You're Giving Me Fever...Fever, Fever, Fever

Well, it has certainly been a rough day for Rolan and his momma and by day I mean starting at midnight and lasting to this point. I think the proper description is "sucks," as in this bullshit sucks.
We've both ran fever, we've both thrown up. And, on top of all that, I had a deadline to complete perhaps the biggest project I've ever gotten myself into. As you know, I often foolishly believe that I can conquer challenges I'm clearly not nearly equipped to tackle. And, as it is, I faced one of those today, this miserable day filled to the rim with fever and vomit.
Now, one of the things I love most about my darling Rolan is the gusto manner in which he just keeps it real. In fact, Rowdy and I have recently nicknamed him Maverick. I look forward to explaining the origin of that nickname to some girlfriend of his as she tilts her head like a dog does when he looks at his nutty owner.
In keeping with his mavericky keeping-it-real lifestyle, Rolan spent the better part of the day protesting his head-to-toe misery. He flopped on the ground and cried. He sprawled out on my body and moaned. When his temperature would rise, he would stomp his feet and pound his fists.
Truthfully, his innocent way of declaring through body language, "Hey Mom, this is total bullshit," kinda made me feel better, too. The only thing worse than when your kids are sick, a utter heartbreak for mommas and daddies, is when you have the good fortune of being sick with them.
Rolan's feeling better now, so much so that he's yipping with each welcomed bite of yogurt, the first food he's eaten all day. So, here's to hoping Halloween is full of tricks and treats.

Turns Out, Cussing Grandkids Don't Impress Grandmas

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm feeling kinda proper I suppose.
Earlier today one of the greatest things that ever happened in the history of mankind unfolded in my living room. As I'm sure you've guessed, there is more than one potty mouth who lives at our house, so in turn, the odds of my offspring carrying on the family tradition of belting out obscenities in the most inappropriate places is pretty good. I'd say it's a sure bet, in fact.
All this cussing really concerns my mother-in-law, who, by the way, has most certainly let a few "Awww....bullshit(s)" and "hell fire(s)" pass over her Jesus lovin' lips in front of the kids. In fact, absolutely nothing warms the hearts of me and my husband like when our sons repeat a curse word right after she says it. Truly, it is as heavenly as brownies fresh from the oven. But, as it is, she does help me fight the good battle of trying to persuade all the cowboys to keep the language clean and she really does want her grandsons to behave like well-mannered gentlemen.
Well, as she was in the living room with us today, Ridge was retelling some current events around the Household Little. He explained some accident he and his dad had to clean up while working with the cattle and that's when it happened. Seriously, Readers, I am putting this in the Top Ten Moments of My Life, including the days my sons were born as well as the time that Fat Albert-sized young Mexican man danced to "La Bamba" on the beach at Progresso for the bargain price of a buck. Both made my heart go pitter-patter.
With eyes bigger than half dollars, his little hands darting with excitement, he looked at his grandmother and said, "Then my daddy said, 'Motherfucker!'
Seriously, I think it shocked at least ten years off her life. Never one to want our senior citizens to leave a conversation confused, I nudged Ridge and told him to tell Grandma what Daddy said one more time.
"That's when my daddy said, 'Moothheerrfucker,' Grandma," Ridge declared.
And that's when her Southern Baptist head started spinning around like that little girl in Poltergeist. She was seriously about to go western on his little butt when I reminded her that Ridge was simply repeating the language of her darling son. After all, he's just 4, he doesn't know what words are "good" or "bad." She then flew into a rant including a detailed description of the ass whooping she was going to give her son. Ridge pointed his finger and told her that she better not whip his daddy and I thought to myself that I totally needed to step in here and help her explain that Daddy said a bad word, but my vocal cords were currently submerged with overwhelming laughter.
I know this probably isn't a good testament to my parental philosophy, but the exchange warmed my heart. You can't stop a freight train with a bb gun, right?

If It Looks Like A Socialist and Acts Like A Socialist, It's An......

Alaskan governor. Just listen to Keith Olbermann explain how interesting it is that Sarah Palin has been burning down the campaign stump, warning of the evils of community ownership when just a few months ago she bragged of all the wealth distributed through Alaska because they collectively own the resources.

The Offspring Rising Has Conquered the Internet: BOOBY DUTY EDITION

After my last post about my darling spawn's new dominance of the computer, the result of which has left me booted off my blog, I received several comments and private messages from other parents lamenting the same overtaking by their children. Now, I don't know how many of you read the comments, so I wanted to leave one of the best on the front page.
She warns of the pervy future of computer searches of my sons. And because I chose to reproduce with the King of the Pervs, I absolutely know the scenario Lorie laid out will definitely play out. (Poet alert, poet alert!
Lorrie said:

Sure at 4 they are all about Thomas The Tank Engine, then before you know it, they are seven, and you check your google history and someone has typed in SEXY BOOBS and why, yes, that DID happen to me.

Learn from my mistakes. Force them to read books.

I thought this was some pretty awesome shit. He googled "SEXY BOOBS." I absolutely love that he threw some descriptive words in there, as though BOOBS alone wouldn't have sufficed. Just for fun (not at all because I'm secretly kinda a 7-year-old pervy boy), I went ahead a googled it. Ahhhh.......if I wasn't already worshipping at the House of Google, I would be now.
The very first website on the list is a classy little location called "Booby Duty." Immediately, I was overcome by jealously of the genius mind who brainstormed this. Clearly for accurate research purposes only, I had to click on it. Well, I am here to tell all of you, Lorrie included, that the folks behind this site have somehow managed to find a collection of the biggest jugs on Earth. I mean, one or two pairs like these watermelon-sized breasts would be impressive, but they managed to accumulate a collection every spine surgeon would dream of. And as I looked over the site, my mouth hung wide open as a pop can, I could only think how many future backaches would plague that page. The words "bulging disc" swirled around my mind, I think that in itself is a testament to how old I have gotten.
So, thank you, Lorrie, for sharing tales of what my future holds so I can laugh here in the present. As most mothers of sons will testify, we spend a lot of time trying to understand the workings of our male offsprings' minds. Good stuff, good stuff.

Oh, and those of you who live in or near Elk City, Oklahoma, don't forget the benefit dinner and auction for Jamie Munford this afternoon at the Gathering Place from 4-6.

The Offspring Uprising Has Conquered the Internet

In case you are wondering why my posts have been lagging as of late, I need to tell you that my computer has been hijacked by 4-year-old. That's right, he has totally taken this bitch over. And what's worse is it is all my fault. I got all consumed with his education and preparing him for the world ahead of him and thus taught him how to navigate around the world wide web in search of educational games to stimulate his fertile mind.
What a tragic misstep that was! I am constantly teaching my kids to do stuff and regretting it as soon as it started. Ever since I slowed down the mouse speed and turned him loose, he has found multiple little activities he loves, particularly those staring the cartoon of his heart, Thomas the Train. I know I'm suppose to be excited that my son is teaching himself new techie skills each day, but it is seriously cutting down on my people watching on myspace. I mean, it has been at least a week since I've observed some catty fight between two ladies battled out through myspace updates. I freakin' love those!
Of course, I have used Ridge's new found computer addiction to bend him to my will on some other divisive issues. In fact, it has really turned the tide in the Great Asparagus Wars of 2008. It went a little something like this here:

ME: Eat your asparagus.

HIM: No, I don't like it. I want more steak.

ME: If you don't eat it, you can't play your Thomas the Train game on the computer.

HIM: What?

ME: Seriously, no asparagus, no game.

HIM: What?

ME: And I'm gonna let your little brother play it all night.

HIM: You're a mean momma!

ME: Eat your asparagus.

HIM: Fine, mean momma.

Well, as much as I would like to bitch further about all the sharing with the offspring I have now screwed myself into doing, I promised to let him play as soon as I finished writing and he is currently standing right beside me, whining about how I told him he could play after he picked up his toys. He just started hitting a pitch that is even annoying his little brother, so I guess I have to hold up to my end of the deal and let him play.
In case you are still missing the moral of this sad story, let me spell it out for you. Learn from my mistakes and heed my warnings, Readers, don't teach your kids things. ANYTHING. If you follow my poor example, soon they will be smarter than you and will start encroaching on your domain and then you won't be able to indulge yourself in myspace drama or any of the other awesomey goodness of the internet. Damn that childhood education, damn it to hell!

8 Mavericky Ways to Stress Free Parenting

A few weeks ago, my bloggy friend Anna taught me about the brilliance in lists, or rather blogging lists. It seemed easy enough, right? Well, it's that time again.
This morning as I was wandering around the home of my heart, the beloved Internet, I found this article, 8 New Mom Stresses and How to Relieve Them. Sure, some of the ideas were golden, such as this one:

There was one week when my daughter Faye screamed -- and I'm talking ear-piercing, uncontrollable screaming -- for hours on end. I would call my husband, crying, and hold the phone so he could hear what I was going through. By Friday I couldn't take it anymore. I put her in her crib and went into the kitchen to try to pull myself together. A few minutes later, she stopped! I realized that seeing me stressed and upset just fueled her fire. But when I left her alone -- and played it cool when I did go back to her -- she calmed down."

But, as I was reading this monstrous bitch, I realized none of my tried and true mommy tricks were on there. And, really, I'm nothing if not helpful. So here goes, Mommas. You want to survive newborns and toddlers, then soak up the profound wisdom of Momma Little.

1. Take the above-mentioned advice of walking away and taking a brief break from the crying baby. In fact, wander on into the kitchen as that mom suggest. But don't just play it cool, DRINK it cool. And when I say drink, I don't mean water. Beer's the poison of my preference, but I think vodka, tequila or rubbing alcohol will suffice.

2. Now, this "walking away" technique will only work for so long. At some point your darling little offspring are going to gain some mobility and, take it from me, this makes the whole "escape the shrieking madness" a bit tricky. Once they do start toddling all over the place, they are absolutely adorable exploring the world except, of course, when you want to escape them. Then they will bobble after you, all red-faced and screaming, and you will think back to how some yahoo told you to just "take a minute" when your babies are having some unexplained meltdown. At these times, you will be glad you put a lock on your bedroom door. Sure, they will plant their bottoms on the other side of it, belting out unholy shrills sharp enough to puncture a dog's eardrum, but you will have that moment you've been long for. My friend Mollie, who is Martha Stewart in living color, taught me this trick. For those of you can't stomach the sounds of your crying kiddos, I think those scrunchy earplugs are also nice to have on hand.

3. Speaking of the mobility of our darling spawns, when they aren't using their new found tricks to chase after you, they deploying the skills to run away from you. Now this can be particularly troubling if you have a little weight in your trunk, if you are picking up what I'm putting down, or if you have multiples running in different directions. And, if you just happen to be unlucky enough to be like me, a fatass with two wayward children, you are totally screwed. It is for that reason that I truly recommend a leash.....or some awesome laser that, like, paralyzes them in their tracks. Really, it's the only way you'll win.

4. More alcohol. I would seriously consider opening a liquor store so you can get that shit at a discount.

5. If you don't have friends with similarly aged children, make some. Not only will they share their tips for neutralizing the enemy combatants, but sometimes you can blend your herd in with theirs and gain a few moments of adult interaction.

6. We all start out our adventures in parenting with the good intentions of raising the only set of American kids who aren't all strung out on the baby-sitting goodness of Dora the Explorer or Spongebob the Terrorist, but then we get starved for a free minute to do laundry or some asshole lets them watch it at their house and the next thing you know you haven't seen a single episode of those fantastic Maury Paternity Shows because you are in a power struggle for control of the television. So, listen up, Readers, just swallow all your aspirations of productive and responsible parenting from the start and buy those kids a spare television.
Sadly, I still haven't taken my own piece of advice here and sadly, in between my remote hogging husband and kids, I almost never get to watch my shows. Take it from me.

7. Don't read ridicules lists posted on the Internet, clearly written by someone who doesn't have children or has the luxury of hiring a nanny. While I like to joke about this sort of stuff, I really don't lock my kids out of my room or walk them on a leash. In fact, I know if I did try to put my wild kids on a leash, they would just one-up me by sitting their darling asses on the ground and forcing me to drag them to our desired destination.
Truthfully I just get tickled when I read these parenting lists. Occasionally you do get a good tip, but normally it's just the same list over and over. So, if you want my advice and, let's face it, I know you want to soak up my genius, just love your kids and hope they have grandparents who want to be involved enough to give you a small break.
I hope my fake list made you laugh. If it didn't, you are either a fun hater or you are still in the eye of the storm. If that's the case, go ahead and guzzle the rubbing alcohol. And laugh.

8. I just realized the list I found on msn had 8 tips on it. I can't think of number 8, so let's just call this an invitation for you, my awesome readers, to give us your appallingly awesome tips for child rearing.

Benefit for Jamie Munford

Benefit Dinner For Jamie Munford
October 26, 2008 will be held at
The Gathering Place (next door to El Charro)
From 4-6.




There will also be an auction to help raise money.




James Munford was diagnosed with hereditary diffused gastric cancer in Feb. 2008. This specific type of cancer primarily affects the liver, gall bladder, lymph nodes, and stomach. James recently had gall bladder surgery in Jan. 2008 where a cancerous mass was discovered, leading to his current diagnoses. He has been undergoing chemotherapy since March, 2008 in Dallas TX. Due to the excessive medical bills, and his constant recurrent trips to Dallas for chemotherapy, a fundraiser is being held on Oct, 26 2008 to help he and his family alleviate some of the financial burdens they are enduring.






If you have any questions feel free to contact Trisha @ 243-9325 or
Derek @ 405-476-1785.

Rolan Little: Nothing Says Maverick Like Outdoor Nudity

Rowdy: Now THAT boy is a maverick!

Old Friends Are Gold

I first came to know Jimmie Jackson when I was at the end of my high school career. I know I am using "career" a little foot loose and fancy free, as the bulk of my time was spent acing six-packs as opposed to sixth hour. But, that's neither here or nor there now, although my crafty beer drinking skills definitely served as a firm foundation for my friendship with Jimmie.
He went to work for my mother and her business partner Sherisse at their former hair saloon, The Creme of the Crop. Stop laughing, it was the 90s. Jimmie was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He was a large man, both in his size and in his vibrant personality. He was silly in ways that I still struggle to explain. His smile was that of a child, devious and ornery and, in so many ways, quite innocent. He was tender, he let his heart by seen by anyone who cared to see it and I loved him for that. And, he was gay, which put a human face on homosexuality for me. Although a few of my childhood friends have since come out of the closet, Jimmie was the first gay person to openly share his struggles and his triumphs with me.
Now, to understand Jimmie you need to know that he was a queen with a flair for drama that ran deep in his . spirit. And that, by the way, is just how he talked me into allowing him to color my hair a week before prom. The outcome was suppose to be deep red highlights. It was not. Instead, my hair was streaked with thick bands of a dark shade of purple that was almost magenta. Naturally, I cussed for a few moments while Jimmie poured me drinks, but it eventually faded and even grew on me a bit. That's the story of how I went to prom my senior year with purple hair. Mind you, this was before the funky-colored hair craze kicked off, so I now inadvertently look kinda like a fashion trailblazer, a farce I am willing to continue.
In keeping with Jimmie's love for the dramatic, he aspired to someday star as a Cher impersonator at a drag show. He loved Cher almost as much as he loved his mother, which was a lot. Seeking out research for his future show, sometime during that same time period, Jimmie and Sherisse talked my square peg mother not only into driving to the city to rock out at a gay bar, but even managed to talk her into letting me come along as well. Jimmie found an ID for me to use, so off we went. For about the first minute in the gay bar, I suffered a bit of culture shock. But then Jimmie introduced me to the owners and a few of his drag queen friends and I was in total heaven. These girls showed me their fabulous collection of evening gowns and metallic lipstick while I slammed keg beer in their dressing rooms. For an 18-year-old girl from Western Oklahoma, this was an epic adventure. We danced late into the night, hopping from gay bar to gay bar. Even as I type this now, a decade later, ABBA plays in my head as I recall shaking my booty with a multi-colored feather boa streaming behind me.
Although Jimmie was a solid 15 years older than I was, we became fast and furious girlfriends. We would stay up late into the twilight, sobbing over my latest teenage crisis while Jimmie consoled me and guided me toward much-needed giggles. He was full of love, ready on demand to dispense affection to those in need. I always marveled at how he freely put himself out there for new friendships, even though he had been burned in the past. He was a sweet spirit and, in so many ways, an innocent soul.
Then I grew up and our adventures took Jimmie and I in separate directions. After a few years, I had almost lost track of my friend. But then, through their miracles of myspace, he found me. Right off the bat, he told me of the death of his mother. Through our emails, his pain in that loss was profoundly seen. As I said before, Jimmie was incapable of loving only a little and his relationship with his parents was paramount in that. After a few emails, he just asked for my number. I sent it to him and within minutes my phone rang. We talked and reminisced for hours. I told him of the love of my life, Rowdy, and our two children and he told me of his, Ken. Jimmie laughed out loud at the prospect of me living on a ranch, running around in the mud chasing cattle. I laughed with him, knowing that image is that of fine comedy.
Our communication continued for months and I had planned to photograph his wedding to Ken. But then, out of the blue, it just stopped. I emailed him a few times, but got no response. After awhile, I was lost once again in my daily existence and forgot to keep trying. Little did I know, my friend had gotten ill.
So, you can imagine my surprise and my guilt when my mother called me on October 8 to tell me Jimmie had died. Truthfully, I still don't fully know what killed him. I just know that he had been sick for most of this year. I also know that he was one of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend. I am comforted in knowing that in the last few years he found the love of his life. He was true to himself in ways few people have the courage to be. He was full of love and full of life and he ushered in acceptance for all people. Above all, he was a friend.
Jimmie's memorial is in Enid tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to attend. I've been meaning to write this ever since I learned of his tragic passing, but each time I sat down to it, the pain choked my words. It's hard even still.
Jimmie,
We loved you for all that you are. I hope we meet again somehow in the great scheme of things. You were the best example I know of honesty in the face of great scrutiny. May peace find you, old friend.
I love you,
Shonda

Awesome By Association

The old rule "Guilt by Association" as been around for a long time. Well, since I already get myself in enough sticky messes all by myself, I don't need any extra trouble. So, instead, I try to seek out friendships that make me awesome by assocation.
Chief among that list is my homegirl Lyndi. (I told you I am going to insert hip hop into my daily life. I really think that's what Cheyenne, Oklahoma has been missing).
Anyways, Lyndi is constantly trying to bring sunshine to the rainy day masses. When I see a homeless man, I give him a ten spot. Hell, if I have a beer with me, I'll just cut out the middle man and give him that.
Lyndi, on the other hand, will volunteer at a shelter or some other completely selfless act. That's what she does.
I like to think of us as just one person. I make up the "bitching about shit that needs to be different" half and she makes up the "doing something to make things" different half. And since I have our friendship arranged that way in my mind, I don't feel bad about all the world changing I'm not doing.
In her typically awesome fashion, Lyndi boarded a plane this week and flew off to the hills of San Francisco to run a half-marathon. While inflicting this level of pain to oneself already makes us ass draggers scratch our heads and wonder why she would spend her vacation sweating and panting rather than laying and drinking, we really get baffled when we realize that she had to raise $3600 for blood cancer research to even be allowed to run in it.
Yes, that's right. She raised a bucket full of money for cancer patients -AND- is running a marathon. She's an overachieving humanitarian, that Lyndi.
So good luck, sister! You are going to run like the wind.

I'm so glad I picked Lyndi as my half person.

Playing House (just for laughs, so laugh)

The Random Ramblings of a Sleepless Maverick

Well, Readers, I am staring dumbfounded at this blank page. In between the last presidential debate and wrapping my mind around that bitchy know-it-all Kenley somehow making it to the Project Runway finale, I just can't seem to compose a full thought. But, you know I am dedicated to your entertainment, Readers, so I thought I would jot down a few of my fragmented brain drizzle.

I love negative ads. It's just political shit talking. Is it true? Unlikely. Is it fun? Hell yes. So, listen up, boys: Why don't you come run some of those nasty tidbits on mommalittle. I won't player hate, I'll participate. Word.

That brings me to another. I love hip hop jargon. I've been trying to introduce it into my daily life, but thus far it has been unsuccessful.

I really like drinking coffee in the late evening. That is, until I'm laying in bed wide awake as a crackhead on a 3 day smoke feast.

Ridge snuck into Rolan's room and interrupted his peaceful nap this afternoon by shimmying into his crib and then subsequently pouncing on his little brother's head while chanting, "Wake up, Rolan!"
Rolan, in turn, spent the afternoon randomly jabbing his big brother in the eye for the torturous awakening. With each incident, rather than responsibly disciplining my offspring, I just thought, "Man, I'm so glad my sons are mavericks."

Speaking of swaggering with the big balls of a maverick, Ridge and I build some wooden car inside the house today and then proceeded to paint it on the kitchen table. He seriously had slaps of blue paint in his ears.

I am exhausted. I am so freakin' exhausted that I cannot sleep. Such is the divine comedy of life.

There are several ways to show your patriotism. One of them just happens to be paying taxes. God knows I pay my share, but I love America and don't want to further become a "sharecropper nation," as Warren Buffet described the negative effect of our expanding foreign held debt.

I love Kenny G. I mean, I really love Kenny G. He played on Dirty Sexy Money last week and my long, lost love affair was reignited. Few things get my blood pumping like that long-haired genius blowing away on his saxophone.

I think blue eyeliner rocks. I wore it daily for many years, using it for some reason on only the outer halves of each eye, which made it rock even harder. After much badgering from my more fashion savvy friends, I begrudgingly abandoned my aqua beauty trick. I'm really thinking about bringing it back. What do you think?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. That's just how I roll. In fact, I think it is fair to say that's what I am doing right now. So, I'm gonna stop. I'm going to force myself to sleep so I won't drag around like a zombie tomorrow.

Out Fixin' My Man

When I came home this afternoon, the house was a frigid icebox, which suited my hot-blooded desire for freezing temperatures, but didn't seem to fair too well for my sickly children. Plus, you know I'm a complete cheapskate, so keeping the heater from sucking the sweet juice from our bank account was tempting. Nonetheless, I broke down and switched the miserable sweat machine on and went about my business. That, by the way, was debating with my stubborn three-year-old about whether we should or should not eat sausage and only sausage for each meal that I serve.
He was like, "Mom, I'm hungry. I want the sausage."
And I was all, "Ridge, I've already cooked your sausage once today. I'll make it again the morning. I think you should snack on some strawberries or perhaps some bananas at this juncture so your aren't suffering from massive heart attacks before you start kindergarten."
And then he said, "Listen, lady, save all your fruity hippie talk for my pansy brother. Dad told me that coffee and sausage will put hair on my chest, so cook it up, biznotch."
So I was like, "Well, you make a convincing argument, son. Arteries aren't so important when faced with the prospect of pre-pubescent chest fuzzies."

Anyways, so sometime after I bent to the will of my future fur-coated son, I realized that the heater had, in fact, NOT started blowing blistering air into our home. The temperature measurer on our thermostat (I know there's probably some "technical" name for that, but I just won't be chained to the repression of accuracy. Thank you, Bill O'Reilly) was still sitting on Heaven -- 65 degrees, bitches!

As I've learned from my extensive studies of modern innovations, i.e. photoshopping wrinkles off my pruney face or checking email accuracies on snopes.com, I know that the best way to fix problems with machines is turning them off and then turning them directly back on. Write that down, folks, that's some scientific shit right there.
However, like all repairs, it doesn't have a 100% accuracy. Situations will present themselves that you have to search out a different switch to flip. Such was the case with the heater.

Not long after I realized that it wasn't kicking on, Mr. Fix It himself came home. I've been convinced that Bob the Builder is totally based on my man. Or maybe Handy Manny. Rowdy isn't Mexican, but he'll damn sure work like one. (Simmer down, saying an entire race is hard workers is a compliment. Exploiting it isn't.)

After I reported the need for the repair, he wandered on over to the thermostat and then proceeded to flick it for about 6 minutes. He paused. Damn, no air. No noise from the unit.
He turned the thermostat on and off. I told him I had already deployed that almost fool-proof fix, but he apparently thought I had not properly performed the task. When that, too, proved fruitless, he decided to attack the rebel heater directly.
Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what miracles my man was attempting to perform, but from the hallway it looked as though he was using his Jedi mind tricks to turn up the fire. Hands on hips, he looked that bitch over a few times and declared this conundrum a mystery. He shut the utility door and resumed his position in the recliner.

Now, as you know, I am not a nagger. Our facet has dripped 4 gallons of water each day since Rolan was born 2 years ago. Periodically I will remind my man that a water volume the size of the Nile River flows needlessly through our sink each week and then he says he will fix it in the winter. Fair enough.

But this, this I just could not let go. We do, after all, share our house with two little children. If it was 65 in here at 9:30, my guess is that it would be, like, 50 by morning. While that may be my idea of Heaven, it seems like it might be a teeth-chattering nightmare for my kids. Plus, it might cause some damage to the aforementioned teeth and I hear that dentistry is an expensive venture. Refer back to my cheapskate status.
As Rowdy continued with his "Hell, I don't know, Honey" campaign, I decided to investigate the fuse box. We had to have it replaced about a year ago and that work horse we hired to do it just didn't write down which switch went to what section of the house and then went ahead and threw the old one away before he left. And we think that is totally awesome since it turns the electrical safety of our home into a guessing game. We're thinking about about turning it into a drinking game.
I opened the door and noticed two switches had flipped to off. Like I said, it could've been to anything, but being the skilled problem-solver that I am, I employed my mad fixin' skills and slipped 'em back over.
Presto! The heater fires up the sound of 3 ancient power plants. The house fills with a faint scent of burning rubber as air pumps up from the vents.
And I was like, "Dude, you just got totally shown up by your wife. You have the penis. You are suppose to be the fixer."
Rowdy counter, "There's nothing wrong with you being the fixer."
"Umm......well, I would say there is. Again, I am the lone non-penis bearer in this household. Plus, that's how we ended up with two toilets that barely work and a dripping faucet."
"What?"
"Never mind."

The Rewards of Sacrifice

Losing yourself in a sea of motherhood seems almost inevitable. As it, almost my entire friend roster is comprised of mommas and, to one degree or another, they've all reported near-drowning in sippee cups and balanced breakfasts and, sweet bejesus, diaper cream. And as much as we love, love, love our darling spawn, we sometimes find ourselves staring with envy at our single, free friends. Our minds drift back to brisk summer evenings, of drinking cold beers on a quilt as Bobby Dylan belted "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" into dark night, of staying up way too late and then sleeping in even later. With a sigh you push the memories of that totally uninhibited ghost of yourself back into the recesses of your mind and then spoon another helping of macaroni and cheese out for the kids.
But then, when least expect it and need it the most, some small detail reminds you that all things great in this life come with the cost of great sacrifice. Through all your bitching and bellyaching, you are caught completely off guard. That, by the way, is the design of it. If you happened to be expecting some breath-taking moment then it wouldn't be some breath-taking. It would just be, well, a moment.
Now, I don't want this to sound like I am second-guessing my path into motherhood. That's not the case at all. My children are the two greatest people I know and I'm not just saying that because they were housed in my uterus for damn near a year. They are witty and compassionate, quirky and kind. But, in order for them to bloom, they must be the object of my attention. It's easy to get absorbed in such an awesome responsibility.
So, this weekend when I was mentally and emotionally beat down, one of those simple moments crept up on me out of nowhere.
My littlest guy Rolan has always been a lover. While his brother is certainly sweet and full of love, he was never the snuggler that Rolan is. Rolan is just, well, affectionate.
Because both my children are early risers, clearly a trait they inherited from their dad and, subsequently, requires me to drag my wide ass out of bed far early than I would like, I was out of bed Saturday morning with the cravings for more rest luring me back to sleep. I sat in the recliner sipping coffee as Ridge and Rolan watched The Bee Movie. (By the way, if you haven't seen this yet, do. Unfortunately, I watch more cartoons these days than I would like, but this gets high marks from me.)
Just as I was cursing the universe for unfairly crashing into my peaceful slumber, my Rolan made me realize how blessed I am to have him and his brother to be up early with.
He shimmied up my leg and into my lap. First he touched his nose to mine and then buried his head into the nook of my neck. And just when I thought this moment was as sweet as it gets, he grabbed one of my arms, wrapping it around his body, and then reached down to grab the other, throwing it over him as well. He wanted to be near me, to be embraced by his mother. At the risk of sounding pitifully corny, I kind of got a tear in my eye. We know our children love us, we do. But, in these tender instances when you can feel the outpouring of their adoration, you realize that all the personal identity you have had to forfeit for their well-being is worth the investment.
After a few minutes, I broke my embrace and put my arms back at my side. Rolan reached down just as he had before, grabbing one of my arms and then the other, wrapping them around him.
It was a perfect moment, a moment I have been needing.

A Beautiful Mind

Okay, Readers, I am apologizing in advance for all the lack of good humor and rank jokes on my blog this week. I've been busy and sleepy and, frankly, lazy. So, while I'm still all scrunched faced and serious, I will leave you with a few thoughts and quotes from the richest man in the world, Warren Buffett, who is the Michael Jordan of investing and also a vocal Barack Obama supporter.

On the Bush tax policies and tax loopholes, Warren, a true humanitarian, lamented that in spite of being the wealthiest man on Earth, he only paid 19% of his personal income in 2006, which was (48.1 million), in federal income taxes while his middle income employees paid 33% of their incomes although they made much, much less money.

Buffett believes that the U.S. dollar will lose value in the long run. He views the United States' expanding trade deficit as an alarming trend that will devalue the U.S. dollar and U.S. assets. As a result it is putting a larger portion of ownership of U.S. assets in the hands of foreigners. This induced Buffett to enter the foreign currency market for the first time in 2002. However, he substantially reduced his stake in 2005 as changing interest rates increased the costs of holding currency contracts. Buffett continues to be bearish on the dollar, and says he is looking to make acquisitions of companies which derive a substantial portion of their revenues from outside the United States. Buffett invested in PetroChina Company Limited and in a rare move, posted a commentary[49] on Berkshire Hathaway's website why he would not divest from the company despite calls from some activists to do so. (He did, however, sell this stake, apparently for purely financial reasons.)

Buffett favors the inheritance tax, saying that repealing it would be like "choosing the 2020 Olympic team by picking the eldest sons of the gold-medal winners in the 2000 Olympics". In 2007, Buffett testified before the Senate and urged them to preserve the estate tax so as to avoid a plutocracy.

In his letter to shareholders in March, 2005, Warren Buffett predicted that in another 10 years’ time the net ownership of the US by outsiders would amount to $11 trillion. “Americans … would chafe at the idea of perpetually paying tribute to their creditors and owners abroad. A country that is now aspiring to an ‘ownership society’ will not find happiness in - and I’ll use hyperbole here for emphasis - a 'sharecropper society’.”

Did you get that, folks? Sharecropper society. While Bush has started three wars, Iraq, Afghanistan and the War on Terror (referred to in the Pentagon as the "Long War"), he has mortgaged the entire country to the Chinese to give the first tax cuts in the history of the country during wartime. In other words, Warren believes that we, the people of the United States, have borrowed more money than we can pay back, which in effect sells our nation to our foreign debtors, we will be like sharecroppers. We will be working for a small percentage of the profits, the rest being shipped abroad the folks who actually own us.

Buffett has endorsed Barack Obama for president and intimated that John McCain's views on social justice were so far from his own that McCain would need a "lobotomy" for Buffett to change his endorsement.

With the economic meltdown streaming into every sector of the American commerce, the American people are getting a good lesson in how important the selection not just of the president, but the folks they let head up Cabinet positions. During last week's debate, Barack said that he felt like Warren would be a good choice for the Secretary of the Treasury. My right-leaning husband's ears perked up.

"If I knew for sure Barack would pick Warren and I knew Warren would accept, I would vote for him," Rowdy declared.

Like anyone who follows markets, Rowdy admires Warren Buffet. He's shown, simply, that he knows more than anyone else about the world's finance systems.

The world's most successful investor, the richest man on the globe, Warren Buffet believes Barack is the best candidate to turn around this financial crisis. Warren wasn't born into wealth. From a middle class Nebraska family, he has remained in Omaha to run Berkshire Hathaway. He has shunned the glamour of Wall Street, his home and heart still in the Midwest. He owns no yachts and considers his big screen television as a splurge.

Chop Sticks

Ridge watched Lyndi and I eat sushi with chop sticks, his eyes dancing with curiousity as he dropped food into our mouths by lifting it between two thin, wood beams. After he sampled the calamari, which he continues to believe was chicken, I ordered him raspberry ice cream.
Politely, Ridge requested his own chop sticks. He pulled them apart, giggling already with this food gimmick, and then dipped the sticks into the ice cream, stringing it in his mouth as he saw Lyndi and me do with sushi.
Red ice cream dribbles on his chin, he laughed. He dips the sticks back in, more ice cream stringing about the patio.
So, Ridge is become a cultured man of the world.

Mozel Tov!

I'd like to take this opportunity to wish all our Jewish friends a Happy Yom Kippur! Mozel Tov!
Also, thank goodness for it. Perhaps the Day of Atonement will give the markets a day to be still for the moment.

Shonda + Dancing = Awsomeness

As you know, I'm on a constant quest to prove my awesomeness. It's a scientific process, really. And like all efficient scholars, I have sought evidence to support the theory.
Now, my "process" may be a bit different than other world-renowned scientists. Rather than conducting an experiment persay, documenting the precise findings and then comparing them to another study, my expertise is drawn from google. It goes something like this here:

I open Mozilla Firefox. For my low-tech friends, that's how I surf the internet. It is much, much cooler than that lame-o Internet Explorer you are still using. Seriously, that is sooooo 1999. Why don't you log onto the new millennium and download Mozilla. (That's kind of the tough love my computer guy gave me.)

Anyways, after I wander into the world wide web, then I type the name of whatever I want to learn about in the google search line. About 1,000 years worth of studying pops up, I read part of it and then claim the supreme knowledge for myself.

Last night as I was performing more "research" to support the theory of my awesomeness, I stumbled upon the most solid evidence thus far that the name "Shonda" in itself translates into "pure drops of rockin' radness" or something along those lines.

In my very scientific process, I found this youtube video of a little girl who just happens to, you guessed it, bear the name Shonda. Clearly I'm not now or ever will be as awesome as our young friend, but I think the random coincidence of she and I having the same first name makes me just that much cooler.
So, kick back, my friends, and enjoy the dancing goodness that is Shonda. She obviously got all the coordination and moves alloted for the both of us.

They Can't Want What They Don't Even Know Exists

Within my circle of friends, I was one of the last to reproduce. There's definitely perks to both ends. On one hand, you start early and have a free house to frolic about carelessly in while you are young enough to enjoy it. On the other hand, you have the wisdom and tips from your friends with older kids, helping you skirt passed train wrecks.
Now, one of the most important lessons I learned from my friends' darling offsprings is this: NEVER, under any circumstances, let your children discover the toy section at Wal-Mart. Push your cart the long way around. Skip things you can get at a later, child-free time. Once the kid realizes this never-ending land of toys and gadgets and other kid bologna they won't be interested in once you've bought it and pull out of the parking lot, you will only be able to leave Wal-Mart one of two ways:
1.) With a mind-numbing decrease in cash.

2.) With a kicking, screaming hellion either makes you look like a spineless puss in front of the hard-nosed, whip 'em 'til they bleed crowd or makes you look like a heartless child abuser to the wimpy, call DHS over hand slaps posse.

Whatever route you venture down, you will not come out a winner. Now, I have lived by the principles of total toy aisle alienation since the day our first son was born. It was my religion of the devout.
But then four years of precise planning came tumbling down into a rumble of future temper tantrums when my father, my freakin' father, introduced Ridge to the Wal-Mart toy section. You don't expect this kind of betrayal by your own flesh and blood.
It was fateful afternoon about two weeks ago. Dad picked up Ridge, his oldest grandchild, from Rainbow Lane and the two of them embarked upon their adventures. First, they went to the park where the feed ducks while Dad used his darling grandchild as a prop to attract women. Well, I don't actually know that for a fact, but I do know it is a proper strategy among unattached men.
After chasing their feathered friends to an early migration, they moseyed across the street to the museum where Ridge flung his arms with excitement as they looked at trains, tractors and antique cars. Equipment really makes my boy's heart tick.
And, the next step in the progression was obviously spoiling the already spoiled grandchild even further by not just buying him a toy, but by allowing him to pick it out by himself, somehow selecting one lucky toy out of sea, an endless ocean, of shit he doesn't need. Up to this point, Ridge just thought toys magically appeared when one of his special days rolled around, like his birthday or the time he willingly shared his candy with his brother.
But now his eyes were opened to the freedom of selecting his own, to the notion that while the toys he's been getting are pretty cool, toys he loves more exist right there on the shelf next to this preselected bullshit.
Ever since my father, the trecherous traitor that he is, broke my cardinal rule and introduced Ridge to the Heaven of his dreams, we haven't been able to leave town without venturing into Wal-Mart. And that, my friends, makes this already sucky experience even more painful to me. As you know, I gave up Wal-Mart for Lent and have only been back once when I had to find some supplies for the cruise in May. My blood pressure has been lower. I've slept more soundly each night. My life has been all around better.
But, the good times are gone. Wal-Mart has become Ridge's Disneyland, available each time we leave Elk City to drive back to Cheyenne.
I won't get Ridge toys for the purpose of making him love me more than he loves his rock star dad. Okay, I will, but don't tell Rowdy. However, to disguise it to the husband and maintain some element of parental order, I do make Ridge earn the toys. And by earn, I mean I make Ridge follow through with his end of my bribes for obediance and good behavior. It's working like a charm. Hell, I'm thinking of writing a "How To" book for other mommies and daddies out there.
Until then, I'm racking my brain to scheme up some devious plan to even the score with Grandpa Dennis the Devil. Damn him, damn him!

I Can See The Cheyenne-Arapaho Nation From My Porch

Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you. I've been a fan for a long time. Do you mind if I call you John? (insert wink)
Great, you can call me Shonda if you'd like. Just go with your gut, I know that's where you really excel anyways.
Well, John, the reason I'm tracking you down today is that I need a job. I mean, with the American consumer going completely freakin' bankrupt and not having the keen foresight of being a corporation so their poor financial decisions could be "bailed out," I fear they'll only be able to scrounge up enough cash for a few beans for their daily meal. Typically a steak dinner is reserved for folks with enough cash to not be, I don't know, homeless, so I'm kinda concerned that the product my husband and I produce, beef, is going to become more of a luxury item for the few rather than the evening meal of the millions. That coupled with $5 a gallon diesel, which makes pulling a profit out of wheat crop easier than Katie Couric wrestling answers out of your girl Sarah, I think this might be the time for me to cut my apron strings and get a job.
But, here's the thing, John, I feel like I am far too qualified and, more importantly, too cool for most the jobs I've been being offered. So, I put on my trust Thinkin' Cap, known by many as shot-gunning a six pack (a little trick I learned from my friend Joe Six Pack. I think he is a common acquaintance of mine and your girl Sarah), and came up with a solution. You see, John, I'm a skilled problem-solver.
As I surfed the world wide web, I learned that the two of the only sectors with positive job growth during the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson Presidency are government and the oil and gas industries. I'm sure you are already aware of that since you supported 90% of that chucklehead's policies and resolutions. In fact, this reassures me of both your and Sarah's competence. God bless you, you saw this shitty economic Hindenburg plummeting toward it's fiery demise and you planted your brilliant butts into job security. Good for you, I say!
Since I'm already living out here in gas-rich Western Oklahoma, I'm sure you'd assume that I was going to pursue a fat paycheck in the oil patch. Well, John, I know lots of folks who work their asses off in that line of work and, to be honest, I just don't really want to have to work that hard. If you ask me, there are only a few activities are acceptable for 5:30 in the morning and drilling ain't on that list. Well, I guess "drilling" is approved, but it is the kind that you don't have to leave your cozy bed to do. I'm just looking for a job that requires a little less, well, work and a little more air conditioning.
I was starting to get a bit discouraged, John, as my quest for the perfect employment was bearing no fruit. Oh, speaking of fruit, does that offer you made for the $50 a hour lettuce-picking gig in Arizona still stand? It's not for me, you know I'm not gonna drag my fat, red-headed ass out in the 110 degree sauna that is Yuma for $50 a hour. But, for that kinda cash, I will totally force my whining offspring to pick that shit all year long. Hell, when they are finished with that, I will make them whip you and I up a nice chicken salad with some ranch dressing, perhaps a few almonds and sun-dried tomatoes. I think child labor builds character. Don't you agree, John?
My brain has always functioned most efficiently after I've cracked open a Bud Light. So, after I listened to that prick who ran Lehman Brothers into the ground whine to Congress about how the value of his Lehman Brothers stock had declined, you know because of his shitty decisions, and how he thinks it is absolutely fair that he gets to keep the $500 million in cash bonuses for his splendid job performance over the last few years, I realized I needed a second beer to really fuel my brain.
That's when it hit me, Joh. I should come to work for you! Like I said before, unless you work in the government or energy, you are probably worried that your job is going to disappear.
So, I googled government jobs. Several caught my eye, but I pushed forward in my quest. I think you will be pleased to know that I'm no quitter, John. When I am committed to task, I do not blink. I am that sure.
And then it happened, the job that I was born to do popped onto my screen. It was like when Derek met Meredith in Joe's bar and he was, like, totally drawn to her. Or like when Sarah Palin saw her first hockey puck.
Are you ready? (Drum roll please)..........
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Assistant Secretary of the Interior, the one who runs the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Now, I realize that I won't actually be a "candidate," that you would have to appoint me or something along those lines. I just taught "formally announcing my candidacy" had a more professional ring than "please, John, I'm begging for the job."
I know with your super thorough vetting and interviewing process, you are going to rummage through the entire background of each and every appointment you make in your administration. So, on that note, I have a little confession to make. I kinda, sorta already asked Barack if he would give me the job. I mean, I've always believed that you would storm into Washington on the Straight Talk Express and Put Country First. I just didn't know if you would win. You did, after all, lose the GOP nomination in 2000 to George Bush.
After Barack intereviewed me, I realized you guys were righ. He is a snobby elitist. He gets all self-righteous about qualifications and credentials and I was like, "Dude, you think because you went to Columbia and Harvard and have that sky high IQ are you are sooooo special."
The interview really did happen.....in my highly-evolved, not-at-all bizarre brain. It went something like this here:

ME: So, ummm, Barack, I really need a job and I think this Director of the Indian Affairs title would sound awesome right before my name.

BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...

ME: Please, call me Shonda.....or Assistant Secretary Shonda, whatever you feel comfortable with.

BARACK: Uhhh....okay....Shonda......tell me the education and qualifications who have for this position.

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. First of all, I live just outside of Cheyenne, Oklahoma on the Washita River. When I sit out on my porch at night drinking a cold beer while I yell at my kids to stop throwing rocks at one another, I can see the exact location that Custer massacred that sleeping village of Cheyenne women and children. There's a huge monument on the spot and everything. I'm pretty for sure it's part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation. So, yeah, I have very close relations with the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation.

BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?

ME: Oh, yes, absolutely! I can see the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation, well at least the part that not one single person lives on, from my house. As someone who can see another nation from her porch, I feel like that also gives me a wealth of foreign policy experience.

BARACK: Shonda, the Bureau of Indian Affairs is the oldest department in the Department of the Interior. The Department of the Interior only handles domestic issues, so foreign policy experience, as you called it, doesn't necessarily qualify you for that post.

ME: Oh, you want domestic experience! Fantastic! I am a domestic goddess, Barack. I can turn any three ingredients into a gourmet meal. I think my sizable ass will speak for that qualification. Would you like to see my credentials?
Three years ago, I started baking my kids' birthday cakes because I just couldn't stomach forking over $40 for a product that cost $3 to make.I've also pioneered a method to prevent lazy women from ironing. I use it daily.

BARACK: Yes, Shonda, frugality is a positive attribute, however, the Department of Interior doesn't really handle baking or ironing.
Do you have any actual experience in matters that the Bureau of Indian Affairs does handle, such as managing the 66 million acres of land held in a trust for the 562 federally recognized American Indian tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. Yes, I do. As you know, my husband and I farm and ranch. After helping my husband move farm equipment, I have sat stranded in a pick-up truck hundreds of times while Rowdy farmed. I normally manage that time by drinking warm beers left in the truck while texting messaging one of my friends about the enormous pile of bullshit I think being left in that sweltering truck is.

BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?

ME: Well, I'm not actually "involved" in making any decisions, but sometimes my husband really gets desperate and forces himself to let me plow. I have to tell you, Barack, that is a time I truly enjoy. I feel at one with land as I drive my giant tractor while listening to NPR Radio and narrowly missing fence posts with my plow.

BARACK: (quiet for lengthy period of time. Clearly he does blink) Another responsibility of the Bureau is to provide quality education. Does your background hold any experience in this field?

ME: Hell yes it does, Barack. I spent my late teenage years teaching younger kids how to drink beer. That's where my passion for education was birthed.
Just this week I taught my oldest son to tell his father that he was making him crazy. I also taught my youngest son to whiz off the front porch. Those diapers we are soaking through freakin' dozens at a damn time are bad for the environment, Barack, and like my Indian brothers and sister, I am want sit in a Circle of Harmony and smoke peyote with Mother Earth.


BARACK: Shonda, I think that statement may sound a bit racists to some.


ME: Oh, forgive me, Barack. I know white folks need to be careful when using racially specific words like "brothers and sisters." I apologize.

BARACK: White people have siblings, too, Shonda. That's not what I was referring to. Rather I was offended by the "Mother Earth" and "peyote" comment. It is wildly offensive to suggest that all Native Americans sit in circles smoking drugs to be one with nature.


ME: I just want the Native Americans and Mother Earth to be happy with me, Barack.


BARACK: Are you saying that you consume drugs, Shonda?

ME: Of course not, Barack! I am one of those people lucky enough to have a brain that hears non-existent noises and sees non-existent things all by itself. It's kinda like having a television in your head that no one knows about but you.

BARACK: You know what, Shonda, let's just move on. Providing quality health care to Native Americans is also a mission of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. How does this reflect your personal values?

ME: Well, for starters, Barack, I feel like they should be able to smoke peyote in the case that they develop cancer....or are a Cancer, like the zodiac sign. I feel like the same right should be available to Virgos, Geminis, Libras and any other strange star formation.


BARACK: (shakes head, clearly annoyed for reasons I don't understand): Let me state this more directly. Have you ever worked in health care?


ME: In what sense, Barack?</span>

BARACK: Well, have you ever worked in health care means have you ever been employed with a job that stabilizing and improving the health of other people was one of your tasks?

ME: As you know, Barack, like Sarah Palin, I've turned my uterus into a baby oven. Just as she has explained, being a mother makes you an expert on anything directly or indirectly linked to your children. Have I studied medicine? Well, in a sense, I have, Barack. Almost every time my children cough medicine, I read the label. I mean, if there is a butterfly or some flowers on the medicine's label, I don't read it. I know the FDA would never allow a drug company to place symbols of safety and happiness on a product they know might harm my kids. In those occasions where a butterfly, for example, his fluttering his majestic wings as he sails over a blooming Spring flower, I fearlessly shot that shit down my kids' precious throats.
Also, I have held the Kleenex while my kids have blown their noses on several occasions. I cared for their umbilical cords until they fell over, which likewise gives me experience dealing with amputees.
Oh, and I also breastfed both my sons, which gives me solid credentials in food production and circulation as well as nutrition. Do you think just anyone's milk glands would just aimlessly produce that perfect formula of breast milk immediately following the birth of an offspring, triggered by hormones that all females naturally make after their bodies give birth.


BARACK: (stares blankly at me. I guess he's taken a class on true leadership since he has clearly given up blinking). As one of the most important functions of the Bureau, you would be responsible for promoting economic opportunities for the Native American tribes in the very off chance that everyone else in America, including Dick Cheney and George Bush and Sarah Palin have disappeared and you actually got the job. Do you have any knowledge in positive ways to promote economic development for these tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. I just wish we had more time to talk about this. I'd like to start by saying that the reason my husband unselfishly exposes himself to lung cancer is so that we can help support our Cheyenne and Arapaho neighbors by puffing away on those cheap ass cigarettes they peddle. I've read that you've been known to light up on occasion, so I would like to call for you to also make the patriotic sacrifice of capitalizing on, I mean investing in, the awesome discounts at the Indian Smoke Shops.
Also, here in Oklahoma our Native American friends have the good fortune of being able to profit because of the great future planning of the ancestors. You see, because their great-grandparents had the foresight to generously donate their land in Western Oklahoma to the Land Runs, now they have the opportunity to operate those casinos. Do you know what makes that big-hearted offer of all that land to the white man even kinder? They gave us all the oil underneath it, too, and because of that philanthropy on the part of the Native Americans, my grandparents now get to use their royalty checks to see America from their 50-foot fifth wheel.
So, I would like use the donation of their land and oil and, now, wind energy to my home state (and, indirectly, those lucky bastards whose grandparents and great-parents ran in the Land Run, thus hooking them up with those fat daddy royalties), I would like to help my Native American brothers and sisters. And the first way I'd like to help, Barack, is by finally serving up the booze in their casinos. Seriously, every single time I go in there, I walk around all clear-headed and sober from the utter lack of intoxicants pumping through my blood stream and think to myself, 'Jesus, Shonda, you'd sure be wasting money at much less responsible rate if these Indians would just get you drunk.'
Listen, I've been to Las Vegas on more than one occasion and I can tell you that the key to successfully pillaging your betting customers is by pouring free drinks down their unsuspecting throats through the helping hand of metallic-lipped, ass-shaking waitresses. Now I realize that our Indian friends aren't quite as crafted at disguising a ploy to steal money through fake generosity of their friends, so I would like to execute my patriotic duty and pale face heritage by helping them with this. And, Barack, we must start with alcohol.

BARACK: This has been a very....interesting interview, Shonda. I appreciate your time and interest, however, I don't think you quite have the experience and qualifications to direct the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It's been nice meeting you and I hope you have a pleasant day.

ME: What, you aren't hiring me? Suck it, Snobby Elitist.



So, John, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first. I know you won't make me mull over my qualifications, looking down your super wealthy nose at me. I mean, seriously, not all of us can be raised in a tiny apartment by a struggling single mother on food stamps, studying our already brilliant asses off to earn academic scholarships. I've always favored your wild child path through education. I mean, I think going to a private prep school and then getting into military college with a good word from your 4-star general dad and granddad shows your ability to excel from an early age. Beyond that, it takes a ton of courage to choose freedom over conforming, and by that I mean the balls to tell your powerful parents to suck it, that you'd rather drink beer with strippers and graduate 894 out of 899 rather than oppressively chain your handsome nose to a book. Now if that's not mavericky, I just don't know what is. That is the exact same course I took through school, John .Like you, I always go with my gut instinct. And if that just happened to be skipping school to drink beer all day at the lake, then by God, that's what I did. I think that should tell you what a fantastic job I would do as Assistant Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
John, you recognized that Sarah's ability to see Russia from Alaska earned her foreign policy experience. Well, John, I can jump on a four-wheeler and actually be on part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation in about two minutes (insert wink). Not that long ago, some of our cattle got through the fence and ended up on their land. I was able to negotiate the top-level talks that got them back onto our land. Well, I sat next to Rowdy while he bullshitted on his cell phone with the super nice dude who runs the deal. But, my instincts and swift actions helped lead to peaceful solution. And by that, I mean that I thanked him for his kind help and then offered him a beer, which he in turn thanked me for and then drank. It was diplomacy at its finest, John.
So, I look forward to working with you next year. For uneducated and unqualified people such as myself, I'm glad to see this period of repression for underachievers has finally come to an end. Sure, occasionally horse trainers have ended up running, I don't know, FEMA, which worked out so positively for hurricane victims. So, perhaps it isn't such a ground-breaking phenomenon. But, when George Bush appointed "Heck of a Job" Brownie to the head post with FEMA, it was cronyism. That's not what you are doing by picking Sarah and now me. Oh no, this maverickism.

I Will Go Crazy On You, Asshole!

ROWDY: Honey, I think Ridge has been listening a little to closely to you.
ME: Really? Why?
ROWDY: Well, when you were outside, he was in here whining that he doesn't want to eat pizza for supper. So, I told him that was fine because I was really hungry and that I would just eat it all.
Then he snarled up at him, crossed his arms and said, "No you won't, asshole, I will go crazy on you!"
Seriously, Shonda, that was straight from your mind to his lips. Isn't that exactly what you swore to me a few minutes ago when I switched the television to the Cowboys game?


Then Rowdy walked off, all triumphant in his little parental victory. I will totally go crazy on that asshole.

I Do Not See the Dinosaur, but It Burns My Eyes

You know those photos that popped up all over the country in the 90s, mostly in doctor's offices it seemed, where you stared at the hologram-like solid pictures long enough some random 3D photo would leap out at you. I never liked them. I would lock my eyes in for a seeming eternity until my eyes would burn. Most of the time I never saw the desire effect and, when I did, it kinda freaked me out. And that's the best way to describe my befuddled walk through life. I see things others don't while stumbling blindly by things others do. I laugh at inappropriate times. I don't get offended when I probably should and then subsequently sit around obsessing about incidents that have as much harm as fluttering butterfly wings.
It's kinda rough being a total weirdo.

'Cause the Glass Half Full Makes Me Nervous

I don't like it when life's road is a gingery glide along a tranquil stream or some such shit. Well, it's not that I'm all anti-harmonious made-for-television moments or anything like that. If they were just that, a moment to come and go, then I'd probably skip along side the chipping larks and fluttering butterflies.
But, as it is, I know that when life's road is smooth, it isn't just a moment. It's anything but that. Rather, it's the preface for a stormy Hindenburg collision. You show me a cheerful man whose day is pacing along in perfection and I'll show you a dude who is going to stub his toe while tripping over his dog's puke. Or I'll show you a dude who is going to inadvertently crash his new beloved sports car into a vehicle his wife is traveling in, unbeknownst to him, with her younger, hotter lover.
Now, before you start lecturing me about the sunshiny glass half full philosophy that you live your super corny life by, I want you to know that I love my pessimism. I adore it. And do you know why, Mr. Chipper Pants? Because my pessimism has never failed me.
While all those plastic-smiled optimists are bummed out on the sidewalk because their favorite Idol was booted out on his ass by the ruthless Simon or because a mud puddle somehow found its way into their fresh, clean path, I take life's numerous disappointments and failures in stride because, well, I knew that this shit was most likely going to implode into nightmare. And then, every great now and again when life does throw me a unsuspected curve ball and things work out as though it is happening in some euphoric Hollywood script, I get to be surprise. And, really, who doesn't love surprises? I mean, there are a few no one loves, like when your ex-girlfriend surprises you with the knowledge that her special lady time is a few weeks late, but aside from that, surprises make us feel like cotton candy is in the soul.
Let me break it down for my "special" readers: Optimism = tons of disappoint, Pessimism = occasional surprises!
Now, I'm not detailing my well-established beliefs is suckism to further convince you of my fun hater status, though my guess is that it is. Oh, just so you know, suckism is a word I totally just made up to describe the doctrine that this (fill in the blank) sucks.
Let me get back on track. The reason I am writing all this is because in the rare and random incident that life just somehow cooperates to my will, I get nervous. And I mean real nervous, like that knotted up stomach I get each time Dick Cheney snarls at me on the television.
If, out of the clear blue, life magically falls into place, I start looking for the poop in the corner. So, after I laid Rolan down for his nap, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I walked into my bedroom to find a peacefully napping Ridge.
I didn't tell him to lay down. I didn't scold him for three hours, repeating in an endless loop, "Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down. Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down."
I didn't bribe him with 4,000 empty sugar calories. I didn't even have to turn on some terrible Western. He just took it upon himself to swaddle himself in my covers and rest.
So, because of his divine miracle transpiring from no effort on my part, I know something real shitty is going to happen this afternoon. One of the kids will get sick. No, wait, both of the kids will get sick. After they puke in unison, they will slug it out. Then their favorite toys will disappear. Or George Bush will come on television and, after he gives the super-educated Washington press corp definitions to words already know, he'll announce that he's liked "presidentin'" so much that he's decided he's just gonna keep doing it next year.