City Slickers ride again.

Mother's Day right, and my birthday. Okay, then how come I wound up riding a horse. My daughter's dream. Everything hurts on my body. I've been in Oklahoma for almost 30 years, but I still consider myself a NYC girl. I don't wear cowboy anything and I detest country music. I lived most of my 30 years in a town called Yukon. Home of Garth Brooks. I remember him as a kid, and we'd go to the school auditorium and hear him sing and dazzle. Not many a day goes by that I don't drive down Garth Brooks Blvd. (I heard him say once that they named that street after him because he paid for it as kid getting tickets.) Let me say, I am not a country girl, so when you put me on a horse, we take off; that horse isnt' or ain't fooling me a bit. He was in control all the way. I felt the instant tension between or afix that animal and myself. If he wanted to turn, well, by golly we turned. If he wanted to trot, well by golly we trotted, but when he smelled home coming down some slimy hill, he started to run. I started to scream, but only slightly because it just ain't cool for a gal from the Bronx to be afearin' any ole thing.

Ya'll see what's a happenin' to me. But let to tell you kind folks something; you won't find me courting no cowboy boots with my jeans tucked in so I don't get snake bit. Here's the worst. I was told I was no city slicker. You handled that horse mighty fine. I got carefully off the horse, and I petted his nose. I think I like him and ridin' across the plains, but you never be calling me no country girl. I don't own a pair of levis and I don't iron a seam up the middle of jeans. I said, Whoa horsie. I pulled up hard on the bit in his mouth. He was getting annoyed, then the ride got faster. MY guide told me not to run him. The boss don't like that. Well let me tell you cowboy, I don't like that horse and that horse he don't like me either. So we went back to the corrall, petted my horse goodbye, and got on my Oklahoma truck A Quad cab Ram. That's my horsie