Yee Haw

Who knew my children were so discriminating?

Tomorrow night is the primary school's Bush Dance (which, by the way, does not mean we will be circling a fire holding spears and wearing grass skirts), a licensed function (which, by the way, does mean there will be alcohol served and pretty much guarantees a good turn out) with a live band and a cowboy theme.

My kids, used to the large trunk full of odd clothing and accessories that has enabled us to never (to the best of my short-term impaired memory) purchase a single Halloween costume or any outfit for their countless theatrical presentations, are coming undone with the simple request to dress like a cowboy, seeing as how the Costume Box was one of the items we deemed necessary to leave behind.

Apparently authenticity is the key.

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No, I will not buy you a pair cowboy boots. No, I will not buy you an Akubra hat either. We live in an area of cattle ranches. These people are cowboys. Do you see what they wear? They're barefoot and they have on regular clothes. How about you wear your overalls?

That's a farmer, Mom.

Okay, how about you wear your camouflage shirt underneath your overalls?

That's a redneck, Mom!

What if we black out one of your teeth?

That's a hillbilly, Mom!!

Well, The Stumbling Mountain Goats are a hillbilly band...

MOM!

Okay, I got it. Think Brokeback Mountain, right?

Forget it. I'm not going.

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So today's challenge, find a thrift shop and a couple of cheap, second-hand, plaid, button-down, long-sleeved cowboy shirts. The kinds Elle insists have "handcuffs" (which means, I think, pearly, snap fasteners at the end of the sleeves.) Come to think of it, handcuffs might be a fun accessory. We could do Frank and Jesse James...


Sacred cows make the tastiest hamburger.

-- Abbie Hoffman