"I don't think there's a girl floating in a jar anywhere who's as happy as I am. " - Anne Umellellmahaye, The Man With Two Brains

Ever looked into the crater of a volcano, and thought, man, I wish I had a beer? Me too.

So, we got unpacked in Quanah, Texas. We all had post-swimming pool showers, and The Mrs. attempted to put Pugsley into bed. The Boy had collapsed into a puddle of Boy, and The Mrs. had wrung him out over his queen-size mattress. I, however, went out in search of booze.

I got to the front desk.

“Anyplace to get some,” wink, wink, “Spirits around here?”

“Oh heck, we’ve only been wet since the election in January. I think you can get some down at the United,” said the front desk clerk.

“The United Way sells liquor?”

“No, the United Grocery Store.”

I high tailed it into the Wildermobile and wondered how these poor people had gotten their hooch before January. I imagined 1930’s automobiles running illicit loads of liquor into Quanah on back roads. Then I imagined me rolling in stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Both made me feel, well, good.

I drove to the United (grocery store) and looked for the booze. In most grocery stores in Texas, there’s wine next to the cereal, beer next to the cleaning agents, and whiskey next to the Rice-A-Roni™ (the San Francisco Treat®). The rum? Next to Cap’n Crunch©. That lush.

Anyhow, the alcohol-containing beverages were all stuck in a lonely corner. I picked out a bottle of champagne and a bottle of, well, it was red. The label said it was wine.

Whew. Haven't been Rocky Mountain High since John Denver wrecked that plane of his . . .

Why the champagne? Let me tell you a story . . . .

I had been working out in the basement of my house (three states and a decade ago) and I got tired of listening to that evil, evil Bob Segar. I turned to the other rock channel. I continued climbing stairs on a machine that stayed still, when the DJ came on with a trivia question.

Ahhh, it was an easy question. What movie had a five-year-old confused about a subdural and an epidural hematoma? Only one! The Man With Two Brains.

I called in to win a crappy CD and pictures of me at Glamour Shots®. Busy. I hit redial. Busy. I gave up.

The DJ came back on, “We still don’t have a winner . . . .”

I hit redial, “The Man With Two Brains!”

She told me I was a winner. Then she put the next song on, and we talked. And talked. Then she had to go.

I sighed. A deep, manly sigh, but a sigh nonetheless.

I went to work the next day, in a city of a million people. I said I had a crush on the DJ to one person. Her reply?

“I know her. She just broke up with a guy. You can meet on St. Patrick’s Day.”

I met her on St. Patrick’s Day. We started talking. They kicked us out of the bar, because in our talking, we hadn’t noticed that everyone else had left. I walked her to her car. Parked next to mine.

“Gimmee some sugar, baby,” I said.

Okay, we kissed. I knew, that night, we were going to get married. And, we did, 130 days later.

This was our 10th anniversary of meeting. In a hotel room, with two kids, in Quanah, Texas.

“Cheers,” I said, clinking a plastic cup full of champagne into hers.

“Cheers,” she replied.

“Did you known that they just started drinking in Quanah? I mean, they had no selection of alcohol.”

“Give them time,” The Mrs. said. “They’re still just learning.”

So, my tenth anniversary of chatting up The Mrs. came and went in a hotel in a town in Texas that’s smaller than a flyspeck.

Didn’t matter. We had booze. Oh, and I had The Mrs.

Next: There and Back Again, or Home.