Sher is about to do what Chris Hansen of Dateline NBC has told me repeatedly not to do. I am going to get on a plane and fly to a city I’ve never been to meet people I only know through the internet. What flavor of crazy, white trash woman does a thing like that, right?
That would be this flavor – Southern vanilla-moonshine crunch with nuts.
Ryland and Kristi are my hosts as well as the potential Houston white slave traffickers. I met them online when Kristi sent me a flattering email about Wiping the Crazy off My Face. She asked whether my background was in journalism. I told her my background was in crazy. We were immediately in love.
After many months of cyber-bff’n, Kristi introduced me to her real life BFF, Ryland. Another immediate connection was made when Ryland and I began to talk and I decided I loved her harder than a goat loves a stump. I’ve asked her repeatedly to move to Idaho with me so we can get married. As of this writing, no date has been set.
As it turns out, the three of us have a connection that is deeper than the fact we each have a computer. Collectively we believe Michael Buble is sex on a stick, Elvis is alive and Crocs are Satan’s shoe. Frankly those bonds are stronger than any I’ve had with at least ¾ of my husbands.
We also love to laugh at ourselves, at our pasts and of course, at others. As we began to exchange emails and phone calls, it didn’t take long to realize we are funnier together than we are apart.
So, without ever having seen each other in sweatpants, we began a writing palooza and are now in full on collaboration mode. We have the website, we have the want to – we just don’t have the Wordpress mojo to get it moving. Therefore I am hopping a plane, which as you know is packed with germs and is very likely to crash once I get on it, and heading to meet my bitches.
I’m horribly nervous for all the reasons you might suspect.
First of all, what if there really is no Kristi & Ryland? What if in fact their real names are Bertram and Fat Jimmy? What if they are truly planning on selling me into white slavery?
Note to Bertram & Fat Jimmy – save yourself the trouble as I will bring very little change on the auction block. My ovaries stopped working like 14 years ago and I rarely do as I’m told. Some might even say I’m sassy.
Then there is the worry that Kristi will greet me wearing a tiara and a mink stole. That’s what rich people wear every day right? Oh! Did I forget to mention Kristi is a self-proclaimed trophy wife and socialite and has more money than God? Well – God before the price of oil dropped anyway. She refers to one of her homes as “the farm” when in fact it is my firm belief she does not understand the word farm. Unless there are chickens crapping on the front lawn and she is personally up at dawn to milk something other than her husband’s bank account, a giant house on country acreage does not a farm make.
She also has lots of dinners with people who have very recognizable last names. This causes concern for me. I’m terrified I’ll show up for dinner thinking we’re having hot dogs and Van DeKamp’s Pork ‘n Beans only to find the Prime Minister of mother truckin’ Zimbabwe and a table covered in silver platters of snails and goose liver.
Note to Kristi – I don’t eat things I used to murder for fun with a salt shaker AND I don’t want to meet anyone who doesn’t know what a pork rind is and has never thrown up tequila.
Then there’s Ryland. She has this easy, understated grace about her that makes her seem entirely above it all even though she may be screaming obscenities on the inside. She’s blonde and flawless and charming and hates it when people end sentences with the word of or at. She grew up in the world of mucho money whereas I grew up in the land of biscuits and gravy and knowing for sure mucho was how people in Mexico sang the Bingo song-o. She’s an artsy-fartsy type who goes to galleries and owns art work that was not purchased in an abandoned parking lot of a liquor store. Most of it isn’t even on black velvet.
Note to Ryland – Please do not make me go to places where Guy is pronounced Gee and I cannot engage at least three people in a discussion about the finer points of how to microwave a Moon Pie to perfection. I will only embarrass you and you will have it coming.
So there it is then. My plan is to go on Memorial weekend so if you do not hear from me soon after, please alert the authorities. I’m either an uppity white slave in a foreign country or I’ve run off with someone’s Houston husband. I’m betting you can guess which is more likely.
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