The Wisdom of Brotherly Beatings

The comic Titus often said that while mothers try to teach their children wisdom, fathers make them earn it. I totally see this in the different parenting approaches Rowdy and I take. For example, while I might discourage the boys from getting near a flame to avoid being burned, Rowdy keeps his lips sealed, insisting that one round with fire will leave a lasting reminder that fire, well, it fucking hurts.
My sons have a rather passionate relationship with each other. Most of the time it is the kind of passion that prompts one sibling to undergo life-threatening surgery to donate a kidney to a brother or sister fighting off death. They protect each other, they get angry at Rowdy and me when we are disciplining the other, they are best friends and playmates. For the most part, the bond Ridge and Rolan share is as strong as a forest of oak trees.
But then there are other times, the times that they are hooked up like two rottweilers tearing each other by the flesh for a scrap of meat. When my boys decide to throw hands, neither one hold back. This is no holds barred combat, a fight to the death, or at least until someone gets hurt bad enough to give in and cry to Momma. And, normally, when I pull the two of them apart, some rinky dink cheap toy is stuck there between them.
So, when they opened a matching pair of toy bulldozers at my mom's this Christmas, I was like a freakin' psychic, foreseeing many a'thumping unleash over these two contraptions.
Naturally, as the person who birthed both of them, I try to discourage these bloody reenactments of Lord of the Flies. Now, I'm not saying that I think Rowdy actually wants them to claw one another's eyes out, but he certainly seems to create situations that he, as a thinking adult, should see will lead to only that. He is constantly encouraging them to wrestle each other or tackle other or some other activity that 100% of the time leads to out-and-out warfare. Fucking constantly.
However, all this time I believed he just didn't think the end game out, that is, until he showed the boys how to have bulldozer fights. That's right, freakin' bulldozer fights.
A few nights ago, I walked into the living room to see Rowdy, the lone grown-up, showing our darling sons how to ram these disastrous toys against each other until one of them was pushed off the table, making one brother the winner and the other a very pissed off loser. Immediately, I snipped something like, "Have you lost your ever lovin' mind, Rowdy?"
Of course, he insisted that this was rather harmless, that they were just being boys. And he stuck by that defense right up until complete and utter lawlessness broke out.
And as I comforted my battered, beaten and bloody boys, I reminded Rowdy once again that they are, as he had just explained, boys. Their instinct simply is to smack each other with big toys until one of them is bleeding and both of them are bawling.
Then he said, "Yeah, but I bet they remember that it hurt."

Rock The New Year

I'm not gonna lie, I'm a bit concerned about the natural ease and instinct the Brothers Little had when I busted out the 2009 shades. With no hesitation, they slapped those bitches on and ran about the house like two season party goers. Fuzzy images of the two of them living it up on New Years Eve circa 2025 went flashing through my troubled mind as they leaped about the living room, making goofy faces for the camera and just reeking havoc in general.
Now, I know you all are constantly want to blame their prominent orneriness upon being the sons of a rather wiseass mother. So, I give you Exhibit A, the photo of them with my Rowdy. As much as I'd love to take complete credit for their quirky wit, you can see Ridge and Rolan are getting a fine lesson in that from both sides of their gene pool.

Revenge is Best Served Cold, with 300 Parts and Instructions Written Half in Chinese

I often spend a lot of time thinking how much easier parenting would be if I happened to be the parent lucky enough to stuff a penis in my pants. Those bitter thoughts have ran through my mind more than usual on this miserable run up to Christmas. While I was in some packed shopping center pushing my way through crazed parents swarming some random toy like a herd of the zombie undead on fresh brains prime for the suckling, Rowdy would be napping in the recliner with our rambunctious children pawned off on his mom. I stayed up until 3 am wrapping presents while he stayed up just as late playing cards with the fellas. Last Saturday he took care of the boys while I photographed a wedding. Because we were leaving the next morning as soon as he finished feeding cattle for our Christmas celebration at Rowdy's dad in Oklahoma City, I knew the next morning I'd be rushing around like crackheads in the middle of a drug sting. My lone request for Rowdy in preparation for this trip to see his family (who I adore, by the way) was to bath the boys before they went to sleep. The next morning when I asked him if he had completed this task, he replied that he had fully intended to do this, especially in light of all the dirt fights they had, but that he simply got too busy with the super exciting football game he was watching. I wanted to kill him, I did, but I knew that would frankly take time that I just didn't have. I would have bitched at him, but Rowdy was also blessed with his uncanny ability to complete ignore all negative input from any and all females and absorbing all the positive ones. It's bullshit, really.
I spent that last few days with an admitted case of penis envy, thank you very much, Dr. Freud. That is, until the bounty of Christmas presents were unwrapped, shredded paper flung from here to yonder, and a small army of unassembled toys stared Rowdy stone cold in the face. It was like they were taunting him. A couple were constructed within a few moments, a couple appeared to require an engineering degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to conquer.
Rowdy sat leg-crossed and baffled on the living room floor, nuts and bolts and springs and aluminum bars scattered around him in a semi-circle. Periodically, words that are typically frowned upon on Christmas were muttered under his breath, the four letter kind that with a tendency in starting with "F" or "S" or "D," the words I hold most dear.
And it was in this snowfall of toy parts that I realized maybe I shouldn't have been so rough on Rowdy while I was in the middle of my Christmas fury. I'm sure if Rowdy read this post, he'd swear I bought all those difficult-to-assemble toys on purpose, not because the boys would love them, but just to share some of my Christmas misery with him. But, that's really not the case. Now I see that maybe being the Daddy isn't so easy after all.

Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I'll never forget the first time I heard George Constanza nervously ramble to his boss about his father Frank's personal holiday, Festivus, a special observation set aside to protest all the mind-numbing, ridicules bullshit that surrounds Hanukkah and Christmas and every other sacred day recognized by the masses. It's not that I mind the days themselves, just the opposite really. What I do mind, though, is the way the entire population goes apeshit crazy as the day approaches. A man was killed this year at an early bird special, for Christsake.
Now, I know Frank Constanza is technically a fictional character, but Festivus is pure genius. And, as a matter of fact, it was actually inspired by a Seinfeld writer Dan O'Keefe's father's spin on the celebration of, well, not freakin' celebrating.
I'm sure all you Christmas lovers are going berserk as you read this. Well, hold on, friends, it's gonna get bumpier. My beef with Christmas has nothing to do with the holiday itself, in its rawest form, that is. But, really, the nuts-and-bolts of Christmas really wouldn't make much of a holiday, would it? Since the Bible gives no real guidelines outside of birthing in a pile of hay and then receiving some shit called frankincense and Mir from three wise men, which could be anyone I guess, we really don't know how God wants us to commemorate the birth of His son. Should we stuff a pinata and cheer Jesus on as he puffs out his candles, all 3,000 of 'em? I'm not sure what we are suppose to do, but I'm certain God's plan isn't for us to staple enough fucking Christmas lights to our house to single-handily melt the polar ice caps and make the old spinster woman go certifiably insane from all the blinking light reminders that she and her 7 cats are all alone at Christmas. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I gather from the whole feeding a crowd with a loaf of bread and three fish thing that Jesus dug conservation. I'm just not sure he'd want us to mark his birthday by packing three fucking landfills with useless Christmas paper that briefly covered a bunch of gifts we don't really need.
Not to mention that, Jesus seemed to shun both the prideful lust of worldly possessions and really all violence. Well, putting a bunch of genetically related people who can't freakin' stand each other and only manage to restrain from socking each other in the eye with a turkey drumstick because it would break poor ole Grammy's heart in the same room to trade notes over who's pulling down the biggest paycheck according the size of their wastefully wrapped gifts under the tree just makes perfect sense. As soon as the ribbons are untied and punches are flying, I'm sure Jesus is happy as a bride on her wedding day. Honestly, I don't know why we just don't start a new Christmas tradition of gouging out each other's eyes rather than turning the other cheek. That's the only thing missing.
In light of my obvious Bah Humbug spirit, Festivus clearly resonated with me. Festivus is packed full with much more reasonable customs and my favorite of them all is the "Airing of the Grievances." Just in case you somehow missed Frank Constanza's explanation of this practice to Cosmo Kramer, which would be like overlooking Hailey's Comet flying into Earth, this is the time-honored tradition of basically telling everyone that's disappointed you or pissed you off throughout the year just how they did so. Just imagine how the escalated depression and violence of the holiday season would decrease if we all embraced this rather than Christmas caroling.
So, in honor of Festivus, I want to share with you a small excerpt from my Grievances:

Mollie,
Not only are those horseshit knock-off Lego's that you gave Ridge for his birthday constantly sprinkled around my house like Mardi Gras confetti without the beer and flying chi chis, but when I stumbled haphazardly to the bathroom in the middle of the night, my unsuspecting foot struck one of those bastards and the skin on the bottom of my foot was cut. I woke up the next morning with a bleeding and aching foot and was forced to wear two mismatched Crocs to work at the Hog Trough the next morning because every other shoe hurt too freakin' badly to wear. On the account of that, several people continue to make fun of my fashion sense, which is obviously as dead on as that Calvin Klein person.
Also, you gave Ridge those prescription-less glasses so that he would stop pestering your son Carson for his, but I know it was really so he would love you more than he loves me. You were almost successful in that, but no cigar, biznotch. Thanks to you, Ridge is now that Sampson without his long, locks of hair if he doesn't have those damn glasses -- simply useless. A slow poke to begin with, he now takes more time to get dressed because he's looking for those damn glasses than it took me to grow him in my stomach. Freakin' thanks! I guess I should be comforted in knowing that my kids spend the entire time they are at your house being pampered into love since you want to be their favorite, but you are ruining my life with your quest. I'm currently searching for the most ridicules gifts imaginable to give your kids. Just wait.

AT&T,
Since you have acquired the small, local chain of cell phone providers, the suckage of my coverage has increased dramatically. What's up with that? The old guys had the budget to advertise on the local radio, you guys have the cash flow to make your bidding on every national station. Hell, if you can pull the strings to let Dick Cheney listen to my random phone calls about my man and kids without a warrant surely to hell you can make the motherfuckers work without dropping every five minutes.

Mother in Law,
My sons aren't instantly and magically going to be stricken with pneumonia or frostbit or some other terrible affliction if they thermometer dips below 65 and they aren't wrapped up like that poor bundled up kid in The Christmas Story. Seriously, a band of Cheyenne managed to keep their kids alive for decades 1/4 of a mile from here on the banks of a river with the scant help of a leather tepee. Had that asshole Custer not rode along and massacred them, I'm sure they'd have all died old and withered of old age. I know your concern is because you do so dearly love the boys and I am less annoyed when I realize if something ever happened to me that you would mother them into submission, but I promise not to let them freeze to death.

Kentucky Fried Chicken Man,
I'm not being a bitch for wanting my money back. The chicken was simply raw. I don't eat raw chicken. That's not because I'm a snob, it's because I don't like puking water through my nose for three days. I realize my ass could use the downsizing, but I want my money back nonetheless.

Mom,
If you happen to go a week without seeing the boys, all memories of you aren't going to be mysteriously whisked from their brain. I can't help that you work 20 hours a day and, for some damn reason, want to sleep those other 4. I'm not a miracle worker. You can either commission God for 4 more hours in a day or stop with the damn overachieving. I understand that this nagging is just because you love them 5 times as much as you love me, which I am actually cool with because I love that my boys are loved, but I can't produce more daylight.

Satellite Repair Man,
When we call you for a repair and then fork over that ridicules surcharge to get you out here, actually fix our shit. Don't strip some wires and then put together some technical house of cards that we'd have to be skilled magicians or, in the very least, engineers to make work after you leave in 5 minutes. I mean, seriously, if I wanted some solution that required some flimsy coat hanger to rest at an almost impossible angle while Rowdy and I jump up and down and pat our heads, we'd have saved our money and done it ourselves.

Rowdy,
Oh, this could be five posts in itself. In fact, I am not going to write anything here since, well, bitching about you is pretty well the premise of this blog. I will say that it kinda pisses me off that four years into parenting, you have yet to wash one pair of underwear and you still get to be John Wayne wrapped up in Super Man to the boys every time you walk in the door, which I think is total bullshit since you didn't let the boys live inside your belly for 75% of year, gaining untold discomfort, then to turn around and let them thrive off your breast milk for a year. I do all that and you still get to be the super hero. Fucking bullshit.

Melissa,
Seriously, openly laughing at someone who accidentally rubs peppermint oil in their eye and then agonizing through relentless pain because of it. Seriously. I don't know if I'm peeved or excited that you get my humor. It's one of the two.

Ridge and Rolan,
Along with your dad, you two are the loves of my life. If it weren't for you two, I wouldn't even begrudgingly drag myself through this holiday. Damn you two for lighting up my life through the wonder in your eyes. If you two didn't radiate joy and excitement with even the slightest whisper of the magic of Christmas, I'd be a peaceful woman with abundant rest. I'd use all the money I've spent on gifts and what not to buy a plane ticket to some sunny paradise stocked with hot men and cold beer. Instead I'm running on fumes to wrap all the gifts you don't need and to prepare the food for our celebrations just to see the two of you hold your breath as your rip through wrapping paper to discover your next surprise, to see your mouths drop with glee when you realize what lies beneath it. So, you two darling little shits get my ultimate grievance and I wouldn't have it any other way.

HAPPY FESTIVUS! Watch the Festivus video. It's your heritage.

If You Have An Iritant on your Hands, Don't Rub Your Eyes. Unless Of Course You Want Your Entire Face to Fall Off, and Then Do.

A few months ago, I read in the newspaper that the scent of peppermint oil sends pesky little mice running away from the source and, therefore, into the outdoors. Now, like most country dwellers, I'm constantly looking for ways to outsmart for little bastards. You have to get up early and stay up late, my friends.
So I swung by the local drug store and picked up a tee tiny bottle, which, by the way, was like $20 per freakin' ounce. I also got some cotton balls to douse it on. Then I jumped in the car, tossed the bank-busting bottle of peppermint oil into the backseat of my car with about 45 other items I've been searching for the last six months and went on about my merry way.
As I did my bi-annual car cleaning this morning, I spotted the supposed mouse repellent. Holy shit, I had forgotten all about that stuff! Rushing in the house, my excitement woke my husband from his semi-nap as I soaked a handful of cotton balls and stuffed them under furniture and by the front door.
And then, with absolutely no awareness of the torture I was about to inflict upon myself, I rubbed my left eye. I'm sure you probably already figured this, but it turns about that highly concentrated peppermint oil burns when you touch it to your vulnerable eyeball. It burns with the fire of 10,000 chlamydia infections, as though you've just used a heaping bowl of onion salsa to wash a splinter of your eye. It was pure misery.
With my eyelid squeezed tightly, I hustled to the sink and washed my hands. After all, I didn't want to further this brutal assault. I grabbed a paper towel, ran water onto it and then attempted to wash this rain of hell out of it. Turns out, either I didn't get all the peppermint oil off of my hand or I still had some lingering upon my eyeball. Whatever happened, the swiping of my left eye drew the unbearable pain to the other eye. Not only that, my cheeks were set ablaze. My skin was splotchy red.
My husband, who was sitting in his lazy boy enjoying the spectacle, proved to be less useful than a lump on a particularly useless log. Basically, he was like George Bush in the middle of this financial crisis. As I handed him two wet wipes, he shrugged his shoulders and told me he just didn't know what he should do. And I was all, Seriously, Dude, Rub that sweet relief on my eyeballs. Rowdy maintained that he didn't think that would help as he spouted of other suggestions without taking his attention from whatever bullshit sporting event he was watching.
After I realized my husband would be absolutely no assistance, I ran to our bedroom, flipped on the fan by my bed and pushed my face against it. The gentle breeze was almost instant relief, like an epidural after 6 hours of hard labor. Yes, that's right, I'm comparing the peppermint oil incident to child birth. Yes, I've been through child birth. It's totally the same. Let it go.
After 20 minutes of bellyaching, the hurt finally faded away. That damn peppermint oil better pay off. If I see one mouse in this house this winter, I might freak out and pour peppermint oil in his beady little eyes. Bastards.

Momma's Boys

Just as I tucked the boys into bed, I got to enjoy the rare pleasure of a television to myself. Rowdy was watching CNBC or The Terminator or some other atrocious bologna that I have no desire to see on the bedroom television, so the living room tube was mine, all mine.
I skimmed through the channels when a brand new show jumped out at me -- Momma's Boys. Although I'm not normally one for reality television, I'm totally down for a train wreck, which is evident in my unfettered affection for Rock of Love.
No more than five minutes into the show, Rowdy comes through the living room to go outside for a smoke.

ROWDY: What are you watching? Is this that new show Momma's Boys?

ME: Ummmm.....why?

ROWDY: Is it?

ME: Yes, why?

(LONG, LONG PAUSE)

ROWDY: Well, I don't really want you to get started watching that show.

ME: Why not?

(EVEN LONGER PAUSE)

ROWDY: I just can't help but think that a show with momma's boys with noisy mothers is going to somehow bite me in the ass.


Immediately, I was overcome with laughter. And, just in case you haven't been as well, perhaps I should tell you that I live approximately 1,000 feet from my mother-in-law. While she is very good to me and my children, I can't help but think that maybe my darling husband feels periodically squeezed between the never-ending nut vault that is constant interaction with both your mother and your wife. I know all you fellas out there are shaking your heads, wondering if Rowdy is on a steady stream of drugs or just likes female nagging.

Then, it turned out, Rowdy's words were almost prophetic. I paused the show while he told me of this con man Madoff and his swindling. I wasn't recording it, it was just paused during this brief conversation when Rowdy's daily crack, Mad Money, kicked my new beloved show off. It was lost forever in DVR outerspace. Naturally, this caused me to start sniping at Rowdy's feet like one of those yappy lap dogs.
What can I say, when he's right, he's right!

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

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

Our Country Boy Convert

Here we are on day 4 of the Webling invasion on the ranch. In case you don't know what I mean, my friend Mollie's boy has been bunked up with us while she and her man have been partying down in Vegas.
As my husband would phrase it, Carson is a town boy. Now, for my non-Okie readers, I'm sure you are giggling at the notion of a young man who lives in a community of 10,000 that goes by the name of Elk City being a "town" boy. But, to Rowdy, any area that is inhabited by more than, I don't know, 500 people spread out over 20 square miles might as well be South Central Los Angeles.
Just a few hours away from home, Carson the "town" boy, he's already picked up some of my "country" boys' ways. On morning one and morning two, he found his way to the bathroom to tinkle in the potty. But, by yesterday, he was outside with my boys, masking in the freedom of whizzing off the porch.
Rowdy, as you know, is totally down with the exploitation of child labor. The day he found out I was pregnant with Ridge Rowdy daydreamed about the day he could bark, "Jump down in that grainery, boy, and clean that shit out," or "Run down there and grab that gate and let's sort of those sick calves." I could go on forever. And, as Rowdy continues to inquire about just when I will be caving in and bearing one more future employee, I know his motivation. Dude, we are getting old and we need some teenagers about the time we are 50.
Anyways, after the boys finished their lunches, we went outside to to play and sweep underneath the carport. When Ridge got his new boots for school, we started calling his beloved old pair that he's worn every single day for a year his "work" boots. He just couldn't take the pain of totally retiring them, plus it keeps the new ones looking shiny a little longer.
So, as we went outside, Carson shucked his checkered shoes and pulled upon a spare set of ours while declaring, "These are MY work boots!?
Yup, he's becoming a country convert. Rowdy is basking in his victory. He has one more night with us, so perhaps I'll send him back in a pearl snap with a lunch pale full of calf fries.

If Life Were A Beer Commercial and My Kid was the Star

I don't really recall what year it was, but I know the Budweiser "Whhhaaaazzzzz Up" commercials made their debut many moons ago now. Whenever I figure up years gone by, I start by deciding if this event took place before Rowdy and I met. In this case, I know it was. So, my guesstimation would be that they aired 7-8 years ago, maybe 9.
Anyways, like all good beer ads, they were rolled out during the Super Bowl and, almost instantly, every young male I knew was borrowing this ridicules phrase from the Budweiser guys, not only using it to answer questions, but also randomly whipping it out into the peaceful silence. Two words are coming to mind right now: "Brandon" and "Schreck." He was still in high school at the time. We worked together and, I swear to God, if I had a penny for every time he said that in a three month period, we could sell all these fucking cattle and retire on a tropical beach somewhere.
However, like all pop culture fads, this faded into the abyss, stuffed back in the recesses of my mind. I hoped it would stay there, that I would never have to think about this again. But, alas, I was wrong. Such is the comedy of life.
In the last couple of weeks, my youngest boy Rolan has developed a comedy routine of his own. It goes something like this here:
He wiggles up close to one of us. He's a real cute kid and I'm not saying that just because I'm his mom. Trust me, I think about how much money I could fetch for him on the black market and it's tempting not to take the fat cash and head of to before mentioned beach. (Just kidding, simmer down.)
Anyways, once he is next to us, he lets out a ripping fart that would pride any large, hairy, flannel-clad trucker and then, with his eyes as wide as half dollars, he says, "Whhhhaaazzzz that?"
Now, I know it's not quite the same phrase as the Budweisers guys, but the fashion in which he belts it out sounds just like them. He summons the words from deep in his chest and, as they leave his precious lips, his voice is as raspy as a 30 year smoker. He then rolls on the ground, triumphant in his gassy victory while I look at my husband, who is of course beaming with pride that his boy discovered the humor in farts all by himself, and wonder if perhaps I should've selected offspring from a different gene pool. (Calm down, I'm just kidding. You know Rowdy's my guy.)
As soon as Rolan started doing this, it felt eerily familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Then last night he whipped out the comedic routine once again and it was like some twisted, pop culture de ja vu. And it hit me, it's the freakin' Budweiser guys, that commercial that I lamented for months. I wanted to throw a keg party when Budweiser switched to the frogs. (Wait, did the frogs come first? Either way, they were better.)
So, there you go, Readers. I think this is a fine example of the great comedy of life. Everyone else loved those commercials, all but danced in the streets when they come across the television screen. Not me, I hated them. Yet, somehow in a cosmic mystery, my darling son has channeled this absurd ads that aired before he was freakin' conceived to use in his two-year-old stand-up routine. Rowdy is soooo proud, so proud.
In case you've forgotten those commercials, take a moment to walk down that memory lane.

When Kids Invade the Bedroom

Pull up a chair, Readers, it's lessons from Shonda time again.
For some reason, I've been blogging about getting it on and, moreover, the subsequent reproduction that it causes lately. It all started with Bristol Palin and the big no-no she and her hot piece of Alaskan tail Levi Johnston got into. Well, it didn't really start there. You know I've been a weaselly perv for many a years now, that just sparked all the writing. Then I talked to all you teenagers out there about the perks of having a baby at a young age. Mollie did it and now she has a mini nanny. I waited until I was 24 to start having kids, which is like 40 here in Oklahoma. Seriously, my aunt Janet began calling me an old maid when I was 20. To be fair, she and her bunch are more fertile than prime Ohio farm ground. Anyways, my responsibility (or luck, whatev) really paid off. While I'm slaving over six freakin' loads of laundry, Mollie's watching tv as her daughter Hannah loads the dryer and pours milk for the smaller children. It's bullshit.
Well, I figured I might as well keep the raunchy theme going, right. Today I want to talk to you about birth control in its most effective means.
Now, in order for you to take this sure fire route, you must have either already reproduced or have access to a kid you can borrow. I repeat, there must be small children.
I can tell you, Brilliant Readers, that nothing slows down the procreation like a toddler's head peeking over the side of the bed just as you start rubbing on your partner's nether regions.
"Momma, there's a monster under my bed," he whispers as he shimmies into bed and rests between the two of you.
But, you don't give up there. After all, the two of you used to be quite the rock stars in this regard and you are motivated to kick off the reunion tour. You lay like motionless rocks until the little angel is sleeping soundly, then you sneak off to his home. It, after all, is free.
Just as you slip into the Thomas the Train sheets (this is totally hypothetical), you hear a soft cry in the room of the baby. The soft cry quickly turns into a shrill scream. You sigh, leave your handsome spouse in the big kid's room and go to soothe the little kid.
Of course, for some odd reason, it takes twice as long to comfort him as it normally does. You rock and sing, whisper and hug, but the child reminds you there is no rest for the weary and no love for the randy.
By the time you perform the small miracle of hypnotising the kiddo, you creep back into the toddler's room to find a snoring husband.
So, there you, Readers. If you don't want to get pregnant, just have kids.

So My Phones Glued To My Ear, What of It?

I woke up at 5:30 again this morning, a pesky little inconvenience in my book. I laid in bed for another hour before I decided to hell with the hopes of falling back in a peaceful slumber and got my dragging ass out of bed.
When Rowdy started stirring an hour later, he poured a cup of coffee and turned on Good Morning America. They, of course, were all chipper as though someone had dropped a couple of tabs of Ecstasy in their morning joe. (Does that come in tabs? I don't know so stop laughing at me if I doesn't. I'm hip.)
After a few segments, they started yammering on about some new study asserting that too much interaction with other females can actually be bad for a woman's life. I looked over and saw Rowdy's ears perk up. He glanced over at me all slyly.
The television shrink explained that female friends can be certainly beneficial if they are kept at an arm's length. She then explained that talking out every breath of your day can be drama bait or some such shit.
Rowdy's glances became less sly and then they morphed into all out stares.
"Do you think Mollie is watching this?" he quizzed.
"I doubt it, why?"
"Well, I think it might be something both of you needed to watch."
"Just what do you mean by that?" I snapped.
"Ummm.... you talk on the phone while you are cooking breakfast. You talk on the phone while you cooking supper. You talk on the phone while you drive to her house, only hanging up when she answers the front door."
"Suck it, Rowdy."

The Great Remote Wars of 2008 Wages On

The day after the now-infamous remote control/DVR debacle, Rowdy came in as I was watching a marathon of Snapped, a series about women who freak the eff out and kill their men. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and, all inspired by the show's subjects, I growled, "Don't even think about it, asshole."
As I fried chicken in the kitchen, peering out from under the cabinet at the tumultuous lives of the women being profiled, I could see that Rowdy was perhaps a little frightened by the ideas I was absorbing.
One lady added just a few drops of anti-freeze into her husband morning coffee until it became so backed up in his system that his organs failed. Another plowed her cheating man down in parking lot, reversing and driving back over him more than once. And so went the tales of accidental shootings and carbon monoxide poisoning and hired hit men.
With each documentary, I could see Rowdy's eyes growing round and, through the corner of my eye, I would periodically see him glancing over at me. As I brought his dinner, laid out beautifully over one of our wedding plates, our eyes met in a deadlock and I could sense him fearfully wondering, "Has this crazy bitch finally flipped out?"
Then I just leaned in, kissed him gently, "Don't touch that fucking remote, baby."

The (future) Lady's Man

When Ridge was about 2, I purchased a 10-year-old rocking horse at an estate auction. It's one of those totally reckless numbers with the metal frame and rickety springs. I broke my sister's arm when she was about 2 herself on the exact same model. Like freakin' always, she had taken over my fabulous toy and, frustrated with her persistence in playing with it, I grabbed a hold of the tail, keeping the horse in place as Katie flew forward. She was hurt and I was in big trouble.
Like I said, they don't sell these bitches anymore. Anytime a new lady comes over, Ridge mounts is trusty steed and puts on a show. He rides that damn thing so hard that it lifts off the floor and then slams back into it. And, all the while, he is chanting, "Yeeee Hawwww!" As this little flirtatious attention grabber continues, I look at his father and roll my eyes. Up until I tricked Rowdy into marrying me, he was quite the lady's man. Ridge's eyes light up when he notices the female visitor watching him and I know exactly where he got this.
So, on our way home from Rainbow Lane this afternoon, another symptom of his future Don Juan DeMarco-ness veered its charming head.

ME: What did you do at school today?
RIDGE: Oh, we learned about the farms and I played with my friends.
ME: Who are your friends? What are their names?
RIDGE: Ummmm......
ME: Did you play with Carson?
RIDGE: No, he's a boy.
ME (knowing damn well that Carson is, in fact his friend): You don't play with boys?
RIDGE: No, I like to play with the girls, like Rylee.
ME: Oh really. What do you play with the girls?
RIDGE: I like to chase them and hold their hands.

Then I just shake my head and sigh, knowing just what his teenage years are going to be like. I'm afraid he's going to be a knock off the ole' whore-mongering block. However, unlike Sarah Palin, I won't blindly rely on abstinence-only education. Don't get me wrong, I do NOT want him having sex when he is far too young to understand it, but I also won't completely gamble on the idea that telling him not to do it will totally keep him from it.

Never Let Your Husband Hold the Remote. NEVER!

The only time I ever get to be in charge of the television is when I am the only one home, which isn't that damn often. Our household boasts two -- one in the living room and one in our bedroom. The penis-bearing members of our family run a total racket on our entertainment.
After Rowdy came in last night, I stole the opportunity to fold some laundry, which was wildly overdue by the way, and watch a little tv in the back home. As I dragged one laundry basket into the bedroom, I was excited when I realized one of my favorite movies of all time, Prime, was one. If you've never seen it, it's a must.
Anyways, I've seen this flick enough times to know what happens next and I was right at the end, the heart-wrenchingly painful end when the channel suddenly changed.
What the hell, right?
Yeah, from the living room, Rowdy had started recording a 40-year-old western in the back room, TV 2 according to the DVR.
By the time I switched it, the movie was over and missed Dave pressing his face against the window to steal a peak of Raffi. It's so real, I feel it in my heart each time.
I stormed up front and gave Rowdy a good tongue-lashing. His response, of course, was that I had seen it before and, thanks to me, he was going to have an missing spot in his western. He then proceeded to tell our 3-year-old that Momma didn't want him to get to see his movie. Ridge cried. I cusses. Rowdy got to watch his dumb show. Asshole.

Cowboy Romeo

Okay, ladies, in case you are scouring the internet for evidence for the efficiency of endless nagging or drowning downpours of tears, you've come to the right place.
Just before we opened the doors to my aunt's restaurant today, the flower lady arrived bearing gifts for yours truly. Rowdy has insisted for a long time that buying gifts is a waste of energy and money. In fact, he even hates it when people buy them for him because he believes that they will, in turn, expect him to do the same for them.

I'd like to think that the gorgeous bouquet of roses, daisies and carnations was a symbol of his undying devotion, but I'm sure it had more to do with this desire to not spend three hours evaluating the ebbs and flows of our marriage. You know he just loves talking about his innermost feelings.
Either way, I'm tickled pink because my man showered me with romance on my 28th birthday. The flowers were blooming beautiful and the snazzy vase will make great decor until the boys use it as wicked weapon.
Oh, and happy birthday to Anna. The date of your birth is just another sign of your genius.