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.

Jurl-Odeo

Or how this jurl rocked the rodeo last night. I must make the disappointing confession that I did not purchase a fabulous pink cowboy hat like I previously vowed to do before hitting Husband's rodeo work party. I just couldn't get myself to a place that had cowboy hats of any variety during the week, plus Husband (and Momma Jurl) poo-pooed the hat idea. I was saddened by my bare head as we got ready to head out and even more saddened because I suspected that my abandonment of the delicious theme dress accoutrement was given up precisely because it was poo-pooed.

But, then I discovered the Mesquite Rodeo Gift Shop. Before we made our way to the suite we were to be stranded in the rest of the night, I insisted we detour to the gift shop for my hat. Turns out I actually needed a red one because of my outfit choice and, lucky me, there was an adorable red, straw cowboy hat for $14.00. You cant' beat that with a cowpoke. I plucked it off the shelf, plopped it on my head, and dared Husband to mock my country awesomeness. Husband gave me his best platypus face, but caved in when I told him how cheap it was.

Uh, and yeah, I kicked ass in my red hat. I felt like Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy, but with a much higher I.Q., better taste in clothes, and way bigger boobies. Once I had my red cowboy hat, my walk turned into a sashay. One of Husband's partners even pronounced me Best Dressed.

We had to take an elevator to the suite floor and as we stepped off into the "bar/lounge area" I had a flash back to my Aunt Clemmie's double wide trailer in Arkansas. Think lots of fake mauve and blue flowers, wildflower prints lining the walls in cheap gold frames, and plastic grapes spilling out of a wicker cornucopia. All they needed was a huge landscape scene lit from behind with a water wheel that looked like it was actually moving and I would have tried to find the homemade corn bread.

Once in the suite we chit chatted then grabbed some bar-b-q (and wine) settling back to watch the rodeo pretty quickly. To my surprise all of the cowboys wore flak jackets to protect them from a horn through the chest and a couple even wore helmets. I gotta Say, that was kind of disappointing cause I need a little risk in my rodeo. Then I saw some poor schlub's legs almost get trampled and I forgave the flak jackets.

At the end of the evening a real life cowboy came and got us for the "bucking chute" tour. We had to sign waivers before they took us behind the chute (little cage/stall where the bull is locked up awaiting a cowboy) then we stood waiting for a fool with a death wish to climb on top of the angry ass bull. It was fascinating. And stinky.

I was impressed that the rodeo crowd was so generous to the one gay cowboy. I assume he was gay because he wore pink and turquoise chaps. I guess he could have just been metro.

All things considered (and smelled) it was a fun night. Husband and I actually talked about things other than our kids and finances. I had a moment of self-esteem weakness when I accidentally caught my reflection in the mirror while seated. Yikes. I resisted the urge to compare myself to the Michelin Man and, instead, looked at how beautiful my makeup and hair looked. Oh, and how my hat was hat-tastic.

It's amazing how attitude can make all the difference. And not just my attitude toward myself. If I'm being honest, I have to tell that there was a time I would have been a little snooty about the rodeo and all it entails (probably because I needed something to make me feel better about myself). You know, like how some people are snotty about music or bowling or whatever. But last night, I admired these people seemingly so very different from me for those differences and for our similarities. I appreciated the rodeo clowns trying to entertain the crowd, the cowboys putting their bones at risk, and the cowgirls in their sequined, neon, spandex, performing gymnastics on their horses.

I'm finding everything is bathed in a sunny glow when your heart is open and illuminated by joy. Don't worry, I'm sure it won't last.

Yee haw.


Sam agreed to showcase my hat for me.