Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree!

My mom came over last night for Bedlam (the Oklahoma/Oklahoma State football game for all you non-Okies and non-football junkies) and I talked Rowdy into fetching the Christmas tree in this rather corny notion that three generations putting the holiday staple would be this postcard-isque memory for all of us. He tried to preach rationality to me, his wife who just happens to be completely immune to absolutely all reason. He said that I should wait until the boys were sleeping or away to put the tree together. Apparently, he's met our sons before and could foresee how this would turn out. I mean, he's no Nostradamus, but he has a pretty telescope for the future than I apparently do.
Well, we got consumed with the football game and the tree didn't get put together. But, since Ridge already has Santa on the brain from the endless loop of The Polar Express he's consumed in the past two days, so he began chanting to put up the tree since he woke up this morning.
Now, before I tell you, my darling readers, what I am about to, you have to promise that, under no circumstances, you will tell Rowdy what I'm going to divulge. I don't care if he ties you up and forces you to sit in front of Crocodile Dundee for 72 solid hours, keep those lips zipped.
Okay, here goes. I'm just gonna do it, like ripping off a Band Aid.
Rowdy was right. I should have waited until the boys were doing anything other than standing beside me when I decided to decorate for the upcoming holiday.
It was a fucking nightmare to say the least, an adorable nightmare I'm sure I will look back upon when Ridge and Rolan are grown all sappy and misty-eyed. But, in the here and now, my nerves were frazzled and those plastic pine needles are scattered across our living room floor like confetti on Bourbon Street the day after Mardi Gras.
Ridge was so excited about the assembly of the tree that his face, all lit up with eager joy, was one big frozen grin. Of course, he was so pumped about all this tree business that he just randomly stuffed the tree pole with various lengths of tree limbs. He put long limbs at the top and in the middle. He cascade short, stubby limbs on the bottom. When Rowdy emerged from our bedroom, which he seems to think is his football playoff headquarters, he quizzed me upon the utter lack of form or order our tree had clearly taken upon. Rowdy moved a few branches to more reasonable position as Ridge rattled off the play-by-play of our decorating as though it was some competitive sport.
I can truthfully say that Rolan, the 2-year-old, didn't place any limbs in the incorrect section of that tree pole. I can say that because he didn't even pretend he was going to use the limbs as a piece of our Christmas tree. No, when Rolan say that limbs on the table, he saw weapons. So, he periodically would snatch up one of the branches and then whack his unsuspecting brother, who would in turn grab another branch and do the same. It was a jostling match, except the boys used fake tree limbs in the place of knives.
As Ridge bounced around with delight and Rolan reeked general havoc, I think Rowdy was secretly enjoying his prophecy's chaotic revelation. He had warned me. He had tried to rationalize with me, obviously an insanely unreasonable woman.
Don't you do dare tell him I said that.
And, as you can see in these photos, all the messes and extra assembly time was well worth it. The boys had fun and, with the tree out in their daily sight, I can start manipulating them into good behavior with threats of Santa Claus.

Rolan Clinton, 2, tree sword fighter extraordinaire

Marketing Genius At Its Finest

Listen up, Condom Ad Maker, I want my cut of whatever royalties this little brilliant piece of advertising genius made. Because you see, Condom Ad Maker, it is strikingly clear to me that at some point you were peacefully pushing your shopping cart along when I came pushing through with my two wild offspring reeking absolute havoc upon the entire store. Now, I realize this commercial was actually filmed in French and, I gotta give it to you, that threw me off your scent for awhile. Thank God for my addiction to youtube or I might not have realized that you owed me royalties for this ad campaign. My guess is it was rather successful. So just write that check out to "Shonda Little" or "Crazed Women In Sweatpants with Two Lawless Children." They know me at the bank, it will work.
Thanks,
The Inspiration For Your Awesome Condom Video

If, by chance, you are one of those folks with an impossible sense of humor to please, go ahead and watch condom commercial number deux, courtesy of The Cowboy Chronicles. Truthfully, in this shitty economy, I think Mastercard would be well-advised to pick this witty piece of awesome up and run with it.

Here's Your Bourne Ultimatum: If you turn that shit on again, I might karate chop your ASS!

Until the Jason Bourne trilogy plagued my life, I loved Matt Damon. I mean, I freakin' loved him. And, truthfully, had I not met and fell in love my darling husband, those three fateful films probably would have held no bearing upon my feelings for Matt.
But, as it is, I did met and fall in love with Rowdy, just like he met and feel in love with Jason Bourne. Every mothereffin' time one of them is on television, you can bet your sweet ass that's what we are watching. It doesn't matter if we just watched that very one the day before. Since we subscribed to HBO and Showtime, the Bourne Ultimatum has been on one of them non-freakin-stop. I have lived in an endless loop of the keenly crafty, brilliantly deadly CIA assassin narrowly escaping his relentless hunter. Thank God Matt is so super fly, that's the only thing that's sustained me to this point.
Now, the thing that makes this particularly aggravating to me is how little control I have over our television programming. During the daytime, the boys dominate it and, in the evening, Rowdy does. When he comes in, he immediately switched the tv. He doesn't ask if I am interested in the current show. Nope, he just switches it. Most the time I just growl inside my head and continue whatever I am doing, knowing I have little chance of winning this battle. Not only that, I know Rowdy works hard and that tends to make me feel like I should let him do whatever he wants to. Even as I type that, the feminist inside my head is going apeshit crazy.
Sometimes, though, when I am feeling a little feisty or if I am intrigued with whatever show I was watching, I turn the tv back as I throw random cuss words at him. Then he bitches back about how I've been home all day with the television and I remind him that it's during the crap Dr. Phil hours, which I don't believe shouldn't count. We make our arguments like two attorneys picking like vulchers of the bones of some wildly important case.
However, the ultimate Achilles heel to my defense in Rowdy's opinion is if I have ever seen the program before. And I don't mean if I've watched it in the last month or 6 months or freakin' year. No, I mean EVER.
I remind him of these strict guidelines he has drafted in past television programming decisions. Now, I know my man and I know that deep down he wants to say, "Well, that's because it is something you've watched before. It doesn't apply to something I want to power watch so many times it makes your hair tingle."
Wisely, he forgoes that argument, but the one he ultimately makes is almost as silly. According to Rowdy, watching the Bourne series and the Crocodile Dundee series and fucking Waterworld over and over and over is much different than watching A League of Their Own once every five years. And that reason, my friends, is because "these movies are just awesome."


UPDATE: About 30 minutes after I published this post, Rowdy came in the house, turned the television from The History Channel to some bullshit football game, kicked up the feet of his lazy boy and then pulled the hood of his coat over his eyes and went to sleep. I waited about 10 minutes and then turned it to Wife Swap. As soon as I did, he popped his eyes opened and demanded that I return it to the game. When I protested because he was sleeping, he explained that he sleeps better if he can listen to the game while he snoozes and then I explained that he would also sleep better if I clubbed him over the head with a fucking skillet. So now I am watching Colorado play Nebraska with the steady hum of Rowdy's snores in the background.


PS--If you haven't entered the contest yet, there is still plenty of time.

Well, You Didn't Tell Me Not to Take the Kids To Beheadings

As soon as hunters can legally pull out their firearms and start blasting away at Bambi and every other creature that Disney's turned into a million-dollar baby, florescent orange and camo clad warriors from all over the country descend upon Roger Mills County, Oklahoma, like a super macho swarm of locust. It's basically just like what happens to Park City, Utah, during The Sundance Film Festival, except high-end fashion is Bass Pro Shop and the only celebrities are the poor, dead deer hauled around in pick-up beds.
The restaurants open earlier and close later. The two local hotels and the bed and breakfast stay relatively busy throughout the year with oilfield customers, but there really aren't any random New Englanders burning their paid vacations out here in the summer. We aren't overflowing with theme parks and tourist attractions.
But, holy fucking shit, if you just happened to drive through during hunting season, you'd scratch your head and wonder if some farmer's wife spotted Jesus's image in her grilled cheese sandwich. The town is literally busting at the seams with out-of-towners. On top of that, my husband may be the only local male inhabitant who doesn't wake up three hours before dawn and freeze his nuts off just for the chance to bring home a buck. My brother-in-law Chad, God bless him, is strung out like a heroin junkie from the deer killin' high he gets from his bow and arrow.
So, it is suffice of to say that, during these chilly weeks in the winter, hunting consumes the community. And, truthfully, I think it's pretty cool because, as I mentioned, my husband doesn't drag home random dead things for me to prepare and Chad's constant jones means we get to see him and his family more often and the hunters give me beer. Really, that's all it takes for me to throw my full support behind anything. Legalize polygamy? Will the polygamists randomly supply me with free hooch? Yes? Well, then I'm down, now give me my Bud Light.
However, today I have a tiny beef with my kids' constant exposure to the Thanksgiving sport. I mean, it has always freaked me out a little when my three-year-old is staring dead at a stiff carcass with its tongue flopping about. But, I push all my bleeding-heart concerns way down in my pansy gut and suck it up. That is, until today.

RIDGE: Hey Momma, Paw Paw got out his knife and cut that deer's head off.

ME: I'm sorry, what did you say, son?

RIDGE: Paw Paw got out his knife and cut that deer's head off.

Almost stunned, I sat for a second and struggled to wrap my brain around this. My darling four-year-old, who might believe he's an ass-kickin' cowboy but still crawls into my bed every night because the bumps in the night send him scampering down the hall, watched a furry animal that happens to be the same species as Bambi and Elliott be decapitated.

ME: Rowdy, funny thing.... Ridge just told me that he saw Paw Paw cut a deer's head off.

JACKASS ROWDY: Well, it wasn't actually Paw Paw, although he was there. Paw Paw's nephew Rory was actually doing the cutting. And....it wasn't with a knife, it was with a chain saw.

ME: What the fuck are you talking about, Rowdy? A chain saw?

ROWDY: Sure, it's much easier than sawing with a knife.

ME: Have you lost your fucking mind? First of all, Rory is 7 foot tall and is built like the Refrigerator Perry. I'm sure that in itself will make this more dramatizing to Ridge. Secondly, a chain saw? Seriously? You let your son watch a deer's head be chain-sawed off?

ROWDY: (Hysterically laughing as though he didn't realize I was on the verge of doing a little beheading myself): If Ridge would've acted scared, I would have brought him home.

ME: Okay, well, if he would have acted scared, you couldn't have erased what he'd already seen from his memory. Also, just because he wasn't freaked out in the middle of the sunny daylight while his childlike curiosity sparked his interest in what the hell was happening to his animal doesn't mean he isn't going to be scared shitless in the middle of the night when bloody images with more tissue, guts and gore than a Freddy Kruger film go running through his head. Do you want him crawling into our bed until his 10?

ROWDY: Alright, alright, I won't do it again.

ME: You won't let our son watch a fucking beheading again?

ROWDY: (Still rather ignorantly chucking, still rather ignorantly oblivious to the threats to physical well-being): No, I won't. But, to be fair, you never told me NOT to take him to a beheading.

ME: You're right, this is my fault. I should have said, "Rowdy, don't take our kids to beheadings." While we are discussing it, don't take them to any lethal injections, don't take them to any water boardings, don't take them to any slaughter houses, don't take them to Gitmo. God, you're a jackass.

ROWDY: I love you, honey.

ME: I love you, too.


I will blog tomorrow about my many, many gifts in life. But tonight, on the eve of Thanksgiving, I want to write about something I am not thankful for, that my four-year-old attended his first autopsy or dissection or whatever the hell else one might call the gruesome deer hunting chore he was front and present for today.

PS -- Don't forget to play in the Shameless Self-Promotion Contest, posted just below this. You could win $25 gift card from Kmart and $15 gift certificate from Chili's.

PSS-- This is my 200th post! That's approximately 189 more than my husband that I'd do. For some reason, he thinks I'm not a follow-thruer. I don't know if thruer is a real word, but screw it, I'm down with making 'em up.

Shameless Self-Promotion Contest....

because, really, that's what it is.
Now that I finally feel like my layout is only a partial train wreck, as opposed to the cluttered nightmare of its formal life, I broke down and did a little advertising. What can I say, I was losing patience with the quest for world domination inching along at a snail's pace. I want to rule the blogosphere NOW!
Anyways, like all good evil geniuses, I really want to exploit this boosted exposure while it lasts. After all, Momma's kind of a tight ass, so I need to get my licks while I can.
So, here's the deal-o:

THE PRIZE: $15 gift certificate from Chili's, which can be used there as well as Macaroni Grill, On The Border and Maggiano's Little Italy -AND- $25 K-Mart gift card.

Now, I'm sure you are all leaping up and down with eager anticipation. I mean, those talking heads on CNBC that my husband freakin' insists on watching until my ears start bleeding are really emo about the bleak outlook for this Christmas's retail numbers. In other words, they think you are broke.

So, let's get down to business. I just want to draw extra readers in, so in order to qualify to win this shiznit, you have to help me get 'em here. If you have a blog, you can enter once by writing a post(s) that links back to this blog and another time by adding me to your blogroll. Go ahead and leave a comment if I'm already on it. And kisses to you, by the way. For each that you do, come leave a comment telling me which you did and with a link back to it. If you write more than one post, leave more than one comment with the different link backs. If you put the widget at the bottom of this post up on your blog and leave it up through the end of the contest, add 10 more comments. I don't care what these comments say, you can chastise me for being a scheming lunatic if you want. As long as your write widget somewhere in it, it counts. Hell, you can write that alone. Keep reading, bloggers, because you can do the whole myspace and email methods along with these.

Now, if you don't have a blog, don't get discouraged. I'm an evil genius, remember. I've plotted this shit out. Do you have a myspace? Well, if so, go add me, www.myspace.com/shondalittle. Like the bloggers, you can get 10 entries for adding the widget at the bottom of this post to your profile through the end of the contest. Of course, you could just represent for your homegirl and keep it up forever, but that'll just be for love. No fajitas or toys made in China.
On top of that qualification for myspacers, you can also get extra chances by posting bulletins informing your friends of the contest and directing them to my blog. Now, I have to be your friend to see that you have done this, so add me if I'm not already a myspace friend. Don't forget to come leave your comment to this post after each one.

And for the 13 folks on the planet who don't have a myspace and/or blog, you can also participate through emailing your friends. Like the myspace bulletins, it must tell them of the contest, prizes and list my blog's address. Each email must be spent to 10 different people plus me at shondy26@hotmail.com. So I will notice it, it needs to say something like, "Win Free Stuff for Reading The Cowboy Chronicles" or something else along those lines to catch my eye in case it is filtered to my junk mail. After you send the email(s), you guessed it, come back here and leave a comment.

Also, you hip twitters out there can add me to your twitter and, you guessed it, direct folks to my site for the contest. You can do it once daily and, for each one, you get a chance at the prize.

With each entry, mention in your comment what you did for that particular one. Now, since I clearly love to bullshit, I want to encourage to leave other random streams of your thoughts as well. You don't have to, but I'd like it if you did.

This contest will be decided by a random number generator. I will post the winner's name on Monday afternoon and then I will contact the lucky winner and arrange for the goods to be delivered to your house. Calm down, this isn't a ploy for me to get your address so I can stalk you out and pester you until you promise to read my rambling nonsense daily. I may want to, but I won't.

You can play in as many ways as possible. If are a blogging, myspacing, twittering, emailing fool, then fire from all directions. Also, if you think of any other way to give other methods to enter, let me know.
Ahhhh.....shameless self-promotion!





<a href="http://mommalittle.com"><img border="0" src="http://i107.photobucket.com/albums/m296/shaunacallaghan/cc.jpg"/></a>

PS--Please overlook all the incoherent jargon in this post. I've been plagued with a mind-wrenching headache all day long. It's like my brain somehow senses the hectic chaos that are all holidays looming over us.

PSS--Good luck!

Screwed

That will be the overall theme of this post and I think you'll understand why shortly.

***My day started on the particularly pleasant note of Rolan, the 2-year-old, leaping up and down on my bed like one of those bizarre Olympic trampoline champions and then subsequently landing on my belly like one of those super bizarre professional wrestlers. Since I already bemoan freakin' love dragging my large caboose out of bed in the first damn place, you can imagine how much I enjoyed being awoke by a 30 pound cannonball of adorable mayhem crashing into my abdomen. I don't think I have had the breath knocked out of me since I was in grade school, so as you can imagine, I was probably a real peach today. This isn't really "screwed" in the traditional sense. Or maybe it is. I guess I don't know what the traditional sense of being screwed is. Whatever it is, this is the one that sucks, like when you get stuck on a airplane by my a screaming kid and a relentless gum smacker. Or screwed like when your car breaks down at your mother-in-law's over a holiday that's driven all the local mechanics out of their shops and you half crazy.

The other two little tidbits are over the other kind of screwed, the kind that I like to talk about at very inappropriate places, such as baby showers. That's just a random example. The "talking about sex while you are sitting next to at least a half dozen 80-year-old women of a Baptist persuasion" is completely random and has nothing to do with the fact that I went to a baby shower yesterday. It is a totally hypothetical example. Totally.

***Honestly, the day wasn't that bad, apart from the smackdown breakfast in bed little Rolan served up all warm and toasty. I wrote articles for the paper and scolded the boys about 400 times for head butting each other and scattering pictures as though they were Mardi Gras confetti, so it was basically business as usual. After Rowdy came in from bullshitting at the local convenience store/coffee shop/pizza parlor getting latest minute-to-minute deer season updates doing cowboy things, we ate super and he put the boys to bed. Just after I started my shower, he was there rapping on the door. He, apparently, was in the mood for husband and wife relations, things of which I am clearly far too ladylike to blog about here on the internet for all six of my faithful followers to read. Anyways, my big, strapping, masculine, handsome man smiled as he joined me and then starting squealing like a newborn, decrying the unbearable heat of my water. Of course my gut instinct was to badger him for being a tender skinned wuss, but then I remembered that Oprah told me that sort of chicken pecking tends to take the fellas out of the romantic mood and, let's face, Momma needed a little action before the unstoppable toddler invasion overtook the bedroom.

***When Rowdy and I were on our honeymoon in Cozumel, Mexico, a rather persistent local vendor was pulling out all the stops to convince my husband to buy a necklace for his new bride. After several sales pitches proved unsuccessful, the intuitive salesman whipped out a paper cup and Patron tequila and, well, the grapefruit-sized pendant has been in my jewelry box ever since. Now, the reason I mention this memory is because that is probably the first time I realized that Mexico is just my kind of country. I mean, any place that openly encourages intoxicating customers to boost profits is a country I can get behind. Team that with the nationwide nap they collectively take each day and I'm outside the house with silver duct tape writing out BIENVENIDO over WELCOME on the doormat.
But, while I love that and many other Mexican traditions, customs and laws, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the absolute infatuation I would develop for the entire country to our south when I discovered that the mayor of Mexico City, some Einstein-level genius named Marcelo Ebrard, is now officially handing out few Viagra and other impotence drugs to men over 70. Now that's a stiff re-election platform if I've ever seen one. In the announcement that proved Mexico CIty is the most hard rockin' city on the globe, Ebrare said that sexuality "has a lot to do with quality of life and our happiness," which basically means I'm inching towards that goal post and I certainly want to score again.
However, I do have one question for Mr. Ebrard. If you are dolling out Viagra like their shots of Patron to half-drunk Americans, the best senior citizen service in history, for Mexico City's men, what are you doing for the ladies? If you will promise free laser hair removal for the chicas, consider my retirement bags packed. I mean, I'm barely 28 and I'm already starting to sprout those menacing little hairs under my chin, so I can imagine by the time I'm 70, I'll look like some creepy red-haired wolf man. You know the gentlemen just go crazy for that. And just who will be the biggest supporters of this plan? My guess is Mexico City's 70-year-old men.

I'm An Asshole

Yup, it's true. I know you are all, "That's not true, Shonda. You are a total humanitarian. Each and every time I think about you, the images of Mother Theresa pop in my mind. And not just because you look so rockin' hot without make-up, either, because you are so gosh darn saintly. It's like Mother Theresa and then Angelina and then you."
On most occasions, I would have to agree with you and wonder out loud just why the Catholic Church hasn't made one of those silver, round necklace thing-a-majigs with my holy image engraved on it for the worshiping faithful to clutch as they pray. Hey Pope, get that shit on your to-do list, mister!
Anyways, that's what I would so humbly say on most evenings, but not today. Today I am going to have to join the majority very small, almost nonexistent group of readers who come to The Cowboy Chronicles just to find evidence of my assholishness. Today they are right, I'm an asshole. Why, you ask.
I broke one of the cardinal rules of The Supreme Order of Chick Friends. I forgot one of my very best friend's baby shower. And I wasn't just one of the regular 'ole just-show-up-when-you-want-to-with-your-gift crowd. Oh no, I was a hostess, a freakin' hostess. Because I happily accepted that Chick Friend duty, I was suppose to bring a finger food of some sort, which is normally one of my strong suits, totally evident in light of my expanding rear end. But, I didn't get to relish in the lavish praise for my delightful dish because, during the time frame that I should have been preparing it, I was taking a nap.
That's right, I was taking a fucking nap. Don't YOU judge me.
As I was peacefully lounging in my bed, soaking up the rare treasure of a childless house, my friends were wondering if I was going to, I don't know, show up. Finally, and thank God, my friend Sara called and was all, "Soooooo.....whatcha doin'?"
And then I was like, "Sleeping, stretched out like a lazy cat, sleeping."
And then she was like, "Ummm....so, are you coming to Chelsea's shower?"
Yup, that's when I realized I had, in fact, written the shower down on the wrong date in my calender. Five years ago, before I had kids and my mind functioned better than a barely lucid acid freak, I wouldn't have had to put it in the schedule to remember to do it. Yeah, cellulite has dented my ass up like a golf ball and my mind has the memory retention of slobbering Courtney Love and, I don't give a shit what you say, I think Crocs are solid fashion gold. (Insert sharp sarcasm) It's definitely all uphill from here, bitches.
Chelsea is, of course, one of the most go-with-the-flow, easy-to-please people I know, so she was super awesome about the whole thing. In fact, she just chuckled at me and then let me rub her groovy baby belly. Still, she is a good friend and dropping the ball at her shower is just assholish no matter how you slice it.
After I left the shower, I stopped in the grocery store because we were out of milk and, really, how can Rolan be expected to survive without a vast ocean of dairy products. I loaded up the grocery basket with other much needed supplies, including eggs.
As I was checking out, the check-out girl, who turned out to really be an over achiever as far as check-out girls go, inspected my eggs to guarantee they were all in tack (or is it tact?). One little fella, smack dab in the middle of the carton, was cracked on top. She jumped to go fetch a replacement, but I was like, "Dude, you just keep a-scannin.' I'll go get the eggs," since I believed the oozing crack was most likely caused by the giant ham I threw on top of it as opposed to some random shipping or stocking mishap. I mean, I'm not a mathematician or a scientist or an egg-cracking expert or anything along those lines, that would just be my guess.
Anyways, in the meantime, a bag boy showed up and started sacking up my goods. Like the check-out girl, he was a busy little beaver. I mean, he was a sacking son of a bitch. I told him about my current asshole status due to the shower tardiness and he told me about how he was like 3 hours late for work because he forgot he was scheduled and went Christmas shopping instead. I kinda wanted to hug him and that's when I noticed that he had sacked BOTH egg cartons. So I asked if they had charged me for both sets and the girl was like, "Dude, you weren't suppose to put them both in the sack. One of them has a broken egg right in the freakin' middle."
And then my kindred spirit sacker was all, "Oh my, I didn't even check them. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am."
So then I asked him what becomes of poor cartons of eggs with just one fallen comrade. Do they find a replacement egg? Are they trashed?
After a little begging hinting, the sacker said since they couldn't be sold, they could just give them to me for free, which fucking made my day since I love all free shit, even when it is absolutely worthless shit a homeless person wouldn't sleep on in the dead of freezing winter, but especially when it is something like eggs, something I cook each morning. That's like hitting the lotto for a tight ass like myself.
As I walked out of the store, I thought, "Man, I am really am an asshole. First, I forget Chels's shower and then I hackle the grocery store out of eggs I broke."
I'm an asshole.
If you would like theme music for this post, which I think totally makes the deal, listen to Jimmy Buffet's song about assholes here or Dennis Leary's on the same brown-eyed subject here.

Dear Axl, Dreads Ain't For Gingers

I've been a longtime Axl Rose fan. Even when the rest of the world questioned his sanity, when they collectively wagged their disappointed fingers at him for showing up hours late for concerts, when he randomly said on stage that Jon Bon Jovi could, for a lack of more refined words, orally suction his man junk, I shrugged my shoulders and chalked it up to Axl being an eccentric artist. What can I say, we are a quirky and erratic people. That's just the price tag for creative brilliance. Yes, I am putting my random blog and wedding photography in the same category as a musical mogul. I don't care what you say, I totally think it is the same.
Anyways, I've defended my man Axl for a long time. Sure, I've agreed that his behavior at times could be described as unbalanced. But, I thought anyone might hole up in a Malibu mansion and turn into a hermit, the Howard Hughes of music, for like 13 years if they faced constant media scrutiny like Axl has. I would have defended his rationality to the end of time. I could have, that is, until he unveiled this.....the dreadlocks.

Now, I know we are living in this historic time of liberation from racial barriers, shattering old restraints formerly shackled to race. But, call me closed minded if you must, there are just some things that should always be in place. Now I am in no way saying that the hair style of the beloved Bob Marley should be limited just to black people. No, I'm not saying that all. What I am saying, though, is that dreadlocks should most certainly be OFF limits for people with the same hair color and skin tone as me and Carrot Top and Ronald Mc-freakin-Donald and, in spite of being a hard-rockin' badass, Axl Rose. I can promise you that if my darling son Ridge, who just happens to be also be a fellow ginger, tells me he is seeking a new 'do, I will absolutely fucking never say, "Well, my dear child, I think your red hair would just look fantastic in dreads."
No, of course I wouldn't. I love him, so why would I direct him down such a delusional and disasterous path? I think Axl should be asking himself that same question about whatever fool helped him kink his hair before they
Listen, Axl, you can smash guitars and drape yourself with adoring groupies and make a billion more dollars selling awesome rock ballads. Hell, I'm a fan, I hope you do. But, at the end of the day, you are still a ginger and, even if you are a rock star, gingers just can't pull of the dreads.

On a different, but equally rockin' note, Happy Birthday, Miranda!

LOVE is The Hip and Trendy, The Old and Sappy ACTUALLY

Being the tragically old and unhip pair Rowdy and I have somehow morphed into, we are naturally at home on a Friday night. We are not out dancing into the hazy twilight as we most certainly would have been five years ago. But, actually, we are both wildly delighted about this fact, though in front of trendy company we sometimes pretend to desire to someday retake our places on bar stools and dance floors. Nonetheless, we were particularly ecstatic about being decrepit old shut-ins this evening because Love Actually, the 2003 heart-warming flick with an all-star cast. Rowdy is systematically opposed to all movies that can even halfway, kinda, sorta because categorized as a movie that would be filed in near the love stories, but he really likes this one. So much so, in fact, that he let me watch it the second time it came on (Bravo did that thing where they run the same movie back-to-back, which normally annoys me because it is so crap Jean Claude Van Dam train wreck. I love it on days like today, though.)
As we watched it, I whipped out my finely tuned multi-tasking skills, which as you know can be considered primitive at best, and editing photographs from a wedding I recently shot. Cody and Ashlie are a beautiful couple and their shared love is quite visible, even to a stranger. That makes my job much easier. Plus, they wed in a beautiful old church, which added a very romantic feel to the photos. They also did something I've never seen before. As you can see in this photograph, rather than have the minister face their guests, they did.
So with my heart all warm from perhaps the great love movie in history, I wanted to share two of my favorites from this wedding.

Whenever I get gloomy at the state of the world, I think of the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed. But, I don't see that. It seems to me live is everywhere. Often it is not particularly dignified or newsworthy. It's always there: fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, old friends.
When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as fas as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or of venge. They were all messages of love. If you look for it, I have a sneaky feeling you'll find love actually is all around us.
Hugh Grant, Love Actually

The Greatest Interview Setting Ever

I am not posting for any reasons political, but rather, because watching the dude in the background straight up kill those turkeys while Governor Palin is interviewed right in front of him is simply awesome, especially because both Sarah and the interviewer seem not to even notice all the beheading in the background.

Fuel For Fantasies

Well, Readers, today has been a long, chaotic day. I had this whole blog planned out in my mind, but you'll have to somehow park your eager anticipation and sleep through the night. It will be here tomorrow, though.
But, until then, I leave you with this, something to get you by. This is a little convo I had with my brother in law Chad last week. To fully appreciate it, you need to know before hand that this wife Jennifer can definitely be described as straight laced.

CHAD: Holy cow, did you see that gas fell below $2 gallon?

ME: Yeah, I saw that. It's crazy.

CHAD: I thought I'd have a threesome before I saw that shit again.

People's Sexiest Man Alive Is.......

HUGH JACKMAN!!!
The People's magazine dude just announced it on The Today Show, so I knew my readers would love the early info.
By the way, Michael Phelps made the list. You know how I feel how the hot piece of swimming ass.
What do you think?

The Sushi Haunts My Dreams

The first beams of the day's light slid through our bedroom blinds as Ridge pulled me from my fleeting slumber, his small hands pressed upon my cheeks. Ready or not, the day had begun.
"Momma, I'm hungry AGAIN," he whisper with a heavy emphasis on the last word of his declaration. Like a bear in a preparatory binge for winter's hibernation, Ridge has been on an almost never ending eating spree in the last few weeks. I know he'll sprout like corn toward the sun before too long.
"Momma, I need some sausage," he impatiently sighed. "I'm really, really hungry AGAIN."
After the boy complied to my demand for an energizing kiss, I pulled my dragging ass from bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, nagging aches trickled from my shoulders to my toes. The night's rest provided no rejuvenation, none at all.
Since I started that marathon reproductivity campaign a few years back, this shit has taken a more regular occurrence than my much less rested years of my booty-shaking youth. Now, don't feel too sorry for me, crippled old lady that I am. Most mornings I leap from bed like a Spring chicken. Well, maybe an early Autumn chicken, if there is such a thing, but nonetheless I normally feel better than I deserve considering how I've treated my body. And when I do creek from bed like rusty old doors on a forgotten barn, I figure I did something to encourage it and just chalk it up to the rather fantastic years of beer drinking.
However, on this back-throbbing, knee-knocking morning, I knew it wasn't the good times of yesteryear that painfully plagued my quite sizable rear. Nope, that wasn't it at all.
Now, before you go suspecting Rowdy of spousal abuse and, Lord knows, it's a wonder he hasn't taken up that honored pastime yet, let me tell you that I already know the culprit of this crime. It's sushi!
Yes, you read that correctly. It is mind-numbing, almost-as-good-as-sex sushi. When I say it haunts my dreams, I mean that as literally as it can be taken. Damn that sushi, I tossed and turned all night long as visions of salmon and eel danced in my head. I envisioned ingredients from my favorite rolls merging, thus creating the Elvis or Einstein or whatever icon you happen to worship of Japanese cuisine. Sushi ran through my mind with such vibrant dominance that my body simply didn't recharge as it was suppose to. It was as though I was unsuccessfully seeking shelter from a sushi tsuanami, forceful waves of sticky rice and postachios beating against the helpless levees of my willpower. And I know I will have no peace until my taste buds are satisfied.
Because I live in a region of the country with more cows than people, as you can imagine, we are kind of in short supply of sushi-serving restaurants. Otherwise you can bet your sweet ass that I would have probably eaten $50 worth for lunch. I text messaged almost every person I know to see if they were in Oklahoma City or had any possible reason to go, hoping I could bribe them in bringing some back for me.
So, if ANY of you are going to Oklahoma City for any reason, you can overtake the loving part of my heart generally dominated by my darling children if you will just bring me the freakin' sushi. If you need something from the city, but can't go, please push your need upon me so I can have an excuse to make the journey. I mean, seriously, show your compassion -- GIVE ME THE FISH! As you know, this would typically be where I made some awesomely randy joke about the female anatomy that would make any teenage boy proud, but I just can't. My mind is too sushi-consumed to even do what comes naturally to it.
So, if you have never tried this addictive goodness, DON'T! It will take over your life like a ruthless crack habit. For those of you who have, hook a sister up. GIVE ME THE FISH!

The Hat Came Back

With the first gusts of the blistery cold each year, Rowdy breaks into the same annual panic. Just like the year before, his ridiculously hideous Elmer Fudd/WWII pilot's cap is missing. Panicked, he searches in feed pick-ups and barns. He yanks coats out of closets, scouring through their empty pockets to no avail. After a few days, he surrenders the battle, heartbroken at the thought that THIS is finally the year that his beloved hat is lost to him in the vast oceans of our random junk.
As Rowdy mourns the loss of this eyesore, I relish in the hope that this ridicules hat is at last gone from our lives. Secretly I celebrate its due departure. Now, I know my man works hard out in the frigid Oklahoma elements, so I buy him some attractive replacement.
But, just like each year before, the brown furry nightmare returns. It is like the Henry Houdini of winter accessories. I think it is finally gone and then, BAM, out of nowhere it reappears.
And so goes the story of this last week. We looked for the hat unsuccessfully. I delighted in its death. Five days later Rowdy comes in for lunch with it fastened upon his head. That's right, fastened! Did I mention it has a chin strap that Rowdy proudly ties around his mug? Well, it does!
When I was a little girl, there was this brief cartoon that came on Nickelodeon in between shows about a relentlessly annoying cat whose hapless owner couldn't be free of, no matter how hard he tried. With each attempt, a song played in the background.

The cat came back the very next day. The cat came back, thought he was goner. But the cat came back, he just wouldn't stay away.

Throughout the cartoon, this poor, grumpy old man simply wants peace from this nagging, irritating cat. No matter what he tries, his attempts are fruitless. I never knew how much sympathy I had for his plight until now. Damn cat, damn hat!

When Rowdy walked in this weekend with his unholy trophy, that song ran through my hopeless head. He can look for that damn thing in every possible place he can think of with absolutely no luck. And just when the search party is abandoned, it show up. Every.single.time.
It's like magic.....horrible, unbelievable, pain-in-my-freakin-ass magic.

Just in case you still aren't understanding my torture, I'm gonna go ahead and post the "Cat Came Back" so perhaps the extent of my plight will be seen.

You Ain't Hip if You Don't Twitch

After a GREAT deal of effort upon my part, it has finally happened. My "look" is complete.
Now, how did this miracle, a momentous occasion easily comparable to that time Moses parted the Red Sea, come to pass? Truthfully, I'm not quite sure myself. I just know that it appears that I have developed a little eye twitch. Really, I think it is the accessory that my overall look has been lacking. I mean, some women lust after those fancy schmancy Coach purses or the Gucci glasses. Not me, Readers! I want some physical tick that totally airs my neurosis to the otherwise unsuspecting public. To borrow a phrase from my man Dubya, "Mission Accomplished!"
So, if you see me out and my eyeball is jumping around like it's got a Mexican jumping bean stuck behind it, don't fret. It's my new signature move.
What's up now, bitches?

The Song Remembers When.......Youtube trip to the past

At the risk of sounding geekier than you probably already think I am, I have a little confession: I love youtube. I mean, really, really love it. With a few strokes of the keyboard, I can find every ridicules thing said by any given celebrity or politician in front of a camera or microphone. And, on top of all that, I can pretty well hunt down any song my ears may be craving. In the very rare occasion that I uproot my rather large rear and attempt to purge my home of filth, I like to use the genius of youtube to listen to my favorite tunes of days gone by.
And it was in this ritual that I found James Dupre. I was in an old, twangy country mood that afternoon and, after listening to several George Strait songs, I searched for a Garth Brooks classic. Normally, I am a bit hesitant to listen to covers on youtube, as it truly is like a box of chocolates. However, I'm quite pleased that I decided to listen to James.
As soon as music flowed over his lips, I must admit I developed a bit of a crush. He just has one of those voices that leaves young girls and old women weeping into the midnight. What She's Doing Now has always been a love song that's pulled on my heart strings, raw and poetic. It may have made Garth millions, but it was clearly written for James.

After I played this first ballad, I was drawn in. I had to listen to more. Looking at the lengthy list of songs James has covered on youtube, it appears that he and I have very similar tastes in music. With each tune, I was brought back to a different point in my life. He sang The Joker by The Steve Miller Band and I was back, a decade ago, drinking beer on the grassy stage of the Zoo Ampitheater, ending the summer with the annual Steve Miller Band concert. This was how we rung in each new school year throughout high school. The song ended and I played on.

Although I was cleaning my kitchen in Cheyenne, Oklahoma, as I took in Let Her Cry, in my mind I was driving through South Carolina in 1995 with my old friend Melissa and my cousin Trisha by my side. That was the summer I discovered Hootie and the Blowfish.
By the time I stumbled onto James's rendition of My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys, I was cracking open a beer myself. His steel, rustic voice bellowed through my home and I thought of fishing in prairie farm ponds 20 years ago with my grandfather and a handful of my cousins. Grandpa will be gone five years this December and my heart aches each time I realize he never saw either of my sons. James really hits this one out of the park, so I played it multiple times. Somewhere around time three or four, I remembered the day I first knew I really loved my husband. Just a few months into our relationship, we went to rope wild, roaming cattle on the north end of the county. When Rowdy, cowboy extraordinaire, completed his extra cowboyish task, he stretched his long legs out on his flat bed while he sucked down a beer. I watched his profile in the sunset and absorbed the quite romantic moments of witnessing first hand one of the lasts of a dying breed. From that moment on, Rowdy took on a new definition to me and this particular song has always seemed to describe it far better than I could.

And then I came across Mr. Bojangles. There I was, sitting in the floor with my legs crossed in the living room of David and Patty Cummings as a circled group of musicians picked through the midnights of my wildly misspent youth. It's funny how things that seemed to define or anchor your life for a season somehow become a memory that pops into your head just a few short years later through the helpful hand of a melody. The people who were important to me during that time of my life are still among the most important to me now, all this time later, although each of our lives have taken a much different form than the carefree, beer-soaked dance it was back then. Some songs and some friends and some memories just mold your destiny, I suppose.

As misty-eyed and nostalgic as James Dupre's powerful voice had already made me, I avoided one song he had posted for a few hours before I broke down and played it. I knew once I started it, there would be no turning back. Tears would fall and my heart would break. It was the late Spring of 1999 and I was driving my awesome Plymouth Laser as James Ashworth rode shotgun. We sang the song louder than the radio, so loud the breath-taking Oklahoma outdoors had to pause just to hear us. James's birthday is next Tuesday, he would've been 28. As hard as it is to believe that we are now just 2 years from 30, it's even harder to believe that James will be gone 4 years this April. Because Name was popular when I graduated and because the Goo Goo Dolls were one of the first bands I saw in concert, their music has been a long-time favorite of mine. But, this afternoon as James Dupre belted out the lyrics, "We grew up way too fast and there's nothing to believe," I shook my head as I sang along. Somehow that means so much more to me now than it did back then. Every time I think of James's untimely death, I lose my breath as though I've just taken a swift punch to the gut. It makes less sense to me today than it did when it happened and I know even if I live to be 100, I will never be able to wrap my mind around brutal injustice of his premature passing. But, here in this lifetime, I know I am a better friend and, moreover, a better mother for having known him and, for that, I am eternally grateful for the blessing of having known James Dalton Ashworth.

There's a reason art is often referred to as the humanities. It's suppose to make you feel, it's suppose to take you back. I'm so glad I found James Dupre on youtube. Most assuredly, I will be back to his profile. He's posted so many songs that I haven't even come close to hearing them all. From Jackson Browne to George Strait, he gives a new meaning to some of my favorite classics. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I have. Maybe it will be the time machine for you as it was for me, transcending all the moments that have passed between you and some long, lost place.

HAPPY VETERAN'S DAY

Sometimes when I think of my grandfather, it is hard to remember that he was just a hair older than I am now when he went to war for the first time. The notion of leaving Ridge and Rolan behind as I head off for foreign lands and deadly battles seems beyond unreal to me, yet when he was at this time in his life, he was doing just that. As I have gotten older, I've come to understand him more, although I must admit that I'm still far from knowing the inter workings of his souls. I suppose it is the same for all old warriors.
But, nonetheless, having been raised so closely to and with him, the faces of veterans took on a new meaning with me. Born just five years after Vietnam ended, his wounds were still fresh by the time I came around. I've always appreciated the honest way in which he spoke of his experiences there, in the deep jungles of Asia, although I don't think any less of veterans from that same era who don't speak with such ease.
As you read this blog, I'm sure my feelings about our current war are pretty easy to see. But, either way, I'm still my grandfather's granddaughter. Military members have no say when and where they are sent, they go with a willing confidence in the commander who sent them.
If I said this war hadn't changed some of my feelings about service, I would be lying. For example, when I watch This Week with George Stephanopolous every Sunday, my breath is taken away by the names of our fallen service who've been lost during the week. And almost always the age next to their names just happens to be smaller than mine. I can't help to be taken back to when I was 18, the year I graduated from high school and embarked on my own, or 21, the year I came home from the city and moved into my first non-apartment home-on-my-own, or 24, the year I had my first child. I see that age next to their names and I realize all the things I've experiences since I was THAT age, the age of their death, and I understand why my grandfather took his job so seriously. You see, as a Lt. Col., he was one of the oldest man in his platoon. He was responsible for the lives living and fighting along side him. The closer I get to the age he was when he was doing this, the more awesome his obligations seem to me. I think most Americans have a developed opinion of the war in Vietnam, but either way, I can say my grandfather and his comrades served like warrior poet. They answered the call of their nation. They aren't afforded the liberty to question that call, they just went.
So, to the veterans reading this, I thank you for all you have done and all you continue to do. With each year I grow older and, moreover, each year that my children grow older, I am more awestruck by military service.

The Recess is Over, The Bitch is Back

Well, kids, Momma's home. I bet you all thought I've completely fallen off the face of the planet. I've been around, I've just been all strung out on electionitis. Now that it is over, I've had all this extra energy with no outlet to direct it. I suppose I should clean the house, but I don't want my husband to start expecting shit. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Now that I'm back and you are back, I bet you've noticed the face lift on the blog layout. I still need to move some stuff around, but you know I have the skill level of a third grader. No offense to third graders, it just takes me a while.
Oh, and I have cracked the code on the "What the hell is happening to the clothes hangers?" mystery. Apparently my three-year-old thinks the top parts are his "hooks," a vital weapon in his war against invisible monsters. I caught him doing this shit twice this week. Child, be damned!
Fret no more, Readers. I'm back. And if I have to drag my ass to the keyboard each day, you better be dragging your ass to my NEW fancy blog.

The Epic Rises and Falls of History

As I listened to John McCain give his concession speech, I thought of the likes Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson, of great American statesmen who inched so close to the presidency, falling just short. Both men helped define America, though most citizens know not who they were. They served long and hard. And, as it is, both sought the highest office, both full of qualifications and brilliance, and both didn't live to achieve that aspiration. Sadly, most Americans know little of either, two of the greatest statesmen of our time.
And as I watched John McCain surrender his great fight last night, my mind also drifted to General MacArthur, when he declared that old soldiers don't die, they just simply fade away.
Truthfully, I will always think it is one of the great Shakespearean tragedies of our time that John wasn't the president on 9/11. I imagine he would have hunted Osama bin Laden personally, like some rabid dog on the trail of a crippled rabbit. But, the Republicans didn't nominate John in 2000 and, subsequently, we got George Bush. I suppose we could hash over a million different factors that lead to tonight's outcome, but either way, I think we will all agree the Bush presidency decided it more than the war or history or the economy.
With the mentioning of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson, you might have suspected that I love history, particularly American history. I've loved this country my whole life, so much so that I continue to love learning passages of its history I don't know yet. I know that is novel to some. While I don't want to take this victory away from Barack and from the family that lifted the most unlikely young man to a place of greatness, I also want to note this victory is not his alone.
If you have followed this blog much at all, you've probably learned many things about me. Like my father, I have a profound memory and, like him, I can often relate current events to my own personal life. Of all the emotions, nostalgia is one of my favorites.
I spent most of this day thinking not just of Barack Obama, but rather, thinking of Bobby Kennedy. I remembered that not long before his own death in 1968, Bobby declared that we would have our first black president within 40 years. Bobby was a trailblazer, burning paths for the equal rights of others even when it burned bridges for him. As I told my father that, a man who is legendary at least in my mind, Dad recalled his own memories of his life as it fell around the death of Bobby. I could tell it pleased him that this served Bobby's memory well. And as Dad ran through his own life's intimate connections to Vietnam and Civil Rights and most things related to the 1960s, the victories and losses of today's election were poignantly clear. On one hand, a prisoner of war from that era, a man who bleed almost endlessly for this nation, was rejected for the second time from the high office. On the other, the battles of my father's greatest idol, Mohamed Ali, were finally put to rest. My father is a living, breathing paradox for the time period that produced both John McCain and Barack Obama and, honestly, without him I would a smaller understanding of both men.
As I listened to John's concession speech last, I saw the statesmen I've always thought him to be. Frankly, my heart broke. During this campaign, John seemed not to resemble that at times, but I saw him clearly last night. While I have pulled so heavily for Obama, I've also known John is one of the great statesmen of our time, like Clay, like Stevenson. Like so few remember the two of them, 100 years from now, most Americans won't remember the Shakespearean highs and lows of John McCain. Under different circumstances, maybe I would've voted for him. I look forward to continuing to know John, especially now that a presidency is most definitely out of reach. I look for these next few years to be his greatest, where he will help guide both America and his own legacy. He has been a very special brand of leader and I'm so thankful to call him ours, as in "our time."
But, with the certain end of John's presidential aspirations, our nation embarks upon another journey, a journey as exciting as I can imagine. Barack Obama's life is that of epic proportion and I won't pretend that I am not in awe of the amazing resilience in overcoming his life's obstacles. When I look at him, I see Bobby and Martin. I also see my two baby sons. While I think Roberta McCain has the class of a great lady, I don't see myself in her. However, I do see myself in Ann Dunham. If my sons chose to stay out here in Western Oklahoma, I will shutter at the mercy of God. However, if they dream of horizons that cascade upon the Seine and trickle down Tigris and lead them to destinations I have never even read of, then I will consider my life a success. I want them to ride the great waves into the bliss. I want them to make love in a waterfalls just outside of Delhi and leave poker tables at dawn, ahead of course. Whether they fly big planes over Egypt or drive big tractors of the beautiful American plains, I want their lives to be their ultimate dream. I want them to taste life, even when it is bitter.
Congratulations, President Obama. Our challenges are the biggest of our generation and I am excited to see how you rise to meet them.

A Tribute To Mothers

Well, one day left until election, one day left until we (hopefully) have a winner. From reading this blog you should have no doubt about who I'm pulling for, Barack Obama. But, at this late date, I don't desire to debate policies and platforms and promises. Rather, I want to say no matter who wins, on Wednesday, we must come together as one nation, a whole nation. I realize you are probably thinking, "Sure, Shonda, that's easy to say right now when it appears your guy should stroll to victory."
Well, don't forget the past two elections that have left me drowning in at least 3 30-packs of beer, wondering how the hell Little George pulled off another one. But, at the end of the day, I accepted his presidency, even if I still doubted his Florida 2000 win.
Again, this post isn't an invitation for debate, just a small explanation of my beliefs, but moreover, my love for this country. I love this country so much that I actually learn about it. My quest for that knowledge will never end. I love reading of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson and Theodore Roosevelt. I love reading over policies changes. FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm a covert dork. Okay, maybe not covert, but a dork nonetheless.
Simply and purely, I just think Obama's platform is the best for the country. But, I want to focus this post on something else that pulls me toward him.
When I see Barack Obama, I see my own sons. I realize that is probably a strange thought for many, since he is the son of a Kansas woman and a Kenyan man while my two sons are the offspring of two vanilla white Oklahomans. He lived part of his childhood in Indonesia, they will likely spend most of theirs in Cheyenne, Oklahoma. But still, when I see and read of his mother, Ann Dunham, I see myself.
I see a woman who valued education and wanted her son to have a broader knowledge of the ENTIRE world as it is, to see the big picture. I want my sons to dream of horizons beyond what society believes they, the offspring of cattle ranchers in Western Oklahoma, can achieve. When I see my sons, I dream for them, for their greatness. So, when I examine Ann Dunham and Roberta McCain, both women worthy of great respect, I simply relate more to Ann than Roberta.
In the last 8 years, our country has experienced the most divisive period of my lifetime. Regardless of tomorrow's outcome, I hope that we can move past our differences. We our one nation.
But, I'm also leaving you with a passage from Barack's audiobook, a part he reads of his mother. All mothers of sons will be warmed when hearing this. I listened with tears down my face, not because of Barack, but because Ann isn't here to see the achievements of her son. I hope you enjoy.

Eastern Bloc Interrogation Gay

So, thank goodness for the tracker on the side. I get to see the random googles that leads folks to my blog. Well, let me tell you about the little gem given to Aunt Shonda today. Apparently someone googled, "Eastern Bloc Interrogation Gay" and, through the random cosmic powers that is google, it brought them to MY site. Yup, that's right. Some fetish freak out there is searching homosexual torture in Russia and he found mommalittle.com.
I'm putting this in the win bracket, so you know.

Time Change = Bullshit

Dear Time Change,
Tell me why, just why, are you out to ruin my life? Now, I know this is surprising coming from me, Old Shonda who once loved the fall time change. Ahhh....the good old days. The bars would actually "fall back" on Saturday night, thus creating an extra hour of beer drinking PLUS I would gain an hour of sleep before dragging my hungover behind out of bed to go wait table.
But, alas, those days are gone and now I'm living here in Old Geezerville. In fact, I've been entertaining a run for mayor, but I figure John McCain might throw his hat in the ring since Obama is about to retire him from national politics.
Bring it on, John. I look forward to debating what time "Lights Out" should be called and I am running on a tough platform on noise security. You know, as in "Damn kids, stop with all that noise."
Anyways, this time changing is totally screwing up my day. As you should suspect my kids are now waking up at the taint of dawn. Yes, you read that correctly. They were already getting up at the asscrack of dawn, so I have to assume taint is the next step in the "really freakin' bad" progression. On the up side, if you can call it that, they went down really early. But, that only further lets me know they are going to crawl their energetic asses out of bed as an insane hour. All I want to do is sleep 30 more minutes, damn it.
So, listen up, Time Change. I've got my eyes on you.
Shonda