The Life Skill of Proper Cursing

Few things bring joy to a mother's heart like when she sees her young child learn some invaluable life skill. A tears comes to my eye every time I think of my children's first steps, their arms waving erratically for balance, bobbling back and forth as they moved toward me. The bittersweet journey that turns them from infants totally dependent upon you into grown people bound for adventures of their own is marked with these milestones.
Well, friends, I got to experience one today, perhaps the greatest thus far. As I was driving down the road, my oldest boy randomly spouted, "Son of a bitch!!"
Half shocked, I turned back to see what had happened. Apparently his water had spilled on his shirt, which he clearly found displeasing.
"Ridge," I said, "that's a naughty word. You aren't suppose to say that."
The car was filled with an awkward pause as he absorbed my chiding. After he had thought about this for a moment, he explained, "Well, Momma, I just like to say naughty words, just like you do."
At first I was shocked by being outsmarted by a 4-year-old yet again. But, then I realized that I had taught my child a life skill, one he'll actually use. I mean, how often do any of you use sign language. There's no doubt that has made the world a more functioning place for millions of people, but most of us don't have many situations where it is needed. Proper cursing, on the other hand, is priceless. To understand the proper place in a sentence to insert a good "shit" or "hell" is something he'll actually use.
Now, give me my Mother of the Year prize, please!

Come On Baby Light My Fire

After spending a few hours running errands and talking to friends on Thursday, the time to scuttle home came. I loaded up Ridge and pointed the Explorer, away from Elk City and toward our life on the open range in Cheyenne. The trip started out uneventful, as they do every Tuesday and Thursday. I decided to drove home the back way, through winding county roads, rather than the highway. I don't know why I do, I just like the scenery I suppose.
Not far outside of Elk City, a utility pickup was stopped in the middle of the road. The air on the sides of the truck was in that blurry wave that frequents the sides of charcoal grills and, I don't know, most other kinds of FUCKING FIRE. Just as I stopped, two guys bailed out and hustled to the back for a fire extinguisher. Clearly something in the back of their truck was ablaze. Before these two could get the extingusher going, a fiery bit of debris flew onto the dry, brittle grass of the nearby pasture. The two men dropped their fire extinguisher and ran quickly to the expanding flames, trying in vain to stomp it out. With Oklahoma in the middle of a
drought, these two thinking this would help is like thinking a b.b. gun can stop a freight train. Needless to say, it was fucking on.
I immediately got out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1 and, before the dispatcher could patch me through to the fire department, the fire had burned at least two or three acres. I mean, this bitch was up in smoke like a hay stack.
After the sea of flames had spread like rapid flood waters over the pasture, the two men gave up their defeated campaign of stomping it out. They walked quickly away from the blazing truck and the even hotter field. I pulled my car around, rolled down the window and told them I had already called the fire department.
And that's when I realized that this was one of my old friend's big brother. I've known this guy most of my life and, bless his heart, his life has always been some bizarre mix of a reality television show and one of those skit comedy shows. In other words, you just never know what the hell is gonna happen in any day in the life of Bobby.
After I told him I made the emergency call, he thanked me. Because Ridge was in the backseat, overrunning with the pure excitement only a near disaster can bring an adventurous 4 year old boy, I felt like staying at a wildfire would just be, I don't know, bad parenting. Bobby agreed that I probably should get out of Dodge since the welding equipment that had started the fire in his truck were still in it. I asked Bobby if he and his co-worker wanted me to take them somewhere, perhaps a place not going up in smoke. But, he was shackled to the responsibility of staying out there with his work truck until the fire department arrived. I tried for a moment to persuade him, but he was staying the course.
So, as I turned around, I hoped the fire department would get this under control faster than some other wildfires that have raged in Oklahoma under these dry, dusty conditions. But apart from my concern, I couldn't help giggle at the thought of Bobby, with all his many mishaps, had in part started a wildfire right in front of my disbelieving eyes.

Did You Say Pet Rock or Pet Mock, as in this kid is totally mocking me with that rock he's carrying

Like most young children, I remember often facing the unjust oppression of my fun-hating parents. Mom would sternly shake her head no to my pleas for six or seven other girls to invade our house after she'd worked 12 or 14 hours in the beauty shop in our garage and I was completely dumbfounded by her blind tyranny.
And when these moments would pop up, overcome with frustration at my unfair treatment, I would dart behind an open door and the wall and softly whisper some foul tongue lashing to my otherwise unsuspecting mother. I revealed in the genius of my cursing revenge. You see, not only did I get to fling a few cuss words at the iron-fisted dictator running our household, but I also got off scott free because my angry words went totally undetected behind my wedge of wooden secrecy.
I thought of my little tempter tantrums this week as my oldest boy Ridge picked up a new habit. Now, I've known for a long time that the day would come with that my cooing babies would slowly start morphing into clever little wise asses who lament me for ruining their good time. While I'm sure this recent incident wasn't the first time my first born mulled over what a stick in the freakin' mud that his mother is, this is the first time that he carried on a conversation about my motherly injustices right in front of me.
To be clear, this discussion was not with another person. Oh no, it was with his pet rock. First of all, I have no damn clue where he got the idea for a pet rock in the first place. I don't know if he saw it on a movie or if one of his friends planted this notion, but its there nonetheless.
Secondly, I feel like calling the softball-sized pebble a "pet" rock is a better misleading. I think we should dub it his "psychiatrist" rock or something along those lines. You see, just like the four walls of a mental health professional's office, Ridge really feels like when he's with his pet rock, he's in the "safe zone," that he can say anything to the rock without fear of being in trouble. If he is excited, he tells the rock. If he is sad, he tells the rock. And, if he is pissed off at his killjoy mother, he most definitely tells the damn rock.
On Sunday afternoon, I took the boys to my cousin's son's birthday party. Like all good parents who want to fork out an insane amount of money and do an even more insane amount of work, my cousin Krista had a yard freakin' full of rides and concessions nothing short of some circus midway. Ridge and Rolan were in little kid heaven. They jumped on the bounce house and stuffed their mouths full of cotton candy. They hit baseballs and cruised the yard in a Power Wheels Mustang. After a couple hours of birthday party joy, I gathered the boys' scattered belongings and prepared them for the trip home. My youngest, Rolan, wasn't just eager to leave his sugar-coated dream, but he also didn't drag the deal into some episode for the baby books. The same cannot be said for his big brother Ridge.
At first Ridge argued his case for staying just a bit longer like some seasoned pro arguing Constitutional law before the Supreme Court. When that didn't work, he whipped out the red face and tears and, lastly, begging. He realized as I buckled him into his car seat that this, leaving the birthday party, was in fact going to happen. He cried for a few months, whimpered two or three good times and then dried up the tears. After a few moments of silence, I assumed he had accepted his fate of an uneventful night with his boring parents and pain in the ass brother. Wrong.
Just we hit the highway, he and his pet rock began discussing the enormous pile of bullshit they had just been subjected to. It went something like this here:

Ridge asks the rock, "Are you sad that you had to leave the party, Rock?"

Ridge replying for the rock, "Yes, Ridge, I wanted to stay at the party but your mom is being mean and won't let me play."

Ridge to the rock, "All our friends get to stay and play and their mommy isn't mean."

Ridge for the rock, "I want to keep playing with our friends, Ridge."

Ridge to the rock, "Are you mad that you can't play?"

Ridge for the rock, "It is bullshit."

Naturally, that's just a small excerpt from the witty back-and-forth between my son and his rock, which clearly was thinking for itself and not being the mouthpiece for my child.The rallied for at least five miles about how I just murdered fun. Every few minutes I would remind Ridge that he needed to be nice and, spoken like a true smart ass, he would point out that he wasn't the one lobbing in these sharp complaints. It was the rock, the hard-partying, good time rock. As I kicked myself for playing into being outsmarted by a four-year-old, my childhood trips to the wedge of wall and door ran through my mind. I wish I would've come up with the cussing pet rock. At least then someone would have known I was pissed.

On a different note, Ridge had his Rainbow Lane program tonight. I will post photos tomorrow, or at least I plan on it. Those of you who are regular readers, go ahead and remind me. LOVE!

Hellbent on Lent

With the final day of drunken stumbling through New Orleans, Rio and other Mardi Gras celebrations now upon us, I've got my Fat Tuesday beer cracked as I try to figure out just what I'm going to sacrifice on the alter of personal growth this year for Lent. I know what you're thinking -- I didn't know you are Catholic, Shonda. Well, you would be thinking correctly, I am not Catholic. You see, not long after high school, I periodically helped out at a small, local cafe. While the owner was the only member of Catholicism working there, the other ladies joined in on the tradition. And since I am so clearly someone abundant in self control, I figured I would be a total natural for this Lent shit.
Yeah, I turned out to be wrong about that. I don't really recall what I swore off for those 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter, but I do remember it being the Titanic of sacrifice. Sure, it started out with good intentions, but in the end, there was only blood curdling screams and a bunch of hysteria.

In spite of my first Lent being a holy fucking disaster, I've tried it each year since then. In 2002, that super fly Josh Hartnett stared in 40 Days and 40 Nights, a comedy about a young single man giving up the impossible for God -- sex. The first year I was with Rowdy I suggested that I might make this same pledge and he nearly peed his pants from the all consuming laughter. He apparently thinks he's such a Man God or that I'm such a lustful harlot that I couldn't withstand the lure of his loving, even if it were for the Almighty. I thought about attempting it just to prove Rowdy wrong, but then I realized if I were to fail at this, Rowdy would really strut around here like rooster in a hen house. Yeah, that's definitely why I didn't give up the nookie. It's definitely not because I didn't think I couldn't do it. Definitely.
Then one tragic year I gave up cussing. Now, if you've been following this blog any time at all or, if by chance, you've happened to meet me in the real world, you have probably figured out that I have had a long and passionate love affair with all words foul. In fact, I will go far enough to say that I believe that Jesus gave us cuss words in order that we don't freak out and start beating people at random. He told us to turn the other cheek, but he didn't say anything about flipping the bird while you are doing so. Not only that, if I took the cursing out of my vocabulary, it would literally be cut in half. But, I've always loved an under dog, so I tried it anyways. I spent the following 40 days walking around like a mumbling fool, no doubt convincing frightened strangers that I had Turrette's Syndrome or was in the middle of some acid trip gone awry. First, I would accidentally cuss and then I would start scolding myself under my breath. By the end of the day, I would just be walking in circles.
Last year I gave up Wal-Mart, which I know might seem rather silly to you, but hear me out. Since I'm kind of, well, a cheap skate, I hate spending more money than I have to on anything. I knew each time I had to pay an extra $5 for a box of diapers I would be tempted to scurry back out to the super store. But, after a week or so, it became incredibly easy. I felt pretty good about spending my money at locally owned shops and the local stores don't send me into the full blown panic attacks that Wal-Mart seems to.
So now, here we are on Fat Tuesday, the eve of Ash Wednesday, and I still have no freakin' idea what I am going to give up this year. I've kicked around giving up beer. But, as my friend Lyndi who also gives up something explains, you want to pick something that would be a challenge, not a miracle. I think we should leave beer off the list until my darling children have left for college.
I've also thought about giving up coupons. Yes, I'm really that geeky. I'm sure a few of you are giggling or smirking at the thought of that. But, let me tell you, I get as high as a Keith Richards on a three day heroin binder when those snotty teenage clerks tell me that I've saved 80% on my grocery bill. It will be a challenge to squeeze that full price out of my tight ass, but it wouldn't be like the whole Moses parting the Red Sea like forgoing the Bud Lights would be.
I still have a few more hours before I make the final decision. Since I think my blog readers could perhaps be a collection of the most brilliant people on the globe, I want to encourage suggestions from you guys. My clever husband has proposed that I give up bitching at him, you know, for the sake of Jesus. I tried to explain to him that the thing with Lent is suppose to be something you enjoy. He then chuckled and said, "You can't be that good at something you don't enjoy, love."
So, get after it, friends. While you guys are doing that, I'm going to watch our new president address our nation. I think I will take a big swig of beer every time he says the economy. After all, it is Fat Tuesday.

The Genetic Love of Ranch Dressing

I have a small confession. No, I didn't hack up some telemarketer into a thousand pieces, though I have frequently been tempted just to make an example. Okay, get ready for it 'cause I'm just gonna blurt it out.
I love ranch dressing!
Now, I realize I am far from alone in this. In spite of the culinary snobs who deem this "redneck food," I am not scared to step out on a cultural limb and declare from village to dell that I freakin' love this shit. I would eat it on just about anything. In fact, I can't figure out for the fat ass life of me just why those geniuses at Baskin Robbins haven't nixed one of the 25 flavors of chocolate and rolled out a ranch flavor in its place. Apart from that ever-addicting sushi and Bud Light, ranch dressing is my favorite food on the globe.
But, as I explained in my quest to Shine in 2009 (which you need to re-read so you can help keep me to all my resolutions), I would like to reduce my rather sizable ass into one that can be divided between just two women as opposed to the five it would take to tote this bitch around right now. I've been eating steamed vegetables and rice and have even been letting my kids come with me to Wal Mart without their normal kiddie leash on, you know, so I can get my daily exercise sprinting after the two of them as they dart in two opposite directions in search of toys and candy. What can I say, I'm a regular Gene, I mean, Richard Simmons. But there are just some foods you can't part with and, for me, ranch dressing is at the top of that list.
Anyways, as of last night, I came to believe that the deep love of ranch dressing might be genetic, you know, like some folks swear the love of beer is. After I cooked supper and then made plates for all the penis-bearing members of our household, I went to the back end of the house to hang up some wrinkly clothes. At first, I heard nothing but silence, the familiar sound of two boys and their equally ornery father stuffing their bellies with pork chops and the fixins. After a few minutes, the noise came back and I knew the funny business would restart promptly.
Just as I pulled the last shirt from the basket, my youngest boy Rolan tip-toed into our room, a smile on his face with evidence of mischief in his eyes. My room was dark, so it took me a second to notice it.
And just what was "it," you ask. Well, pull up a chair and I will tell you, friends.
"It" was the creamy, white semi-circle that started at Rolan's chin, curving from one cheek to the next while peaking at his button nose. At first, I didn't see it and then I couldn't figure out just what it was. And then I remembered -- I made a jug of homemade ranch dressing. His face looked as though he had a beard of pure dairy delight.
Immediately, I knew a mess of near Biblical proportions awaited me somewhere within our house. I asked Rolan where the dressing was and he responded by acting as though he hadn't heard a damn word I said because he was so simply too consumed with running his chubby fingers through the sauce of his chin and then licking off his spoils. I left my laundry in the bedroom to find a sports-consumed husband kicked back in his lazy boy blissfully unaware that Rolan had gotten into the ranch dressing. Walking by scanning the room for some white explosion, I asked Rowdy if he'd heard or seen the boy getting into anything. Naturally, his response was no, which was no fucking surprise to me since
I searched high and low. I looked in the boys' rooms, behind the television, hell, even on the front porch. I couldn't find the dressing jug, but aside from Rolan's face smothered in dressing, I could not spot the crime scene, either.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few splatters of a creamy, white something behind the refrigerator. Slowly, I inched closer and, as I did, I noticed more and more dressing. Apparently Rolan had swiped the shit, which is awesome, and then snuck behind the frig to basically, well, drink that shit. And in the process, he had also managed to pour it in the vents on the backside of the frig, into the carpet and down cracks in our wall I previously did not know existed. It was an unholy fucking mess.
Naturally Rowdy chuckled, which made perfect sense to me since he wasn't the one shimmying his fat ass behind a large appliance to then scrub a dairy explosion off an entire corner of our house. I'm sure it would have been a real freakin' knee slapper to me, too.
After I hosed down the refrigerator, I had to repeat the process on Rolan. He had to be bathed and his formerly clean pajamas had to be replaced. As I scrubbed the smiling two year old from top to bottom, I noticed just how much he really seemed to enjoy his big gulps of ranch dressing. Laughing at our shared passion, I then realized that he might have inherited more than just my deep love of salad dressing. I mean, holy bejesus, what if he feels the way his mother does about day drinking and cuss words and jokes that would make most sailors blush? Holy shit, I may have created a monster.

Welcome To Vietnam, Boys, You're In For A Helluva Fight

Although Rowdy and I are both perhaps the least scheduled people who ever walked the globe, our evenings with the boys have become nothing less than a ritual. The boys, Daddy included, play on the living room for about an hour as I cook supper. Wrestling and chase are two favorite games, but bucking bulls will always be king. They eat while I load the dishwasher and then I round up the two filthy children and pour steamy water over their soapy heads in the bathtub. As soon as everyone is washed and dried and dressed in pajamas, we pick out our bedtime story and I read to them as Ridge impatiently demands his little brother to stop leaping on the bed like a monkey and listen to Momma.
Of course, in between and during each of these nightly steps, Rowdy and I talk about whatever's on our minds. Or, I talk and he begrudgingly pauses whatever bullshit sporting event he is watching until I'm done. Last night we were discussing tomorrow's inauguration, thank God its finally here, and somehow the conversation turned to Vietnam.
Now, for those of you who don't know this, my grandfather was a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Marine Corp and served two terms in that war. To some members of my generation, Vietnam is just the part of the movie where Forest Gump gets shot in the ass. But, to me and my sister and my cousins, Vietnam hung very much over our collective childhoods like a cloud. After all, the war had only been over 5 years when I was born and my grandfather, who is know in his 70s, will always be that weathered Marine, even if it is wrapped in a soft grandfather.
Anyways, the boys were running around like the lawless banchies they are as I told Rowdy the details that surrounded my grandfather's Purple Heart. As a helicopter pilot, he was shoot down flying behind enemy lines. With a bullet through his leg, he narrowly escaped capture from the enemy, but he made it back. Even though I'm nearly 30 myself, still a bit younger than he was when he was fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia, it is hard for me to reconcile the funny old man who took me and my friends on adventurous vacations in my youth in violent combat in that time and that place.
After the brief pause for conversation, I got back on the nighttime ritual track and herded the boys to bed. We woke up this morning and the Vietnam War was far from my mind.
***And then, as I was scrambling eggs, Ridge came limping over to me and declared:
Damn, I've been shot in the leg. I was flyin' my helicopter into town to get new clothes and those Viet Cong got me."

Yeah, that's right, my four-year-old actually said Viet Cong. That's just how we roll (Oh, I think I forgot to tell you guys that I've really been working on my Urban lingo, so be looking out for that. I'm definitely gonna be whipping that shit out from time to time.)

Are You Breaking Child Labor Laws if the Kid Really, Really Wanted to be a Maid? Or Cook? Or Personal Assistant?

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.

Turns Out, Candy Cures Everything.

After the last post, I'm sure you thought my posts would take on some consistency here in 2009. Well, guess again, bitches. My keyboard has been on the blink for several days and then, just now, my youngest ran a truck over the top of it and it started working once again. I guess he's magic.
As you all know, our dog Whiskey was killed by a semi-truck last Saturday. Immediately, Rowdy and I wondered how to tell Ridge. At just 2 1/2, Rolan is thankfully still too small to grasp it, so we didn't have to worry about him. Ridge, on the other hand, is right at the cusp of understanding. He has seen death on Barnyard and in those ridicules Westerns Rowdy is constantly watching with him. But, then again, he's 4. There's no way he can totally come to terms with the finality of death.
So, in keeping with my standard "Let's Brush It Under The Rug" life philosophy, we just said nothing until he brought it up. After two days without seeing Whiskey, he realized his friend was absent.
Ridge walked in the house, his face drawn with worry. "Where's Whiskey," he asked his father and me.
We exchanged glances, both wondering what the other was thinking. We'd received advice from several people on how we should approach this. I mean, clearly the whole "He went to live on a farm" classic wouldn't work for us. I've always believed honesty is probably the best route to take, unless of course we are referring to the weight listed on driver's licenses and then I say, "Deny Until You Die."
Anyways, I sat on the couch and Rowdy sat caddy cornered from me in his chair. He looked at Ridge and softly explained that Whiskey had been hit by a truck.
Ridge's eyes grew as large as half dollars as he innocently inquired, "Did he die?"
I shook my head and whispered yes. And just as I was hugging my boy, Rowdy pulled a Starburst candy from his pocket and began unwrapping it. Instantly Ridge spotted that shit.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Elvis!
"Oh....candy!" he belted as he scurried to his dad.
And that's how Ridge learned that Whiskey had died.

Rock The New Year

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

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

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

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

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

The Cowboy Chronicles, Apparent Home of Naughty Nuns

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:

3. sexting examples

4. spongebob conspiracy

16. booby duty

17. catlic girls gone wild

18. charlie sheen (as a cowboy)

19. charlie sheen has hairplugs

23. how schools should handle sexting

28. jason biggs douchenozzle
I really have no idea how my blog came up this, but I did write about Dane Cook being a total asshat.

33. mozel tov hat

37. nuns gone bad

**38. nuns who eat snatch

45. sarah palin hooters


47. bill clinton hummer

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.

Ridge and The He Man Woman Haters Club

So, it turns out that my oldest son is a rampant sexist. Ridge only recently showed me this brutally macho side of himself, but once he let that bulky beast out of the bag, there was just not stuffing it back in.
It all started about four days ago. Just like most Sunday nights, Rowdy had blanketed our television set with an eternity of football. As one game was finally ending, he switched to another and I belted, "OH, bullshit!"
Out of the corner of the room, Ridge, the sudden cuss word cop, came flying toward his naughty mother. Naturally, I thought his scolding was because his ears were too delicate for such profanity. I turned out to be quite wrong about that. After he punished me for saying that bad word, he declared, "Only Me and Dad came say bullshit."

I said, "Oh really? You and Dad can say bullshit, but Momma can't?"

"That's right, Momma, my bullshit is better than your bullshit."

I did my best to strangle the wild laughter trying to burst out of my mouth as I corrected my son. It was definitely one of my prouder moments as a mother. I mean, not even I would have thought one of my kids would be such a successful potty mouth at such a young age. Truly an accomplishment, I say! But, not only that, I wondered if my boy was already becoming a card-carrying member of the He-Man Woman Haters Club. He's more than willing to lavish his momma with kisses most of the time, but he also seemed quite natural and at ease when he puffed out his chest and declared that only he and his dad were clearly premium, platinum gold bullshitters.
I continued to laugh about this incident, but I didn't think much more about my son's sudden flare for sexism until this morning. As he sat on my lap and stole sips from my coffee, a commercial with two women playing football came on television. Apparently this offended Ridge's masculine sensibilities.

He said, "Mom, why are those girls playing football? Girls can't play football."

I tried to explain that, while it is generally a boys only sport, girls were allowed to play if they wanted to. This rationale only sent Ridge further into his chest-pounding rant.

"No, No, No, Momma! Girls can't play football. Only boys can play football!" He insisted.

While my husband may still sport a cowboy hat, this is far from an old-fashioned home. Rowdy and I were both puzzled by this, wondering where he could have picked this up. Trust me, I've tried to play the whole "Girls Can't Do That" card when Rowdy's been dragging me off into some horrible ranch activity like dragging off dead calves or building fence. Thus far, it hasn't worked yet. One time he made me work like 400 head of cattle with him and one lone hired hand when I was like 8 months pregnant. There was certainly no chick leniency that day. So, we have no idea just where Ridge's new "No Girls Allowed" attitude has spawned and we don't know just how far his new found sexism will run.
But, we don't know this: Ridge apparently has world-class bullshit and he doesn't want any ladies touching the pigskin.

Momma's Boys

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

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

ME: Ummmm.....why?

ROWDY: Is it?

ME: Yes, why?

(LONG, LONG PAUSE)

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

ME: Why not?

(EVEN LONGER PAUSE)

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


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

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

Ridge the Train Hunter

The other night I watched this Law and Order re-run. In this particular episode, this Go Go Gadget, Super Sleuth police dogs rapidly hunted down this dude simply from a brief whiff off some shredded clothes this guy had worn once upon a time. While I do know law enforcement agencies have pretty amazing canine units, I thought this scene was a bit far-fetched, that is, until my four-year-old son did a real life reenactment of this shit in front of my very eyes. Well, maybe not an EXACT reenactment. He wasn't sniffing out suspect or dead bodies. No, it was far worse. He freakin' magically sniffed out the Thomas the Train toys stuffed under a mountain of clothes at the bottom of my closet, trains intended to be delivered by Santa Claus in a little over two weeks.
I don't know if I've mentioned this to you before, but Ridge is kind of obsessed with all things Thomas. And when I saw kind of, what I'm really trying to say is if this cheeky English train was a real life celebrity and Ridge was a bit older, I fear we might have one of those super bizarre fan stalkings to worry about. And because Ridge has been utterly consumed with the cartoon and all the toys quite cleverly marketed to kids like him for about 2 years now, little Rolan was never lived in a house not blanketed with Thomas, Gordon, Henry, Purcy and the freakin' 200 other trains that shunt around Tidmouth Sheds and, somehow, Toys 'R Us. Rolan's far from the Thomas freak his big brother is, but he kinda digs him, too.
So, as you can imagine, when Ridge found these buried Thomas toys as though the actual voice of God had somehow directed him to them, a riot no smaller than the chaos that ensued after the Rodney King riot broke out in my closet.
HE WANTED TO PLAY WITH THOSE **NEW** TRAINS RIGHT THEN, RIGHT FUCKING THEN!
He screamed until his face blistered out like a hothouse tomato and each word that left his mouth sprayed the spit of a rather pissed off little boy. Of course, I couldn't let him open them. First of all, at this point we have nearly acquired each and every accessory related to Thomas. I have to give him something on Christmas morning. Secondly, while he is a darling boy, the whole Santa guidelines are clearly based on a naughty-to-nice scale. Ridge minds and randomly picks hims momma wildflowers but, let's face it, he hasn't been near good enough for two rounds of Santa gifts.
Eventually I pulled the trains from his steel death grip and hid them in a new and improved location, one that (fingers crossed) should take him at least another three days to hunt down. Until then, I will be in a constant state of pointless reasoning with a four-year-old who just wants his damn Thomas trains. He doesn't give a shit about Santa's broken heart or waiting until Christmas or any other reason I gave him to put the trains down. After all, he's been demanding a Christmas celebration each night for three days and now this. I just don't know if his heart can take it.

Meet My Demands -- Give Me Christmas NOW!

With Christmas lights sparkling into the darkness all over town and Christmas trees and an army of other holiday decor going up in each and every house Ridge visits, the pending arrival of Santa Claus is consuming his mind. And when I say consume, I mean freakin' absorbing every molecule of his little 4-year-old brain. Let me tell you, Friends, this is leading to a little DRA-MA at the Little Household.
After watching The Polar Express for the second time last night, now a nightly ritual, he emerged from his television haze demanding that we have Christmas then, RIGHT THEN! Not tomorrow, not in 17 days when Christmas was actually marked on the calender, but at that exact moment.
I tried to rationalize with the boy, a feat proven virtually impossible. Man, he's hard-headed. I have NO idea just where he inherited that.
After a solid 30 minutes of what could best be described as a shit fit, Rowdy and I decided to call in the big guns -- SANTA! Of course, Santa just happened to be discussing the naughty or nice list from the my dad's phone. Ridge backed off the "Christmas better happen right effin' now" ledge, although he did mention that he hoped Santa would make a surprise visit during the night.
So, it is with great angst that I report that Christmas is still 16 days away, 16 different potentials for another full-blown protest for the trains Ridge has begged Santa for.
Ohhhhhh.......parenting. Thank God for spiked egg nog.

The Slammy Awards?

So, I was scanning through the old television the night before last when I saw perhaps the greatest thing ever bestowed upon my eyes. Apparently, the WWE or the WWF or some other ridicules wrestling programming now has an awards ceremony. Hold it gets better.....wait for it......wait it for it......It is also called the "Slammy" Awards.
As I pondered this, I wondered what possible categories this particular awards show might boost. Perhaps best 'roided out rage freak? Or wildly disproportionate muscles while magically maintaining less body hair than my 2-year-old?
Seriously, who needs the Oscars when we now have this little piece of awesome?

Christmas Must've Come Early....More Nixon Tapes Released

I promised my homeboy over at godfatherblog.com that I would fulfill my bloggy obligations to receive the award he's so graciously laid at my feet. There's a whole list of shenanigans I have to pull to get the badge of honor, apparently including saying something nice to my husband with absolutely no motives of my own which is about as foreign to me as turning down a beer at 2 in the afternoon. I really, really intended on doing it today. That is, until I logged onto msn and saw that the National Archives decided today to release another batch of those fucking fabulous Nixon tapes.
Now, if you have been following this blog at all, you already know that I freakin' live for all things Nixon. Not because I think he was a good president, that's not it at all. Richard Nixon was one of the worst, most fantastically corrupt assholes ever to call that desk in the Oval Office his.
No, the reason I love Richard Nixon is no one, I mean fucking no one, does crazy like he did. Of course, his corrupt crown jewel was that list, The Nixon's Enemy List, he scribbled down on a piece of paper and then carried around in his coat pocket just in case he forgot for a second just who he wanted to "use the available federal machinery to screw." Now I'm sure you are thinking he at least put folks on the list like McGovern who ran against him in 1972. Well, you would be wrong. Let me tell you who did make the list, the late, great Paul Newman. On many occasions, Paul would say that, of all the blockbusters and success in his dressing business, he considers making the original Enemy List as the biggest success and his proudest moment of his life. He said it made him feel like he was doing something right.
I know you are probably dying of suspense. Come on with it, Shonda, whip out the new Nixon batshit crazy gems the National Archives gave us today. Oh, and by the way, in the off chance that you have gotten me a Christmas present, take it back. There is absolutely no way your gift will warm my quirky little heart like this shit did. Okay here goes:
-- On July 1, 1971, Nixon instructs Chief of Staff H.R. Haldeman to have someone break into the Brookings Institution in Washington, D.C.:

"I can't have a high-minded lawyer ... I want a son-of-a-bitch. I want someone just as tough as I am. ... We're up against an enemy, a conspiracy that will use any means. We are going to use any means... . Get it done. I want it done. I want the Brookings Institution cleaned out and have it cleaned out in a way that has somebody else take the blame.

Or:
-- On April 4, 1972, Nixon discusses the press with Haldeman:

NIXON: “Return the calls to those poor dumb bastards ... who I know are our friends. Now do it ... We made the same mistake [Dwight] Eisenhower made, but not as bad as Eisenhower made, because he sucked the Times too much ... Goddamn it, don't talk to them for a while. Will you enforce that now?'
HALDEMAN: "I'll try."

Or this little pearl:

-- On May 18, 1972, Nixon talks to Henry Kissinger about the National Security Adviser's meeting with Ivy League college presidents regarding the war in Vietnam:

NIXON: "The Ivy League presidents? Why, I'll never let those sons-of-bitches in the White House again. Never, never, never. They're finished. The Ivy League schools are finished ... Henry, I would never have had them in. Don't do that again ... They came out against us when it was tough ... Don't ever go to an Ivy League school again, ever. Never, never, never."

And one more for the road:

-- On Nov. 14, 1972, Nixon talks with his aide Charles Colson about his landslide re-election victory over Democrat George McGovern:

NIXON: "What in the hell did you think of McGovern's statement on the election? Wasn't that the sour grapes crap again?”
COLSON: “Well, it's unbelievable, the arrogance of the guy ... God, what a bad man. Just awfully glad we got him buried and put away for good. I think he is.”
NIXON: “Oh, he's buried. He's buried."

Jesus, I am getting misty-eyed nostalgic, so much so that I looked up the obituary, if you will, that one of my favorite writers, the late, great Hunter S. Thompson, penned after Nixon finally went the way of all evil Bond villains when he died in 1994. Hunter always said not making Nixon's Enemy List was his life's biggest disappointment. And as you read this, I want you to remember that not long before he died, Hunter said that George W. Bush makes Nixon look fun.

As a farewell to his old adversary, Hunter wrote this:

Richard Nixon is gone now and I am poorer for it. He was the real thing--a political monster straight out of Grendel and a very dangerous enemy. He could shake your hand and stab you in the back at the same time. He lied to his friends and betrayed the trust of his family. Not even Gerald Ford, the unhappy ex-president who pardoned Nixon and kept him out of prison, was immune to the evil fallout. Ford, who believes strongly in Heaven and Hell, has told more than one of his celebrity golf partners that "I know I will go to hell, because I pardoned Richard Nixon."

I have had my own bloody relationship with Nixon for many years, but I am not worried about it landing me in hell with him. I have already been there with that bastard, and I am a better person for it. Nixon had the unique ability to make his enemies seem honorable, and we developed a keen sense of fraternity. Some of my best friends have hated Nixon all their lives. My mother hates Nixon, my son hates Nixon, I hate Nixon, and this hatred has brought us together.

Nixon laughed when I told him this. "Don't worry," he said. "I, too, am a family man, and we feel the same way about you."

It was Richard Nixon who got me into politics, and now that he's gone, I feel lonely. He was a giant in his way. As long as Nixon was politically alive--and he was, all the way to the end--we could always be sure of finding the enemy on the Low Road. There was no need to look anywhere else for the evil bastard. He had the fighting instincts of a badger trapped by hounds. The badger will roll over on its back and emit a smell of death, which confuses the dogs and lures them in for the traditional ripping and tearing action. But it is usually the badger who does the ripping and tearing. It is a beast that fights best on its back: rolling under the throat of the enemy and seizing it by the head with all four claws.

That was Nixon's style--and if you forgot, he would kill you as a lesson to the others. Badgers don't fight fair, bubba. That's why God made dachshunds.

And as I read this, I also realize that someday, some spectacular day, the National Archives will start leaking the Dubya tapes. Will they be as good as Nixon's? Will they be better? I guess only time will tell. In fact, I am going to use this, living long enough to hear the Bush II tapes, as my New Years motivation to take better care of myself. I know, I know, it should be living to see my boys all prosperous and successful. Don't get me wrong, that's a big perk. But, I must admit, I'll be pissed if I miss out on this, I will be pissed. Until then, on this fantastic day, I miss Richard and Hunter and all the devils and angels from a different era.
If you want to read more of Hunter's obit, read here.

PS-- I promise not to write about politics again for a long, long while.

Marketing Genius At Its Finest

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

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

Screwed

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

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

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

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

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