Do y’all know this song? Martina McBride sings it, and it goes like this:

Lock up your husbands
Lock up your sons
Lock up your whiskey cabinets
Girls lock up your guns
And lock up the beauty shop
No tellin if they’ve heard the news
Call the boys downtown and Neiman Marcus
Tell em’ lock up them high heeled shoes

When God fearin’ women get the blues
There ain’t no slap down or tellin what they’re gonna do
Run around yellin’
I’ve got a FOUR WHEELER it’ll do 80
You don’t have to be my baby
I’ve stirred my last batch of gravy
You don’t have to be my, be my, be my … baby!

Or kind of like that.  I might have substituted four wheeler for mustang.

When Pseudo Sister was here last month, we didn’t have the blues … but we were feelin’ feisty, and although I’m married and there’s no need to lock up your husbands and sons around me, I was definitely feeling that I had stirred my last batch of gravy, and that after a week of work (Pseudo Sister – looking for work; me – doing work), I was ready to git a little sideways.  By no means did we lock up the whiskey cabinet, but we did lock up the house and snag the keys to Brother Dear’s and Honeydew’s four wheelers.  We went on an adventure.

Pseudo Sister is my new favorite person to ride around on quads with, because although we were ready to git crazy, she does not drive a four wheeler like a crazy person who wants to end up as a quadriplegic.  Unlike some people I may or may not be married to.

We checked the fence lines for deadfall, marauding bovines, and the like, none of which we saw, to my great satisfaction:

We cruised up to a high point near Duck Lake, Buck trotting happily beside us, to take in the view.  This is what we saw:

Looking down on lower St. Mary lake, and the St. Mary valley.  All was right with my world in this moment.

Different angle into St. Mary, above some ponds north of Duck Lake.  My soul was also at peace in this picture.

However, my peace was rudely shattered by Pseudo Sister when, upon returning to Hillhouse and ducking into the Tack Barn to secure the perimeter, she screeched rather loudly at the “raccoon” that had chosen the Tack Barn as its final resting place.

Normally, I would have commended the critter in its choice, except that what so startled Pseudo Sister was not in fact a critter, but rather was the coonskin cap that April and I gave Brother Dear as a farewell gift, when he absconded from the Tack Barn in favor of law school, three years ago now.

Silly Pseudo Sister.  To calm her heart rate, we unlocked the unlocked liquor cabinet.  And then possibly got onto to scope out cute shoes.  ‘Cause when critter fearin’ women git the blues, there ain’t no slap down or tellin what we’re gonna do … but it will probably involve runnin’ around yellin’ … Brother Dear!  Honeydew!  Fix us a cocktail!  And they should be fearin’ us.

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