Western Jurls

Today is Western Day at Sam's school or, as it's known in our house, Black Friday. For the past three years we have valiantly tried to get Sam to participate in Western day by wearing something, anything, remotely Western. The first year was a real disaster. We rushed around the house getting ready for work and trying to prod her into a denim skirt and pink cowboy boots only to have her start frothing at the mouth in a melt down of epic proportions. I went to work in tears of frustration and she went to school in a mother f'ing party dress.

Last year, we got smart, or so we thought. For a week we talked about Western day and all it entails to get her in the mood. The night before the big day we picked out her outfit including pink cowboy boots that she promised us she'd wear. And then she woke-up possessed by the anti-Christ, refusing to wear any of it. At some point Husband and I were standing over her threatening to take away everything in her room, including her bed, if she didn't put on the damn boots. But, you know what happened. I went to work in tears of frustration and she went to school on Western Day in a mother f'ing party dress. Footnote to this drama, the next day she started wearing those pink cowboy boots everywhere, even to bed. For a moment I hated her guts.

This year I really thought we had a shot at pulling it together. Sam's a year older, a year wiser, and we've taken television away almost entirely! All week we've talked about the awesomeness of Western Day and the pink cowboy boots. This morning I awoke with high hopes. Well, not really, I awoke with Sam literally kicking me in the ass and me wanting to punch her across the room with the force of a super hero, but I didn't, of course.

Drum roll please.....Sam wanted to wear the pink cowboy boots!!!! Ominous music.....we could only find one. I looked everywhere, under the couch, under her bed, under my bed, under Jake's bed, in every dress-up box, in every corner of her closet. Que sad music.....the missing pink boot was unable to be located.

Well, we could still try to Western it up with our outfit, except, wait for it, Sam refused every option, insisting on pink leggings, a pink shirt, black Halloween socks, and purple sneakers. She wouldn't even let me giver her a couple of braids. She informed me with an air of great authority that cowboys wear pony tails.

I hate you Western Day.

I'm sure you're wondering why I care so much because I wonder that myself. There is a compulsion to participate within me and it leaks all over Sam, but so far she does not appear susceptible to my baggage.

Plus, she'd be the cutest little cowgirl! And what Mom doesn't want her little girl to be the cutest little cowgirl?

But, I'm over it. I've dropped off both love bugs (aka soul suckers) for another not very Western, Western Day.

Is it sad that I'm sitting on my bed wearing my cowboy hat, drinking my coffee, with the lone pink cowboy boot cradled lovingly in my lap? Just kidding! Not really. Yes, I am! Help me. Just joking! No, really, help me.

Giddy-up little lone doggie.

Cowboy Jurl

Why is it not enough to work for your employer? Why must you also socialize? Most of us already spend more time with our co-workers than with our family, so aren't we sick of each other by the weekend? I guess not, because this coming Friday night Husband's firm has all the partners and their wives (no partner husbands because no female partners) gathering at the Mesquite Rodeo for fun with cow patties.

I have no idea why they're trotting us out to the Rodeo, maybe because they've already done a painful rotating-table dinner at a country club, cocktail hours, and family picnics, so the rodeo becomes the next logical social experiment. These events are awkward attempts to force unnecessary personal relationships between a bunch of lawyers and their really bored wives. Oh, and they make us wear name tags. One Christmas party my pre-made tag said, "Wife of Husband" with my first name printed teeny tiny beneath my title of wife. What an honor.

I dread these work events for a variety of very good reasons. One, I'm never comfortable with myself (working on changing that). I feel like Barbara Bush to Jeff's George Bush except instead of looking like his mother, I look like I ate his family. Two, I don't do small talk very well, plus you never know what I'm gonna say after a few glasses of wine. One Christmas party I gently criticized (rudely called ugly) the choice of drapes in one of the partner's homes only to be told that the wife in charge of the drapes was standing right next to me. Oops.

Finally, I never have the right thing to wear no matter the event. Some parties are worse than other because I really don't have anything appropriate for picnics or bar-b-qs. My wardrobe is black on black on black so any outdoor party really throws me into hyper-panic. After a primal scream and a few tears, I just throw something on and show up in my Drusilla the Dark Queen Costume.

In the past I've managed to get out of a number of these shin digs and had planned to do the same with this one (bad cramps, anxiety attack, promise of sex if I could just skip it....). But, in my continuing effort to shake things up in my life, I'm embracing the rodeo, as much as a non-rodeo gal can, and plan to look spectacular in a pink cowboy hat. I will assume everyone thinks I'm fabulous and wants to be near me. I will not worry they think I talk too much or talk too boldly. I will not feel less than anyone else and I will feel good about supporting Husband. I will enjoy the free wine and I will delight in me being me.

Now, wear can I find a pink cowboy hat?