How I Met My Muse
It was a delightfully warm Alaska summer day in June of 2004 (no, really, it does, on a rare occasion, get above ass frozen cold there!). So warm, in fact, that the Mat-Su Valley where I lived was experiencing an unusually high amount of wildfires, caused by lightening. Which is just as rare as a virgin at a porn conference. Because of the fires, my friends and I decided that our originally planned camping trip was probably not a good idea. So, we changed our strategy to spend our upcoming weekend at one of our favorite watering holes: Four Corners – a honkey tonk dive with an Alaskan feel to it. And one of our favorite local bands, “The Ken Peltier Band,” was playing that weekend. Double whoohoo!
After some ribbing from my friends Tiffany and Tammy, I decided I should probably get my hair done and at least attempt to look like a girl. I spent nearly two hours getting my hair cut and what seemed like a million little butterfly clips put in my hair to hold all the little twists of hair in place. Everyone said it looked fabulous; I just know the damn clips were annoying. Then I traded in my normal “Farmer John’s Wife” look for a pair of tight jeans, a maroon sweater looking thing (I at least wanted to FEEL comfortable), and some Mary Janes. Hey, I refuse to do heels. I’m already 5’9” and can almost look most guys in the eye already. The last thing I wanted to do was look down on them. Physically, anyway.
The time finally arrived and I headed out to meet the girls at The Palmer Bar for a quick snack and drink with Tammy and her sister, Diane, the bartender. We were also killing time until the band was due to start playing at Four Corners. After half an hour of me whining and being antsy about sitting around a dead bar listening to an overpriced juke box, everyone finally decided it was time to head to the honky tonk and shut my happy ass up. Yay, about damn time!
A quick 15 minute drive and we were pulling up into the parking lot. Stepping out of the truck, I could hear the practice strums coming from Ken’s guitar. I started to get a little excited. Ok, I was getting a lot excited but not the “creaming my jeans” happy--yet. Tammy reigned me in while she brushed her hair and checked her face one last time in the rear view mirror. I think I might have been doing a “hurry the hell up!” dance next to her door, but I can’t be for sure. But I am sure she took her own sweet ass time walking up to the door of the bar cuz I beat her to it and stood there tapping my foot while I waited. She completely missed my glaring stare that literally screamed, “Don’t make my people have to wait to gaze upon my awesomeness!”
We swung the door open, and I made a beeline for the bar cuz I was parched and desperately needed a c’n’c (Crown Royal and Coke) after spending so much time crossing the parking lot. A few of the regulars waved or nodded in our general area as a welcome. Something suddenly distracted me out of the corner of my left eye in my rush to put in my request to Mary the not-so-friendly bartender. Truth be told, Mary is one of the orneriest old bats of a bartender I have ever had the displeasure of meeting (unless you had a swinging dick and wore a wedding ring). She was listed under the “Effed Up” column in my book.
As I turned my head to my left, there sat the most gorgeous cowboy I have EVER laid eyes on, hands down. I shit you not. And he was smiling the brightest shit eating grin. I was so distracted by that smile that I tripped over the damned barstool. But I was mesmerized. I was half bent over, holding the barstool from completely falling over, when Tammy rear-ended me. To keep us from crashing to the floor in a bundle of legs, ass and barstool, she grabbed me by the hips. Yes, we did look like a couple of chicks doing our best to mimic the doggie with our clothes on, without all the gyrating. That only caused the cowboy to laugh and raise his beer to us. Well, at least I got his attention.
“What the hell are you staring at?” coming from behind me snapped me out of my hypnotized state, but I was still speechless (rare, I know!). So, I pointed. Tammy took a look and whispered, “Oh.”
“Do you wanna meet him?” she asked me.
“As IF!” is what I wanted to say, but it came out as, “Yeah.”
“Ok, then put the stool down, sit on it, order a drink and wait for me. DON’T go anywhere! I mean it. Stay!” She knows me oh so well! And she left back out the door we had just entered through.
Meanwhile, I managed to find my voice and order a drink, the whole time not taking my eyes of the cowboy, who wasn’t more than 20 feet from me. I probably would have creeped myself out if I was even half conscience of what the hell I was doing. I blame the unusual June heat. Or maybe I was just IN heat. Yeah, that’s probably more like it.
A few minutes later, Tammy returned with a couple pieces of paper and walked up to the cowboy. She motioned towards me and handed the papers to him. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. It could have been last month’s bar tab for all I knew. I held my breath. He read through the pages, looked at me, then at Tammy and nodded. Tammy motioned for me to join them at his table. My knees felt like they could give out at any moment as I walked over in a dream state. Never in my wildest fantasies have I seen, let alone talked to, a guy so damn hot. I was sweating bullets. And trying to remember if I had shaved my legs.
“Terrye, this is Adam. Adam, this is my friend, Terrye.” I think I smiled as I stared into the bluest eyes ever. Holy shit, was that an earthquake?!
“Adam has agreed to The Booty Call Contract. If you agree, sign it and then you two can get to calling on each other for some booty.” Oh HELL yes! I’d sign in my own blood if the pen went dry.
The rest of the night is a whirlwind of whisky, two-stepping, laughter, and me falling head over heels for the cowboy that would become my muse and so much more.
Terrye is a helpless romantic daydreaming about becoming a semi-famous writer. She spends her days catering to her non-verbal autistic son while trying to keep up with the chores and wishing she could get more than three words down on paper before her little guy needs something else. In the evenings, the Benevolent Benefactor demands food be cooked and doesn't understand why writing is more important than oxygen.
Her superpowers include; [to be determined once the superpowers have shown themselves].
Terrye's hobbies include: ignoring a sink full of dishes, imagining horrific ways to pay back the neighbors for letting their dogs bark at 5am every morning, whining about being cold while living in the desert, and never letting her husband drive the family boat when enjoying a day out on the lake.
To read more from the lunatic known as The Misplaced Alaskan, check out her blog: www.misplacedalaskan.com/