Called Out

I took a vacation day and focused on last minute goat prep today. (The Wrangler, who still has not completed the fencing, will take a vacation day tomorrow.) This morning when the hay delivery guy from the Hawthorne's Country Store in Fallbrook called my cell to ask for directions, I wasn't at home. I was at the Hawthorne's Country Store in Escondido picking up some industrial stall mats for the goat pen. If I had a pick-up truck, I wouldn't need delivery service. I could just toss a few bales into the back of the truck. I'm by no means a neat freak, but transporting rolls of dried grass in the back of my little SUV just sounds really messy.

Despite my lack of a proper pick-up truck, I was still feeling cowgirl-esque and dressed for the part: dusty Frye boots, jeans, plaid shirt, cowboy hat and, well, oversized Chanel sunglasses. After ringing up my purchases, the Hawthorne's cashier paged a nice-looking cowboy to help me load the stall mats into the back of the SUV. He met me in the parking lot with a small forklift carrying the mats. I hadn't realized that the mats would be so heavy...or dirty. The cowboy tried to brush off some of the hay, dirt, and debris.

"Ohhh! I just bought a tarp," I exclaimed, pleased as punch. Not only was I a ranch girl, I was a super-prepared ranch girl. The back seats in the SUV were down, and I fished the tarp out of the bag and began arranging it in the cargo space.

"A tarp?" the cowboy asked. I detected disapproval in his voice.

"Yeah, why? Is there something wrong?" I peered at him through the back of the car, puzzled.

"I guess I just thought you were a real cowgirl, and then there you went putting down a tarp in the back of your Mercedes," he drawled.

Ouch.

"I guess I don't need one," I said quickly.

"No, it's fine," he said. He helped adjust the tarp and then loaded the stall mats. I thanked him and went on my way.

I'll admit that my feelings were kind of hurt! I called the Wrangler, who always makes me feel better. "He said that he thought I was a real cowgirl until he saw my car and I put down a tarp," I lamented.

The Wrangler didn't miss a beat. "You should have told him that you're a fancy cowgirl."

The truth is, I'm not a fancy cowgirl or even a non-fancy cowgirl, and that cowboy today called my bluff.

Nonetheless, I was very happy that I used that tarp, which was littered with dirt and who-knows-what-else when I unloaded the stall mats. Thanks to that tarp, the back of my car is spotless. Instead of cleaning my car, I can hang out with my horse or play with my baby goats. But maybe I need that pick-up truck. It would be handy and all, but I sure could use the street cred.