I do believe I am the rootin’est-tootin’est buckaroo ever to muster cattle in Branford County. I drive them steer up and down the river, mud everywhere and coverin’ everything, stinkin’ to high heaven with that musty smell you only ever get from cattle. I sleep in the ditches and dirt, warmed by the fire, comforted only by the thought that when I get home, I’ll be greeted by the most striking, elegant accent pieces west of the Mississippi.
Now, this may not be la-dee-da New York City, but after weeks on horseback and eatin’ beans from a can, it does me good to remember that my ranch cabin is most elegantly accoutered, and that right next to the bull whips and muddy boots — well, not right next to — I’ve got these absolutely lovely handmade, blown-glass sculptures.
I get covered in filth and loam, and Lord knows that’s how a man’s s’posed to be. Yesirree, I’m a salt-of-the-earth sorta fella, who works with dirty hands and saddle sores. I eat my steak rare, culled from the herd, lookin’ out over the Rio Grande. My hands are calloused, my boots worn, my hat broken-in and blown. That’s why I keep home full of singing angels, elegant, furiously modern candlesticks, and these spectacular wall sconces. When I walk in from a month-long cattle drive, it’s good to know I’m the only cowboy with enough interior design sense to accent the whole dusty frontier image with beige and caramel glass decor.
No, mounted horns and horseshoes above the door just ain’t for me. If I’m gonna work like a cowboy, well, by Golly I’m gonna live like I’m on Park Avenue. Care for some brie?
appliancesconnectionblog 
You must be logged in to post a comment.