Like any normal woman I like nice things. Delicate porcelain, rosebud patterned china, the ping of crystal. But over the years of unfortunte incidents I have come to accept that this cottage woman is the proverbial bull in the china shop. Consequently, there are no matching tea cups, plates, glassware, nik naks or paddy wacs in my cupboards or decorating our home.
When I hear the familiar and all too frequent shattering of another casualty, I’ve given up completely stomping my foot with hands on hips screeching, ” Why can’t I ever have anything nice!” Nope, doesn’t happen because I’ve learned, and when I learn something by golly I’ve learned it.
Unless were talking about *sigh* the one teensy weensy exception in the case of one darlin’ cowboy. He was just too hard to resist at the estate sale. ( Side note: I usually refuse to stop at these sales unless persuaded by the head hillbilly, because as I have told him over and over, as I do, that I will have to purge said purchase later. I stop translates I buy.)
But back to the cowboy. Obviously a day I thought I could take just an itty bitty look and not buy, yeah right. Gasping I found and fell in love with my darlin’ cowboy and lovingly and delicately cradled him between my two dangerous and infamous hands and toted him home. Only to meet his demise in short order. I think if my handsome little cowboy could speak, in a wee little voice, “Please please lady don’t take me there”, I’d say, shut up, you’re too cute.
Please, somebody, put my picture in the cowboy hall of shame.
Can you blame me? Just take a look at this little guy with hat in hand and kerchief around his neck and little blue vest and spiffy little shirt all tucked in. Even with his little head lopped off he is as adorable as ever!
And this folks, is why I can never have anything nice.