LeeAnne Locken

We talked a lot about her underwear. No surprise.

Dust off your dance cards and get ready to party.

Yesterday morning I was dropping off my daughter at soccer camp at SMU when one of the young coaches, a bubbly redhead whose name, I would learn, was Kelcey said, "Are you famous? I recognize you! I know that sounds strange, but are you famous?" I looked at the several other coaches standing nearby and said to no one in particular, "What's the prank here? Who is responsible for this?" Kelcey went on and on about how she recognized me but couldn't recall my name. I meekly offered, "If you recognize me, it might be because I work at D Magazine." At which point her face lit up. "That's it!" Kelcey said. "Are you Zac Crain?" No, I am not Zac Crain. Last night at 11:30, Zac was probably fast asleep, fully clothed, on his couch. I, meanwhile, was still watching Episode 9 of The Real Housewives of Dallas, which was titled “Killing Time in Austin.” This, friends, is our penultimate RHOD recap. Let us not tarry any longer with sad tales of misidentification. On to it:

Yesterday, to celebrate Memorial Day, I played golf. I shot a 40 on the front nine at Tenison Highlands. Pretty good little start to the day. But after that, everything went to hell. I shot a 48 on the back nine and then used a digital image of my scorecard to try to pick a Twitter fight with Ed Bark because the day previous he'd declared that Jordan Spieth had finished the Dean & DeLuca Invitational with the best three-hole stretch of his career, which was patently ridiculous. But Bark is a Marine Corps vet. I shouldn't have been hassling him on Twitter. After my round, I went back to the house and threw out my back while cleaning my gutters. Karma. Plus, I had a reaction, I think, to all the catkins in the gutters and started feeling sick. Then, while my wife went to have dinner with a bunch of our friends, I had to stay home and watch The Real Housewives of Dallas. Episode 8 was titled "Hollman Holiday." It did not cheer me up.

Let me set the scene for you. Last night, as The Real Housewives of Dallas got underway, my dog began to retch. I don't think this was a reaction to the show. My wife let her out into the backyard, where she began eating grass "like a cow," according to my wife. A vigil was begun. My son was forced to stop shooting things on his Xbox and watch the dog to ensure that she didn't try to eat her own vomit. All this commotion was happening mere feet away from me, as I was trying to watch the show and take notes on Episode 7, titled "Black and Blues." Then a bunch of drunken colleagues at a magazine conference in Denver sent me about 56 texts. My point: if this recap seems like it was written by a distracted middle-aged man with a manageable case of plantar fibromatosis, that's because it was.