Dear Muskrat,
Big mistake of the day today was starting it by listening to a bunch of  Twang. I should know better!!! God lord almighty!! Especially after a rough couple of days, I can't manage to make myself eat, sleep is sort of a concept rather than something that has been happening. It has been a moment where I keep telling myself "grin, bear, growl, GO!" or "at least I have a hot rod!" or "everything happens for a reason." Which is all total crap, and frankly indulging in twang every once in a while makes me happy. Wait, that is wrong, twang is mostly quite sad, in fact a lot of it reminds me of the good old days when I was married and we would two step in the kitchen every night while dinner was on the stove. Of course it also brings back memories of a voice trailing from the front door and the roar of a 455 in the drive way "boys night, bye love bug! We won't get too drunk!" and me cranking up some Dwight Yokham, slipping my wedding ring in my pocket, digging through my clothes for a tight white t-shirt and a clean pair of jeans, making sure there were no oil smudges on my face or neck from working on cars all day, and stealing away to the honky tonk down the road. I'd like to congratulate myself on shooting myself right in the emotional foot with this one today. But I can't get the image of a neon moon out of my minds eye.

Twang instantly delivers the feeling of tight Levis stretched just so across my hips and the breeze from a fan moves to and fro across the sweet spot of my lower back where my white tshirt has slipped up a bit as I lean over a bar, on the tip of my toes, dollar bills folded in hand trying to get a long neck bottle of what ever is coldest. My feet seem to be strapped into the perfect pair of post apocalyptic cowboy boots, but that is my little secret as you would have to see me "sans pants" to know the oil stained rounded tow that flows to stacked heels scrubbed clean of horse shit and asphalt, are all held together by rivets and cast buckles. I know what that cold bottle feels like when it first touches my lips, it moves slightly to the left as the lipstick meets the condensation it acts like oil and vinegar. But I've gotten pretty good at drinking from the bottle while retaining all layers of lipstick, intact, and in their origional location. Twang means that soon enough there will be a hand wrapped over mine, and another hand on my back. If we know each other, his fingers rest into my waist and if we don't, they sit into the middle of my back until he asks me a second time to dance. Twang means my breast will be ever so politely pressed into a chest, which means, no push up bra cheater kind of crap, unless you want him to know you are insecure.... Mmmmm and that chest always smells of freshly ironed cotton, if we dance real close my hair will absorb a hint aftershave, oiled leather and cologne. And it lingers, sometimes the next morning my pillowcase has a hint of it too. Twang means looking past his shoulder as your right foot is delicately placed in his stance and your belt buckle almost catches his belt loop, but if you know how to dance, it never does. It means only catching each others eye as he spins you back around and pulls you in his arms, his chest, his lead again. A truly good lead has that natural rhythm and can control your every move with his fingertips, sigh. If they knew that at that very moment, they also controlled you with those fingertips....... Twang means that no matter how old you get, at some point in the evening you will be sitting on a flipped down tailgate, swinging your feet and you will feel like a kid under the big sky.

Ever been kissed while sitting on a tail gate Muskrat? I recommend it, but only if there is twang playing somewhere in the background.

Oh Muskrat, I'm not one to live in my fantasy, but today, I don't think there is any other way. So cheers to the shoe box in the top of my closet that has my favorite pair of Levis, my lucky white t-shirt, and pair of tiny diamond earrings. I keep them there so I don't have to waist time hunting through my laundry, and I can spend more time dancing to twang.

Most Sincerely Yours,
The Cleaver Mink who has disguised herself as A Marbled Polecat