing cowboy boots, so as not to get, literally, stuck in the mud.  Because their walk across the field took about four times longer than we had practiced, I was forced to play a beautiful but difficult song four times as many times as I had planned.  It seemed like 64 times, but it was probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 16 times. 

                Anyone who has played a trumpet knows that your lips get tired after playing for a long time and you have to give them a rest.  Don’t say a word; it’s too easy.  I was used to tired lips (again, too easy) but this time when I finished, my lips wouldn’t work at all.  I literally could not form words; I could only make weird sounds. Imagine Charlie Brown’s teachers or a very sad Chewbacca. 

This shouldn’t have been a problem as most people who sat near me in the football stands would have loved to have a break from the wonder that are my stream-of-consciousness conversations, ranging from my unending need for a Frito Pie to my secretly coveting (but outwardly mocking) a certain band member (let’s just call her Jathy Cones) whose mother brought her iced tea in a mason jar. 

One thing I wasn’t aware was happening during my extended remix of a solo was that I was slowly sinking into the mud.  So much so, that when I turned to leave the field, my shoes got stuck and when I jerked my legs to remove them from the muck, my natural athleticism took over and I accidentally pulled both my feet out of my shoes, leaving the double-tied Kaepas peeking out of what was supposed to have been grass but was stock-show level muck, y’all.

As I was on the field, not the sidelines, I had to somehow get my shoes.  I didn’t want us to get a penalty and/or someone to trip over them causing us to lose the game and making me the local preppy non grata.   When I went back to get them, I was forced to get out of the way of my bandmates who were leaving the field behind me in a big hurry, as the pre-game had spilled over into the game time and we were in violation of something; I don’t remember what.  I played football not even half-heartedly (eighth-heartedly, maybe?  I mean I showed up to the games and that counts for something, right?) for two years but remember only that I hated it and every move I made was the wrong move.

One of the more observant cheerleaders saw I was trying to get something off the field and ran over to help (let’s call her Jonna Do Javis) as she was also a very kind person, with a heretofore unknown wicked streak.  She saw my shoes sticking out of the mud and extricated them in the nick of time.  I was thrilled that she had them.  Now I just needed to get them from her.  I smiled and motioned to her in a very subdued manner, like a Baptist sneaking a second helping at a potluck, to get her attention.  She smiled and waved the shoes at me and not in a subdued manner; more like a Pentecostal moved by The Spirit.  I don’t know if I knew where she went to church, but I’m sure in retrospect she had to have been back-slidden because what she did was downright Unchristian.

Jonna Do Javis held my shoes high in the air, like a trophy and walked slowly to the middle of the track surrounding the muddy field directly in front of the Homecoming Court and all the people in the stands.  I know you’re thinking ‘how many people could that possibly be in a tiny town?’  Well, it was Homecoming, so it was literally everyone who lived within a 20-mile radius, except the housebound or the infirm.  This was THE event of the Fall, on par with the Rodeo in the Summer, y’all.  I might as well have posted the video on YouTube.  Football games were the Facebook of the 1980s in the South.  The Dad even went to them and he left the house about as often as the Pope watches Pay-Per-View Wrestling. 

Once she made it to the spot she felt was most advantageous to maximum embarrassment, she wiggled the dirty shoes at me.  I tried to motion her over to keep from being publicly humiliated again (lest we not forget the time I accidentally tackled the opposing football team’s bench, but not any of their players and injured myself but no one else in the process).  I just wanted to go sit down and eat my Frito Pie once my lips started working again.  But no.  Jonna Do was not having it.  She thought it was hilarious to make me walk (muddy) sock-footed to get the shoes from her hands, in full view of the throng and I mean throng, y’all, for real.

If my lips had been working I would have given her the business but alas ‘twas not to be.  And I wasn’t the type to exact revenge on anyone, especially to the person who was the closest we had to Snow White in our school.  She literally had woodland creatures follow her around school.  Or maybe those were just the taxidermized specimens in the biology classroom.  Or maybe I’m misremembering her interrupting my speech on Koala Bears when I brought my stuffed animal as part of my presentation.  When she interrupted, my teacher didn’t stop the timer and she helped me get past the five-minute requirement from Mr. Lum, our teacher, saving my under-prepared butt and keeping my A+ average intact.  I was normally a conscientious student, but the night before the report was due, The Dad came home with a VCR he had bought from the trunk of a guy’s car in the parking lot of The Wal-Mart and somebody (I won’t say who) decided to watch Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, four or five times.

I can’t believe I had forgotten about that almost-debacle.  Jonna Do, the saintly Disney Princess helped me maintain my academic reputation.  And here I had nursed a (relatively small) grudge all these years.  I apologize Jonna Do.  Mea Culpa.  Mea Culpa, indeed. 

Definitely Fast, Not Necessarily Furious

              As we have previously discussed, on an average day the Light of Jesus shines from my face, y’all.  It’s true.  However, when you put me behind the wheel of a conveyance, be it automobile, moped, roller skate, bean truck, you’d be hard-pressed to believe I have ever entered a place of worship, much less have a relationship with God.  This is apparently genetic as The Dad and The Sister are aggressive drivers.  Even my sainted Mother, while never actually angry, drove with a heavy foot.  And I mean heavy; she once got a speeding ticket in Oklahoma on a highway with no posted speed limits.
                My recent trip to Red River County (TX) brought to mind an astonishing number of car-related memories with my sister considering she had her driver’s license for only the two years we lived in Paris.  In her defense, in those two years, we did commute 60 miles round trip from our home in Paris (TX) to the high school in Bogata, as my parents promised each of us that we could finish high school where we started, in direct conflict with our gypsy ways.  Let it be noted here that my sister was able to attend the same school for all four years of high school.  My brother was able to attend the same school for junior high and high school.  I, however, had to change in the middle of high school, even though I swear I’m not bitter or anything. 
                Once we had moved to Paris proper, I desperately wanted to go to Paris High; people there wore argyle and penny loafers; I had seen them at Mirabeau Square (or Malibu Square according to the Strawn Twins of Bogata proper), the local shopping center, home of Belk and JC Penney, where I was to procure my first pair of Reeboks, parachute pants and monogrammed button-downs. I was convinced there were many Blaines (from Pretty in Pink) at Paris High, knowing full well that I was more like a chubby Ducky than anyone else in that movie.  I preferred to think of myself as a male version of Molly Ringwald’s Andy, but we all know I used to suffer from delusions.
             My parents reply to my plea was, “Your sister wants to go to Rivercrest and you have to ride with her because it’s unsafe for a girl to drive that far alone.”  To Rivercrest we went, never once seeing the river or the crest for which the school was supposedly named.
              During those commutes, we had every sort of incident you could imagine while commandeering an array of used cars, which were replaced with alarming frequency.  I’m not sure if my parents accepted old cars as a form of payment for the apartments my mother managed, but we had a different car every couple of months, it seemed.  During this time, we drove a 1974 Buick Regal whose tailpipe would pop and spit flames if you punched the accelerator to pass someone, which happened every couple of miles as my sister’s goal was seemingly to be “ahead”; of everyone, I assumed. 
            This same car was what my sister was driving when we were pulled over for going 92 in a 55 MPH Zone and she cried her way out of a ticket, being told only, “Slow down, now.”  This will work only for women, dudes.  Trust me. I say that because I tried to cry my way out of a ticket once in Mississippi and the trooper accused me of being drunk and threatened me with arrest.  As it was 1989, I guess they didn’t have tasers, yet.  I’m sure he would have used his had the technology been available to him.
            Not long after that, we changed to a 1968 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with faulty brakes; a fact unknown to us at the time; at least until we tried to stop at that little store/lawn mower repair shop near Deport one morning.  When we attempted to slow down to turn, I was riding shotgun (in the front seat) while my sister drove, and my brother sat in the back seat.  
             I feel sure at least I wasn’t wearing a seat belt as, when the brakes failed, and my sister sailed through their little parking lot, skidding to a stop sideways, almost in the ditch, I sat up and found myself to be in the back seat with my brother as if we were being chauffeured to school.  I was lucky the Oldsmobile company had created a car so large you could host a Potluck Luncheon in the back seat and covered everything in thickly padded “leather”; I had no visible bruises other than to my ego as it was obvious that I was the source of the majority of the screeching sounds, not the brakes as you would guess, because my screeches didn’t stop as quickly as the cars.
             We also drove, at one point, a 1976 Caprice Classic Estate wagon, the size of which cannot be understated.  It was literally the size of a Winnebago or an 18-wheeler from JW Hunt.  You can Google it, I’ll wait.  We had no interesting adventures in this particular car, it was just embarrassing to own.  Really?  You’re expecting a mature attitude from a teenager in the 80s wearing three Swatches, parachute pants and a pair of double-tie Kaepa tennis shoes?  Ducky is dramatic, y’all.  It’s a thing.

It's Not Cussing if it's a Direct Quote

              I recently returned to Texas for several speaking engagements and book signings, both impromptu and planned.  Speaking to executives from rural and community hospitals on leadership and team building, I was in Dallas, where I pulled off the previously unheard of hat trick of entertaining and teaching conference attendees at 8:30 in the AM, y’all.  Uncle Dusty can bring the funny regardless of the time of day.  The Dad says, “It ain’t braggin’, if it’s a fact.”  I had several hours to kill before my friend, the esteemed Master Richard Waller, was available to dine, so I sat in the lobby and, in an extremely choreographed nonchalant manner, managed to sell a dozen copies of ‘Almost Odis’.  I did not curse a single time, during my presentation, lunch, book sales or dinner.  This is important to note.

                As you know, dear readers, my blog is G-rated.  I do not curse, as a rule, and I never talk about things that could even loosely be construed as nasty or dirty.  I am a man of high moral standards and my language, while colorful, is not often coarse.  Full disclosure, I do occasionally cuss, but usually only in traffic and, even then, only in response to the actions of someone who is ridiculous.

                The next morning, my tour guide for the trip to Red River County and memory lane was my former girlfriend and one-half of the twins who were my besties starting from 30 seconds after we met in 1982.   The hilarious, sarcastic force of nature known as Juliann (Juli) Wood, apparently enjoys a reputation for using the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb and adjective.  This is also important to note.

                I had a speaking engagement at Rivercrest High School on Friday, April 13, 2018.  While I don’t normally buy into these sorts of superstitious nonsense, there might be something to it.  I forgot to tell you my room at the Hyatt Downtown Dallas was on the 14^th floor.  However, seeing as they didn’t number a 13^th floor, my room was actually on the 13^th floor.  Weird, I know, but what can you do; hoteliers are an odd bunch. 

                I hadn’t been to Bogata, or Rivercrest High, since we abandoned Texas for Mississippi, with literally a moment’s notice in 1986, the summer between grades 10 and 11.  I was asked to speak to the senior class and wanted to make sure I connected with an audience which, admittedly, I barely connected with when I lived there.  Uncle Dusty is an odd bird out in the boonies, y’all.  True Story.  I always refer to myself as Uncle Dusty when speaking to high school and college students, as I started giving advice to my nieces and nephews and this is the moniker they created for me.

                My presentation made a number of points, some of them confirming my bonifides as a former resident of the boonies, showing pictures of me with my sheep and in my football and band uniforms.  I then proceeded to give a little advice.  I won’t put you through my complete presentation, but I will say that Ronny Allsup’s (Brother Ron Ron to the other half of the twins, Denise) only request was, “Don’t get me fired.”  I assured him I wouldn’t do anything to get him in trouble.  He, and several other people, said they didn’t have any concerns about me, but they were worried about Miss Juli and her salty tongue, as she was to introduce me.  Juli was adamant they had nothing to worry about and her intro was delightful and set to the tune of Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’.

                My talk bounced from telling them that my plans for after high school were the slightly vague, “I want to be indoors” and the more specific, “Not hauling hay.”  I talked about being proud of who you are, unless you’re mean and then you need to “Stop it!  There’s enough jerks in the world.”  I told them I was proud to be from Bogata, but I couldn’t wait to leave.  I told them if they left that was great, but if they stayed, that was great, too, as long as they traveled because that’s how you broaden your world view and makes you more aware. 

                I told them to appreciate their family and friends and to choose relationships wisely.  I encouraged them to debate, not argue.  I reminded them that hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.  I challenged them to be the thing they don’t see in the world, whether its kindness, passion, authenticity or honesty.  I specifically said they should never lie; be as kind a possible, but don’t lie just to spare someone’s feelings.  I asked them to focus on doing something they love and not worry about making money and I even quoted Abraham Lincoln, “Whatever you are, be a good one.”

                I know you have to make people laugh to get them to listen and remember advice, especially from some random older guy, wearing Kelly green chinos and navy wingtips.  You also have to use stories to connect with people and I was telling them tales of rodeos, involuntary horseback riding and other 4-H-related things.   We had segued into the last part of my talk where I give them ‘Tips on How to be A Decent Human’, like (1) your mama lied to you; you’re not special, rules apply to you, just like everyone else, (2) put the buggy back in the corral at The Wal-Mart or the grocery store, (3) don’t dislike someone you’ve never met, (4) if you get defensive when someone questions your opinion, you might need a new opinion and (5) if you have to exaggerate to make a point, you just proved your point isn’t worth making.

                I was on a roll and they were laughing and loving it and I started telling the story about my cow from 4-H.  You remember the one I told y’all where it was the only one in the competition and still came in third place.  I have told that story many times, especially when talking to groups about making emotional decisions, and I always quote The Dad as having said, “Son, that is a pitiful cow.”  The actual quote is, “Son, that is a shitty cow.”  I have never once used the S-word when telling that story, until that very moment.  I said “SHIT-TAY” right into the microphone, as loud as if I was announcing a boxing match in Vegas, y’all.  I didn’t even realize it at first until the teenage audience absolutely howled with laughter and it dawned on me.  I said, “Oh, no!  Did I just cuss, Brother Ron?”  “Yep,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

                What could I do, y’all, but try to do damage control?  I said to the group, “Okay, y’all.  I heard that Stanley Jesse is the Superintendent.  If he asks you, ‘Did Mr. Thompson say anything inappropriate, y’all should say ‘No!’.  As soon as I said it, the ring leader, you can always tell who it is, raised his hand and said, “Didn’t you just tell us not to lie?”  Ouch.  Out of the mouths of cowboy babes.  I was excited he had been listening, but shamed I had cussed.  What could I do but say, “Yep.  You called me out.  Disregard what I just said.  However, if anyone asks if I cussed, just say, ‘He did, but it was a direct quote’.”  They laughed and agreed, I exhaled and sat down and looked over at Juli, who was smiling that smile, you know the one.  I asked her, “How do you think it went?”  She smirked and said, “It was shitty” while Denise laughed in the background.

                I’m pretty sure I’ll not be asked to speak at commencement any time soon. 

Through the Drinking Glass: My Trip to Heather Land-land

               Last weekend I had to the unique opportunity to attend a comedy show with literally every woman in Red River and Lamar Counties (in Texas) along with four or five of their inebriated spouses.  I say inebriated as they were selling beer along with sangria, margaritas and hurricanes.  I wasn’t surprised, I guess, people love a good drink at a concert.  The crowd was, in a word, lively.  And seeing as how Heather Land herself was wearing a head band, Def Leppard t-shirt and ripped jeans (an interesting look for a 42-year-old mother of two, said my inner old lady), it seemed to fit. 

                I am somewhat familiar with Ms. Land’s comedy.  I say somewhat when what I mean is I have seen one of her videos; you know the ones where her eyes and mouth are disturbingly large, and she complains about stuff and it’s funny.  And she always says her catchphrase, which was splashed across black t-shirts she was selling, “I Ain’t Doin’ It!”

                The doors opened at six and the show was supposed to start at 7:00 so by 6:53 the audience had started to get “tow up” and I had the time to take my eyes away from the magnificent hairdos all around me and noticed a keyboard on stage.  Does Ms. Land sing, I wondered aloud?  No one seemed to know.  Everyone was wearing flowy blouses, tight jeans, chunky jewelry and buying a disturbing amount of Ms. Land’s unimaginative “I Ain’t Doin’ It!” t-shirts.

                As the clock neared 7:15 I was hungry as we hadn’t eaten in at least two hours during this marathon weekend visit/book tour (buy my book ‘Almost Odis’ on Amazon right now, y’all) but the only option for food was the ubiquitous nachos often found in these venues.  I wasn’t in the mood, so I ate the contraband Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg I had stowed in the inside pocket of my sport coat.  I am prepared like a Boy Scout, people.  Well, more like Chunk from "The Goonies", but whatever.

                Finally, at 7:20, Ms. Land came out and she was truly funny.  I didn’t really know what to expect but I laughed a lot. She didn’t say her catchphrase, but she had great material, excellent timing and I was enjoying the show. One of the more elderly and intoxicated in the audience started talking out loud and disrupting the show and Ms. Land tried to intervene and stop her.  At one point this woman got down on the floor (to crawl? to faint?) and when some guy came to remove her, her friend (clothed in a nautical striped blouse with bell sleeves) abandoned her friend and decided to stay. 

At one point she mentioned her unsuccessful music career and I realized she was about to share with us a song or twelve.  I felt a little apprehensive, like when you go to see a one-hit wonder from the 80s and you expect them to play their one good song and they start with, “How about something from the new album”.  No, members of Yes, I don’t want to hear a 22-minute progressive rock song, I want to hear, “Owner of a Lonely Heart”.  

She begins to play piano and sing, and I was pleasantly surprised that she had a beautiful voice.  As she had been high energy in her routine, I was expecting something vaguely happy and/or bouncy.  What we got was a post-Lilith Fair Sarah McLachlan with songs so plaintive and haunting it made me want to go out and adopt a shelter puppy.  I mean, even with her obvious talent, this music was melancholy, y’all.  Then she played what she said was another song, but I couldn’t tell the difference.  Then she had an intermission.  At a comedy show.  Maybe she was overwhelmed from her own songs.  Who knows. 

                As this intermission was unexpected most people just stayed in their seats which gave me a clear path to the concession stand.  By this time, I was actually hungry, so I had resigned myself to eating nachos.  When I got to the stand, I discovered I could get a combo plate of nachos and meatballs and gravy.  On a paper plate.  Not in a nacho boat or a bowl.  Because that’s what you feed people at an event where there are no tables and they have to eat in their lap.  Do they think they are Ikea?

                After the intermission she returned for more comedy, this time it had a bit more bite as it was about her divorce and life afterwards, but it was also about church and Jesus.  I guess those things pair well in Heather Land-land.  Then there were more songs so heartrending it sounded like the soundtrack to a Nicholas Sparks movie, except, if possible, more sad.  Then she played a Christian song which I’m okay with but bookending Jesus with sangria didn’t seem very Evangelical, which this audience most definitely was.  But they were really into it.  

                At the first note, after Heather said the song was about God, Miss Nautical Bell Sleeves (friend of the removed drunk) immediately stood and raised her right hand in praise, having gotten The Spirit mixed in with the spirits.  It was a bit much to take but I was too weighed down by the meatballs to protest.  At the beginning of the second verse, a foursome of friends drunkenly stood, arms linked in an awkward cheerleader/sorority Jenga fashion and it apparently inspired Sister Bell Sleeves to go full on touchdown for Jesus with both hands in the air, in praise or for balance, I wasn't sure.

                At this, one of our companions (I won’t say his name but it rhymes with Tim Wood) abruptly stated, “I’m outta here” and left.  I concurred and followed as the show came to a close.  My first foray into Heather Land-land will be my last.  I have no issue with alcohol, sad music or a little bit of Jesus, but I’d rather have them individually, not grouped together.  I mean, what am I, The Grand Ol' Opry?