The rodeo came to town last weekend and all I could do aside from squealing from joy, was twitter about the various foods available at the concession stands. There were nachos. And cotton candy. I’m weak in the face of nachos and candy.
Anyway when the rodeo comes to town, as it does every year because that’s the kind of small town I live in, we always get tickets. And every time we go I sit there wishing my grandfather hadn’t left the sheep herding business so I could be a real cowgirl. Sheepgirl, whatever, it’s all semantics. What I really wish is that my grandfather had kept his share of sheep like all his brothers, instead of leaving for the fickle banking world.
I could have grown up in pink Wranglers. Think about that for a minute.
It’s neither here nor there, but there is a part of me, a big part, that wishes I had learned how to barrel ride on the rodeo circuit as a teenager. All those bull riders would have been trouble though for a teenage girl, can you even imagine?
Apparently the barrel riders are trouble too, because that’s all Charming could talk about all night long:
*Those rodeo cowgirls sure have pretty hair mommy*
*Mommy, I love the colored jeans those pretty cowgirls wear*
*I love how the cowgirls’ pretty curly hair flies in the wind when they ride so fast on their strong horses*
*Do you see what a good job those pretty girls do with their horses? They’re so strong*
We’re in for it, we have more than a few rodeo girls in our neck of the woods.