Hmmm. Not much to report here except first half in bed with sinfully delicious McDonald’s. Second half in the car listening on the radio. We win, we win, we win. Nah nah nah nah nah!

Game 5: OU

Oh my. It’s early. Why the noon kickoff? Don’t they know we party both Friday AND Saturday nights? Oh screw that. I’m just damn tired all the time and want to sleep all day. GWH is ambitious. He goes all the way to Lockhart for barbecue. And then, because he is the best boyfriend in the world, he makes a special stop for veggie fajitas at Maudie’s.

Bloody Mary. Beer. My guys are super heroes. We finally kick some long overdue OU ass. Thank you Longhorns. Life is good.

Game 6: Colorado

We invade GotsGame’s house yet again. Another gorgeous Saturday. Another awesome game. Another beer. Another win. Man, can football season last forever?

Game 7: Texas Tech

We head down to the stadium on this fine Saturday for the UT Club’s Texas Tailgate party. What a party indeed! We’ve got food, liquor, a TV and we’re close enough to the stadium to feel like we’re almost at the game. Except—we get to drink. Heavily.

GWH, his co-worker Fem and I hang out in front of the TV after purchasing many drink tickets. We’re not wasting our time with food tickets. Um, who let those Red Raiders in here? They are loud and obnoxious and things don’t look so good when Tech scores first. Whatever. I think I’ll have another Dos Equis.

By halftime we’re up. I mean, it’s 31-something and I call Contrary and yell into the phone about how supremely awesome we are. The Red Raiders have all either disappeared or gotten awfully quiet. Heh. That’s right. Get your guns DOWN!

We win this one 52-17 and I’m feeling gleeful. Damn, what time is it? Six p.m.? What the hell?

Game 8: Oklahoma State

It’s time to check out the UT Club! GWH and I hook up with the ‘rents and head down to the stadium for the game. The parental units are impressed. Big screen TVs, quiet dining and white tablecloths. Mom definitely prefers this over the crazy bars we’ve dragged her to for game-watching.

As we dine on complimentary nachos, we decide this might not be the game to watch. Will Oklahoma State really put up a fight?

“Mom, you might be home by nine,” I say.

How wrong we all are. As the game starts, GWH asks if we’re allowed to clap or yell. Damn, it IS quiet in here. We soon discover that we can indeed, as the game goes horribly awry. Everyone in the club is on their feet. The old guy in front of us almost turns his chair over.

“Tell me something good,” I beg GWH at halftime, choking down some beer.

“We need to switch chairs,” he says, and we change seats.

I find a new friend in the bathroom, who is busy spraying her hair.

“Hair spray rally!” I yell. “You have to believe! Things are going to change!”

GWH is busy text-messaging GotsGame, who admits to forgetting to play Elvis’s version of “The Eyes of Texas” for good luck. “It’s on now,” he reassures us, and we wait for the tide to turn in the second half.

As it does, we’re high-five-ing the table next to us, where my hair-spray friend is, and we can’t decide whether the hair spray or Elvis helped us more. GWH and I take a rally tequila shot when we feel the team is out of the woods.

Ughhhhh I am really drunk. But we’re winning—again! Go ‘Horns! I’m so glad Davito is driving.

Game 9: Baylor

GWH decides that we simply must see what he calls “The National Championship Longhorns” in person one last time. He states his case very convincingly via email on Friday afternoon, and after my happy hour with Lady Butterfly, we’re off to the charming metropolis they call Waco.

Waco actually has a couple of bars. We end up having drinks at one called Bogart’s, where we meet Violinist, who promptly invites us to his house to drink beer. GWH tells him that we’ll be having another drink and heading back to the hotel. Later, we debate which one of us Violinist wanted to take home. I’m convinced it’s GWH, while he claims Violinist was stealing glances at me.

“I don’t blame him. You are really hot,” GWH says.

The next morning we head to the stadium and pick up a couple of tickets. We make it to our seats, which are surprisingly good. And in the shade. Considering it’s the hottest November weekend in recorded Central Texas history, this fact is very important. The only not-so-great thing is the number of Baylor fans sitting near us.

There’s a guy behind us—Captain Obvious—who is yelling at each play. Then he states the outcome of each play after it’s finished. This is not annoying. At all.

“First and ten! Go Bears! Flag! Holding on number 89. Offense. Second and fifteen. Go Bears!”

GWH won’t stop talking about “The Quan.” (Quan Cosby, for those of you who don’t know.) “Can you feel The Quan?” he asks me about every five minutes.

Yes, yes, I can feel The Quan. Dude, I’m hungry. And what’s this? Totally sober. Weird.

There’s a new fan who has caught our attention: Angry Bear. After every play, he gets unbelievably angry. Nothing is going his way. Well, things rarely do, considering he’s a Baylor Bear. How has he avoided a heart attack by now? And there’s a kid with him. Oh Dear God, he’s a Mini-Me.

“What the heck?!” the nine-year-old screams along with Dad. “What the heck?! They don’t deserve a first down!”

Oh jeez. GWH and I briefly consider adopting the poor child and taking him home, but decide that he’s too far gone.

It’s halftime, the score is something like 30-0, and we go in search of food. A chicken sandwich costs something like four dollars, and there’s not so much as a pickle on it. Plus they’re running out of concessions. Go Baylor!

The last half of the game is more Angry Bear. GWH says to no one in particular, “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s football team.” I smack his leg while laughing and tell him the Baptists are going to get him if he’s not careful. He mumbles something about how they have to forgive him.

“Can you feel The Quan?” he asks me.

I look at the scoreboard. Matt Nordgren is in, and we’re almost done with this ass-whipping.

“I’m so sober. Usually I don’t remember this part of the game.”

It’s a shut-out and we’re on our way to get the best sandwiches in the world. I’m not lying. Waco might have some crazy religion, weird people and a crappy football team, but the one redeeming quality? Schmaltz’s. Mmmm.