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

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

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

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

Shine in 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Momma's Boys

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

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

ME: Ummmm.....why?

ROWDY: Is it?

ME: Yes, why?

(LONG, LONG PAUSE)

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

ME: Why not?

(EVEN LONGER PAUSE)

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


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

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

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree!

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

Rolan Clinton, 2, tree sword fighter extraordinaire

Marketing Genius At Its Finest

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROWDY: I love you, honey.

ME: I love you, too.


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

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

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

The Hat Came Back

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

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

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

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

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

Out Fixin' My Man

When I came home this afternoon, the house was a frigid icebox, which suited my hot-blooded desire for freezing temperatures, but didn't seem to fair too well for my sickly children. Plus, you know I'm a complete cheapskate, so keeping the heater from sucking the sweet juice from our bank account was tempting. Nonetheless, I broke down and switched the miserable sweat machine on and went about my business. That, by the way, was debating with my stubborn three-year-old about whether we should or should not eat sausage and only sausage for each meal that I serve.
He was like, "Mom, I'm hungry. I want the sausage."
And I was all, "Ridge, I've already cooked your sausage once today. I'll make it again the morning. I think you should snack on some strawberries or perhaps some bananas at this juncture so your aren't suffering from massive heart attacks before you start kindergarten."
And then he said, "Listen, lady, save all your fruity hippie talk for my pansy brother. Dad told me that coffee and sausage will put hair on my chest, so cook it up, biznotch."
So I was like, "Well, you make a convincing argument, son. Arteries aren't so important when faced with the prospect of pre-pubescent chest fuzzies."

Anyways, so sometime after I bent to the will of my future fur-coated son, I realized that the heater had, in fact, NOT started blowing blistering air into our home. The temperature measurer on our thermostat (I know there's probably some "technical" name for that, but I just won't be chained to the repression of accuracy. Thank you, Bill O'Reilly) was still sitting on Heaven -- 65 degrees, bitches!

As I've learned from my extensive studies of modern innovations, i.e. photoshopping wrinkles off my pruney face or checking email accuracies on snopes.com, I know that the best way to fix problems with machines is turning them off and then turning them directly back on. Write that down, folks, that's some scientific shit right there.
However, like all repairs, it doesn't have a 100% accuracy. Situations will present themselves that you have to search out a different switch to flip. Such was the case with the heater.

Not long after I realized that it wasn't kicking on, Mr. Fix It himself came home. I've been convinced that Bob the Builder is totally based on my man. Or maybe Handy Manny. Rowdy isn't Mexican, but he'll damn sure work like one. (Simmer down, saying an entire race is hard workers is a compliment. Exploiting it isn't.)

After I reported the need for the repair, he wandered on over to the thermostat and then proceeded to flick it for about 6 minutes. He paused. Damn, no air. No noise from the unit.
He turned the thermostat on and off. I told him I had already deployed that almost fool-proof fix, but he apparently thought I had not properly performed the task. When that, too, proved fruitless, he decided to attack the rebel heater directly.
Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what miracles my man was attempting to perform, but from the hallway it looked as though he was using his Jedi mind tricks to turn up the fire. Hands on hips, he looked that bitch over a few times and declared this conundrum a mystery. He shut the utility door and resumed his position in the recliner.

Now, as you know, I am not a nagger. Our facet has dripped 4 gallons of water each day since Rolan was born 2 years ago. Periodically I will remind my man that a water volume the size of the Nile River flows needlessly through our sink each week and then he says he will fix it in the winter. Fair enough.

But this, this I just could not let go. We do, after all, share our house with two little children. If it was 65 in here at 9:30, my guess is that it would be, like, 50 by morning. While that may be my idea of Heaven, it seems like it might be a teeth-chattering nightmare for my kids. Plus, it might cause some damage to the aforementioned teeth and I hear that dentistry is an expensive venture. Refer back to my cheapskate status.
As Rowdy continued with his "Hell, I don't know, Honey" campaign, I decided to investigate the fuse box. We had to have it replaced about a year ago and that work horse we hired to do it just didn't write down which switch went to what section of the house and then went ahead and threw the old one away before he left. And we think that is totally awesome since it turns the electrical safety of our home into a guessing game. We're thinking about about turning it into a drinking game.
I opened the door and noticed two switches had flipped to off. Like I said, it could've been to anything, but being the skilled problem-solver that I am, I employed my mad fixin' skills and slipped 'em back over.
Presto! The heater fires up the sound of 3 ancient power plants. The house fills with a faint scent of burning rubber as air pumps up from the vents.
And I was like, "Dude, you just got totally shown up by your wife. You have the penis. You are suppose to be the fixer."
Rowdy counter, "There's nothing wrong with you being the fixer."
"Umm......well, I would say there is. Again, I am the lone non-penis bearer in this household. Plus, that's how we ended up with two toilets that barely work and a dripping faucet."
"What?"
"Never mind."

8 Reasons Lists Are For Sissies

For the past two days, Anna has been totally pimping out her plan for world domination, which is, simply put, list-making. She says it makes you look more legitimate and God knows I am in dire need of that.
So, I have decided to jump on her awesome bandwagon and make my own list. So, pay attention, kiddies. Here goes.

Shonda's 8 Reasons She Thinks Lists Are For Sissies
1. I want to remember the wildly important shit I need to do solely on the superb power of my brain. I mean, sure, I'm gonna totally drop the ball at times. For example, I've been twisting my mind in knots for weeks to muster up the memory to renew my license so I don't have to take the whole freakin' test again. I thought about putting it on a list, but lists are for pussies, right. So, I wandered down to the tag office today after weeks of the information pinging around in my skull to complete the quest.
They were like, "Dude, this expired a month ago."
And I was all, "Ummm....a month minus one day."
Then she was all cleaver and said, "We don't have a grace period."
And I was like, "Shit, do I have to take the test? I barely passed it the first time and even then it was just by the grace of being a skinny, flirty 16-year-old and striking the good fortune of getting a slightly pervy driving instructor who was slap dab in the middle of his midlife crisis. I mean, I don't think a fatass housewife in gray t-shirt will have the same postive effect twisting her gum and batting her eyelids."
And then the super cool lady eased my concerns by saying, "You don't have to take the test. You just have to have your birth certificate."
So then I blurted, "Well, hell, that's even worse. I live 30 miles from here and tracking that bitch down will be harder than finding an American bank with money left to lend."
And that's when it hit me.....my birth certificate was in my car, where it has been since we went on our cruise in May. Like once a freakin' week I've seen the damn thing and thought as I stuffed it in the crevice beside my seat how taking it in the house and putting it with all the other "properly-filed" important paper work inside the house was the responsible thing to do. But, I would leave it, you know, 'cause I like living on the edge.
I ran out of the tag office and went straight to the birth certificate in my car. So, my inefficiency and supreme unorganization totally paid off, bitches!
Oh, I forgot to mention, though, that the license making machine broke on the girl right before me, so I spent 30 minutes sitting at the kiddie bench staring at a list of the presidents for nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, I do think I have all their middle names memorized now, which should come in handy when I chant them in question form at Alex Trebek while my two sons stare at me as though my hair is on fire.

2. If I started making lists, the polar ice caps would most certainly melt into a rushing universe of water. Now, I know you are probably thinking, "Geez, Shonda, I think your wacky liberal mind is finally eating itself. One list won't rise the temperature of the earth by 20 degrees."
Well, perhaps, ONE list wouldn't. But, in order for the purpose of list-making to be realized, you must actually arrive at the desired location with the aforementioned list. Since I would have to make a list about the list and, in order for it to work, I would have to repeat that process so many times my fingers would bleed from all the rapid writing, at least 8 trees would have to meet their chainsawed end for the mission to met success.

3. I am not Go Go Gadget. Shocking, I know, but I am not. So, for a list to exist (rhyme time, bitches), I would have to figure up a way to transform my finger into a pen. Although my house is a virtual ocean of pens, they all have a use.....one use.....the same use. And, what is this vital purpose, you ask?
Ummm.....to hold my stringy hair out of my face. I have a few mere drops of sanity left and they all depend on my hair staying out of my hair and off my neck. If, for some reason, Operation Keep My Shitty Hair Away From My Skin fails, I fear I will storm into some random barber shop and violently perform the Britney Buzz upon myself. Sadly, I don't possess Brit's class and charm, so I just don't think I could pull the 'do off like she did.
Before all my damn hair ties mysteriously evaporated into the great nothing, our household pens were allowed to be used for other purposes, you know, like writing. Or as medieval weapons in the Great Battles of the Little Brothers. But, for several months now, each and every hair tie I own has vanished. Wait, I take that back. I have one that is broken in the middle so I have to twist it around my hair like 14 times for it to hold up a pony tail and then the wrap is so tight it makes my temples throb, but still, my hair isn't touching my damn neck.
I have intended for a long time to splurge the $3 for the package of 30 hair bands, but I just never remember when I am at the store. If I made lists, I would totally put that shit on it.

4. Shopping without lists turns the boring, drab experience of household duty into a sport. Seriously, I think Las Vegas bookies should make odds on it.
"Hey Moe, Susie Homemaker's got a big birthday party this weekend, plus her diabetic father-in-law is spending the weekend. She has 22 items to buy at the grocery store, 17 to buy at Wal-Mart, plus she needs to have the propane filled in the guest house. I will lay you 4 to 1 odds that she forgets at least 9 things."

"Well, Lucky, let's make it a parlay. I'll say she does remember the propane, but that she forgets to buy the anti-allergic soap her mother-in-law needs at the health food store. Plus, my money says she remembers the kid's cake, but forgets the candle and that she forgets at least 11 items at the grocery store."

"You're on, bitch."

5. For chronic underachievers such as myself, the rare shopping success is an absolute self-esteem boost. When you realize that your outting was victorious, you can relate to Alexander the Great when he conquered the world. Well, the part of the world that they knew existed at the time. Alex can't be docked for the regions he didn't know about just like I can't be punished for not being aware that Rowdy ate his last pickled jalapeno. I don't eat them, I don't like when my bottom burns like a peeing sailor with the clap. Therefore, I cannot be held responsible for replacing them unless Rowdy directly tells me that ass-burning pickled jalapenos are gone.

6. 'Cause I like to party. I realize that has absolutely no relevance to this particular discussion, but I giggle like a school girl every time I get to that part in The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. My sister always busts that out at random times. I find it humorous each time she does, but I bite my lip to strangle the laughter. I mean, seriously, she can't be the pretty sister AND the funny sister. That funny shit is mine. I only let her be the pretty one because I think beauty is for vain people. Well, that and I'm too cheap for plastic surgery.

7. Because I can't find one of those chalkboard necklace contramptions to wear around my neck. Now, if I could hunt down one of those awesome jems, I would make lists for the sole purpose of making my poor husband shake his head and continue to wonder out loud just how many different types of Mexican date rape drugs I slipped him on a daily basis until I lured him down the aisle. Seriously, I should write a book titled, "How To Get Any Man To Marry You Before They Realize What A Thorough, Batshit Crazy Wackjob You Really Are."

8. Well, I'm only to number 8 and I'm out of aimless ramblings to add to this list. I think that only furthers my argument that I am a bad list maker and should just never, ever have to do it. Plus, lists are for sissies.

When My Thoughts Just Ceased To Exist

My biggest fan just called, you know who I'm talkin' 'bout, and she's all, "Why the hell haven't you blogged in like a week?"
And I was like, "What the hell are you talkin' 'bout, yo. I just blogged the day before last."
Then she said, "That's like a week in bloggy years."
That's when it hit me -- my brain has finally been completely rotted by all the smut I continously lavish upon it. My mother has been telling me this would happen for years, but like all motherly superstitions, I just shrugged this off. But, here we are, at the start of my 28th year....or my 29th year. I turned 28 in August, so I'm not 100% for sure which it would be. I mean, when I was born, I started my first year, not my zeroith year. Right? Screw it, you know what I mean.
As it is, I think my mind has melted. All these pointless years of Desperate Housewives and filthy mouthed comics have rotted it. I might as well start smoking pot in the middle of the afternoon and kicking a hackie sack in a circle. My productivity is at exactly that lowly level, only I'm accomplishing all this nothingness without a buzz.
This week we hired a tree trimmer to come out and, well, trim the trees. Holy shit, wasn't this old dude an overachiever. I mean, he trimmed the fucking trees. So, somehow in the divine comedy of life, the task of picking up these 3 million stray tree limbs as fallen on the head of yours truly, underachiever extraordinaire. So, that's when it hit me, my biggest fan is right. I need to blog. At least that serves as some sort of productivity for my workaholic husband. And because I know AIG will pay back that enormous gift courtesy of the American workforce before my husband reads my blog, he will never know that this is rambling pile of bologna.
So, enjoy this, Readers, the blank pages of my fleeting mind. I had this great story lined up for you and I still plan to get to it, but when I sat in front of the screen, I couldn't even begin to know where to start. I think the phrase "Doesn't Know Head From Ass" has never been so appropiate.
Well, I'm off to continue my campaign against the errant twig and branch. Any volunteers just holler. I need someone to take my post as the low man on the totum pole.

When Kids Invade the Bedroom

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

Even Dooce is Getting Poltical, so I Guess I Should, Too

Every little subculture has their god, their holy being for which the entire group revolves. You know, like the way all the chest-beating UFC fans (love ya, Dad) swoon over that bald-haired beauty Chuch Lidell. Or, the way aspiring Susie Homemakers get all tingly in their panties when Martha Stewart rolls out her full assault strategy for the perfect Mexican Fiesta Birthday Celebration, approaching the party as though they are mounting a military a coup. The glass will be tinted purple and full 3/4 to the brim with cactus-shaped ice cubes, the sombrero pinata will be stuffed with chocolate grown in the Yucatan and then air-expressed via Air Mexico (love you, Mollie.)
In the ever-expanding world of female bloggers, snidely coined "mommy bloggers" by the geniuses at The New York Times (you know, the same assholes who ran daily prewar stories about Iraq's hand in 9/11, which turned out to be, I don't know, false), we worship at the alter of Dooce. She can write witty ass jokes and lay out cleaver bribes she pulls on her kid and we suck it all up like adoring lap dogs. Even those of us who aren't totally hypnotised by her brilliance are intrigued by her unchallenged reign of Blogger Extraordinaire. From jotting down the silly bullshit her husband and daughter do, which is freakin' child's play in comparison to my man and his two hellcat spawns, Dooce's blog supports her family. I am awestruck and jealous all at the same time.
I have to admit, I check her blog daily, often many times. Normally I giggle a little and then think to myself how much I want to be Dooce.
Dear Jesus, why didn't you make me Dooce? I don't want to be me, I want to be the awesome, rockin' Dooce.
But, like Chuck Lidell isn't the only badass who can defeat a wiry opponent by forcing their face to his crotch or like Martha Stewart isn't the lone domestic goddess to over-coordinate a 2-year-old's birthday party, Dooce isn't the only female blogger to make me giddily squeel, "Oh no she di'nt." They all bring something different to the table. From Anna, I get all knowed-up on the necessity of high-end eyebrow waxers, quite beneficial to a lady like me who buzzes hers off with her man's shaver and calls that bitch good. Cathy inspires me to cook outside the box, to turn my shabby kitchen into a gourmet masterpiece. She's a little Martha herself, I suppose. While Suzanne and I share many political views, I really love her site because, like me, she believes there are some places no razor belongs. Listen fellas, I just don't care what Jenna Jameson did.
But, as a political junkie, I normally get the best fix at PunditMom. Through the last week, I've been there multiple times a day, my head all drunk with the notion of a mayor running the vice presidency.
There are about 25 other blogs I visit on a daily basis and they all have a unique flair they bring to my otherwise bland life, but I would never get to the meat of this bloggy sandwich if I didn't get to it. So, here goes. Step aside, rambling, my readers want a point, any point. Focus.
When I went through my daily stalking, I mean reading, of Dooce yesterday, I giggled a little when she wrote about the universe humping her face. That shit happens to me all the time. Then I read the rest of the post, the part about her anger over McCain's choice of the unqualified Sarah Palin. Dooce doesn't normally write about politics, so it kinda took me back for a second. Then, of course, my infatuation grew into unfettered love and I wondered to myself if she would leave her man to be my first lesbian lover.
At the risk of firing up my conservative friends and family, I agree with Dooce. Now, I know I have already disclosed that I worship her Holy Blogginess at least three times a day, you know, like Muslim people turning to the East in prayer, so you probably think that my opinion is comprised. During Sarah Palin's speech on Wednesday evening, I cussed and spit, shouting at Rowdy how distorted I thought many of her statements were. He just agreed, not because he really agreed (He's a nutty Republican. Can you believe I married one?), but because he knows with even a smigen of encouragement, I will ramble on 'til his ears bleed. For a calmer, fact-founded, non F word flinging article from the Associate Press over the misrepresentations of Palin, click here. This was also in Dooce's post. Seriously, read it.
As far as Republicans go, I have always loved John McCain. Just ask my husband. I haven't always agreed with him and I certainly won't vote for him, but he hasn't come close to making my head spin around like that little girl in Poltergeist. Now, George Bush, that's a whole other story. But, no matter who John would've picked, short of Chuck Hagel, I am an Obama Momma.
That said, like Dooce, I am fired up about his selection of Sarah Palin. Not because she is a mother to all those kids or because her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant (abstinence-only education, bay-bay). Just like I don't give a shit about who Bill Clinton or John Edwards are screwing, I don't care that Bristol Palin is getting down with that hot hockey player or that Sarah Palin is reproducing like Catholics on a Mardi Gras binge. I take that back, I do care about that hockey hottie. Bristol, my email address is shondy26@hotmail.com. Be a good girl and email a desperate, old housewife some steamy details about that hot piece of Alaskan ass. I totally love you, Levi Johnston.
Anyways, I've got to stop daydreaming about Palin's superfly future son-in-law or I won't get a thing done. I don't want Sarah Palin as my vice president because I've already lived through 8 years of Cheney. I don't want a vice president who has made statements that the War in Iraq is a mission from God. Hitler told the Germans that invading Poland was exactly that, a mission from God, but that didn't make it so. I don't want a vice president who asks her church to pray for completion of pipelines. I don't want a vice president who doesn't believe in global warming, or at least that it is being caused by man. I don't want a vice president whose spouse belonged to the Alaskan Independence Party, a group dedicated to leaving the USA and starting their own country. Country First, what? And, I don't want a vice president who has run a town smaller than Elk City and been a governor for 20 months. I know Alaska is the largest in size, but it is the smallest in population.
As John McCain gave his acceptance speech last night, my entire family cuddled in our bed, Rowdy and I absorbed each word while Ridge and Rolan bounced over one another. As my darling boys played hide-and-seek under the covers, I touched my husband's hand. Even though this wasn't my party's convention, it was a very "American Dream" moment. We felt very much like our dreams were coming true as a young couple with our two small and healthy children and I know it will be one of those Wonder Years memories that stays with me always. Plus, I discovered that John McCain used to keep company with strippers and I fell a little in love with him. You know I love a dirty dog.
John McCain made some pledges in his speech I hope he keeps, like the one where he vows to re-educate workers whose jobs have been shipped overseas in the last eight years or the resources he promised to our educational systems. He vowed to make college more available for upcoming Americans and I sincerely pray he follows through. Like John McCain, I am a Christian and, like John McCain has said on many occasions, I believe religion doesn't have a place in government. When our country bombs another, and there will be times we do, I don't want a president that tells me God told him to do this. I want a president that tells me he weighed all the options and this was all he had left. I've always felt that when a leader puts that decision on God, they also give him the deaths of the innocent people who perish because of it. Although I knew I probably wouldn't vote for John, I have found comfort that, when faced with that kind of violent and tragic decision, that he knew all the subsequent fall-out from that sort of warfare would be held at the hands who made it. I think it makes a leader think a little more about the choice they are making if they don't convince themselves that they aren't responsible for the innocent casualties. I've respected John's persistence, especially when he has gone up against his own party, like when he voted against the Constitutional amendment to define marriage between a man and a woman. With his pick from the religious right, I hope his belief wields his potential administration's policy on that, not the other way around.
Of America's 43 presidents, nine of them have to office by the death of resignation of their predecessor. Some crazy religious zealots are praying through their blogs that McCain be elected and them smited by God (I guess that's nut talk for killed) so, I don't know, the country can be one big church. As I type that, I am seriously shrugging because the thought of praying for one man to be elected and then off'd is something I cannot wrap my mind around. Can you?
As a war protester held up a sign that said, "You Cannot Win an Occupation," and chanted something I could not make out, John McCain said that American wants us to stop yelling at each other.
Well, in between that and your former love of strippers, you almost have my vote, John. (To me, promiscuity is a sign of real leadership skills. Stop laughing, I am being serious. You know I love Bill Clinton). I think you've been a great servant to the nation, John, I do. If those fruit loops weren't putting some voodoo hex on you as I type this, maybe I could. If their vengeful prayers are answered, you'll be swallowed by the Earth or turned to stone or some other Biblical nightmare and I just can't get behind your girl.
Okay, now I have to go. I bet Dooce has posted something new and I'm having separation anxiety.

The Great Remote Wars of 2008 Wages On

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

Never Let Your Husband Hold the Remote. NEVER!

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

The Portrait of a Marriage

With the Democratic Convention and then John McCain's vice presidential pick announced this week, I didn't pay much attention to other news. So, this morning as I sipped French Vanilla coffee and watched This Week with George Stephanopolous (I would totally leave Rowdy for 15 minutes alone with that hot Greek in a closet....shishhhh), my heart broke when they reported that Del Martin had died.
Del was 87 and had certainly lived a full life as one of our nation's greatest civil rights leaders. Just three short months ago, she and her partner of 55 years, Phyllis Lyon, become the first same-sex couple married in California....again. The pair had wed once before, but their marriage was annulled by a bunch of judges, most of whom have failed in sustaining a relationship a quarter of the time Phyllis and Del have.
I don't really recall how these two women first came on my radar. In between their work as founders of the nation's first gay and lesbian magazine, The Ladder, and organizing multiple civil rights groups, they are really hard to miss.
I've always held an admiration for trail blazers, for those who go against the grain even at the risk of persecution. While I believe Phyllis and Del have been heroes of the highest proportion for consistently putting the good of the whole before themselves time and time again, my true regard comes from their dedication to each other.
In each book and article I read about the two of them, in each show or documentary telling their love story, they had the same statement: that from the time they first met each other in Seattle in 1953, they both knew the other would always be their partner. It wasn't a conscious decision, just like you don't make a conscious decision for your left arm to be your left arm. They were part of each other in a way that couldn't be severed.
So, since I embarked upon my own adventures in marriage nearly five years ago, I have channeled the commitment of Phyllis and Del on many occasions. To me, it's not an issue of sexuality. There are heterosexual couples like us that I could seek advice from and there have been many times that I have. But, with Phyllis and Del, they've never seen their love as a choice. It just was. And, that's what I want for my own marriage.
In one of the documentaries I watched on the two ladies, they both acknowledged that the other had, on many occasions, frankly pissed the other off. They lived together, they worked together. It would be impossible through 55 years of living so closely to another human being, sharing the same air and the same money, not to get peeved at times. But, the idea of separating, of existing apart, was never even thought of. Through too many arguments to count, times when I thought I might kill Rowdy if I didn't get away from him, I've drawn on the wisdom of Phyllis and Del. At a time when most marriages have little shot of making it past the first few years, largely because of our wildly unrealistic notions of matrimony, Phyllis and Del have taught us that true romance isn't glitzy and exciting. Rather, it is dependability, curled up on the couch watching re-runs on a Sunday afternoon dependable, sitting for hours in a hospital room dependable. Any first kiss under the stars is going to take our breath away, or at least many of them will. It's what comes after that, when you've climbed every new and exciting milestone and it's just the two of you that molds into what Phyllis and Del shared for 55 years.
I'm still new to marriage. As the road of life goes, we've just pulled out of the driveway. And, truthfully, I don't know if we will have the same success as my two marital heroes. Really, who does? But, when the times are hard, and I know some will be, I'll be thankful that I stumbled upon the story of Phyllis and Del, two of the great lovers of our time. From the openness in the relationship, especially at a time when so many fail, I thank them. And, for Phyllis, who at the age of 83 is living for the first time in 55 years without her spouse, my heart and prayers are with you.

Ever since I met Del 55 years ago, I could never imagine a day would come when she wouldn't be by my side. I also never imagined there would be a day that we would actually be able to get married. I am devastated, but I take some solace in knowing we were able to enjoy the ultimate rite of love and commitment before she passed. --Phyllis Lyon

Now You See Me, Now You Don't, Bitches!

The boys and I were acting out The Pirates of the Caribbean, their old plastic baby bathtub serving as Captain Jack's ominous pirate ship when Rowdy barreled through the front door.
As you know, I've somehow become a total disgrace to my gender and forfeited control of the...hmmmmm.....lovin' to my man, so I promptly jumped vessel when Rowdy summoned me to the bedroom. I know I've betrayed you, ladies. I'm sorry. I don't know how it happened. He seized the flag and I can't recapture the citadel. I promise I won't let him tell the others. What if they all knew they, too, could control the marital relations like a ruthless puppet master, yanking the powerless strings of his captive doll? Seriously, who wants to vote when you can't manipulate your man through lengthy deprivation of sex?
As Rowdy and I were walking down the hall, he informed me that he was going to Woodward for the night to make sure the 500 head of cattle we shipped arrived as expected. All nonchalantly, he then informed me he would return home sometime tomorrow afternoon.
I'm sorry, what? You're coming in here, throwing together less luggage than I'd take to the grocery store and telling me you are going on a mini-holiday two hours away.
Now, you know I like that his mind's on the money and the money's on his mind. Me and Snoop Dogg, we are one in the same. But, just popping this on me last minute only further lets me know this asshole isn't nearly as scared of me as he should be. God, if I was only in control of the intercourse.
Then, surfing the internet, I found the answer to my prayers, my stalking-Rowdy's-every-move, watching-his-every-breath prayers.
It's not available just yet, but according to the scientist at the University of California, Berkely, I may soon be able to hunt Rowdy totally undetected. Apparently these scientists and researchers, led by Xiang Zhang, are nearing the development of materials that will render people and other objects invisible, a dream come true for insecure folks like yours truly.
One step forward for man, one leap forward for stalkerkind.
I have LuLu-drops dancing in my unbalanced head.
If I could only get my hands on these "metamaterials--artificially engineered structures created at a nano scale that contain optical properties not found in nature," I could slather myself in, well, whatever the hell that is and monitor Rowdy's every move. I could be sitting in his hotel room as I type. Remember that movie When A Stranger Calls Back when the super creepy ventriloquist paints himself like the brick wall and then pounces on the unsuspecting woman. Except I wouldn't have to find some starving artist with a stomach strong enough to paint me in the buff. I could just lather myself up in this invisible psycho juice and monitor Rowdy's move like Big Brother. It would be his Orwellian nightmare. I don't think he knows who Orwell is, but with that kind of Godly power, I'd make 1984 feel like Sesame Street.
According to this article on msn.com, these recent findings by the University of California, Berkley and Zhang were funded in part by National Science Foundation's Nano-Scale Science and Engineering Center and, of course, the U.S. Army Research Office. The findings, which will be in this week's Nature and Science, "could have broad applications, including for the military," the piece explained.
I wonder if this means someone will finally find Osama bin Laden. Clearly sniffing out the kidney dialysis center he's receiving treatment from will never produce the beanstalk terrorist, so perhaps if we were invisible, we could sneak up on him.
This new revelation is a little frightening. Turn on your tv. Now flip to CNN. Are they talking about the Olympics? I figured. Okay, wait a few minutes. Are they talking about Georgia yet? No, not Ted Turner and the Braves Georgia. I mean, Russia invading it's neighbor Georgia. Now, just imagine if all the tanks were unforeseen by the naked eye. The ability for mankind to fly below the radar, for any object to exist as though it's ghost, will have the same lethal effect as the atomic bombs we dropped on Japan. In the short-term, the impact could very well end a war, though their existence will likely lead to many more.
But, did the atomic bombs ever let me hide inside them to hunt down my man? No. Now that's a disaster.
You're going down, Rowdy!

The Things You Do For Love

***Play the music video I posted below either before or during you read this. I also posted the lyrics to this song in this post, but I think listening to it will really help get you in the right mindset for this story.


Before I tell you the following story, you need to know that I fully believe that Rowdy sits around with some of his wayward friends and brags about the bullshit he can get me to do. Now, he swears he doesn't, but why else would he make me shimmy into a rusty grain truck, seed scurrying into my clothes, to unroll the top canvas? What other explanation could be given to talking me into shoveling pounds and pounds of mud out of an ancient water tank and then periodically making me attempt to heave the heavy slosh pit above my 8-month pregnant tummy? Rowdy is constantly talking me into ridicules bullshit. What's worse is that I know it is ridicules as I am doing it. What can I say, I'm a devoted wife. Even as I type this, that catchy '60s tune by Jimmy Soul is be-bopping through my mind.

A pretty women makes her husband look small
it very often causes a system fall
As soon as he marrys her then she starts
looking for things that will break his heart
but if you make an ugly women your wife
you'll be happy for the rest of your life
An ugly women will put peals on that
and she'll always give you a piece of that.

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty women your wife
Go for my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Don't let your friends tell you you have no taste
go ahead and marry anyway
Her face is ugly her eyes don't match
take it from me shes a better catch

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty women your wife
Go for my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Dude 1:say man
Dude 2:hey man
Dude 1: I saw your wife the other day
Dude 2: Yeah
Dude 1: Yeah and Shes Ugly
Dude 2: Yeah shes Ugly but she sure can cook baby.
Dude 1: Yeah

Now, you may be wondering why I'm listing a few of the grand gestures I lavishly pour upon Rowdy and, furthermore, why I am printing a catchy classic to explain this. Well, the answer to those questions are quite simple, really. Listen up, fellas. This is valuable and honest and will most assuredly save you a ton of heartache, disappointment and, above freakin' all, money if you heed my warnings.
You can either have a good-looking wife or an accommodating one. You simply can't have it both ways. In vain, you will try to fight that. You will search the world or, in the very least, the local honky tonk, tirelessly to find the shiny bombshell blond who will labor gladly over gourmet meals and pre-set your coffee pot so that you'll have a warm pot brewing before you stumble out of bed and gleefully mow the yard because she thinks it is really her job. Oh, and when she's not freshening up you and your buddies' beer koozies while cheering on your favorite football team, she's busy dreaming up kinky new "bedroom" positions to both limit your physical effort while maximizing your "O" face.
I don't mean to break your heart, guys, but this woman doesn't exist. And before you go emailing me that you've already stumbled upon this Kate Hudson/Jenna Jameson/Martha Stewart mirage, I have three more names for you: Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama. IF you happen to love one of these guys, chances are you don't like one or more of the others. But, the reason the American people have all at one point or another picked these guys, as different as they are, is campaigning and marketing. And any dolled up broad who is pimping more bling than J. Lo as she's serving homemade buffalo wings to your friends while she whispering her desire to give you a hummer in your ear is simply that. Lying politicians wrap themselves up in the nostalgic images of leaders of old to get elected and high-maintenance women masquerade as a laidback, freaky Betty Crocker until that take that stroll down the aisle. And, with both, once the deals official, all bets are off. The "Contract with America" becomes null and void. And once Barbie has your credit card number, the highway hand jobs and packed lunch boxes are as withered as your wedding bouquet. Then you realize they were merely a ploy to get your money, jack.
The previous paragraph might lead you boys who are living with buyer's remorse over this poorly thought out purchase, so to speak, to believe I am sympathetic to your plight. That is absolutely NOT the case! You could have had a woman who would've gleefully performed these tasks for the rest of your life. After all, each of you had ample opportunity to tie down multiple ladies who are the truly devoted to pleasing their lover. (Calm down, feminists. I am one of you. Devotion isn't the same thing as enslaved. No matter how liberated we are, no matter if we are male or female, we should all be devoted to serving our lover.) But, while some band geek or slightly fleshy debate captain longed for a chance to love you, you competed for the fleeting affection of the glossy-lipped, Prada-clad socialite. Whether you want to admit it or not, you got exactly what you sought.
Personally I believe that men shouldn't marry until they are at least 30 and I will preach this to my sons. So, if you do want to chase the glittery switch of the glamour girls, do it in your "single years." It's like buying a car; it's just fine to test drive a sexy, high octane Ferrari, but when you get out the check book, you better be pulling off the lot with a gas efficient, smooth riding mini van. You might not feel quite as cool when you pull up to the Elks Lodge, but you'll be more comfortable on the cross country journey with a vehicle full of kids.
Now, for those of you who have taken the route of my husband and heeded the caution of this song, I'm sure you are satisfied, in the kitchen, in the bedroom and in whatever bullshit garage or barn you also have her working in. The newest evidence I am presenting to you, my brilliant readers, is the current "experimental treatment" Rowdy and his chiropractor have me dutifully performing on him twice daily. As you may or may not know, about 8 years ago, Rowdy was hauling hay in an International tractor when two semis collided with him. Well, he actually lept out of the tattered ride before the second plowed into the tractor, but he has some back problems as a lingering result of the accident.
Keeping his back in line is a constant challenge for him and, because he is such a devoted provider and servant for my children and me, I consider his well-being in this regard as one of my top priorities. Unlike most men, Rowdy is willing to try non-traditional treatments if it will yield results, so when I made him an appointment for acupuncture last October, he was more than willing to give it a whirl. While this eastern medicine has been by no means a cure all, it has also been the most effective therapy thus far. After the initial three procedures, he now returns about once every three or four weeks for a tune-up regimen, basically.
Like I said, I am generally pretty eager to help him in any way. But two weeks ago when he returned from Dr. Stover's office, handed me a tooth brush and then explained how twice daily I must rub it across his finger nails and toe nails because Doc Stover believed this would keep his back in place, I scoured the house for hidden cameras. THIS HAD TO BE JOKE!
Bewildered, I said, "What choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"
Rowdy then spilled into his medical mambo jumbo, explaining to his leery lady that each side of your nail cuticles houses pressure points and, when conjoined with his needle therapy, the treatment will be productive longer. If my mom's appendix nightmare hadn't unfolded, I probably would've already called Dr. Stover to question him about this new medical regimen he has me performing on my husband.
I don't think this has anything to do with acupuncture or Rowdy's back. On the contrary, I think Dr. Stover and Rowdy are now competing to see who can get their wife to do the most ridicules bullshit for them. And then somewhere in this sick game, one of them said, "Hey, let's see if you can get Shonda to scrub your hands and feet with a toothbrush two times a day."
I bet Stover's trying to convince his wife Holli of some off the wall nonsense as I type this. After all, the toothbrush "therapy" is going to be hard to beat. But, I'm going right along with it, whether or not its a bet. As absurd and daft as I may look, down on my hands and knees brushing away on Rowdy's "pressure points" like I'm a Vietnamese nail girl, I'm willingly going along for it. If it is a treatment, maybe it will help Rowdy's back throb a little less. And, if it's a competition, which is my guess, maybe Rowdy can take a little cash off his bet with his chiropractor.
Now, the reason I first typed out the Jimmy Soul ballad, then busted the myth about the 3-in-1 wife and lastly documented the latest series of hogwash Rowdy has convinced me to do is this really to further prove that you can either have the gorgeous wife or the good one. Just like you, I know a few real lookers who are very dedicated and self-sacrificing where their men are concerned. But, I think you will find that they still perceive themselves as the geek they blossomed out of after high school. Trust me, boys, low self-esteem is an absolute must when you pick your spouse.
Drinking beer at the local tavern with Rowdy's recently single cousin last December, we listened as he and a few of his other single buddies bitched about their disappointment from all the women they date. Rowdy and I made suggestions of a few unattached local ladies, but they quickly dismissed each one. Apparently, these girls weren't up to their beauty par. After Rowdy explained to his cousin how each of his love affairs will produce the same money-drained result until he re-evaluated his choice in ladies, he wrapped his arms around me and said, "You want to see what the ass of a good woman looks like. Well, here you go."
While some of you might be gasping as though this was horrible, I want you to know I consider this one of the sweetest statements he's ever made about me. Of course I want him to think I am beautiful. I want to feel beautiful. But, far more than that, I want him to see me as the foundation on which his life is built. When his friends bemoan all the accommodations their wives won't make, I LOVE that Rowdy brags about all the star treatment he receives from me. And, you know what, he does, too.
So, just like the song says, IF YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, NEVER MAKE A PRETTY WOMAN YOUR WIFE. GO FOR MY PERSONAL POINT OF VIEW -- GET AN UGLY GIRL TO MARRY YOU!