That’s Right, I’m Not From Texas

I love me some Lyle Lovett. I am known amongst my farm- and city-folk friends alike as a Lyle, um, lover. One time I spent my wedding anniversary with Lyle. (Hush. It was not so much an outdoor ampitheater as a singing stroll through the park. Lyle was serenading me.) My husband is understanding like that. Plus it’s in our pre-nups. Lyle and me, we’re like THAT.


But my friend Barb over at So, The Thing Is… she loves her some Lyle too. She can even put Lyle into her blog somehow. She’s amazing. Or maybe Lyle likes her better than me and loans her his best music videos exclusively because his poetic nature is perfectly in tune with her poetic day-to-day life. (What’s that? You can download songs online? With video?)

And then, my friend Ei, she's in love with Lyle too. I'm not sure whether she's from Texas because she's a cyberfriend (first I typed cyberfiend. I have a problem typing too fast.), but she loves Lyle a lot (maybe more than I) and she's available. She doesn't have to exercise any prenups to stroll through the park with the big-haired cowboy crooner.

So basically, it's like an episode of The Bachelor, where Lyle has to choose between all these lovely ladies. I think I got kicked off on the first rose ceremony. But until I was a blogger I thought it was just me an' Lyle, alone in the world.

Speaking of my husband Fabio, he corrected me on two counts over the weekend. Maybe more than that, but only two come to mind immediately. Because I’m forgetful.

(one) Tom Clancy was not an attorney. He was a financial adviser. Even better! A financial adviser turns popular spy-thriller novelist. Surely if I can surreptitiously borrow WiFi all the while having no clue what WiFi stands for, and subsequently zoom out of the neighborhood undetected, passing a “Shotz” coffee stand that says “FREE WIFI” in red neon letters – surely if I am stealthy enough to pull off such a Saturday out-of-state mission, I could easily sneak in and out of a government building with high-tech secret documents, photograph them, and then replace them with cleverly doctored fake-o documents to throw off the competition spies, all the while safeguarding my infant and pre-schooler in the double jogger. Wait, they already did that movie. I think it was called “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

(two) I’m not from Texas. I had forgotten.

My husband, Fabio, moonlights as an engineer. You may know him as EGE, or the Eng-Gun-Ear. (It’s a dumb inside joke among the pocket-protector set.) His first job – aside from that little margarine thing – is fact repository. Within moments of reading my last post, he was advising me that I had fact errors. So now he has a new side job. As my fact checker. Because he remembers all sorts of things like what Tom Clancy's pre-published career was. And he still has room for lots of baseball stats and stuff. He must be pretty smart.

But I'm not buttering him up for a new camera or anything.

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Oh, for crying out loud. I am editing this later in the day to say:
I can't even get a correction right. My dear husband didn't say financial adviser, he said insurance salesman. The risks of insurance sales must have translated quite nicely into spy novels.

But I'm still not from Texas. Dang.

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