Bud + Sissy= True Love, Texas Style

Recently, I splurged on a pair of real-deal cowboy boots. They are medium-brown Justin’s with a lovely blue/brown/gold flame stitch pattern on the sides, a wedged heel, and more sex appeal than Prince circa “Purple Rain.”

I did not know it was possible to feel this way about footwear.

My cowboy boots are so fucking hot I can hardly even stand myself when I wear them. I am deeply smitten. I also find them somewhat attractive, physically. Which is more than I can say for most boys I meet.

Is it possible to have a meaningful relationship with a pair of shoes?

I think it is. Honestly, I love my new cowboy boots. To paraphrase “Annie Hall”: Love is too weak a word for what I feel--I lurve them, I loave them, I luff them. Not in a platonic, “I think they look nice” or “They sure are comfortable” kind of way. I love them passionately. They have many of the qualities I look for in a mate. Really. This is why I have decided to start a passionate love affair with my new cowboy boots. Specifically:

1. They are totally hot, in a ruggedly handsome way
2. They do not take themselves too seriously and they clearly have an appreciation for kitsch, which makes me laugh
3. They do not say they will call, then don’t. They do not call drunk at 2:30 am. This is because they cannot talk (a good thing)
4. When I wear them I can easily pretend that I am Sissy in Urban Cowboy, just waiting for a slow-talking sex machine in tight Wranglers, a snap-front shirt, and a big shiny belt buckle to whisk me off to the Trailer Park of Love.
5. They are very successful and self-actualized in their chosen career, which is: making me look fii-i-i-i-ne.
6. they do not make snarky comments, even when I sort of deserve it
7. They do not take valuable time away from more important night-and-weekend endeavors such as drinking, fingernail maintenance, and cat-appreciation.
8. When I eventually tire of them I can chuck them under the bed and forget they exist, guilt-free.

Nuff said. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go—you see, these boots were made for walking.



Innocence Lost...

When I was a kid (and in some cases even well into young adulthood) I held some, what turned out to be, fundamentally flawed beliefs. They were all based in reality, but a reality which my 5 or 8 or 16 year old mind never bothered to examine very closely for some shred of plausability. My subconscious decided these were facts, and they became so. Of some I was disabused suddenly, others faded into the truth over time and I am now unable to pinpoint the exact moment when I realized I'd been wrong all those years.

Examples, you ask? In rough chronological order, then, beginning around age 5:

Firefighters must be men. How on earth would women be able to aim their stream of pee with enough accuracy to extinguish a house fire? ( I blame this one on my parents' choice of sex (and general anatomy) education from a very early age. The first book I ever read was "Where did I Come From", and I can assure you, there was not a stork to be seen in this cartoon-illustrated book... How I managed to avoid acknowledging all of those hoses in pictures of firefighters, I'll never know. Let's call it a Freudian omission.)

Age 6-9: All those people on the other side of the world are big fat jerks. They refuse to tell us about all the bad things that are about to happen, even though they must know. After all, they are one whole day ahead of us. If it's November 11th there and November 10th here, they already read November 10th's newspaper. Why can't they just tell us there's gonna be a big earthquake??

Age 8: Chop-A-Pecan is a black woman singer famous in the 80's for popular songs such as "I Feel for You" (... I think I loooove you...). Oh Chop-A... so good.
(If you're still in the dark about this one, say Chop-A-Pecan a few times fast out loud...)

Age 16 (This one persisted perhaps even up until the moment, 2 years ago, when I moved to Washington DC) : The Washington Redskins are the football team representing Washington state and named after a much-loved potato variety. (I'm no football idiot, either - I spent many a Sunday afternoon as a kid eating dog-biscuit shaped cookies and screaming into the TV during games as if I were immersed in the end-zone melee called "The Dog Pound" at Browns Stadium.)

There are so many more... I'll keep you posted.