'Til Your Untimely Death At The Hands Of Meltdown Do We Part

A few days ago, that witty Lindaloohoo over at wheresmydamnanswer asked me of all freakin' people to submit a post to their rather awesome site. I won't be posting it here, so if you want to read it (and I know you do), you are gonna have to to wander over there and have a looksie. Here's a little preview for your reading pleasure:
My two darling children have reached an age where they are constantly curious about what their father and I are doing at all times. And while their desire to be around us is heart-warming, it has also lead to many a situation that will most assuredly cost us a small fortune in therapy bills if you're picking up what I'm laying down. Pssstttt....they caught us having s-e-x. Now click here and go read the whole story.

Well, now that I've directed you to that post, I guess I should stop neglecting my own site and actually write something here. The downside to this laziness that has me posting only once every two days is that by the time I get back here, so much unbelievable shit has happened around this zoo I call home, I have a hard time deciding just which one to write about.
I'm sure if you've been to The Cowboy Chronicles more than once, you've already observed that I am a bit unbalanced. And by a bit, I actually mean to a spectacular degree. Just go through my blog archives and, after about ten minutes of reading, you'll be like, "Dude, somebody order a straight jacket in this lady's size." Well, when you team my distorted brain chemistry with my ornery, wise ass husband, you get a situation ripe with the constant potential for a bloody homicide.
Take for example the ridicules argument Rowdy and I had this weekend. A few days prior, I had made chicken fried steak sandwiches for him. Now, I don't eat these and the boys would be just as content with the easy-schmeasy peanut butter and jelly, so all the breading and frying and hot grease scorching my skin just to make a sandwich was all done for the pleasure of my husband. In light of that, you might think that he would be, I don't know, fucking appreciative of the fact that he isn't subjected to prepacked turkey, that his attentive wife drags all that extra shit out, thus making a huge mess, just to make him a freakin' sandwich. Well, if that's what you thought, you would be wrong.
In one of Rowdy's numerous attempts to push me over the edge and into some frizzy-haired, flipped out tirade, a few days after I made him this meal he gave a full blown lecture about how I put cheese on his sandwich, which is clearly some crime against chicken fried steak sandwiches everywhere and would only be done in some passive aggressive jab at the recipient of the said sandwich. Now, never mind the fact that he could have built the damn thing himself and thus avoided this cheese injustice. Apart from that, since I know he still has use of his freakin' pointer fingers, I also know he could have just picked up the bread, plucked off the cheese and went forward into his otherwise happy life. Needless to say, this conversation ended with me pacing in circles while I mumbled about shanking him in his sleep.
We awoke the next morning and all the unpleasantness from the stupidest argument in the history of mankind was gone. We drove through pastures and checked cattle together and had steaks for lunch. I made Stromboli, these crab roll wontons Rowdy loves and potato skins for the SuperBowl. And as the closely played game had my sports-loving husband's head damn near spinning in circles, I cleaned the kitchen and timed the coffee pot for the next morning.
Now, for those of you who don't know about the timed coffee pots, listen up. A few years ago I started making Rowdy's coffee the night before and setting the timer so that it will just be done brewing as he gets out of bed, which turned out to perhaps be one of the dumbest things I have ever done. You see, if I happen to forget to do this, he then feels all neglected and mistreated the next morning when he has to make his own and then, in turn, apparently thinks I'm being mean to him. During this fateful week that had already seen that menacing cheese on the steak sandwich, I also forgot to pre-make his coffee. As I was loading the dishwasher Sunday night, I remembered and got his stuff all ready for the next day.
So, when I got home on Sunday night, Rowdy pulled me close to him, kissed me on the cheek and said, "That was a nice way to say you are sorry for the cheese on the sandwich. I accept your apology."
With my head tilted like a dog looking at his owner, I spouted off something along the lines of, "What choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"
Rowdy then went to explain when he awoke Monday morning to an already brewed pot of hot coffee, he decided to forgive me for the whole cheese incident because I got back on the coffee duty. And, just like two days before, I threw a few obscenities around while I muttered about the day I was gonna snap and start putting antifreeze in that pre-made coffee while he literally laughed until he cried.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I snorted. "First of all, I have nothing to apologize for. You are acting like putting cheese on a sandwich is equivalent to draining our bank account without your knowledge or giving a handjob to the pool boy."
And, spoken like a true smart ass, he was all, "We don't have a pool boy, Shonda. Hell, we don't have a pool."
"That's beside the point, Rowdy. What isn't, though, is that the world will keep turning if you happened to have one harmless slice of American on your steak sandwich. And I made the coffee because I remembered to do it, not because I wanted to find some gesture to say I'm sorry for something I'm not sorry for. Jesus effin' Christ, I just know I'm gonna end up knifing you in the gut before this marriage is over."
While I am throwing my hands in the eye and twitching around like I'm having a seizure, his rolling laughter continues to grow louder. That's right, he was so proud of his comical triumph that he actually had tears rolling down his giggling face, which I don't think is too smart considering the crazy woman spinning into slobbering episode right in front of him.
The remote control is another source of near violence for me. It does not matter what I am watching or how long I've been watching it, when Rowdy comes in at night, he grabs that bitch and gets to flipping. Most evenings I just sigh and get to the dishes or chasing our lawless monkey children around the house. But, every great now again, I'm really interested in the program and then I have to freak out a bit. Last night was one of those nights. As I was frying fish and listening to Free Speech TV, I turned around to see my independent news source gone, only to be replaced with the poor acting of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Conan the Destroyer.

I'm sure my eyes were as big as half dollars when put one hand on my hand as I snapped my fingers and said, "Oh no you di'nt! You turned off my news to watch this bullshit."
I mean, the only thing that would've pissed me off more is if he would have found some Steven Seagal flick, but anything that involves the Arnold dressed up in a leather bikini while carrying around some stick that looks an awful lot like a meat tenderizer as he gives a rather poor portrayal of some ancient warrior is a close second to the greasy-haired Seagal.
As I was going into my foul-mouthed fit, Rowdy was just chuckling away as he always does when I'm ranting around the house, freaking out like guests of the Maury Show. And that's when Rowdy came up with perhaps the greatest idea he's ever had. Don't get me wrong, it took him like two whole minutes to tell me the whole thought since he was still struggling to hold back his rolling chuckles. But, once he got that bridled a bit, he suggested that I start making a list on this blog about, well, all the shit that does that makes me want to kill him. Don't get me wrong, I love him. I love him a lot, in fact, and thank God that. It has been that love that has kept me from going all O.J. on his ass.
So, anyways, at my brilliant husband's suggestion, I am going to periodically have this ongoing post about the most recent shenanigans he's pulled. Of corse, he says that he wants me to do this for all the laughs it will earn, but I kind of think he might want it all documented here for the prosecuting district attorney who will be seeking the death penalty in the event that he finally pushes me over the edge with all this cheese on the steak sandwich, pre-made coffee, Conan the Destroyer bullshit.

All My Bags Are Pack And I'm Ready To Go

Rowdy went on a "cattle buying" trip last week, which is basically code talk for "you and the two kids we have are driving me nutso, so with the added children I think this is a good time to let our cattle buyers in East Texas take a break for day." Don't get me wrong, Rowdy loved having the Webb children with us, but when both they and our two spawn started puking, he was all, "Peace out, Bitch."
Now, the reason that this is important to what I am about to tell you about is that he rode to East Texas in a cattle truck that was hauling our recently bought cattle to us here in Western Oklahoma and Rowdy decided to hop on board and let that be his transportation. And, unfortunately for me, as he was heading out the front door, he mentioned to our oldest boy Ridge just where he was going -- A SALE BARN. Now, I realize that many of you don't fully know just what that is and that those of you who do don't understand why my son would be so freakin' excited about it. So you know, a sale barn is basically what it sounds to be, a barn where cattle and other livestock are, well, sold. And to my boy Ridge this is fucking Disneyland.
After the extremely traumatic experience of his father not only riding on a cattle truck without him, but also going to his beloved sale barn without him, Ridge was on high alert for this sort of underground behavior. He was suspicious and trusted no one, particularly not his mother and father.
So when they cattle truck pulled down the drive way two days ago and backed into the shoots, Ridge immediately went into action. Rowdy, of course, was down there unloading the truck and I was in the bathroom with Rolan, working on the potty training. Like a swift gust of wind, Ridge yanked a suitcase from the closet and threw his clothes in it. Before I finished in the bathroom with his brother, he had shimmied the front door open and was dragging his packed luggage down the driveway.
He was off, a free man ready to ride the open road and see where the road took him. As much as I tried to convince him his father was, in fact, not leaving on that cattle truck, he was steadfast in his disbelief. Eventually I called Rowdy and asked him to come home in order to end the rather annoying protest that was taking place at the front door. Rowdy's skeptic paranoia subsided a bit then, but still lingered some.
Since then, Ridge has insisted on only wearing clothes that come from his suitcase. But, not only that, clothes that he himself actually physically removes from it. For example, I can't go yank something out of there for him to put on, even if it is in front of his own compulsive eyes.
So, yeah, not only did Rowdy get his little trip, but now I will forever have to deal with Ridge darting out of the house, blubbering and screaming, when a cattle truck unloads two or three times a week, but I will also have to adhere to him only wearing clothes that have been prepacked.
It's like I'm God's comedy.

So, Apparently Small Farms Only Produce Imaginary Food.....

As we mentioned last week, Senator Pat Roberts (R-KS) disparaged small and organic farmers yesterday during Secretary of Agriculture-nominee Tom Vilsack’s confirmation hearing, claiming small farmers don’t produce real food. Roberts described the typical small farmer as "about 5′2″…and he's a retired airline pilot and sits on his porch on a glider reading Gentleman's Quarterly — he used to read the Wall Street Journal but that got pretty drab — and his wife works as stock broker downtown. And he has 40 acres, and he has a pond and he has an orchard and he grows organic apples. Sometimes there is a little more protein in those apples than people bargain for, and he's very happy to have that."

The Ethicurean had a brilliant idea, asking folks to contribute photos of small and organic farmers on Flickr and tag them to create a giant photo album of small farmers. Which got us to thinking about our own Farmer Heroes campaign, which asked Farm Aid fans to upload photos and stories about their farmer heroes at www.farmaid.org/farmerheroes. So here’s a note we’re sending to Senator Roberts to let him know that we’ve got plenty of small farmers for him to meet!

Dear Senator Roberts,

Farm Aid thinks that you might be interested in meeting some "small farmers," so we'd like to introduce you to Farm Aid's Farmer Heroes (www.farmaid.org/farmerheroes). The photos you see there are of farmers who were nominated as heroes because they do something even more valuable than growing a few organic apples. These people are rebuilding our food system, bringing good local food with values to their communities, nurturing us--body and soul.

These small farmers are heroes and they're the people we work for every day. We bet a few of them would even invite you out to their farm to show you what a real small farm looks like and how much food (and how many different kinds of food!) a real small farm produces. We'd be happy to help arrange that for you.

Best,
Farm Aid

Shine in 2009

Well, Christmas is over, thank goodness, for 11 more glorious months. I realize that math may not add up to those of you who don't co-inhabit with small children. Those of you who do know exactly what I am talking about, how the network television channels start playing The Polar Express and long list of other Christmas themed movies the day after Thanksgiving, naturally with Santa and the elves and this season's hottest new gadgets in each and every commercial during the presentation.
Oh, but alas, I can pause the Yuletide bitching for almost a year. And since I haven't found something new to bellyache endlessly about yet, I've kinda had blogger's block, Readers. I've stared at the blank screen, the flashing cursor taunting me into just one more beer for inspiration.
Thank goodness I stumbled upon Sprite's Keepers subject for this week's Spin Cycle, New Year's Resolutions. I know this is going to shock most of you, but I am a woman of many flaws. This was just in the nick of time, too. I was about to bust out the beer funnel. So, without further ado, here's my fix it list:

1. Like every New Year's since I was 13, I'm gonna have to put lose weight at the top of this bitch. I mean, unless the government starts giving my sizable ass its own vote, which I think is only fair considering it takes up as much space as some whole people, I guess I should consider getting rid of the uselessness. And, if I should manage to stay dedicated to the goal long enough to have some success, I might as well put keeping the lost weight off for good measure on here. I've lost weight before, but it comes back like a boom-a-rang.

2. Even though I don't get to eat sushi near as much as I would like, which would be every single day if I had my way, I guess I should want to eat less of it. I mean, Jeremy Piven's doctor says that his frequent sushi consumption lead to high levels of mercy in this system, thus making it impossible for old Jeremy to keep this contractual duties in the Broadway play Speed-the-Plow. He was contracted to play the part for 10 more weeks, but he was just too spoiled and douchey ill to uphold those obligations. Of course, he did feel good enough to hop a plan to Bangkok. So, maybe I shouldn't stop eating sushi, but rather become rich enough and famous enough to find some quack awesomely qualified physician like Jeremy's Dr. Carlon Coker to supply me with any wildly unbelievable excuse I might need to get out of something I just don't want to do.
Since Jeremy's plight forced him from the stage, the David Mamet play has lost money and sushi restaurateurs all over the country have called bullshit on his claim. If I were Jeremy, I wouldn't worry about the mercury in my sushi from here on out, but I would keep an eye open for spit.
"I understand Jeremy is leaving show business," Mamet told Variety, "to pursue a career as a thermometer."

3. Teach my children to never trust a fart, at least when they are ill. To add to the misery of Christmas, my children both came down with a stomach bug. But, since they had yet to learn this important life fable, poor Momma has had to wash many an extra pair of undies because of the wrath of stealthy sharts. If you don't know what a shart is, just think really hard. It's one of those two words put together jobs. Yeah.... that's right.

4. Organize, well, my life. I have this uncanny knack of turning everything I touch into chaos. My mentor Mary Fern has always told me that this is just a trait of artistically genius people. I think that may be code talk for crazy, quirky artsy types, but she stands by it. My friend Chelsea, who just happens to be the most talented artist I know, agrees. Truthfully, my mind seems to work best when surrounded by clutter, particularly if I am lucky enough to have it with a looming deadline. Of course, this could all be bullshit, but I'm sticking with creative licensing until I get rich enough to hire a live-in maid.

5. See my friends more often. Since the boys have come into our lives, Rowdy and I have both morphed into these old hermits. Going out and doing things just takes so much effort, not to mention just how much I've grown to love sweat pants. Still, I do have great friends, friends I miss all the time, and I need to pry my lazy, old ass from the comfort of my couch and snuggling kids to see them. Also, they might remind me that I am just 28.

6. Be more positive. Wait, scratch that. I don't mean that at all! I like being a snarky pessimist. In fact, I don't even like to call it that. I think those of us who think that things are probably going to be shitty should just be referred to as realists. You optimists are constantly running around just knowing things are going to fall perfectly into place and, when the certainty of disaster strikes, you are dumbfounded and disappointed by how such a (predictable) thing could happen. All the while we realists shake our heads and say, "Well, I knew that shit was going to happen." And then, every great now and again, when something does work out or run smoothly, we get to be surprised. Really, is there anything better than surprises?
Plus, if I shucked all my negative bitchiness, I would probably have to shut down this blog. I doubt any of you are coming here to read about chirping birds and rainbows and long walks on the beach.

7. Read more. Naturally, I'm not referring to blogs as they've already taken over my life like some unstoppable rebel coup. No, I mean like those ancient contraptions called books. You know, the ones your high school English teacher tried to ram down your thought. Well, I think she was right. Perhaps some of our country's latest conundrums could have been prevented if any one of us still read history books.

8. Be nicer to Rowdy. It's true, he provokes me like a snot-nosed boy rattling a rabid dog's cage. But, I know it's all out of loving orneriness. He is sweet to me like 96% of the time. Plus, he puts up with all my quirkiness, such as wailing on and on about the Bush Administration and teaching our boys to proclaim that Prop 8 is hate and blogging about all our bickering for all the world to read and serving the boys peanut butter sushi for breakfast. Of course, as I type this, he has cuddled up with our two children and flipped the tube to Steven Seagal's On Deadly Ground. I don't want our babies watching some greasy haired ninja. It's like he enjoys ass chewings.
Be nice, Shonda, be nice.

9. Ban Steven Seagal from our household. That is all.

10. Scrapbook more. It is kind of like the crack cocaine of the hobby world, but I have been slacking recently. How else are my children going to know to resent me for all the shenanigan outfits I put them in if they aren't all well-documented?

11. Give to more charities. With retail stores actually closing at Christmas, which is like saying, "With strip clubs in New York City closing right before the entire horny U.S. Navy descends upon it for Fleet Week," I think it clear that the Bush presidency has finally culminated into widespread hard times. Not long ago, I cried when GoodFather shared this story of being laid off. So, while I am worried that we might have a hard time making money raising beef when the entire country is too damn broke to buy a steak, I also think this might be a good time for me to realized how blessed we truly are. We have a warm house and full bellies. So, if you have any ideas on charities, send them to me.

12. Be more environmentally friendly and energy efficient. I've already started using hemp grocery sacks and those funny looking light bulbs. Noble Peace Prize, please! But, I really think the family Little should take it one further. I try to keep the lights we aren't using out and if my family wasn't such pusses about cold weather, I'd shut the heater off. Of course, I could start recycling my beer cans. That in itself might shut down an aluminum mine. Wait, are their aluminum mines? Anyways, I could save a small fortune, too. My Explorer is paid off, so I plan on driving it until its wheels fall off, but the next car is definitely doing to be one of those 50 miles a gallon golf carts. I bet Osama bin Laden hates those cars. So, that's one I am going to focus on, being less wasteful.

13. Shine in 2009. We're all in this thing together.

I Can See The Cheyenne-Arapaho Nation From My Porch

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

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

BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...

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

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

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

BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?

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

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

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

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

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

BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?

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

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

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


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


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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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



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

The Spirit of the American Farmer

The alarm clock buzzed at 5 am. As though I was still dreaming, I sprung from bed, turning the damn thing off. Crawling back into bed, I remembered that Rowdy told me he had to be up that early.
"Baby, if you are still wanting to get out of bed at 5, then it's time to wake up," I said, softly shaking his shoulders.
I stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water. When I returned, he was still half-asleep. I didn't want to go back to bed myself until I knew he was awake. After all, I turned off his alarm without thinking. Rowdy's unfettered will to work even in the most undesirable circumstances has always amazed me, so I knew he would be up in just a second.
Since I hitched my wagon to his star five years ago, my knowledge of agriculture families has taken on a new definition. Most of what I thought to be true before has gone to the wayside, things I didn't even know was done has turned out to be the foundation of farming and ranching.
With our operation, Rowdy has to be a jack of all trades. Before he goes out each morning and when he comes in late at night, he scours the internet for market data. And not just the Chicago Merchantile Exchange either, all of them. He scouts weather patterns and veterinary trends. He mechanics on everything from bulldozers and large tractors to pick-up trucks and plows. His days are long, longer than anyone else I know and I've never heard him even mutter a small complaint.
The rain fell early this year, so he's started sowing wheat. Although no time of our year is technically slow, this is hands down the busiest. The success of the crop is so dependent on Mother Nature, circumstances completely beyond our control. It must be done when it can be done.
I don't know anyone else who saves their vacation time to farm, but Rowdy's little brother Chad (please click on Chad's name for the GREATEST story ever) comes out every year to drive tractors and labor in the unforgiving Oklahoma sun. He lives in Edmond, a suburb of Oklahoma City, with his wife and children. Although he isn't technically involved in agribusiness, he is still married to our farming and ranching success. I'm sure many others are committed to their family's businesses as well, but I think his is particularly true of farm and ranch families. It's not just the notion of livlihood, although that's an issue at hand, but also being a part of the whole, belonging to something larger than yourself. Chad knows the prosperity of our year, or lack thereof, is tied to this expensive slither. Plus, he and Rowdy are closer than perhaps any other two siblings on the globe. I mean, they are like Fidel and Raul Castro, dominating a country, close. Although we do pay Chad for his hard work during this time, there are some things money cannot compensate for. He and his wife could use this vacation time to be off on some lover's retreat together. Hell, he could spend it swaying in the hammock in his backyard. Instead he's caked in sweat and dirt, tending to cattle and plows for us. In fact, Chad's childhood on the farm continues to play such a large role in who he is today, he wrote a song about it.
So, when Rowdy and I were in John Deere, the same dealership my grandfather ran the parts department and worked on many a tractor for nearly 40 years until his death four years ago, I spotted this bumper sticker on one of the office windows. It spoke to me, not in a tripping on acid way, but in a waxing nostalgic way.
Of course, our greatest motivation in this line of work is to provide for our family. But, even though we produces only a small little dent in the country's food chain, it is there, on the kitchen table's of strangers. We know that China already produces 1 out of every 2 vegetables grown each year. We might not be able to match that ever again, but we can at least do our little part.


PS--For all your readers who visit my page for my foul-mouthed antics and mishaps, I will be posting one you'll love later on this evening. I promise to dry up my recent sappy behavior.

Apocolyptic Accounting, I suppose

Well, the oil inventory numbers just came in. Keep in mind that crude was already trading at $135, a solid hunksie over what it traded at less than a decade ago. Analysts were expecting a neutral number, neither an increase or decrease in the world's available supply. Boy, where they off on this. On CNBC, any time some report is scheduled to come out, which is often with home sales, credit applications, even freakin' ebay listings, they put a small countdown graphic in the bottom right hand corner to the time of the expected announcement. Just as the clock hit 00:00, the doom on the announcers faces was evident.
The crude inventories came in 4.6 MILLION barrels lower than expected. Instantly, crude rocketed up and the Dow went in the opposite direction. With the housing market still reeling from the knock out punches of last summer and the trickled effect of the Bear Sterns demise, I can't help but wonder how this trifecta will effect the American economy. You might not afford to go the movies or on the earned and anticpated vacation, but you at least now have my witty blog to entertain you. I know that's a comfort.
On the other hand, if you do have to go through the "American Oil Crisis," as the conservative CNBC is now deeming it, there's probably no better place to live than Western Oklahoma. Rowdy and I may have to sell one of our kids to get a wheat crop in the ground, but at least our friends and Rowdy's stepfather can whip out their fat oil dough and buy us a beer for consolation. Talk about job security. All jokes aside, I'm a lover of Western Oklahoma and it really does make me happy seeing this area that is my home prosper.
Several airlines are making moves to cut down their fuel consumption and some of them sound kind of funny. American Airlines, for example, is debating removing all the backseat telephones, stating that each plane carries 200 pounds of 'em.
Now the South Koreans are out in full force protesting because their government is reinstating their American beef imports. Of course this is frenzied fit is because of the one confirmed case of mad cow. It was over three years ago and the American Beef Industry has gone above and beyond to prove overwhelmingly we will never have another case. For example, if a steer has any trouble walking, he will never make it into the food chain. Turns out, they sometimes break their legs. The leg can be healed, but if it impairs their ability to walk at all, the slaughter houses won't take 'em. The upside is that Rowdy then has more head to feed out here and then sell at cost to our lucky friends. You won't eat a finer steak at the most swank restaurant in Manhattan than you will in my kitchen, thanks to the feeding genius of my husband. American beef is really our only remaining import. Everything else can made, normally cheaper, in other countries. And, sure, they can raise beef in the other parts of the world, but they can't raise the quality beef that we do. Have you ever eaten a burger in Mexico? However, that sole case of mad cow in American, the world's largest beef producer, has been a bargaining chip in the South Korean Free Trade Agreement. Ranchers were offered up on a sacrificial alter for lower import tariffs and Korean a few troops. Thank God they did, too. It would be total disaster if pimple-faced 14-year-0lds had to pay $30 for video game than $25. If you think we will go to war over foreign oil, just imagine if we were fully dependent on foreign food. In this global market, a country must be able to import something to maintain growth and, in turn, independence.
Last night I saw a Wal-Mart commercial promising to cash the stimulus checks, or "China Money" as Mollie coined it, without a fee. And, if you will get it put on some sort of Wal-Mart card, they will waive other fees. Now, let me see if I fully understand this --- We are borrowing money with interest from China to give to American consumers to stimulate our economy (and our stock market, which is cooooolllll with this stock trader) so that they can go to Wal-Mart to buy products made in freakin' China. Holy shit, it's like some weird twilight zone. Remember that picture of the cow eating grass in your science books, with the arrows going into a circle. That's what it reminds me of. And, outside of the short-term, I can't really see this being beneficial to the country, but you know I'll be getting long the favorite retail stores of idiots who will spend their checks instead of saving them. Maybe AutoZone or Pep Boys? Vehicles seem to be the preferred investment of the prudently frugal. Spinners or lift kits or a deafening "system," anyone?
Speaking of shopping, this month's retail numbers come out tomorrow. Just like today, the little countdown will be rollin' away in the corner of the tv screen on CNBC. I'm sure this oil mess won't look positively effect these reports, but who knows? The first round of verdicts on the stimulus checks will be in and, good or bad, you can beat the talking heads will be all a-twitter.
Until then, I'm not putting either of the boys on the auction block just yet. But, we are still three months, give or take, from sowing wheat. Call me then and we'll see. They are cute and they never talk back. They eat whatever you serve then and they put themselves to sleep. And the stimulus checks are going to fix everything.