Whip it good

The theme at my grocery store this weekend was Country Fest . . . or maybe Country Jamboree . . . or Western Days . . . or even Western Daze. I don't really know for sure - I just work there.

Anyway, the point is that everyone had to dress up like a cowboy or, at the very least, a cowgirl. I chose cowboy.

Unfortunately, I don't own too many cowboy clothes. The closest thing I have is my special edition Tombstone DVD case, which I thought about duct taping to the front of my shirt, but decided against it because everyone would be so jealous of its awesomeness.

And so it was the Colonel and Beckymom to the rescue.

On the day they helped the Jilb and I move into our house (which one of us will post about, I promise, just as soon as we defeat the giant mutant spider invasion from hell) they dropped off a bag full of cowboy gear including:

1. A flannel shirt (I seriously didn't own a single one)
2. A toy gun belt (a bit scary that it still almost fit)
3. A hat (one of the colonel's - or general's - trademark hats)
4. Cowboy boots (the festivities lasted two days - my feet hurt so badly after stomping around in those boots the first day that I decided to wear them again the second day)

Toward the end of the first day, I received the highest compliment imaginable - namely, that I looked like Indiana Jones. I had been secretly hoping that someone would notice.







I mean, if you take away my glasses, little beard, red bandana, blue shirt, remove the grocery store setting, and wipe that silly grin off my face, the resemblance is uncanny.

I brought along a whip, too, and kept it coiled at my side for the entire second day. As night manager, I liked the message it sent to my crew. They knew that at the first sign of cap-gun related horseplay, I would unleash the whip and rent the air with a deafening CRACK!

There would be silence. Then they would begin shooting each other again, hoping that I would crack the whip one more time.

And I would.