Cowboy... my fiance *blush* for those just joining us... wears nothing but blue jeans and sweatpants. He owns two pairs of Bugle Boy khakis, but they're circa 1997 and have pleats. Dislike.
Whenever we fight and I'm right (aka every.single.time), I tell him he can make it up to me by dressing fancy and taking me to a nice dinner.
He never has.
So when we traveled to Colorado for a "Back to the 80s" musical performed at Sidney, Neb.'s community theater, I insisted he dress up. No denim allowed, I said. This isn't like a job interview.
Cowboy didn't like the idea, but he was willing to compromise. Take me to Stockmen's Supply in Fargo, he said. Maybe I'll find something there.
Now, I question purchasing clothes from any store which also shelves "Gopher Getter" rodent repellent and calf-nursing nipples, but if the man was willing to forgo denim for a night at the theater, I was willing to forgo images associated with castrating band applicators.
"Are you seriously saying no one will wear jeans there?" he questioned, doubting my sophistication, taste and artistic etiquette.
"It's a play!" I said. "And not only that, but it's a MUSICAL. If you wear jeans, everyone will stare. Everyone will single you out."
"But why are you making me wear nice pants," he whined.
"Why are you making me fight with you about nice pants," I asked.
So the Stockmen's Supply sales associate walked us past the "farm chemicals and teat dip" section and ushered us to the very back... where black pants gathered dust and men's suit coats came with leather elbows.
"We don't have much selection," the associate said, "especially in length. But they aren't much different from Docker's. You can buy those at Kohl's."
"SEE," I said. "Not much different from Dockers. AND we're already in Fargo (since Jamestown doesn't have a Target, much less a Kohl's), let's look there!"
"H to the no," Cowboy said. "If I ain't buying pants here, I ain't buying pants. These are Wranglers."
"Yes." I said. "And?"
"I am not buying Dockers. They're gay."
"Wranglers fit tight around your ass," I said. "What's not-queer about that?"
So he tried on his "George Strait Cowboy Cuts" and lucky for me, they fit.
"Now that you own these nice trousers," I said, "how 'bout that fancy restaurant?"
Cowboy didn't answer, but he did wear the pants the whole day of the show, along with matching boots and 10-gallon-hat of course.
And even though he looked nothing like the boys of my youth and their faded jeans with store-made tears, he was cute anyway, and I didn't mind showing him off. "You should wear nice clothes more often," I said. "Good thing I'm here to teach you."
We got to the theater early, and chose our seats as the rest of the audience filled in around us. I didn't realize the show was in a high school auditorium and I didn't realize it didn't have a dress code. Something seems very wrong, I thought. Very very wrong.
Suddenly, I noticed t-shirts, I noticed scrunchies and worst of all, I noticed...
"Hmmm..." Cowboy said. "Not only is EVERYONE here wearing jeans, but we're the only ones who aren't. Now...," he said. "I think someone owes someone else a dinner."
It’s us, but in dead animal form. But not really dead because they weren’t ever alive. Undead? No. That makes them sound like vampires. So not that. Fuck. I don’t know the word. Hey, how long can a title be? Because this seems excessive. Someone should stop me. Jesus. This is as bad as 280-character twitter. - Victor is finally home from Japan and I didn’t set the house on fire or eat any of our pets while he was gone. Yay for the small things! He always comes b...
5 hours ago