When blue jobs turn pink

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In my house, there are no ‘pink’ jobs or ‘blue’ jobs. They tend to fall into the following categories:

1. “Blow-It-Off Jobs.” Things that can wait until the next time Tanner is home. These are non-time sensitive tasks that I either cannot do alone, or just don’t want to do. Like mowing the lawn. And vacuuming.

2. “Whack Jobs.” Tasks (also usually non-time sensitive) that I have no business attempting, but do anyway out of spite and ignorance. Usually moving furniture or tackling unnecessary home improvement. (“I can’t possibly find time to vacuum, but of course I can re-route the dryer vent, with time to wire up a light or two!”)

3. “Blow Jobs.” Just kidding – I’m married. [And hilarious!]

And finally,

4. “Get Shit Done Jobs.” Tasks that leave me no choice. I must get off my ass and figure it out.

The other day, I had to replace the spare tire on the truck. In any other relationship, that would be a blue job. For me, it was a “Get Shit Done Job.” And an easy one at that, thanks in part to a rather complicated history with tires.

Nearly five years ago, Tanner was working in Texas – four weeks on, two weeks off. He had just left when I noticed the tire in the Yukon was flat.

No problem, I thought. I got this shit covered. I’m a rig wife. (Well, rig fiancée.) In fact, this is going to be so easy, I can do it in shorts and wedge sandals. Because walking the 15 feet into the house to get real shoes would make me a pussy.

And the wedges really helped to tighten my glutes and perk up my ass, which is important when you’re wearing shorts. Particularly if you are going to be crawling around in the dirt underneath a truck.

I had never actually changed a tire on the Yukon, so I grabbed the manual and gathered up all the necessary tools – except a jack. Apparently the Denali package forgoes a jack for the backseat television.

Once again, no problem - I’m handy. I would just use the jack from the Explorer.

In hindsight, I think that particular jack would have struggled to lift a PowerWheels car, much less a Yukon XL. Life lesson number one: make sure you have the appropriate tools to do the job.

I set up the flimsy jack in the right spot and got cranking. I should point out that the Yukon was on uneven ground in a tiny parking area scarred by potholes. Life lesson number two: try to avoid jacking up anything on uneven ground. Particularly when you don’t actually know what you’re doing.

With the Yukon perched precariously on the jack of death, I grabbed a wrench and started to loosen the nuts. Thanks to my complete lack of upper body strength, this took much grunting and eventually ended with me essentially jumping (still sporting four inch wedges) to get them to turn.

Now, someone else would have probably noticed how much the truck was swaying on the tiny little jack at this point. But I was absorbed – obsessed – with getting the damn nuts loosened.

Life lesson number three: don’t actually lift the car until after you’ve waged battle with the lug nuts.

This took an embarrassing amount of time and I was a sweating, gasping mess. But finally, the tire was free. Victorious, I reached out and started to take the tire off.

Just in time for the jack to fail, and the truck to fall.

It narrowly messed taking off my left foot. I jumped back, tripping over my inappropriate wedges and hit the ground. Now I had road rash to match my profuse sweating and red face.

I threw an epic tantrum, complete with angry tears and kicking of the tire. I stormed into the house to get rid of “these stupid fucking shoes.” Looking out the window on the other side of the house, I realized that there was a tire shop literally across the street.

In a blind rage, I stomped across the road (which was actually Glenmore Trail, making my appearance even more striking) and into the store. The poor guy at the counter couldn’t hid the shock, confusion and partial disgust in his face as I started ranting about needing to borrow a jack. Finally I took a breath and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the counter.

I was filthy. Caked in dirt and sweat. My hair looked like a small family of squirrels had taking up residence and I was bleeding from the gravel burn on my leg and arm. And I was still wearing the wedges.

I looked insane.

The man had clearly seen a woman on the edge before, and rushed to send a shop lackey back to the house with me to finish my failure. I ended up driving the Yukon back to the shop and putting on four new tires that I probably didn’t need, but felt would reduce the risk of future flats.

Obviously rational behaviour. I also threw in a new windshield for good measure.

The good news is that what doesn’t kill you certainly provides teachable moments, and I can now change a tire with minimal drama and injury. Something that I think all woman should be able to do, rig widow or not.

The truth is, the more shit I’m forced to figure out on my own, the handier I get.

But I still don’t have time to vacuum.

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas: Oilfield Arm Candy Edition

(Alternate title – “The Nightmare Before Christmas: A Directional Driller’s Yuletide Woes”)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all ‘cross location
The riggers were hustling, without hesitation.
All pipe had been tripped and the rig scrubbed with care;
The site was aglow in the flickering light of the flare.

The day crew was nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of days-off danced in their heads.
And the company man was cozy, alone in his shack;
Ready for steak, then a smoke, followed possibly by a nap.

When outside the door there arose such a clatter,
He sprang from his shack to see what was the matter.
The sound suggested there was quite a spectacle;
Happening in the neighbouring shack, which housed directional.

Meanwhile, at home, a certain rig wife was pouring
Her second glass of wine, because wrapping was boring.
She had purchased all the presents on both his and her lists
Handling all preparations for a “rig widow” Christmas.

But no time for despair! She was quite lively, in fact.
The gifts were all finished and the truck was all packed.
She even had a few minutes for some time to herself,
And lifted her Niemen Marcus catalogue from the shelf:

“Oh, Louis. And Prada. And, Chanel and McQueen.
Might a lonely Christmas be better with a few shiny things?
I know, in two weeks or so, he’ll be home with presents for me,
But it’s just not the same without something under the tree.”

She checked her watch and saw she had time to spare
Before hitting the road to Stavely in the cold winter air.
A little retail therapy can cure holiday blues
(Minus the hangover that comes with another remedy – booze).

She was ready to brave the throes of last minute shoppers;
But if she was going to go, she would do it up proper.
To Wal-Mart? Hell no. That night, not her people.
Only one place would do (thanks to a good year for Cathedral).

She entered Holt Renfrew, a glowing beacon of light
For a rig wife seeking solace on a cold winter’s night.
She started near Tiffany and worked clockwise from there,
Moving from accessories to shoes, then up to designer wear.

Her eyes, how they twinkled! Caught in the shine
Of the trinkets and baubles held in this shrine.
Her woe slipped away as she moved shoe to shoe;
For nothing cheers a girl like a pair of Jimmy Choo’s.

“Who doesn’t need another sparkly New Year’s Eve dress?
After all, I need to make sure my husband’s impressed.
This one both shimmers AND makes my rack look fierce,
A necessity, as I can’t tempt The Silicon Curse.”

Shoe by shoe, dress by dress, bauble by bauble;
Her pile grew taller, and started to wobble.
Luckily, she heard the clock chime as it struck;
It was time to leave, but wait: “Will all this fit in the truck?”

But a sense of peace washed over as she presented her Visa;
She could get through the holidays alone if she looked like a diva.
And honestly, a couple of items were – ahem – less sugar, more spice;
When he finally came home, he wouldn’t question the price.

But wait! What became of the company man’s quest
For the source of the clamor that had him so stressed?
Turns out the sound came from the DD, his panic most blatant –
For he chose that moment to check his credit card statement.

He sank in his chair, to his team gave a gasp,
“Even I didn’t know she could spend so much, so fast.”
Then they heard him mutter, his voice kind of coarse;
“Well, it could be much worse. She could’ve bought a horse.”

Merry Christmas from Oilfield Arm Candy!

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Is it frosty in here?

Ah, Christmas. ‘Tis the season for mounting credit card debt, self-induced stress and holiday parties. Oh, and creating joyous memories with family and friends.

I don’t mean to sound like a Grinch. I love certain aspects of Christmas. Gratuitous drinking, for one. Mass availability of baked goods for another. I just don’t appreciate all the unnecessary stress. Am I a failure because I don’t have a creative Elf on a Shelf? Or because I can’t get my shit together resist sending holiday cards? Or because I don’t decorate?

Actually, that’s a lie now. It fundamentally bothered my mom that we didn’t have a tree, so she bought us a four foot artificial tree, complete with Boston Red Sox decorations. So we have a tree.

But let’s talk about holiday parties. I attend most of them solo, as Tanner is banished to the wilds of northern Canada to pay for the aforementioned credit card debt. Typically I can mingle with the best. It’s kind of my job. But sometimes it’s nice to have back-up.

Over the last year or so, I’ve found myself having the same conversation a few times. I’m standing at a party speaking to a boyfriend of a friend of a friend, and it inevitably comes up that my husband works away.

Random Guy: “What does your husband do?”

Me: “He’s a directional driller.”

Random Guy: “Oh, is he away a lot? That’s tough. I used to [insert oilfield-related job here]. I was never home. The money was so amazing. But then I met [insert girlfriend's name]. I just couldn’t stand to be away from her, so I quit. It’s a sacrifice, but she’s worth it.”

Me: [blank stare]

Random Guy: “Oh…well. Uh. Like sacrifice means different things to different people. I’m sure you guys have your reasons for your lifestyle. Like, he definitely cares for you. Do you need a beer? I need a beer.” Exit stage left.

Now, I know they’re just trying to find common ground. There’s no malice intended. It’s simply foot-in-mouth disease. I just find it’s interesting that it’s starting to be a recurring topic.

Part of it is that most guys in Alberta seem to do a stint in the oilfield, so it’s an easy topic of conversation. And obviously, not everyone sticks with it forever. Nor should they. “To each their own,” as they say. I’m genuinely happy that they’ve found themselves in a relationship.

And I know I’m being a teensy bit churlish. It’s just kind of a slap in the face. One day, I’m concerned I’ll be drunk enough to respond that he’s just hiding from me because I’m such a wench.

Thankfully, the free-flowing liquor and baked goods ease the sting. I’ll take a boozy eggnog and two gingersnaps please!

Merry freakin’ Christmas!

Getting Lit

Style at Home: The Driller Edition

Ever since he saw one in the house on Two and a Half Men, Tanner’s been obsessed with getting an old-school scuba helmet for the house. Well, he found one online. It’s quite large and shiny, and lived on our kitchen table for a few days.

Yesterday, he told me he found a place for the scuba helmet. And that it “looked really good.”

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I guess the corner of the landing is technically a “place.”

I think it might be time for him to go back to work.

Heavy on bacon, taxidermy and disappointment

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Because I have little interest in making money off this blog (and have no idea how to go about it even if I did), I don’t really pay attention to the statistics of who is reading or how they got here. Luckily for me, a few mistakenly taps on my iPad pulled up a list of web searches that have lured people to my stream of consciousness.

I don’t know whether to be pleased or offended that “oilfield trash spending oilfield cash” is one of my biggest referrers (I think this post is the culprit). I am, however, proud Oilfield Arm Candy is a leading authority on “oilfrld and deivorce.”

Suck it, Dr. Phil.

However, after going through the list, I feel I need to apologize to some people.

Like, for example, to those searching for variations of  “hot oilfield wife”, “sexy oilfield pictures”, “sexy oilfield women” and my personal favourite “Alberta oilfield wife fuck.” (You have to appreciate when someone is looking for geographically specific porn.)

I’m sorry.

I would also like to apologize to whoever is searching for “hot oilfield guy pictures.” I don’t have any of those, but I can offer you this picture of Tim McGraw shirtless. I hope this helps.

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To those looking for “s&m in Oklahoma city” or “bdsm Oklahoma” – I applaud you! Unfortunately, I don’t have any details on the next Dirty Santa Fetish Ball but I do know the strip club close to the Oklahoma State Park has rubber fetishist sometimes. Maybe they can help.

Related: the person searching for “fetishaplenrha.” I can’t help you either. I just stumble into fetish situations; I’m not actually familiar with any.

Interestingly enough, I do believe I can help a lot of people Google sends to my blog. I just haven’t written about their topic of interest yet.

To the person searching for the “ten most popular oilfield strip clubs” – I think the rule of thumb is that if there is a strip club in a town with oilfield activity, it’s popular.

I hope the person searching for the “best website to buy arm candy?” is actually referring to the trend of layering multiple bracelets and accessories on one’s wrist. If so – dude, that’s what Pinterest is for. If not, I regret to inform you that I’m not available for purchase. Not that I would be the best arm candy anyway. I am really into lounging around in sweatpants.

Someone out there is looking for an “engagement ring for oilfield wife.” You will find what you seek here.

To the man whose wife is searching for tips on “how to be my husbands arm candy” – well done sir! Buy this woman a shiny trinket for her efforts (see link in previous paragraph).

To the woman typing “I would like to be a sister wife” – call me. Same goes for the person Googling “whimsical taxidermy.” I feel like we have a lot to talk about.

Someone was sent here after searching for ideas on how to build a “redneck gopher blind.” I should point out that you don’t need a blind to hunt gophers. You can just lean out the window of the truck. Make sure you put your beer down though.

To the person searching for “Stefan schober ying hui” – I got nothing. The Google must have been broken that day.

Surprisingly, only two searches were food-related.

The first – someone looking for a recipe to make the famous strawberry-banana cake at Leo’s BBQ. I’ve actually been searching for this myself. While no “pure” recipe exists, I think the best shot is to start with a banana pound cake and make a glaze (this lemon glaze would probably work, or try Paula Deen’s honey glaze) and top with fresh strawberries. Good luck.

And finally, for the calorie-conscious individual wondering “what is worse for you bacon or an oreo cookie” – I suggest you say “to hell with it” and just combine them both.

This post officially made my blog inappropriate for my work browser. I’m so proud!

DP, balls and ambi-turners

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Tanner had picked me up from work and we were in traffic on the way home. I was struggling to make sense of all the acronyms on my MLB app to see what had gone down during the Red Sox game earlier that day. As a relatively ‘new’ baseball fan, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell is going on most of the time.

Me: RBI is runs batted in and ERA is earned run average, right?

Tanner (for probably the thousandth time): Yes.

Me: What’s BB?

Tanner: Base on balls.

Me: That sounds dirty.

Tanner: It’s when they get walked and end up on base.

Me: You know, whenever they talk about a walk off home run, I think of Zoolander. “It’s a walk off!” “I’m not an ambi-turner.”

Tanner just stares at me blankly. I go back to my app.

Me: What’s GIDP?

Tanner (trying desperately to salvage this conversation and seize a teachable moment): GI means ‘ground in.’ What does DP mean?

Me: Double penetration.

Silence.

Tanner: Maybe you should just take the train home.

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Meet me in St. Louis

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My friend and horse show travelling buddy GG blogs about her travels and has inspired me to do the same. (Check out her latest post for fabulous summary of our adventure in Moose Jaw.)

This weekend, we went to St. Louis. Why?

Our beloved Red Sox are in the World Series.

And every Red Sox fan knows this is not something to take for granted.

The stars aligned, and Tanner was able to get to Boston for Games 1 & 2. I, however, was not, so he went with a buddy. While he covered flights and game tickets, the art of booking a hotel room eluded him. I worked every travel app I could find to come up with what seemed like the last hotel room in Boston within 20 miles of Fenway Park.

(Actually it was the last hotel room within 20 miles that didn’t cost $800 per night.)

I thought I was making a fiscally responsible decision. But Tanner indicated that he would gladly miss a mortgage payment and pay the $800 per night, just so he didn’t have to stay there again.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t done booking hotels.

We made a last minute decision to catch Games 3 & 4 in St. Louis. Tanner flew from Boston on Friday, and I kicked off a 12 hour voyage across Canada to get to St. Louis on Saturday morning. Hotels in St. Louis were equally hard to come by, so I ended up booking us in a Motel 6 across the Mississippi River in Caseyville, IL.

Tanner got there on Friday night and told me it was “kind of sketchy.” I had just learned I was going to be strapped into a middle seat on my (full) midnight flight to Toronto, so I was too busy throwing a pity party for myself to ask for more details.

I finally made it to St. Louis around noon on Saturday. When I told the cab driver I needed to go to Caseyville, he was visibly confused.

“Ma’am, are you sure?”

This should have been my first clue.

We drove through the city and across the Mississippi. I took silent pleasure in the “repent your sins in Jesus’ name” billboard which was position about 150 feet behind Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club.

Arriving at the hotel, I walked past a group of people arguing with the manager. The plan was to shower quickly and then head back into St. Louis to grab some lunch and check out the city before the game. We called another cab at about the same time the aforementioned argument escalated into a full on gang beating in the parking lot.

Judy Garland did not prepare me for this shit.

Needless to say, our bags were packed by the time the cab got there and I was pleading with the Sheraton to book a last minute room.

On the way back over the Mississippi, Tanner made it clear that I was no longer allowed to be fiscally responsible when it comes to hotels.

Nothing works up an appetite like bearing witness to a violent beating, so we headed out for lunch after checking in to the new hotel. I’m a proper Triple D disciple, so after consulting my Food Network On The Road app we headed to Sweetie Pie’s for some comfort food.

Given my history of venturing into Mexican jungles and Oklahoma City ghettos to find food, Tanner is understandably apprehensive when I blindly follow restaurant reviews into unknown neighbourhoods in new cities. But – as is always the case – we weren’t disappointed. The line up at Sweetie Pie’s was about 100 people deep the entire time we were there, and for good reason. It’s the kind of food that soothes the soul (and causes severe artery blockages).

The special was half a fried chicken with a choice of two sides. I went with mac & cheese and black eyed peas (which are apparently usually reserved for New Year’s Eve, for whatever reason), and banana pudding to finish it off.

(I can almost hear my trainer’s gasps of horror now – don’t worry Mandy, it’s back to clean eating today!)

Praise the lard, it was amazing. And worth every mile I’m going to run this week to work it off.

We went straight from Sweetie Pie’s to the ball game. For the record, our experience in Caseyville was an anomaly. The people of St. Louis are the nicest people you will ever meet. We were decked out in Red Sox gear and couldn’t go five feet without someone welcoming us to the city, checking to make sure we were being treated properly and wishing us luck.

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Fellow Canadians, we have been trumped for the title of most friendly people.

Admittedly, this kind and gentle approach is not exactly synonymous with Red Sox fans. Cardinals fans can likely not expect the same treatment at Fenway Park. Nor any other stadium, really. Because we’re used to dodging beatings from Yankees fans, we’ve adopted a secret code designed to avoid attracting attention – a whispered “Go Sox” as we pass in a crowd, a knowing look and nod or a tap of a hat brim.

Game 3 ended wildly with an obstruction call and a Red Sox loss.

On Sunday, we woke up early to check out the iconic Gateway Arch. The United States of America purchased St. Louis in 1803, as part of the Louisiana Purchase (fun fact: this deal also included land that would eventually be part of Alberta and Saskatchewan). Because of its proximity and access to the Mississippi River, St. Louis quickly became the gateway to western expansion. That is, until the railroad. The ability to transport goods by land compromised St. Louis’ economic stronghold and began establishing other cities, like Chicago, as key trading ports and hubs.

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A train bridge to cross the Mississippi was needed to prevent economic prosperity in St. Louis from slipping away. In 1874, the St. Louis Bridge (now known as the Eads Bridge, after the architect) was complete. The 630-foot Gateway Arch was erected as a monument to those that made western expansion of the United States possible. A ‘cozy’ tram ride to the top gives you amazing views of the city and the Mississippi River.

Once back on solid ground, we headed to Drussels Public House (another Food Network find) for what I hoped would be lunch (their porchetta is apparently to-die-for) but turned out to be brunch. And a few mimosas for me, as Tanner agonized over the error that caused the obstruction call and the Red Sox line-up for Game 4.

After brunch we headed to another St. Louis institution – the Anheuser-Busch Brewery and (one) home of the Budweiser Clydesdales.

I have to think the Anheuser-Busch factory and compound was the original inspiration for the “campus” working conditions Google and other hi-tech firms favour. They even had a school in the middle of it all, until someone realized that maybe a working industrial brewery wasn’t the best place for children to learn. The historic area of the factory is stunning and is more befitting of a castle than a brewery.

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The brewery itself opened in 1852 and is a National Historic Landmark District. Eberhard Anheuser purchased the brewery with a silent partner in 1860; Anheuser’s son-in-law, Adolphus Busch, bought out the partner in 1869. Amazingly, the Busch family retained control of the company until 2008 when it was sold to InBev.

The Budweiser brand was introduced in 1876. It quickly became (and stayed) America’s favourite beer. It even survived Prohibition – Anheuser-Busch stayed afloat by marketing non-alcoholic beverages and other products, including ice cream, yeast, and even commercial vehicles. The company now has about 300 different brands.

But what dazzled me was the barn. Complete with a 630 lb custom chandelier. Seriously.

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After I got my photo taken with a Clydesdale (yay!), it was time to head to Busch Stadium for Game 4. This time I made sure to stop at the Food Network Hot Dog Bar for a signature dog – a hot dog with baked beans and corn chips. Divine.

A few highlights from the game:

  • Gomes’ three-run homer to take the Red Sox to victory
  • I made it on the big screen – and I wasn’t deep-throating a hot dog at the time
  • I refrained from strangling the child in front of us who felt the need to scream, literally, every 30-45 seconds regardless of what was happening on the field (note: this was not a baby, this was a 10 year old brat who should have known better). Yes. Even during commercial breaks.
  • Tanner called it the “siren song of the only child.”

    With the series tied at 2-2, we had to head home. Tanner caught an earlier flight through Phoenix while I slept an extra hour. Unfortunately an in-flight medical emergency resulted in a detour to Little Rock. I have to give the United staff credit for how they handled the situation. I missed my connection from Houston to Calgary but I did find a wine bar, which is where I will be for the next four hours.

    The Silicone Curse

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    I had a minor meltdown last week, brought on by a seemingly innocuous request to join a Facebook group. It seems that the class of 2005 wants to start thinking about its 10-year reunion.

    Ugh.

    It’s not that I don’t want to see anyone. It’s that I don’t want it to be 10 years since I left high school. For example, an every-changing group of college students / riggers / beer tub girls live two houses down from us. Every night I lay in bed and listen to their parties and think, we used to be those people. This used to be that house. I want to do that again. I can definitely still party all night and work all day. 

    Then I end up getting less than eight hours of sleep and wake up the next day a raging bitch and oh yeah, hangovers knock me out for two days now. Sigh.

    I was bemoaning the injustice of it all to Tanner (who is older than me, but looks like he’s 16 and has the metabolism of a 13 year old boy) when I mistakenly brought up the most divisive issue in our relationship.

    A boob job.

    That’s right. My husband is wildly superstitious. Black cats and ladders are fine, and he doesn’t give a damn if the salt is spilled, but bring up implants and we’re entering Code Red territory.

    All I was saying is that I need to recommit to being a hot wife before I was more Wrinkle Ranch than Playboy Bunny, and I could use a little “saline support.” I was joking. Well, half joking. He was not.

    Apparently he subscribes to a belief I’m calling The Silicone Curse. According to lore, if one uses his oilfield money to endow his oilfield honey, within a year he will be shelling out for oilfield alimony.

    All this time I’ve attributed the high divorce rate in the oilfield to the challenges of spending a lot of time apart. Apparently it’s marriage-ending melons.

    Looks like I’ll be spending my oil money at Victoria’s Secret. I guess some kiwis just aren’t meant to be coconuts.

    Are there any other oilfield myths I’m woefully ignorant of?

    Sister Wife

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    I have been campaigning to hire a cleaning lady for a while now, with no success. Tanner’s argument – yes, the one that is gone most of the time – is that we don’t “need” one. “We’re not those people.”

    He might not be, but I sure as hell am.

    Admittedly, when he is home, he does clean the house and does a good job. He also manages the lawn (I haven’t mowed a lawn since I moved away from my parent’s house). The difference is that when he’s home, he’s home. None of this ‘work 8-12 hours a day, then walk the dog, then ride the horse, then cook and then, sweet Jesus, I still need to work out’ business. Plus I insist on agreeing to do annoying things like volunteer. And sleep.

    How the eff do people manage with children?

    And it’s horse show season. Ain’t nobody got time for cleaning toilets when you could be going to a horse show instead.

    A few weeks ago, I worked myself into a seething mess while cleaning. I decided to just hire someone myself. I had visions of having a secret housekeeper, like in The Help. You know, without the shit pie. Then I had a better idea and whipped out my iPhone.

    Tanner: Hey babe.

    Me: I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I think it’s time we get a stay at home wife.

    Tanner: Pardon?

    Me: Yeah. Or a house husband, but I thought you’d be more amiable to a wife. I just fail on a lot of ‘wife areas.’ You should be able to come home from work and enjoy your castle. Unfortunately, I suck at cleaning and don’t have time and I hate it. I break out in hives when I see a vacuum. Laundry bores me. I promise that I will continue to go to work and bring home a steady, healthy paycheque and you will get to come home to a clean and tidy house. I’ll even let you pick a hot Swedish wife if you want. I’ve run through all our options and feel this makes the most sense for our lifestyle. I am willing to be a sister wife. For you.

    Long pause.

    Tanner: Or we could just hire a cleaner.

    Check. Mate.

    Oilfield Arm Candy goes Cashmere & Camo

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    Hey, fellow oilfield arm candies – how’s it going? Surviving spring breakup? Making a dent in that ‘honey do’ list?

    I have been swamped preparing for what could be the world’s most obnoxious vacation (stay tuned for the tale!). But I did find time to write a guest post for one of my favourite blogs Cashmere and Camo! I was giddy when Brandy asked me – I hope you like it!

    Check it out…and then read all of the posts on C&C, because they are amazing. And then come back here – I’ll be posting all sorts of shenanigans from Dallas, Fort Worth, Aubrey, Ardmore, Boston, Memphis, Little Rock and Nashville!

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