Cowboys And Angels Quotes

I don't know what to say. This summer hasn't turned out at all the way I'd planned. I'm not supposed to be standing in the middle of a barn with a blue-eyed cowboy who's looking at me like he's about to kiss me. I shouldn't be wanting him to kiss me.

Angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils.

Upon four-legged forest clouds the cowboy angel rides

Owls visited them at night. Some thought the owls were witches. Some thought they were angels of death. Some thought they were holy and brought blessings. Some thought they were the restless spirits of the dead. The cowboys thought they were owls.

Oh color me pretty-he's a cowboy. I love cowboys.

Oh, I'm sure. Bedroom, Cowboy.

When a country goes to war, it acts like a sociopath. It sends people like me out in the woods to do the most evil things we can think of, but everybody else pretends like they're on the side of the angels. The reality is, if the angels want to win, it takes the devil to succeed.

You know what they say about angels?" she asked. "That they have wings and a halo?" "No, that they are just wild women who've had the hell screwed out of them," she said with another giggle.

Os professores não o querem, a Casa Pia diz que está cheia, o PSD tem a lista de candidatos completa, o Belenenses resolveu o problema com um brasileiro, o brasileiro garante que ata as botas sozinho. Que farei com este Bronco? Pô-lo a cortar capim no Estádio da luz? O gajo cortava as bandeirolas de canto!

Angel From Montgomery" I am an old woman named after my mother My old man is another child that's grown old If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire This old house would have burnt down a long time ago Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery Make me a poster of an old rodeo Just give me one thing that I can hold on to To believe in this living is just a hard way to go When I was a young girl well, I had me a cowboy He weren't much to look at, just a free rambling man But that was a long time and no matter how I try The years just flow by like a broken down dam Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery Make me a poster of an old rodeo Just give me one thing that I can hold on to To believe in this living is just a hard way to go There's flies in the kitchen, I can hear 'em there buzzing And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today How the hell can a person go to work in the morning And come home in the evening and have nothing to say Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery Make me a poster of an old rodeo Just give me one thing that I can hold on to To believe in this living is just a hard way to go John Prine, John Prine (1971)

I bought all these ingredients and headed to Marlboro Man’s house, choosing to ignore the fact that Marinated Flank Steak actually needs to marinate. Plus, I didn’t know how to operate a grill--Los Angeles County apartment buildings had ordinances against them--so I decided to cook it under the broiler. Having not been a meat eater for years and years, I’d forgotten about the vital importance of not overcooking steak; I just assumed steak was like chicken and simply needed all the pink cooked out of it. I broiled the beautiful, flavorful flank steak to a fine leather. With all my focus on destroying the main course, I wound up overcooking the angel hair noodles by a good five minutes, so when I stirred in all the cheeses I’d so carefully grated by hand, my Tagliarini Quattro Formaggi resembled a soupy pan of watery cheese grits. How bad could it possibly be? I asked myself as I poured it into garlic-rubbed bowls just like they did at Intermezzo. I figured Marlboro Man wouldn’t notice. I watched as he dutifully ate my dinner, unaware that, as I later learned, throughout the meal he seriously considered calling one of the cowboys and asking them to start a prairie fire so he’d have an excuse to leave.

I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly. My jeans were damp from sitting in the hamper next to a wet washcloth for two days, and the best top I could find was a cardinal and gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt from my ‘SC days. It wasn’t dingy, and it didn’t smell. That was the best I could do at the time. Oh, how far I’d fallen from the black heels and glitz of Los Angeles. Accepting defeat, I shrugged and swung open the door. He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did. “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio. “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness. “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?” I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.” “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me. He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors. Marlboro Man whispered in my ear, “So…,” and his grip around my waist tightened. And then, in an instant, I plunged back to earth, back to my bedroom, and landed with a loud thud on the floor. “R-R-R-R-Ree?” A thundering voice entered the room. It was my brother Mike. And he was barreling toward Marlboro Man and me, his arms outstretched. “Hey!” Mike yelled. “W-w-w-what are you guys doin’?” And before either of us knew it, Mike’s arms were around us both, holding us in a great big bear hug. “Well, hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, clearly trying to reconcile the fact that my adult brother had his arms around him. It wasn’t awkward for me; it was just annoying. Mike had interrupted our moment. He was always doing that.

He walked me to the door--the same one to which I’d been escorted many times before by pimply high school boys and a few miscellaneous suitors along the way. But this time was different. Bigger. I felt it. I wondered for a moment if he felt it, too. That’s when the spike heel of my boot caught itself on a small patch of crumbling mortar on my parents’ redbrick sidewalk. In an instant, I saw my life and any ounce of pride remaining in my soul pass before my eyes as my body lurched forward. I was going to bite it for sure--and right in front of the Marlboro Man. I was an idiot, I told myself, a dork, a klutz of the highest order. I wanted desperately to snap my fingers and magically wind up in Chicago, where I belonged, but my hands were too busy darting in front of my torso, hoping to brace my body from the fall. But someone caught me. Was it an angel? In a way. It was Marlboro Man, whose tough upbringing on a working cattle ranch had produced the quick reflexes necessary to save me, his uncoordinated date, from certain wipeout. Once the danger was over, I laughed from nervous embarrassment. Marlboro Man chuckled gently. He was still holding my arms, in the same strong cowboy grip he’d used to rescue me moments earlier. Where were my knees? They were no longer part of my anatomy. I looked at Marlboro Man. He wasn’t chuckling anymore. He was standing right in front of me…and he was still holding my arms.

I opened the front door of my parents’ house the next evening. His starched blue denim shirt caught my eye only seconds before his equally blue eyes did. “Hello,” he said, smiling. Those eyes. They were fixed on mine, and mine on his, for more seconds than is customary at the very beginning of a first date. My knees--the knees that had turned to rubber bands that night four months earlier in a temporary fit of illogical lust--were once again as firm as cooked spaghetti. “Hello,” I answered. I was wearing sleek black pants, a violet V-necked sweater, and spiked black boots--a glaring contrast to the natural, faded denim ensemble he’d chosen. Fashionwise, we were hilariously mismatched. I could sense that he noticed this, too, as my skinny heels obnoxiously clomped along the pavement of my parents’ driveway. We talked through dinner; if I ate, I wasn’t aware of it. We talked about my childhood on the golf course; about his upbringing in the country. About my dad, the doctor; about his dad, the rancher. About my lifelong commitment to ballet; about his lifelong passion for football. About my brother Mike; about his older brother, Todd, who had died when he was a teenager. About Los Angeles and celebrities; cows and agriculture. By the end of the evening, I had no idea what exactly I’d even said. All I knew was, I was riding in a Ford F250 diesel pickup with a cowboy--and there was nowhere else on earth I wanted to be.

Between September 1850 and September 1851, the homicide rate in the city of Los Angeles and its suburbs spiked off the graph at 1,240 per 100,000, which remains the all-time high homicide rate in the annals of American murder. If California ever had anything resembling the Wild West—meaning cowboys and shoot-outs—it was Los Angeles County in the early 1850s; until, that is, the formation in 1853 of the Los Angeles Rangers, a permanent posse that would in the course of one year capture and execute more than twenty alleged miscreants.

It was the rare actor who brought authenticity to the screen; one exception was Tom Mix, a former ranch hand from Oklahoma. The “King of the Cowboys,” Mix made over 160 films and was a frequent visitor when Wyatt and Josephine were in Los Angeles, sometimes accompanying Wyatt to the racetrack. William S. Hart was another Earp acolyte. Where Tom Mix was a rough-and-ready showman, Hart was classically trained, as comfortable in a Shakespearean tragedy as he was in a Western.

About page warm and casual on her blog, The Pioneer Woman: Howdy. I’m Ree Drummond, also known as The Pioneer Woman. I’m a moderately agoraphobic ranch wife and mother of four. Welcome to my frontier! I’m a middle child who grew up on the seventh fairway of a golf course in a corporate town. I was a teen angel. Not. After high school, I thought my horizons needed broadening. I attended college in California, then got a job and wore black pumps to work every day. I ate sushi and treated myself to pedicures on a semi-regular basis. I even kissed James Garner in an elevator once. I loved him deeply, despite the fact that our relationship only lasted 47 seconds. Unexpectedly, during a brief stay in my hometown, I met and fell in love with a rugged cowboy. Now I live in the middle of nowhere on a working cattle ranch. My days are spent wrangling children, chipping dried manure from boots, washing jeans, and making gravy. I have no idea how I got here . . . but you know what? I love it. Don’t tell anyone! I hope you enjoy my website, ThePioneerWoman.com. Here, I write daily about my long transition from spoiled city girl to domestic country wife.2

now she does. She won’t always.” I finished the bottle and set it next to me. It was the night of my high school graduation and one of the worst days of my life. “I left her. She told me she was pregnant, and I freaked out and left her. The only thing I could think of was how our lives would be ruined.

Vê-se à vista desarmada, caro senhor, que o aluno Angel é um antropóide mais póide que outra coisa. Solte-o se faz favor nas florestas africanas. Sem bússola, porque ele é capaz de a comer.

I sighed. “Yeah, so not really. I messed around with some guys, did the deed with a few. The last time was with a really cute cowboy I had a crush on. But it was a colossal failure. He lasted maybe two thrusts. I haven’t had the big O with a person not myself for… well, ever, come to think of it.” I wiggled my fingers. “I know my own way around the old strawberry patch, but I’ve heard it’s not nearly as fun to pluck the berry alone.

Have you thought about retiring early?” “I’ve thought about it. I would lose a fair amount of my pension if I did. Besides, what would I do with myself?” “You could work for me.” “Work ... as a ranch hand?” She laughed, genuinely amused by the image of herself in a cowboy hat cutting cattle that popped into her head. “I can’t even walk in the snow without help.” He glared at her. “You’re a fantastic rider.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you truly offering me a job?” He stopped shoveling, rested on the hay fork, gave her a lopsided grin. “I would if it would keep you around.” Something about that felt more romantic to her than a dozen red roses. “Jack West, you are a charming man.” “Me?” He shook his head, got back to shoveling. “I think you need to look that word up in the dictionary, angel.

You can dehorn the devil and dress him in feathers but he's still no angel.

Meg was all natural. She didn’t wear a lot of makeup, but her skin was so smooth, dotted with angel kisses, as his mother called freckles. He wanted to trace those freckles with his tongue, kiss each one and see if they covered her whole body or only parts kissed by the sun.

Finn slipped an arm around her waist and squeezed. "We've got to keep them, Callie. I'm already attached to the critters." "We talkin' about Angel and Pistol or the kids?" "The whole lot of them. Verdie included. A ranch is just dirt without kids and animals even if they knock over Christmas trees and fall in mud and cow shit. But it needs a good woman, too." "You callin' me a good woman, or are you going to put an ad in the newspaper for one?" she asked.

Los Angeles County has more people than any of the forty smallest states, but its 10 million residents must share two senators with nearly 30 million other Californians. There are a remarkable 120 U.S. counties that have more people than the entire state of Wyoming. Yet the Cowboy State’s 581,000 citizens enjoy the same two votes in the Senate as the other forty-states do.

If I Wanted to Go to Heaven” September 18, 2024 at 12:41 PM Verse 1: If I wanted to go to heaven, I’d be on my knees tonight, Prayin’ for forgiveness, under the pale moonlight. But I’m sittin’ here in this old bar, with a whiskey in my hand, Thinkin’ 'bout the life I’ve lived, and the man I am. Chorus: If I wanted to go to heaven, I’d change my wicked ways, I’d trade these boots for angel wings, and walk the righteous way. But the road to redemption is a long and winding ride, And if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to leave this life behind. Verse 2: I’ve loved and lost, and fought my wars, with a heart that’s scarred and torn, I’ve seen the highs, I’ve felt the lows, in the eye of every storm. But there’s a fire in my soul, that keeps me on this path, And if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to face my past. Chorus: If I wanted to go to heaven, I’d change my wicked ways, I’d trade these boots for angel wings, and walk the righteous way. But the road to redemption is a long and winding ride, And if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to leave this life behind. Bridge: Maybe someday I’ll find the strength, to turn my life around, But tonight I’ll raise my glass, to the lost and the found. For every sinner has a story, and every saint has a past, And if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to make it last. Chorus: If I wanted to go to heaven, I’d change my wicked ways, I’d trade these boots for angel wings, and walk the righteous way. But the road to redemption is a long and winding ride, And if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to leave this life behind. Outro: So here’s to all the dreamers, and the ones who never quit, If I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to make the best of it. But for now, I’ll keep on livin’, with this heart of mine, And if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d have to leave this life behind.

Journey to Heaven September 18, 2024 at 3:10 PM Verse 1: If I wanted to go to heaven, I’d lay my burdens down, I’d lift my eyes to Jesus, And wear a humble crown. Chorus: Oh, if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d dance in joy and sing, With faith and love as my wings, I’d soar on angel’s wings. Verse 2: If I wanted to see the glory, Of the Lord’s eternal light, I’d follow His commandments, And keep my heart upright. Chorus: Oh, if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d dance in joy and sing, With faith and love as my wings, I’d soar on angel’s wings. Bridge: Through trials and tribulations, I’d hold His hand so tight, For in His grace and mercy, I’d find my guiding light. Verse 3: If I wanted to join the angels, In songs of endless praise, I’d live my life for Jesus, And glorify His ways. Chorus: Oh, if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d dance in joy and sing, With faith and love as my wings, I’d soar on angel’s wings. Outro: Yes, if I wanted to go to heaven, I’d trust in Him alone, For in His arms of mercy, I’d find my eternal home.

Grandpa's Little Angel August 6, 2024 at 9:30 AM [Verse] She's Grandpa's little angel, his shining star, On his knee, she heard tales of days gone by. She brought sunshine to his days, near and far, And in Grandpa's arms, she'd always sigh. [Verse 2] Sunday morning, on the porch they'd sway, With a cup of coffee and a sigh of grace. She'd listen close to every word he'd say, In Grandpa’s embrace, she found her place. [Chorus] In Grandpa’s garden, she'd roam free, Picking flowers with a child's delight. In her eyes, he saw eternity, In her laughter, he found light. [Verse 3] Evenings by the fire, stories turned to song, He'd play the old guitar, she'd hum along. Time stood still for moments so long, In Grandpa's heart, she belonged. [Verse 4] Years have passed, the porch is worn, But memories linger in her heart so clear. Grandpa’s voice in every dawn, Whispering love that never disappears. [Bridge] In dreams, she walks those fields again, Hand in hand with her old friend. He’s the star in her night’s refrain, Guiding her until the end.

Over in Joshua Tree and Yucca, the bars are filled with Los Angeles refugees—arty and fashionable in their misguided vision of what desert living is like. Vintage cowboy boots, gauzy dresses, floppy hats. Everyone pretending that there is some relationship between their costume and the landscape.

Louise, who at twenty-three could easily look like a sixteen-year-old boy, wore trousers, a vest, and a tie. Joan wore a chic dress with a nipped-in waist and wide skirt, her red hair in a wavy, shoulder-length pageboy. The juke box in the bar was a good one, with Ray Charles singing “Hey Now” and new records by B. B. King, whose performances on Beale Street were a Memphis sensation. The most popular song of the night, hands down, was Kitty Wells strumming “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.” Wells was from Nashville, and the burgeoning country music industry in their home state was a subject of fascination for both women. Louise, intrigued by the fashion for cowboy costumes and yodeling, could do a fair imitation of Hank Williams. Louise had a new swagger that Joan hadn’t seen in her before. She was more assertive and suffered fools even less. When a pretty young woman stopped by their table to compliment Joan’s hair and flirtatiously ask, “Why don’t you cut it short?” Louise sent her on her way with a proprietary growl, saying, “Leave her alone. She’s not gay.

A Morning of Being Grateful Dear Father God, I thank you for waking me up today, another day of life. You have given me another sunrise to enjoy. Thank you, Lord God, for the wonderful sounds of nature and the cool breeze brushing through the trees making the birds sing beautiful melodies. You are a great Father, Lord, always full of grace and mercy. I praise you, Father, for allowing me to live another beautiful day in Your Kingdom. Thank you for the gift of family and friends. Holding them in my heart is one of the most precious things I can never get tired of. Bless everyone, Father, for they deserve all the goodness you have given to me. If I may do something wrong today, please forgive me. I also thank you for always being the reason in my head when it comes to decision-making. I pray to You, Your Son, Jesus Christ and all the angels in heaven. Amen.

We all at some time have gone through things we thought would never end. I know I've had plenty of hardships and heart breaks. I thought the tears would never end. The sadness seemed endless. I felt alone and didn't know what would happen next. But with the grace of God, I was able to move forward in my life. Look around and see that there are people having worst then you are. Maybe you can encourage someone else. Maybe they will surprise you with words of encouragement. I didn't think there were angels.

I’ve learned to trust the trail boss.

I got to meet interesting people with diverse talents, like Rex Allen, a western actor and singer who invited me to his home when he was throwing a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party for Slim Pickens and his wife, Margaret. There was a story making the rounds that night about the time when Rex was waiting for a plane in the Los Angeles airport, and a fan rushed up and cornered him. "Mr. Autry," the man said, "would you please give me your autograph?" Rex signed the autograph, "Gene Autry, who will never be half the cowboy Rex Allen is.

Sometimes God has other plans for us and things don’t happen the way we think they should.

When the Good Lord was creating Patrick Mahomes. "He was into His sixth day of "overtime." "When a angel appeared and said. "You're doing a lot of messing around on this one." "And the lord said. "Have you read the specs on this one he has to Have 180 moveable parts...all replaceable. Run on water And six pairs of hands." The angel shook his head and said."Six pairs of hands.... no way." "And the lord said. It's not the hands that are causing me problems," "it's the three pairs of eyes that he has to have. One pair that sees through the defense, one in the back of his head that sees what coming after him, and of course the ones here in front that can look for the end zone. "And the lord said, "I'm so close to creating something so close to myself.

If a person expects a person to be an angel in their life, they must create heaven for them. "Angels don't live in hell.

It was in that moment I knew whatever God had in store for me, I was ready. All my well laid-out plans over the years, He had to prove again and again to me that I wasn’t actually the one in control…He was. And whatever plans He had for us, I was ready to face them, good and bad.

We inaugurate the evening Just drumming up a little weirdness It gets late so early now The waves come in in mountain phases Linked impossibilities Branching possibilities I’d see fire where it's not supposed to be In the empty library at suppertime By the respirating basement door The dog eats out of an old tambourine on the floor I’ve been told you can live a long, long time on the love of a dog And that things get bitter and bad When the people are wrong And sleep can be had for the price of a song Late in the day When the options are gone When the seatbelt’s the only hug you’ve felt in weeks When wrong numbers are the totality of your social life The obscure strategies of wildlife Only flummox the hell out of you, kid I first saw her in a megastore The Day-Glo raven Born into a free fall Like plastic Easter basket grass Falling from an overpass The fulfillment of a tenth grade prophecy A motel masterpiece Blind to the branching possibilities Blind to linked impossibilities Teardrops were standing in my eyes Like deer before they bolt It was like I was stretching my arm through the cat door to heaven I was thinking I could lick the frosting off these summer days if nights were half as sweet Me like a banged up dog walking half sideways I adored the way she modified my mornings When I’d wake up in the calm shoals of her bed Somersaults and smoke and a universe of sleep Before she slipped into her heritage And disappeared Now every second thought is out of control I guess in a way I long to be rad When I was with her it felt wrong to be sad Did I tell you an angel finally came and shut my mouth? There was a smile and a tear in her voice too And she taught me To relight Relight and relight again They tell me you can live a long, long time on the love of a dog Things get bitter and bad And sleep can be had Late in the day when the options seem gone Please let your eyes be a friend to me again It’s just malfunctioning teardrops A cowboy overflow of the heart