I'm sure if you've been coming here for more than a week, you're semi-familiar with Mollie. On the blog, she's kind of my hard ass heckler, although she recently referred to herself rather begrudgingly as my sidekick, which I think might be my life's single greatest accomplishment. She was all, "Hey, I just realized something. Never in my fucking life did I think I would be someone's sidekick, but I've turned into yours." I understand that might not be as funny to you as it is to me, but if you knew Mollie, you'd know what a hilarious wise ass she is and then you'd laugh, too. Also, if she's my sidekick, I think that kind of means I am a super hero, right? I mean, I do think I have some super powers, like the crafty ones I used to rook my darling husband into marrying me, an unbalanced, quirky, genius-in-my-own-mind pain in the ass. Check Mate, Super Man! Anyways, back to the subject, my super sidekick Mollie. Well, in real life, I'm more like her sidekick. She's responsible for my rather addictive vices of scrapbooking and couponing. Also, she's also my go-to baby-sitter. I mean, with her four kids already there, what's two more? At least that's what she always says when I ask. So, as I said, here in the not-so-bloggy world, I'm really her sidekick. Now, I'm sure you are wondering why I'm just randomly divulging all this Mollie information. Well, it is so when you read this sentence, the one where I tell you that 2 of her kids are staying at our house for four days while she and her man party it up in Vegas, you won't think I'm just randomly watching my blog friends' children. I mean, what a disaster it would be if all 7 of my readers thought I'd generously provide childcare while they're off on some brilliant holiday. As with every time I keep Mollie's kids, I didn't get her oldest, Hannah, because she apparently wants to use the time her folks are away to spend with other pre-teenage girls. Total bullshit, I say, since she's like a tidy maid and dotting little mother all in one. But, the injustice of not getting Hannah aside, I still like it when any of her other kids come out since my boys adore them so. Just imagine Beattle Mania or the likes of any other screaming, shaking fans and you'll know what I mean. Because Mollie doesn't trust me with all three youngest of her tribe, she doles them out to me one or two at a time. When she and her man Ronnie went to Vegas last September, I got their four-year-old, Carson. He and Ridge were born just a few weeks apart and are in the same class in Rainbow Lane. They'll battle it out like a bloody Iraqi sectarian clash and then cry like they haven't seen each other in 6 months when it is time to part. Wyatt, her five-year-old, was sad he didn't get to come to Aunt Shonda's last time. He is, after all, a child after my heart. When he was about 3, he copped a feel and then I taught him to refer to himself, a redhead, as a ginger, just as I call myself, and we've been loving it up ever since. So, on this trip, he got to come out, as did his six-year-old sister Adie. In all honesty, I was a bit nervous about Adie's trip. After all, our house might as well be called Testosteroneville or Tallywhacker City. In other words, it's pretty boy centric. I just worried that she'd be bored out of her mind or smothered by the three little males that would be nipping at her heels at all times. With a brother who's 15 months younger than her and another who's 30 months younger, Mollie ensured me she'd be fine. My children were already asleep when Ronnie dropped Adie and Wyatt off last night. After reading to the two of them for no longer than three minutes, they were both sawing logs, too, and I wasn't far behind. Rolan rises each morning with the sun, sometimes even a few minutes before. Not long after I heard him stirring at the ass crack of dawn, sounds of toys clanking and flying were echoing out of Ridge's room. Visions of toys boxes being dumped onto the floor and into piles of mayhem ran through my barely lucid mind. As the noise continued, I pulled my dragging ass from bed to patrol the party. Well, it turns out that it wasn't a party at all. With no conscious adult for the first 15 minutes of their day, Adie decided to play Mommy, giving the boys direction while she organized their toys. I'm not fucking exaggerating here. She ORGANIZED the toys. Immediately, possible games for the remained of her stay darted through my scheming mind. Tax season is upon us. Maybe Adie would like to play Accountant. I think she'd really excel at Laundry Service and Lunch Lady as well. Now, I know all you do-gooders are cringing at all this possible child exploitation, but don't you judge me. I promise, it was all her idea.
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.
As I'm sure you already know, I'm not super techy. This blog's mere existence is a profound miracles. As far as miracles are concerned, it goes that time Jesus awoke from the dead, that time Moses parted the Red Sea, a never-ending pool of hood rats willing to make themselves national laughing stocks for a shot at Bret Michael's old bandanna-clad ass and then The Cowboy Chronicles being halfway navigational. That's right, I put the conception of this site above the conception of my kids on the miracle list. That doesn't mean I don't love my boys more, I do, but making them only entailed a little loving and then a bunch of laying around and bitching because everybody else could drink beer while I sweltered into a sweaty, pregnant blob in the Oklahoma heat. I may have done a lot of bellyaching about the swollen feet and heartburn, but truthfully, my pregnancies were a cakewalk in comparison to the early days of my blog. As I've stumbled through my journey of the World Wide Web, I've periodically learned new things that are apparently as second nature to most bloggers as breathing and backtracks. The first was Twitter. Mollie had to explain it to me like 17 times before I understood what the hell she was talking about. I'm still learning my way around it, though I think I've figured it out. I could go on and on, Technorati, BlogHer, layouts. It was like a completely undiscovered, unexplored village existing and thriving within the Internet. Most recently I found Google Analytics. I know all you geeky, HTML whiz kids are laughing your techy asses off as you read this. Yes, I have been living under a rock. It's called Oklahoma. Anyways, Google Analytics may sounding boring and, mostly it is. However, it does give us some big steaming pile of awesome and that would be a full list of what random key words folks type into search engines that somehow brings them to me. Looking over this list, you would probably think I'm running some sort of porn site for the devoutly religious. Of course, I did halfway blog about these subject, so I will link that posts that I think are driving these folks to my blog. If you are a new reader, I guess you should read these and see for yourself if you are on a blog about some quirky, bitchy Oklahoma ranchwife or if you are really on a covert smug site. You tell me. So, without further ado, I give the shinning stars of my keywords list:
Now, if you just happen to be one of the folks who found me from the above-mentioned searches, don't be ashamed. Come on out and announce yourself. Clearly a Greater Power is pulling the two of us together. Maybe it's God, maybe it's your apparent love for naughty nuns and their eating habits and Charlie Sheen's bizarre hair patterns. I don't know, I'm just glad you are here.
I don't really remember meeting Audrey Suzanne Trevino. Likewise, I don't remember not knowing her. She was just always there, down the hallway or down the road, playing the softball game scheduled right after mine or throwing me the last beer from the ice chest. I was born three years before she was, so logic lets me know that there must have been a time in my life that I didn't know she existed, yet still, I can't recall it. That's both the beauty and the beast of growing up in a small town. Our lives are interconnected and interchanging, weaving in and out of one another like the ebbs and tides of the unpredictable ocean. It's a loop that never ends. With probably a thousand different sporting events drawing our lives together, be it softball or football or our parents' bowling, Audrey was always on my radar. And, truthfully, she was the shits from top to bottom, from the beginning to the end. That I've always known. I could ramble into a few stories from the bowling ally or fitness center of shenanigans pulled by Audrey or my sister or my cousin Stephanie or Britne, but that post in itself could go on forever. But somewhere along the time I turned 21 or 22 and Audrey turned 19 or 20, she grew from the brat pack of my little sister into my peer. I worked at the Pizza Hut and she worked at the Subway, which just happened to do be directly across with the street from one another. With the bulk of our friends off chasing grandeur at some distant university or running down the aisle and into the birthing rooms, Audrey and I found the common bond of being the rare and illusive breed of small town young girls that happened to be single and, well, out of high school. For somewhere near 9 months, she spent several nights a week at my house, the both of use swaddled in the magic fabric of sweat pants, watching movies and drinking beer out of straws that, by the way, had tiny penises on the the end. We laughed over tacky jokes, the kind that would make sailors blush, and cried over the uncertainties we both felt about our childhoods. Somehow or another, she got me. But, just as life always seemed to do, we both moved toward different phases in our lives. For one thing, I met Rowdy, my cowboy romeo, and he swept me off my feet and onto the vast prairies of Roger Mills County. For you non-Okies, that's only, like, 25 miles away from my hometown, but sometimes it feels a world away. Marriage and babies fell upon me like a swift snowfall and my days were quickly consumed with the ins and outs of daily life. Like most of the people of my childhood and early adulthood, I didn't get to see Audrey nearly as often as I would've liked. But, when I did, she always had an uncanny knack for making me feel like she'd been there all along, like we'd never missed a beat. And as time went along, I heard Audrey's name mentioned by my other friends, from people who she might not have known while we drank beer into the twilight on a frequent basis. It became clear to me that, in my absence, so many others had discovered the treasure I myself had found in Audrey. She had this uncanny ability to make you feel special, no matter who you happened to be. And that was no facade, my friends, she was a lover of people. She just put herself out there, she was totally fearless in that way. She was as good as they make 'em. She had a heart of gold and a tongue of steel, if you know what I mean. She both loved and fought wholeheartedly. When Audrey died this Tuesday, December 9, I really knew it wouldn't be a right if the only thoughts posted here were mine. As I said, Audrey never met a stranger. And if you ever felt like she loved you, trust me, she did. Her heart was just that big. So, I posted a bulletin on myspace asking for others, folks from all walks of life, to send me thoughts or memories on our beloved girl. As the threads of a great quilt laced between one another, members of different families mold together in a small town, from birth to death. This is reflective in what Britne (formerly Rainey) wrote:
My mom and Anne (Audrey's Mom) have been good friends for years, so Audrey and I kinda grew up together. I remember she always fixing my hair (bangs especially). Oh, by the "wings" you know the feathered back style and then apply tons of hair spray!! I remember one time our parents had gone out for New Years and Audrey and I got bored so we decided to make a cake. It was a chocolate cake, but we only a few half eaten cans of icing. So, needless to say, the cake had 3 or 4 different types of icing but, you know, it was pretty darn good !! I have a lot of other memories of her that were wonderful and I will always remember her and the awesome person that she was!!! My heart really hurts right now, not just for her family, but for her as well. She was so young and never had a chance to really experience the great things in life !! God Bless her and her family !
Naturally Britne's post warmed my heart and my tear ducts, particularly the last part. Now I know Audrey and she had a zest for living. She tasted life's sweetness often. But, I think what Britne was referring to directly was the fruits of longevity. Just this afternoon, I sat with Audrey's mother and grandmother. The pride they so clearly feel for her is as recognizable as the sun in June's heat. I think Britne knows, just as I know, that Audrey would've been the ultimate momma bear.
The next post from little Katie Farrel. Now I call her little because she's even younger than my little sister, who is, by the way, very grown. You know how some people stand still in time. Well, my sister and all her friends do to me. I don't care how grown up you guys get. The reason I mention just how long I've know Miss Katie is because I have known her through different means than how I knew Audrey, though they knew each other just as long. Do you see the theme of the intertwining lives of small town folks? I think Katie's small passage really speaks volumes for the many dimensions lifelong friendships can have. She wrote:
Audrey was the first person to hit me with a softball and the first person to serve me a beer on my 21st birthday. She was the reasoning in me going to The Long Horn, where she bartended and was a better bouncer than any big man. But most of all. I am gonna miss that laugh that she had and how she was always herself, no matter what. And the penis water gun she gave me on my 22nd birthday. Oh we had a blast with it! I am gonna miss that girl.
But, lastly, I think I will end with a little blurb from my darling friend Josh Bailey. He and I worked together for many years, through many sweat soaked nights at a pizza parlor. Honestly, I had never thought of him and Audrey being friends. For a passage in my life, he and I were around each other more than we were around much of anyone else. But, time moves like sand in the wind and our lives take a different form. However, knowing both him and Audrey, it was no surprise to me that these two great souls had also struck up a friendship. I'm better for knowing them both and I really think Josh's words sum up the whole of Audrey's spirit, the way she seized all moments and loved all people. Her smile lit up a room and she felt just a comfortable around bankers as she did around beggars. She was as good as it gets. Don't take my words for it, take Josh's:
I can't really think of one time with Audrey that stood out above the rest, because every time was a blast. She always went out of her way to make sure everybody was having a good time.There was never a dull moment and never a frown on her face. The short, few years I knew her was certainly not enough and that breaks my heart. You will seriously be missed, Audrey, by so many people. God bless you. - Josh
I want to write this post forever, to let my mumbling words drag on and prevent my sleep. I want to push tomorrow back into the midnight because, with the dawn of day, this nightmare is really real. Tomorrow we lay her to rest. As I close this post, I am leaving you with a Jackson Browne song, For A Dancer, performed by James Dupre. Whether you knew Audrey or not, I want you to listen to the words. However, if you did hit the awesome lottery of actually meeting this beautiful spirit, the words will really resonate with you. To me, the words give explanation to the way I feel not only about Audrey, but all my darling friends I rarely see because of all these adult responsibilities. Even if I don't see you often enough, you are with me and me with you. Here's just a excerpt of the song, I hope it entices you to click on the video and listen to the whole song. I put the sentence in bold that SCREAMS Audrey to me. Enjoy:
I don't remember losing track of you You were always dancing in and out of view I must have thought you'd always be around Always keeping things real by playing the clown Now you're nowhere to be found
I don't know what happens when people die Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try Its like a song I can hear playing right in my ear That I can't sing I can't help listening And I can't help feeling stupid standing round Crying as they ease you down cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing Dancing our sorrow away Right on dancing There's nothing you can do about it anyway
Just do the steps that you've been shown By everyone you've ever known Until the dance becomes your very own No matter how close to yours Another's steps have grown In the end there is one dance you'll do alone
Here's one more for the road from Jacy:
Audry was a bubbly person! We had this thing going between us with, "Your hair looks nice!" One day i had went into the bar and had a bad day and Audry said, "Your hair looks nice!" I was like, "Are you kidding?!?" After the day I had, I just knew it looked like shit 'cause I had felt like I had been pulling my hair out. So the next time I went in, her hair looked awesome! So I said, "Audry, your hair looks nice!" She just gave me this evil eye, but it made her laugh!! You know the laugh, that sounds evil, but you know is innocent. That laugh of Audrey's made me always wanna laugh!!! It was a laugh no one else has!! I saw her last Thursday night and she had her hair slicked back. I said, "Are you trying to pull off some Chinese bun or what?" Her famous words came out with, "Shut the f*@ck up!!! I was running late for work!!!" I am going to miss her serving the drinks. She knew what to say and how to make you laugh. I don't think I have ever heard of anyone not really liking her! She will be truly missed by me!
And in keeping with their inside joke greeting ritual, my friend Aaron wants to send Audrey off in style with two simple words, "Fuck Yea!"
Yup, it's true. I know you are all, "That's not true, Shonda. You are a total humanitarian. Each and every time I think about you, the images of Mother Theresa pop in my mind. And not just because you look so rockin' hot without make-up, either, because you are so gosh darn saintly. It's like Mother Theresa and then Angelina and then you." On most occasions, I would have to agree with you and wonder out loud just why the Catholic Church hasn't made one of those silver, round necklace thing-a-majigs with my holy image engraved on it for the worshiping faithful to clutch as they pray. Hey Pope, get that shit on your to-do list, mister! Anyways, that's what I would so humbly say on most evenings, but not today. Today I am going to have to join the majority very small, almost nonexistent group of readers who come to The Cowboy Chronicles just to find evidence of my assholishness. Today they are right, I'm an asshole. Why, you ask. I broke one of the cardinal rules of The Supreme Order of Chick Friends. I forgot one of my very best friend's baby shower. And I wasn't just one of the regular 'ole just-show-up-when-you-want-to-with-your-gift crowd. Oh no, I was a hostess, a freakin' hostess. Because I happily accepted that Chick Friend duty, I was suppose to bring a finger food of some sort, which is normally one of my strong suits, totally evident in light of my expanding rear end. But, I didn't get to relish in the lavish praise for my delightful dish because, during the time frame that I should have been preparing it, I was taking a nap. That's right, I was taking a fucking nap. Don't YOU judge me. As I was peacefully lounging in my bed, soaking up the rare treasure of a childless house, my friends were wondering if I was going to, I don't know, show up. Finally, and thank God, my friend Sara called and was all, "Soooooo.....whatcha doin'?" And then I was like, "Sleeping, stretched out like a lazy cat, sleeping." And then she was like, "Ummm....so, are you coming to Chelsea's shower?" Yup, that's when I realized I had, in fact, written the shower down on the wrong date in my calender. Five years ago, before I had kids and my mind functioned better than a barely lucid acid freak, I wouldn't have had to put it in the schedule to remember to do it. Yeah, cellulite has dented my ass up like a golf ball and my mind has the memory retention of slobbering Courtney Love and, I don't give a shit what you say, I think Crocs are solid fashion gold. (Insert sharp sarcasm) It's definitely all uphill from here, bitches. Chelsea is, of course, one of the most go-with-the-flow, easy-to-please people I know, so she was super awesome about the whole thing. In fact, she just chuckled at me and then let me rub her groovy baby belly. Still, she is a good friend and dropping the ball at her shower is just assholish no matter how you slice it. After I left the shower, I stopped in the grocery store because we were out of milk and, really, how can Rolan be expected to survive without a vast ocean of dairy products. I loaded up the grocery basket with other much needed supplies, including eggs. As I was checking out, the check-out girl, who turned out to really be an over achiever as far as check-out girls go, inspected my eggs to guarantee they were all in tack (or is it tact?). One little fella, smack dab in the middle of the carton, was cracked on top. She jumped to go fetch a replacement, but I was like, "Dude, you just keep a-scannin.' I'll go get the eggs," since I believed the oozing crack was most likely caused by the giant ham I threw on top of it as opposed to some random shipping or stocking mishap. I mean, I'm not a mathematician or a scientist or an egg-cracking expert or anything along those lines, that would just be my guess. Anyways, in the meantime, a bag boy showed up and started sacking up my goods. Like the check-out girl, he was a busy little beaver. I mean, he was a sacking son of a bitch. I told him about my current asshole status due to the shower tardiness and he told me about how he was like 3 hours late for work because he forgot he was scheduled and went Christmas shopping instead. I kinda wanted to hug him and that's when I noticed that he had sacked BOTH egg cartons. So I asked if they had charged me for both sets and the girl was like, "Dude, you weren't suppose to put them both in the sack. One of them has a broken egg right in the freakin' middle." And then my kindred spirit sacker was all, "Oh my, I didn't even check them. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am." So then I asked him what becomes of poor cartons of eggs with just one fallen comrade. Do they find a replacement egg? Are they trashed? After a little begging hinting, the sacker said since they couldn't be sold, they could just give them to me for free, which fucking made my day since I love all free shit, even when it is absolutely worthless shit a homeless person wouldn't sleep on in the dead of freezing winter, but especially when it is something like eggs, something I cook each morning. That's like hitting the lotto for a tight ass like myself. As I walked out of the store, I thought, "Man, I am really am an asshole. First, I forget Chels's shower and then I hackle the grocery store out of eggs I broke." I'm an asshole. If you would like theme music for this post, which I think totally makes the deal, listen to Jimmy Buffet's song about assholes here or Dennis Leary's on the same brown-eyed subject here.
After my last post about my darling spawn's new dominance of the computer, the result of which has left me booted off my blog, I received several comments and private messages from other parents lamenting the same overtaking by their children. Now, I don't know how many of you read the comments, so I wanted to leave one of the best on the front page. She warns of the pervy future of computer searches of my sons. And because I chose to reproduce with the King of the Pervs, I absolutely know the scenario Lorie laid out will definitely play out. (Poet alert, poet alert! Lorrie said:
Sure at 4 they are all about Thomas The Tank Engine, then before you know it, they are seven, and you check your google history and someone has typed in SEXY BOOBS and why, yes, that DID happen to me.
Learn from my mistakes. Force them to read books.
I thought this was some pretty awesome shit. He googled "SEXY BOOBS." I absolutely love that he threw some descriptive words in there, as though BOOBS alone wouldn't have sufficed. Just for fun (not at all because I'm secretly kinda a 7-year-old pervy boy), I went ahead a googled it. Ahhhh.......if I wasn't already worshipping at the House of Google, I would be now. The very first website on the list is a classy little location called "Booby Duty." Immediately, I was overcome by jealously of the genius mind who brainstormed this. Clearly for accurate research purposes only, I had to click on it. Well, I am here to tell all of you, Lorrie included, that the folks behind this site have somehow managed to find a collection of the biggest jugs on Earth. I mean, one or two pairs like these watermelon-sized breasts would be impressive, but they managed to accumulate a collection every spine surgeon would dream of. And as I looked over the site, my mouth hung wide open as a pop can, I could only think how many future backaches would plague that page. The words "bulging disc" swirled around my mind, I think that in itself is a testament to how old I have gotten. So, thank you, Lorrie, for sharing tales of what my future holds so I can laugh here in the present. As most mothers of sons will testify, we spend a lot of time trying to understand the workings of our male offsprings' minds. Good stuff, good stuff.
Oh, and those of you who live in or near Elk City, Oklahoma, don't forget the benefit dinner and auction for Jamie Munford this afternoon at the Gathering Place from 4-6.
Benefit Dinner For Jamie Munford October 26, 2008 will be held at The Gathering Place (next door to El Charro) From 4-6.
There will also be an auction to help raise money.
James Munford was diagnosed with hereditary diffused gastric cancer in Feb. 2008. This specific type of cancer primarily affects the liver, gall bladder, lymph nodes, and stomach. James recently had gall bladder surgery in Jan. 2008 where a cancerous mass was discovered, leading to his current diagnoses. He has been undergoing chemotherapy since March, 2008 in Dallas TX. Due to the excessive medical bills, and his constant recurrent trips to Dallas for chemotherapy, a fundraiser is being held on Oct, 26 2008 to help he and his family alleviate some of the financial burdens they are enduring.
If you have any questions feel free to contact Trisha @ 243-9325 or Derek @ 405-476-1785.
I first came to know Jimmie Jackson when I was at the end of my high school career. I know I am using "career" a little foot loose and fancy free, as the bulk of my time was spent acing six-packs as opposed to sixth hour. But, that's neither here or nor there now, although my crafty beer drinking skills definitely served as a firm foundation for my friendship with Jimmie. He went to work for my mother and her business partner Sherisse at their former hair saloon, The Creme of the Crop. Stop laughing, it was the 90s. Jimmie was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He was a large man, both in his size and in his vibrant personality. He was silly in ways that I still struggle to explain. His smile was that of a child, devious and ornery and, in so many ways, quite innocent. He was tender, he let his heart by seen by anyone who cared to see it and I loved him for that. And, he was gay, which put a human face on homosexuality for me. Although a few of my childhood friends have since come out of the closet, Jimmie was the first gay person to openly share his struggles and his triumphs with me. Now, to understand Jimmie you need to know that he was a queen with a flair for drama that ran deep in his . spirit. And that, by the way, is just how he talked me into allowing him to color my hair a week before prom. The outcome was suppose to be deep red highlights. It was not. Instead, my hair was streaked with thick bands of a dark shade of purple that was almost magenta. Naturally, I cussed for a few moments while Jimmie poured me drinks, but it eventually faded and even grew on me a bit. That's the story of how I went to prom my senior year with purple hair. Mind you, this was before the funky-colored hair craze kicked off, so I now inadvertently look kinda like a fashion trailblazer, a farce I am willing to continue. In keeping with Jimmie's love for the dramatic, he aspired to someday star as a Cher impersonator at a drag show. He loved Cher almost as much as he loved his mother, which was a lot. Seeking out research for his future show, sometime during that same time period, Jimmie and Sherisse talked my square peg mother not only into driving to the city to rock out at a gay bar, but even managed to talk her into letting me come along as well. Jimmie found an ID for me to use, so off we went. For about the first minute in the gay bar, I suffered a bit of culture shock. But then Jimmie introduced me to the owners and a few of his drag queen friends and I was in total heaven. These girls showed me their fabulous collection of evening gowns and metallic lipstick while I slammed keg beer in their dressing rooms. For an 18-year-old girl from Western Oklahoma, this was an epic adventure. We danced late into the night, hopping from gay bar to gay bar. Even as I type this now, a decade later, ABBA plays in my head as I recall shaking my booty with a multi-colored feather boa streaming behind me. Although Jimmie was a solid 15 years older than I was, we became fast and furious girlfriends. We would stay up late into the twilight, sobbing over my latest teenage crisis while Jimmie consoled me and guided me toward much-needed giggles. He was full of love, ready on demand to dispense affection to those in need. I always marveled at how he freely put himself out there for new friendships, even though he had been burned in the past. He was a sweet spirit and, in so many ways, an innocent soul. Then I grew up and our adventures took Jimmie and I in separate directions. After a few years, I had almost lost track of my friend. But then, through their miracles of myspace, he found me. Right off the bat, he told me of the death of his mother. Through our emails, his pain in that loss was profoundly seen. As I said before, Jimmie was incapable of loving only a little and his relationship with his parents was paramount in that. After a few emails, he just asked for my number. I sent it to him and within minutes my phone rang. We talked and reminisced for hours. I told him of the love of my life, Rowdy, and our two children and he told me of his, Ken. Jimmie laughed out loud at the prospect of me living on a ranch, running around in the mud chasing cattle. I laughed with him, knowing that image is that of fine comedy. Our communication continued for months and I had planned to photograph his wedding to Ken. But then, out of the blue, it just stopped. I emailed him a few times, but got no response. After awhile, I was lost once again in my daily existence and forgot to keep trying. Little did I know, my friend had gotten ill. So, you can imagine my surprise and my guilt when my mother called me on October 8 to tell me Jimmie had died. Truthfully, I still don't fully know what killed him. I just know that he had been sick for most of this year. I also know that he was one of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend. I am comforted in knowing that in the last few years he found the love of his life. He was true to himself in ways few people have the courage to be. He was full of love and full of life and he ushered in acceptance for all people. Above all, he was a friend. Jimmie's memorial is in Enid tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to attend. I've been meaning to write this ever since I learned of his tragic passing, but each time I sat down to it, the pain choked my words. It's hard even still. Jimmie, We loved you for all that you are. I hope we meet again somehow in the great scheme of things. You were the best example I know of honesty in the face of great scrutiny. May peace find you, old friend. I love you, Shonda
The old rule "Guilt by Association" as been around for a long time. Well, since I already get myself in enough sticky messes all by myself, I don't need any extra trouble. So, instead, I try to seek out friendships that make me awesome by assocation. Chief among that list is my homegirl Lyndi. (I told you I am going to insert hip hop into my daily life. I really think that's what Cheyenne, Oklahoma has been missing). Anyways, Lyndi is constantly trying to bring sunshine to the rainy day masses. When I see a homeless man, I give him a ten spot. Hell, if I have a beer with me, I'll just cut out the middle man and give him that. Lyndi, on the other hand, will volunteer at a shelter or some other completely selfless act. That's what she does. I like to think of us as just one person. I make up the "bitching about shit that needs to be different" half and she makes up the "doing something to make things" different half. And since I have our friendship arranged that way in my mind, I don't feel bad about all the world changing I'm not doing. In her typically awesome fashion, Lyndi boarded a plane this week and flew off to the hills of San Francisco to run a half-marathon. While inflicting this level of pain to oneself already makes us ass draggers scratch our heads and wonder why she would spend her vacation sweating and panting rather than laying and drinking, we really get baffled when we realize that she had to raise $3600 for blood cancer research to even be allowed to run in it. Yes, that's right. She raised a bucket full of money for cancer patients -AND- is running a marathon. She's an overachieving humanitarian, that Lyndi. So good luck, sister! You are going to run like the wind.
I 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."
When I was junior in high school, I packed into the back of my mother's mini van with a handful of friends and we headed south to Dallas for the Fleetwood Mac Reunion Tour. We gutted the seats and sat in a circle. We smoke cigarettes. Some of us smoked other things as well. We held the flame to lighters until our thumbs grew blisters. It was one of those trips that defines youth, living free, taking adventures, being carefree. We drank expensive beers and we all marveled by my ability to not being carded, which I thought was a definite sign of my ultra coolness. Yes, we all had drinks, many drinks, all of us but Mollie. Not long after the trip, Mollie shocked us all with the revelation that she was, like, almost 8 months pregnant. Underneath flannel shirts and vintage jeans, she had hidden Hannah from us all, her mother included. And when she told me of the pregnancy, I just felt tremendous guilt for the 200 cigarettes I sucked down 2 feet in front of her in a airtight van. My awareness of responsibility at the time pretty much would've ended there, but holy shit, I would've at least cracked a window. Now, for you to fully understand the impact of this bombshell, you need to know that Mollie is a genius. I don't say that lightly. She scored, like, a 34 on her ACT when we were freshmen. We would marvel wide-eyed as she would take on teachers and out debate them. If there was ever a case of someone being too smart for their own good, this would be it. So, as the prune-faced adult figures in our lives found out about the pregnancy, they thought she had royally screwed up. Hell, I kinda agreed. Fast-forward a decade. A few years after Hannah was born, Mollie stumbled upon her man Ronnie and they got to reproducing Old World Catholic Style. They had Adie and 15 months later had Wyatt and then 15 months later had Carson. And with each little child, Hannah grows more into Super Nanny. Mollie brought her crew out to visit one Autumn afternoon. Ridge was nearly a 3-year-old and Rolan had just turned 2. To give an age comparison of our kids, her baby Carson is almost the exact same age as my oldest Ridge. As one child would toddle up the road and another would roll down the hill, I would spring up to chase them. Mollie would all nonchalantly tell me to sit back down, then she would send Hannah a-fetchin.' One kid was licking snot from his top lip, Hannah would swoop in with a Kleenex. Another would whine over hunger, Hannah would peel a banana. As I watched this child wonder, a super nanny if I've ever freakin' seen one, I offered Mollie money to buy her. I know, I know. That's illegal. Mollie won't freakin' give her up, dammit, so I'm thinking about kidnapping her. Don't judge me, you have the same scandalous plots if you'd seen her in action. And then, over my like 12th monetary bid for Hannah, Mollie made a quite profound statement, "Back when we were 17 and I had Hannah, you guys all thought I was fucking up. Well, who's laughing now? It turned out to be meticulous planning." And, she's totally right. This last weekend my friend Miranda's girls spent Friday night and Saturday afternoon with us. Her baby Aaralyn is also Ridge's age and her oldest, Madilyn, will be 7 this February. She's a bit younger than Hannah, so there are some things she can't quite do yet. But, I could see as she mothered her little sister and my two boys that she'll make a great child slave. Plus, like Hannah, her eagerness to please will make her totally oblivious to the fact that I am exploiting her maternal instincts and boundless energy. Her momma wasn't a teenager when she was born, though. So, listen up, folks: I am in the market for a Hannah or a Madilyn. Apparently their mothers want to keep them, which I think is utter bullshit. Can't they see that I'm working to death out here? Don't you think they should, in the very least, share the wealth? Now, for all you teenage girls out there, I'm gonna give you the truth. When all those uptight parentals are preaching the dangers of teenage pregnancy, plant your fingers in your ears and stick your tongue out. This isn't bad, this is good. The government will fork over the cash for your medical bills and food and you will get a bright-eyed little slave to care for all your future children.
Oh, birthdays, the one day a year when self-celebrating naricism and mid-morning day drinking is A-okay! How I love you, birthdays. Ridge and I have already gotten into a jaw-locked battle of wills over one of my birthday prizes. Aunt Lyndi sent me a box full of goodies, including Burt's Bees, Jelly Bellys and this finger-lickin' Ghardi (or however the hell you spell it) caramel-filled chocolate. Ridge cried for like 20 minutes, whaling, "No, it's not your birthday. It's my birthday. Don't eat my chocolate! Don't eat my candy." And I was all, "Back off, punk. This shit is mine." And then I slowly sucked all the sweet caramel goodness out in front of him and he flopped around like a protesting fish out of water. But, I didn't care because he's not getting my birthday. I don't care how cute he is. So, happy birthday to you, Shonda. I only have one more year until I celebrate my first 29th birthday. My Grandma Nita tells me the third 29th birthday is really the best, but I still have a few years before I am there yet.
Okay, I'm really sorry that I didn't get the photos from Ridge's first day up yet. I was tired, so I took a nap. I said I'm sorry, dammit. You'll get 'em tomorrow. As I've already disclosed on a previous blog, nothing warms my heart more than praise that stroke my eccentric ego. Yes, I love you Mommy gets close, real close to be exact. But, still, no cigar. I'm sure before too much longer I'll brainwash Ridge and Rolan to run their little fingers through my hair as they tell me how much smarter I artie wrote:am than all the other mommies. But, until then, I will just have to get that crazy need from you, my darling readers. Almost as much as creative idol-worshipping, I love that so many of you get my twisted sense of humor. Next to a downpour or compliments upon my genius wit, nothing warms my heart like tits and ass jokes. I love you Mommy applies to this as well. As a mother of sons, I know someday my boys and I will have that to bond over. There friends are totally gonna be like, "Dude, where's your mom? We want to hear some of those fabulous ass jokes." And then the boys are going to be not-at-all embarrassed. I'm sure winning life's parental lottery is going to be a blessing to them. Anyways, back to my readers, my favorite people on Earth, people I love more than Bill Clinton. And I didn't even know that was possible. Unless of course Bill is reading and then he would be totally unsurpassable. This morning Dustin, whose lavish applause already landed him in one post recently, sent me a youtube video "documenting" spiders on drugs. I laughed until I peed. Maybe I shouldn't have disclosed that. Jesus, Shonda. Any biopic that reviews how one species makes another it's bitch is gonna have me from the start. That's just how I roll, bitches.
Then, as if his awesome video wasn't enough, I want to share with you a comment I receive earlier this week. It really tickled my fancy. Martie wrote:
If I was a lezbo... I'd be in love with you. You're about as cute as a speckled pup pulling a little red wagon (Ok, so I totally stole that line from some dude who used it on me 20 years ago...it worked for the weekend anyway).
Well, Martie, you might need to know that much more sweet talk like this and you might just have one short, fat lezbo on your hands. When I told Rowdy about this, I could see the excited anticipation on his face. Like, so can we have a lezbo? Please, Shonda, please. I will feed her. I will walk her. Please, can we keep her. After one of our kids was born, I told him I wanted to join a thespian moms groups and he was all for it. I was like, So you don't mind if I have to drive 45 miles to be in it. Him, No, at all if that's the closet. Me, Yup, and then I might have to be gone a couple a nights a week for practice. Him, They have practice? Me, Uh, well, yeah, they aren't going to just put 20 women up on stage without it. Him, Now wait just one minute. Why do you have to do this on a stage? Won't a bedroom work? Maybe a big hotel room? Me, What the hell are you talking about? Him, Nothing.
Okay, that conversation totally never happened. Being in a thespian group would be way too much work and would seriously cut down on my internet time. You know I'm letting nothing come between me and the world wide web. Nothing! But, if I were to tell him I wanted to join a thespian group, I can tell you that's exactly how the conversation would go since supporting our ladies in the rainbow army is his top priority. We all deserve equal rights, huh Rowdy? When my husband thinks of all the oppression of lesbians, the way they can't make out with each other in frilly little nightgowns out in public, it just breaks his little humanitarian heart. Anyways, thanks, Martie. As you all know, lavish praise is the way to my heart, so bring it on, bitches. Okay, fine, you twisted my arm. I will leave you with one more. Cousin Cookie knows how to pluck the heartstrings of my dirty soul.
Well I have to give ya a high five for this one. I assume the cousin you preferred to is my well endowed daughter. It does make a difference when ya spend a little extra for the girls to be held up.No matter what its ALL about comfort. Don't let anyone tell ya different. I must add I think that you are the most brilliant, witty, classy but yet still with humor beautiful women whom loves the 'F' word, but wait there is more, who can cook.... Love you girl. Cookie
That's right. She called me brilliant, witty and classy and managed to keep a straight face when I asked her if she was being a wise ass.
I have a confession: I love myspace. I don't mean love like it's kinda a good way to pass idle time. I mean love like inhaling the scent of your newborn baby love. That's right, bitches, I just compared a tacky online social network to the moment I first held by babies in my arms. What I can say, I really, really love it. Now, the reasons for my undying affection are as vast as the catty bickering or sexy photos posted through the site. It's like an alternative universe. Ex-girlfriends talk shit to new girlfriends. It's Maury Show awesome and I can't get enough. Although the viciousness of myspace does put a smile on my face, I'd be lying if I said the ability to keep up with old friends doesn't make me log on, like, a million times a day. It helps if they call their ex-husband/ex-wife a series of names that would make any sailor proud, but even if they appear all chemically-balanced, it's cool to keep in touch with the click of a mouse. When I log on and see the red letters on the right, "New Message," I'm as giddy as a frat boy in a strip club. Who's it from? The fact that it could be anyone, literally, anyone makes opening the message as suspenseful as which chick on Rock of Love 3 will show her tatas first. Like I said, could be anyone. Oh, did you know there's going to be a Rock of Love 3? I'm sure you as shocked as I am that Bret's love affair with Ambre didn't pan out. Anyways, you can imagine my utter delight when I logged on yesterday to see I had not only a message from my old friend Dustin, but that subject for the message was "mommalittle." The note was short and sweet and totally made my heart go pitter-patter. In case any of your boys are currently hatching plans to steal me away from Rowdy, let me make things easier for you. There's no need to call me pretty. I know I'm not and I wouldn't believe you if you said it. Plus, it's not nearly as effective as calling me brilliant or funny. My loyalty can be easily swayed if you throw those bitches out, particularly if you join 'em together. Hell, I might even get your name tattooed on my arm. Dustin wrote,
i love reading your blogs!!! you rock my face off.
I'm not 100% sure what "rock my face off" means, but I know I love it like Kathy Griffin loves the "F" word, which is exactly how I love the "F" word, by the way. Now, Dustin's a little freaky-deek. His long-time nickname is Cochino, which apparently means nasty in Spanish. I'm taking his and the hundreds of folks who call him that at their word. My second language is Pig Latin, so I call him asty-nay. Dustin wears Cochino like a badge of honor, so I'm a bit nervous about the origin of this statement. Whatever it means, this ranks up there with this hand-written Mother's Day card Rowdy penned for me the year after Ridge was born. In fact, I'm going to print off Dustin's message and paste it next to the hand-written card in my scrapbook. Can't you just totally see the boys flipping through that keepsake in 20 years with their future brides?
Girl: Ummm....why did your mom print out this 2 sentence email that said she rocks this dudes face off?
Son (all embarrassed): I don't know.
Girl (confused, shaking her head): Ummm..... you aren't going to let her give a toast at the wedding, are you?
Son: No.
Thanks to Dustin for the sunshiny note. We've known each other our whole lives, although we don't get to see each other often these days. He's a city slicker these days. He recently had his right kidney removed and I quite thankful he's well enough to have his face rocked off, by me or anyone.
Finish This Page, but click on the older posts, too.
The knee-slappin,' cursin,' GOOD TIMES don't start or end on the front page, so read the older posts!Maybe you missed something. Maybe you forgot.I try to post daily, so read the older posts!
