Last weekend Cyn and I attended a rodeo in Castro Valley (her first and my third). We were there to support a friend interning for the American Cancer Society to track smokers around the arena and see if they were smoking in designated areas. Our job was basically to stand around with a clipboard and mark any deviant or suspicious activity.
We saw lots of wayward behavior and took our job very seriously.
If an old cowboy took snuff out of his overall pocket and looked like he was going to chomp down, we would say "tobacco 6 o'clock! older man, plaid cut-off flannel". If a woman was trying to enhance the enjoyment of her late morning Coors Light with a menthol we would say "prohibited smoking 2:30! 45, female, daisy dukes and wife beater". I'm pretty sure we were totally incognito and wholly appreciated as our giggling echoed throughout the valley.
Actually I felt utterly at home at the rodeo. For many years I was an avid 4-H member, owned much Western attire, and can muck out a stall quicker than you can say "yee haw". The smell of manure, the sound of country music and braying farm animals, the dust in your shoes and eyes - I love it all. I especially love the opportunity to wear my "wild thing" shirt that boasts a cartoonish horse rearing up with 'wild thing' written in glittery cursive on a bright red background. I enjoyed many comments on my shirt that day and was almost carried away into buying a matching felt cowboy hat.
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