A Horse With No Name

Feb 7, 2012 Posted on Feb 7, 2012 in The crazy | 0 comments

From Wednesday until Monday, I was in Oklahoma City working. This latest assignment was all about project management, which sounds kind of sexy until you run that title through the bullshit eliminator tool and see that it actually means “glorified administrative assistant.”

(Note to my Daddy: I’m sorry I said bullshit.)

I was hired to make sure every detail of this event went off without a hitch so that the event organizer could focus on the meat of the thing. I negotiated a fantastic deal with The Embassy Suites in Oklahoma City, I managed the catering, I nagged the event organizers to make sure they got the necessary paperwork completed on time, and every little awful detail in between.

The stress of the event made me feel like my intestines and brain were going to simultaneously explode.

I arrived in OKC with a cold that I’m positive was at least 104 times as awful as an ordinary cold that ordinary people get. I complained the entire six hour drive South, and when I arrived I complained even more. I believe that whining about how bad a cold makes you feel is as important as mega-doses of Vitamin C.

I’m still icky by the way, just in case you were wondering if you should send me presents and cards. (You should.)

Thursday morning, big ass horse trailers from all across the country began filling the 70,000 square foot Cox Pavilion in Oklahoma City. If you’re a “horse person” you understand what that means. Not only am I not a horse person, I’m always convinced that whenever I am forced to crawl up on one (yes Kristi Schiller, I’m looking at you), it’s going to end with me being thrown off, promptly trampled and just in general suffering multiple contusions and overall ugliness.

(Note to my Daddy: I hope the fact I know what the word “contusions” means makes you so proud of me, you forget the above swearing incident.)

This is the kind of horse I dig. It stands very still & wears a sexy bath robe.

Kids, these horse trailers were just outrageously awesome. The horses ride in the back and up front there are living quarters for the non-horses. Bed, kitchen, bathroom – all nicer than my apartment. And if the trailer still isn’t quite up to your standard, you can hire a company like Signature Quarters, who somehow turns horse trailers into dream homes on wheels. Think of it like a rock star bus that just happens to have horses in the back for no good reason.

There were lots of hitches in my giddy-up during the event, but I am a Drill Sergeant Nazi Manager, so I was on them faster than a fly on horse sh&t, so hopefully no one but me knew.

(Note to my Daddy: If I use an ampersand instead of an “i”, does that still go on my permanent record?)

The funniest problem by far was the weird catering staff person that I’m convinced was in the middle of a full blown psychotic episode. I still don’t know if this person was a boy or girl, but he/she would come dancing into the venue with its hat on sideways, touching everything in his/her path, and singing words to a song I’ve never heard before.

It went like this, “I’m wuuuuurking, baybay. Look at me wuuuuurrrrrrking, baybay. See me touching this stuff and wuuuuurkin’?” It even winked at me while slowly, and I’m not making this up, peeling off its over-sized black jacket and letting it drop to the floor.

I had a little come to Jesus with my catering point of contact, and he/she was immediately relieved of his/her duties. Watch for The It on American Idol this week.

Oh! Here’s something I learned that I’m happy to pass on to you in case you’re ever surrounded by men in cowboy hats…

Cowboys drink coffee like it has crystal meth in it. Must be what makes them so exceptionally pretty because we ran out of water for the coffee service every 8.98 seconds.

Speaking of cowboys, let me stop right here and address that whole situation. I never understood how no one knew that Clark Kent and Superman were the same person until I spent the better part of a week in Oklahoma City around cowboys. Something happens when an ordinary man puts on a cowboy hat, and it’s a documented fact in the Encyclopedia Brittanica.

Their hotness level is multiplied by 108.

I’m not kidding. If I had forced every ex to wear a cowboy hat, I’d be happily married right now instead of posting ads on Craigslist looking for a nursing home roommate. (I like to plan ahead.)

How did I not know about this phenomenon? If you don’t believe me, purchase a cowboy hat at once and slap it on any and every man you see. You will no longer recognize him… plus you’ll want to fire up your ovaries and bear him many children.

In all seriousness, I had no idea what to expect in terms of the culture of the kinds of people who produce, sell and enjoy this kind of horse-trailer-lifestyle. I will admit to you that I absolutely fell in love with these people – all of them. I have never met a kinder, more genuinely awesome group of people. Makes me wish I owned a horse…or at least an imaginary pony.