I Am In Love
I am. I’m in love. It’s ok, my husband knows and while he doesn’t exactly seem thrilled, he is resigned to the fact. It’s love, come on, what’s he going to do? Well, maybe love isn’t exactly right. It’s more like an obsession. Nah, that makes me sound like a cowboy-crazed stalker. (Note, this is a plea for help: I am on the brink of becoming a cowboy-crazed stalker.)
Hey! I am not a stalker. Now look what you’ve done. Why do you have to go and turn this beautiful thing into something dirty? It’s nothing. It’s no big deal. I’m just spending every waking hour shirking my responsibilities so that I can languish vicariously in the land of the great wide open. Yes, the laundry is piling up and the beds are unmade but out there somewhere in the wild blue yonder a cowboy is rustling something and I need to be part of that. You understand, right? I am simply in love obsessed envious an enthusiastic supporter of The Pioneer Woman.
I love her love story. I am intrigued by her recipes, and her retro-pictures and her incredible photography and…Ewww, yuck will you listen to me? I’m in deep. Someone rescue me. Hank? Buck? Help?
Sigh. Why didn’t I marry a cowboy?
Like Pioneer Woman did. She married a cowboy and damn if she didn’t just ride off into the sunset wrapped tightly in those deeply bronzed biceps of his. And now not only does she have her hunky cowboy, but she’s got a life chock full of adventure to write about.
Me? I can report on whether or not the children are eating chard. I can even get a little steamy talking about squash sex. But the likelihood of you logging in here one morning to reports of cattle wrangling and coyote howling are remote. The chances of me awakening to the swish of leather chaps as I am whisked off for a romp in the hay beneath a harvest moon is, alas, nil.
Don’t get me wrong, no one reboots my hard drive like my sexy techie of a man. I’m one lucky lady perched here on the plush lap of suburbia. I just wonder what would happen if my guy rode up one evening on a stallion instead of a Maxima? And what, oh goodness, if he happened to be wearing overalls instead of khakis? Well, then we might have ourselves a steamy little story of our own.
Until then, I’ll be getting my cowboy fix by peering through windows over at The Pioneer Woman.
Giddy-up.