Party at the Barn, Bring Your Own Horse!

Last night our quiet (when has it ever been quiet, Tapper?) little home turned into a western saloon full of cowgirls who came to Par---Tee!
Since I wasn't sure these suburban cowgirls could handle authentic grub like cold beans and beef jerky I let them have barbecue pizza instead. (Softies)
Then we played some horse games and opened presents and by then Sheriff Mama had lost all semblance of crowd control so I just let the cowgirl gang take the town.
There was mobbing and looting and whole lotta laughing and squealing.


The Artist had to leave for a meeting half way through the riots, but the Life Raft rode up with reinforcements.
She got there right as I was serving cake.
One cowgirl asked for a swig to wet her whistle, so all you Sheriff moms know what happened next.
Eight shrill voices started yollering for different drinks.
I want a Sprite.
I want plain water.
I want apple juice.
No, I said I wanted Sprite but I want to match her so I'll take apple juice.
Yeah, and I wanted a whiskey.
(Disclosure: I've never had a whiskey. I've never even had a Mountain Dew. But I'm pretty sure I could have pushed through a swingin' door and said, "give me one straight." Pretty sure.)
Luckily the Life Raft was fresh so she swooped in and took all bar-tending duties.
After several gusty serenades from eight rowdy cowgirls I decided it was time to turn on the electric picture box and let them enjoy a show.
Moms and Dads arrived in Mass at eight o'clock, lassoed their little ones and broke up the great cowgirl gang of 2011.
Sheriff Mommy holsters her hot glue gun and takes an advil.
Happy Birthday, Cowgirl.

Our gift bags full of loot.