Four years ago in April, I met Mike at Smith and Wollensky on Miami's South Beach.
That night, I told him two things: 1) I never wanted to get married again; and 2) I'd never get in his airplane.
I'd never been to Montana but I'd heard about it, the way you hear about West Nile Virus or string theory.
So the point of this story is, last week I flew with my husband of three and half years in his airplane from our house in Montana down to New Mexico.
To avoid some weather, we cruised east towards Billings and then dipped down into Wyoming. We wound up in a kind of no man's land, where the only thing considered notable enough for our aviation maps was "numerous sand dunes."
It was still a little bumpy, but I kept from nervous barfing by concentrating on trying to find The Pioneer Woman's ranch.
She never says exactly where she lives, probably because folks like us with small airplanes would just drop on by. I figure (because of the wild mustangs) it has to be eastern Montana or Wyoming.
I never did find her but it helped me immensely.