Monday, May 11, 2015

Bob, Gwynnie, and Me

Today, while perusing Facebook, I was presented with a picture of Robert Redford and a wistful, time-gone-by quote about the simple pleasures of a quaint town in Mexico. Charmed and intrigued, I clicked on the link to his most recent Sundance Catalog. The first item displayed was a gauzy, plaid dish towel posing as a shirt on a beautiful, straw-hat clad woman. She looked effortlessly cool in the hot New Mexico sun. I'm not sure if she was actually in New Mexico, but I'm currently obsessing over Santa Fe, so it seemed correct. The shirt came in three colors: money, the view from my private jet, and vagina... I mean green, blue, and pink.

Naturally, I wanted it in pink. I look good in fleshy tones.

The dish towel shirt was $88, which is a bargain for something Robert Redford touches. For a moment, I hovered over the buttons on the page. Instead of "purchase", I clicked "save to favorites". Unfortunately, never having made an actual purchase through Sundance catalog, the site had absolutely no recollection of my existence on this planet, thus rejecting my attempts to save anything.

In the spirit of wealthy people selling overpriced goods, I typed GOOP into my search engine. Instead of being directed to Gywnnie and all her glory, my computer gave me an error code with a sad face that said "No Data Received". GOOP didn't compute. It's like my computer knows.

Defeated, I gathered myself up for a useful activity and untarped the lawn mower from the front of my garage. Obviously, our garage is stuffed full of useless crap and there is no room for said mower.

The beer fridge is in there, so it's not all useless.

I have a horrible habit of not changing my clothes for chores. On any given day, whatever is on my body at the moment something needs to be done is officially that day's "chore clothes." Sometimes I can be seen cleaning horse stalls in my pajamas, and other times I'm in wedges and a dress. I'm very fancy, you know.

Today, I happened to be wearing my black crocodile cowboy boots. The pair that retailed for $1,750.00 fourteen years ago when I served ten years in retail hell. I was a buyer for a small western wear store. Sometimes, I was even the manager and had "extra responsibilities", like firing my good friend or working on holidays, nights, and weekends.  Anyhoo, Nocona was offering a deal to buyers and store employees. For a mere $500.00, we could each have our very own pair of shiny, black crocodile boots!

I made roughly the wage of a part-time school marm in the backwoods of Arkansas during the Great Depression. Those boots would cost me more than a week's paycheck. Financially, it was a very bad decision.

Naturally, I had to have them.

The boots have been with me now for fourteen years. We've gone to concerts together. We've worked 12 hours on our feet on concrete together. We've cleaned toilets and horse pens together. And today, while thinking of Bob and Gywnnie and all their fabulous, overpriced crap that I would love to have in my closet (I would have to put some more crap in the garage to make room), we gassed up the mower and cut some grass together. That is, until I ran over the steaming pile of dog poo and couldn't evict the stench from my nostril hairs. Then I shut the mower off, walked into the garage, and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge.

I'm living the high life. Try not to be jealous.

In my fancy $1750.00 boots- that would go great with the Sundance dish towel shirt in coral- with the simple pleasures of the sharp tang of dog feces attacking my nostrils and the mower parked haphazardly over a half-mown lawn, I've never felt closer to Bob and Gwynnie.