When in Texas ...

Every now and then you just have to go with the flow. I spent three days in Texas and ran right out and bought a pair of boots. What are you going to do? When in Rome ...

It was not just a shopping mall pair of boots. Noooo. It was the Texas Boot Super Store kind of boots. Texas builds boot stores like Missouri builds fireworks stores. I found a nifty little pair (minus the rodeo, yee haw, giddup, stitching) of plain brown, thick leather, rubber soled 11" tall boots. In just a few minutes I am going to put them on and go to Home Depot. I suspect I will command more respect than usual but we will have to wait and see.

When I went in to buy my boots my wife found the exact pair I was looking for. I put them on. Mmmmmm. Nothing feels better than a fine pair of properly fitting leather boots. Well. Maybe a foot rub but that's an entirely different blog. A cowpoke strolled up with a Clint Black hat on and asked if he could help me. I told him that I think he can. I believe my foot needs measuring.

"We don't measure feet."

"Huh?"

"It doesn't work."

"How do you know if they fit?"

"How does it feel?"

"Good."

"It fits."

And just like that I bought my boots. The reason nobody is in a hurry in Texas is because they have not figured out that time is a finite thing. They think it goes on f-o-r-e-v-e-r. And I don't mean that in a heaven way. I mean that in a Texas way. And, regardless of what you may have heard, Texas is NOT heaven. (Calm down, Larry. It isn't.)

I got to the counter and produced my debit card. He told me that if I will be moving to Cleveland I need to buy "this" bottle. It will condition your leather, keep it from drying out, and make them whistle "The Yellow Rose Of Texas" everytime you put them on. I was about to politely decline when the delightful young woman in the cowgirl skirt and red bandana told me that she just LOVES that stuff. I asked her what leather items she put it on.

"My saddles."

"I'll take two bottles."

(Insert sucker punch from my favorite wife here.)

Well, Clint sold me my boots but neglected to remove the security tag. And it didn't set off any alarms when I left the building. This makes sense to me. This is why we are so worried about the Texas/Mexican border. If they can't protect their boot stores how in the world are they going to protect their desert border crossing? Forgive me, but I have this mental image of thousands of illegal aliens darting across the border wearing those plastic security tags and not a soul bothers to slow them down. It's probably just me.

So yesterday I had to go back to the boot store for the removal of my silent, non-exploding security tag. (Perhaps it was intended to irritate my leg so badly I would die of infection. Ahhhhh. That's it! Those sneaky Texans! Who would have guessed?!) Another cow poke mosied (mosyed?) up to help me. He roped me, pinned me to the floor, and removed the tag. I rather enjoyed it. And then I asked him to show me, please sir, the most expensive boot in the store. He produced a crocodile skin boot that cost a couple of thousand dollars. It was creepy. He told me he could order me a $6,700 boot (that is a SIX THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLAR BOOT FOR YOU MIDWESTERNERS) which is made from the skin of three seperate crocodiles that come from the Nile.

"Ahhh. Egyptian cowboy boots," I declared in my ignorance.

"No. They come from the Nile."

"Uh. Isn't the Nile in Egypt?"

"No. It's a river somewhere."

God bless Texas.


Here we are soaking our feet in our friends not-yet-finished-pool behind their not-yet-finished-house. (Hi Dave! Hi Lynda!)