That's what she gets for changing me

Thanks to all of you for the warm "get well" wishes you sent to me and my family. We're all doing better now, just a few lingering coughs every now and then.

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As you can tell, I grew up a "daddy's girl." Ever since I can remember, Daddy took me almost everywhere he went. When he moved cattle, my fat little pony was saddled, and I rode at the rear of the herd, keeping the cows from straying. Daddy was smart; he knew I wanted to help and he wanted me with him, so he put me the safest place there was, at the rear. Cattle are mindless creatures--not as mindless as sheep--and once you get the lead cattle headed the way you want, all the others follow. There's no real danger "bringing up the rear."

My mother was a gentile lady--like Victoria Barkley on Big Valley-- and it pained her to see her "little darling" riding tractors and working cattle. When I was born, she had visions of frilly frocks and hair ribbons; instead she got ripped jeans and hair with mesquite twigs tangled in it. "She's a girl, and she needs to act like one," Mama complained to Daddy on more then one occasion.

"Who says girls can't be strong emotionally and physically?" Daddy always retorted. "No one will take agvantage of when she grows up."

When I was twelve, my daddy taught me how to break a horse. He believed you would have a more useful animal if you treated the horse with respect, and broke them in different stages. A year later he beamed with pride when I saddle broke a young colt all by myself, and rode it around the corral. He was turning me into a modern day version of "Ellie Mae Clampett," and my mama didn't like it one bit.

After many lectures to Daddy, my mama finally convinced him that his thirteen year-old darling should learn how to be a young lady; Daddy reluctantly agreed. I hated wearing the confining dresses to church every Sunday, and I hated how I wobbled like a new born colt when I wore those stupid heels.

No amount of pleading could sway Daddy back over to my side. He had seen how I looked, and sadly admited it was time for his "best hand" to grow up. Over time, with help, I got used to wearing the clothes. The "help" came in the form of boys. I had started to notice them, and I liked how they noticed me. One day after church, I got more recognition then I bargained for.

I went to a restaurant with my mom where I saw two of the most yummy looking guys. On my pre-planned jaunt to the restroom, I made sure they made eye contact with me as I walked past their table. Score! They looked at me and smiled. On the way back from the restroom, I thought I would give them a little extra show by wiggling my behind as I walked past again. Their jaws dropped, and I thought I had them; then I felt Mom's hand cclutching my shoulder, and her hot breath in my ear.

"You have your dress tucked into the back of your pantyhose, and everyone can see your polka-dotted undies," she hissed. I wanted to melt into the floor. Oh well, I never saw those guys again, thank goodness. Sorry Mom. That's what you get for changing me.

Note: I do actually enjoy wearing dresses now, especially the "after 5" dresses on special occasions. I'm still paranoid if I feel a draft though :).