A . . . Cowgirl?

Hmmm.



Whaddya think? I have some problems with it, as a whole.

First, the hat. I mean, I know I have a huge head, but man oh man, there is nothing like a cowboy hat to make that sucker look the size of Pluto. Not quite planet-size, but still damn big.

Remember, this is my father's hat. My father's. On him, it was not planetoid-sized. But I'm something of a more delicate flower. And, as such, I have not yet developed the gumption to wear the hat out in public. Plus, the hat is snug. I have no doubts that it would stay firmly in place if I were to take off at top galloping speed on a horse. But if I were to take off the hat, like at a restaurant? Major, super, colossal hat-hair. Not good.

And the belt? Lord, I need help with the belt situation. See, I'm a woman of many hips and muchas thighs. What those health-conscious people like to refer to as a 'pear.' (Tangent: I married a cinnamon stick, the third, under-discussed, food-shaped body type. Holding out hope the boy is more cinnamon-y than pear-ish. So far, so good.)

Anyway, back to the belt. What this pear-ness means is that, when I have a belt on and things tucked in, I'm looking a little lumpy. The tucked-in shirt always blouses up, muffin-like, erasing whatever I've got that passes for a waist. So, as you can see, I try the not-tucked-semi-tucked look here. The success of this is, well, mitigated, don't you think? I'm open to suggestions on how to resolve this issue. Anything short of plastic surgery, which is not in my current budget.



The long shot is better. The jeans are pretty good, don't you think?

These photos are courtesy the Lovely Mary. She took them at work for me, because there's something about a small editorial office that says Fridays is Casual Cowboy Day, don't you think?

The image thing is becoming a pressing issue. In less than a month, I will go to the San Francisco Writers Conference. I will talk to editors and other authors and, of course, my agent, because my agency is holding the whole thing. And when I tell people I write New Westerns, I need them to believe it--not even a flicker of a "Really? Huh," to cross their minds. I need to own my look by then, because otherwise, I'm just playing dress-up and that's just silly.

So let me know what you think. Keep it clean and positive, please. I'm plenty neurotic all by myself.

Cowgirl UP!

In today's modern era, what does it take to be a Real Cowgirl?

Beyond the obvious. Sure, it's a heck of a lot easier to be a Real Cowgirl if one is in possession of any combination of the following:

1. A Horse (preferably with a western saddle)
2. Large Tracts of Real Estate west of the Mississippi River, especially those that are edged by miles and miles of barbed wire fences.
3. Cattle
4. A Pick-Up Truck (and not one of those mutant poser ones with a opalescent ivory finish that's never earned its mud flaps, either. A *real* truck. Gun rack optional.) As an alternative, a Suburban is the only allowable SUV, and it better have a damn hitch on it.
And, of course, the clincher in the deal:
5. A Cowboy (bonus points if he says "Ma'am" with a tip of his hat to your mother every time he sees her.)

If you have more than two of those things, you are fully licensed to say things like "I'm fixin' to brand some cattle" or "Let's RIDE" and if anyone even thinks of smirking at you, you get to kick them in the shins with your cowgirl boots (authentic manure optional).

Alas, there may come a point when some amongst us long to be a Real Cowgirl but meet exactly none of the prerequisite Cowgirl requirements.

Alas. I long to be a Real Cowgirl. And I got nothing.

I used to be able to fudge the requirements. I grew up on a tract of real estate west of the Mississippi River. True, it was only 8 acres in the middle of a heavily wooded forest and had minimal fencing, but it was, in fact, land in the West. I didn't own a horse, it's true, but I mucked stables and groomed horses for some wonderful women who lived on the other side of the valley for the whole entirety of my teen-aged years. They paid me in peanuts and horseback rides. I rode English dressage, true, but I also rode Western and bareback (although these days, my inner thighs weep at the thought.) That, to me, was close enough to being a Real Cowgirl that I wore cowboy boots in public, on and off, for several years before Garth Brooks hit it big with all his friends in low places.

No more. I live on the east of the muddy Mississippi now. I haven't been on a horse since my honeymoon. I married an accountant. (But at least he grew up on a farm. He's got some street cred.) The largest beast I own weighs 15 pounds and only has three legs. (Although Gater is taller, he technically weighs less. Jake's got that dachshund barrel chest.) For Heaven's sake, I drive a Prius.

In other words, there is nothing--and I mean nothing--about me that is any part of a Real Cowgirl. The best I could do was some modestly lovely turquoise jewelery. That's it.

Which is, in my opinion, sort of a problem. I write New Western romance novels. Novels that prominently feature a real cowboy/girl as a hero/ine. Why would anyone want to read New Western books by a non-cowgirl? Wouldn't that be like listening to my grandmother do a hockey play-by-play?

So it's not that I want to be a Real Cowgirl (although I do). I need to be one.

So I'm Cowgirling Up. Fake it until I make it, baby!

It started with the hat.



It fills me with great shame to admit that this hat is, in fact, my father's hat, purchased almost 20 years ago on a family vacation out west. (He also bought boots, but those didn't fit me.) Yes. My head is the same size as my father's head. I'm not sure why this strikes me as a personal failure of femininity, but it does. Bigtime.

Anyway, the hat fit, and he gave it to me. Phase one in Cowgirling Up: Complete.

But here's the thing. I didn't have anything else. And I'm pretty sure that, whilst a Cowgirl could wear boots without a hat (see any Miley Cyrus video for proof), a Real Cowgirl does not wear a hat without boots. Like it would match my Birkenstock sandals, anyway.

Finally, after combing the Internet, bugging our local western wear store incessantly, and wondering why cowgirls all have such narrow feet, I found a pair of cowboy boots that fit.



Yes, I said cowboy. Not cowgirl. A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. It's still got cow in the title, right? And my Fashion Stylist (aka my sister Leah) said the stitching was 'purty' enough.

Making progress now! Phase two complete!

But I needed some more 'purty.' After all, I've got a man's hat and men's boots. Time for Phase Three: Accessories.

Phase Three, I love you. And our love affair will continue . . . Oops. I digress.

First, a hatband:


Christmas present from my Gram. Thanks, Gram!

Then, the belt.


Christmas present from my mom and dad. Thanks, guys!

Jeans? Check.


Christmas present from my dogs. I'd thank them if they would understand it.

Hell, I wear jeans all the time anyway. And these even had 'bootcut' in the description. Yes, I know. They aren't Wrangler. They are a Mall Brand. But I got news for you. I'm, ahem, a whole lot of woman to love, being slightly taller and, um, wider than the average woman. I had to go with best fit, okay? These came in tall. And trust me, men's jeans would NOT work in this situation.

Add in a nice top with some pin tucking (look it up!), and now we're cooking.


Another gift from my folks. They're wonderful folks.

I'll admit, the top is plain. Some of the shirts I covet at my local western wear store are, um, bold. Flashy, even. It appears Real Cowgirls all have love affairs with Phase Three. I'm taking this one step at a time. All in due time, Rhinestones. All in due time.

And finally, necklaces.


Necklace picked out by my Fashion Stylist. Earrings, get this, Actually Picked Out By ME.

Real Cowgirl Transformation: Complete!

So, tune in next week, when I will have planned far enough ahead to actually put the whole outfit together AND have my husband take a picture of it for me BEFORE he leaves for work on blogging day.

After all, even a Real Cowgirl knows the value of a little tease.

Now. Anybody got a horse I can borrow?