Order Of The Garter...ahem...Belt!

I had this whole post outlined in my mind.

It was supposed to be all about a secret social sorority with a very exclusive membership that exists only during the Greatest Show On Dirt.  How big a membership you might ask?  I'm not at liberty to say...that's confidential info that would result in me having to kill ya if I told ya.  It's a secret society...remember?  I will say names have been known to change to preserve reputations and protect the innocent.

(L to R, front row...Chickie Baby, Bear, Pool Hall Mama, Plucky Maiden, Moi, Runaway Playboy Bride, SP. Second row...Some fool that shows up in every photo AKA Mullet Man and Long Tall Sally!)

I was going to give y'all all the 411, complete with the cryptic handshake that really isn't a handshake at all, but more like a...well...T.C.B. pose.  I was going to include the knowledge one must possess to give a big ol' two-arm hug while simultaneously smiling out loud and a willingness to acquire ownership of a pair of grungy grocery store feet while trudging through field after field in the hot Texas sun.  Being willing to show 'em is not just suggested...it's mandatory.  These little nuggets of information are what really allow admittance to THE table.

I was going to share with y'all the carefully guarded  ritual of 3-5 members consuming one homemade Ding Dong with only one fork among 'em, passing from sister to sister, sealing our friendship...with a lick and a promise.  The fact we willingly share ooey-gooey melted ganache with one another shows the depth of our time honored traditions and our sisterhood!

Instead of lapel pins or tasseled fezzes...we clutch our Zapp Hall emblazoned tea glasses to our chests, protecting our said free-refillable plastic cups from interlopers who would try to infiltrate our junque clique with their crystal stemware.

It was going to be filled with mystic tales recited at that table.  Legendary fables that would curl your eyelashes.  Stories of the mystery vendors who sold all their wares while unloading or elusive Yeti sightings whilst sitting on a deck...in the dead of night...at an undisclosed location.  Spellbinding narratives of a sofa bed that refuses to open...even with a hearty yank and an "Open Says Me!".

Our call to order commencing with a pop of a cork rather than a gavel, proceeding to the minutes of previous meetings of the O-GaB being read and always starting with the phrase "crusty old dude" and ending with "you paid what?".  Meetings, where all voices take the floor at the same time, talking over each other, resulting in creative chaos. Meetings that conclude with our secret toast comprised of many, many ha-a-a-awt, salty tears...topped off with a "dap it" "I Lu-u-uv Yew!", and "I'll see you in six months!".

(Yes...I shamelessly lifted these photos. If you are the owner of any of these, let me know and I'll credit you on my next post! And yes...there's that dude again!)

It was also going to include the initiation rites, complete with delivering pimento cheese sandwiches from the Happy Belly,  Weikel's famous cinnamon rolls and the occasional Shiner to the Grand Hiss-Poo-Bah of Talk...me.

Dancing in the dark, laughing for no reason, speaking in a language only we comprehend, telling...and keeping...secrets with newly acquired Texas drawls...all this I had planned on sharing with y'all.

Yeah...that was the plan all right, but then a coupla things happened before I got to the keyboard.

I watched a movie on cable and I went to the mailbox.

To be continued.