Just A Talk Among Friends

Dear One Hour Photo Place,
Hi, How are you today? Me? Well, I'm not well, not well at all. You see, I don't feel like I'm the asshole for assuming that you'd have my photos finished within an hour. That is, after all, directly in the name of your business. It's how you advertise. The three words "One Hour Photo" are displayed all freakin' over your store. Now, because the last four times I've developed with you it has taken at least three hours for you to get my stuff done, I knew when I started uploading my photos that it'd take awhile. I was fine with this. I still had to pack up my scrapbooking supplies and drive the 30 minutes on over to Elk City and then unload my boxes. Sure, the other ladies would have a jump start on me, but I would at least get to hear the sailor talk from a bunch of 30 something mommas. Really, no one does pervy quite like my friends.
Since it was 7 pm when I sent the photos to you, I figured I would run up to your store right before you closed at 10 to pick up my stuff. I mean, that's triple the one hour promise. So, you can imagine my complete and utter fucking shock when you told me that they would not be finished until 1 pm today. Seriously, you open at 8. I realize that I did send almost 200 photos. That's a lot, I get it. But, assuming that you are part of a nation wide chain and that the big dicks in your corporate office are pretty obsessed with the now-elusive profit, I would think you probably have to be equipped to print that much relatively quickly. I mean, "One Hour Photo" is all over your store, surely you would be prepared to handle more than one customer in that hour.
Naturally, I would like to ask you if this is some sort of joke. I don't fucking want to be on Punk'd, Ashton. But, since I know in my heart that you are rather serious, I need you to explain to me how the hell it takes you 8 hours to develop 158 pictures. I sincerely think you should change the name of your service to "One Day Photo." Sure, we crazy old ladies in the scrapbooking posse would all be less inclined to use your business, but I also wouldn't be a big bag of swinging hormones wrapped into a ball of pissed off when I did.
So, even though I wanted to spend my time scrapbooking my family's more recent activities, I guess I will just do some random photos from the early part of last year. Having Christmas done by January would have been awesome, it would have. And, if I would have sent my photos to the OTHER "One Hour Photo" place like Miss Smarty Pants Mollie so wisely did, I'm sure I would have got it done. But, I didn't. Quite ignorantly, I held out faith this, this would the time you got it done in a responsible amount of time.
Suck it, assholes.
Love,
Shonda

Dear One Hour Photo Place (again),
Okay, so maybe I'm the asshole. I don't know why I thought I ordered like 158 photos. Somehow I got that first 1 confused with a 7. My bad. Remember that cluttered mess that was your college professor's desk? Yeah, that's my head.
I'm sure you are a little pissed about all that dry sarcasm in the last letter. Man, I was kind of a dick. You see, I haven't been able to scrapbook the last two times the ladies got together because I was photographing weddings. I still have freakin' t-ball to do from this summer. So, I'm gonna blame my nasty behavior on my motherhood insanity. My boys' books are getting kind of behind and I just can't let them grow up without all the shenanigans being well documented, you know, in case I need to use the whole, "Look at what you boys put me through" to keep my old ass out of a third world nursing home because I don't want to forget a moment.
The young girl who was working last night was not nearly as helpful as you, hard working manager. I'm really sorry that I said I was going to the other place. You know I could never leave you. You guys really do take good care of me and I hope you except my sincere apology. I can't believe you are going to have almost 800 photos done by 11 am. WOW!
So, please, don't suck it. I'll suck it. I'm totally the asshole.
Love,
Shonda

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!

Nothing Says "I Love America" like Day Drinking

I woke up this morning all groggy from 6 hours of semi-sleep, the result of a 3-year-old jabbing me in the ribs with his knee all night. Oh motherhood! As soon as I sprung from bed, blurted out my day's first "shit" as a toy tractor pierced through the skin of my left foot, I remembered that this is a holiday. Well, it's not an official holiday yet, Mayor Rudy didn't win the GOP nod.
I dropped my darling boy Ridge off at Rainbow Lane and then went straight to the Hog Trough for a day of barbecuing. My man Dan stopped by and I had to scare him with all my liberal ramblings. He is currently running on the GOP ticket for the Oklahoma legislature, so you know I'm a tall order for him to swallow. But he takes all my hethen jargan like a real trooper. My husband probably told him that disagreeing with me only makes me talk longer. He's a pretty good guy, as far as Republicans go. They win my heart every now and again. I married one, remember!
Just as I was finishing up all my greasy work, a table of true patriots came in. Foul-mouthed day drinkers. For my dime, there is nothing more American than eating meat by the saucy pound and downing it with cold beer in the middle of the afternoon. When they ordered their second round of brew, I was like, "Man, these dudes freakin' love America."
Now, I'm not being a wise ass. If everybody didn't get all Judgey McHolier-than-Thou, I would crack open a Bud Light and blast "God Bless the USA" as Ridge and I drove home. I think that is the most appropriate way to commemorate those lost. Way back in 2001 when the planes flew into the buildings, the entire world, myself included, watched awe-struck and sorrowful as we knew thousands of good people lost loved ones. After several hours of spellbound television watching, I decided to answer the call of patriotism. I went down the street to the Geritol Bar (also known as The New Oasis), frequented by the local senior citizens, and drank beer with a handful of lit-up World War II veterans. Of course, Bud Light is now made by some Belgium company, so it's only half as patriotic now as it was then. Either way, we shook our heads together, knowing the world was forever changed and that more blood would be shed. We prayed for those who died and those who had lost loved ones.
There are two ways I deal with tragedy: inappropriate humor and day drinking. Since I started having kids left and freakin' right, I can't booze it up at noon. And I can't do it at night because I will stay up too late. You know I turn into a bitchy pumpkin at 10. Screw that midnight bullshit. So, I need a volunteer to take my duty. After all, I am all about this Country First stuff. I know this is asking a lot, but I basically need one of you to enlist to the call of liberty and drink my share of beer. Several of the ornery gentleman I hung out with on 9/11 have also passed away, so you'll need to pick up at least part of their share, too. I know this is asking a lot, I do, but Momma Little and Uncle Sam WANT YOU!


On a serious note, I want to send my condolences to those who lost loved ones on that fateful day. Regardless of our differing politics in this great country, I think we can agree that we all felt a little more American on that day. I would also like to thank those who have been sent to war as a result of the events of 9/11. Just like our mourning for those lost, our various political beliefs still come together for our pride in our military members. You have a tough job and I commend you for it.

The Brother Battle Wages On

Sweet B'Jesus, Mother of God, I don't know how much more I can take. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my children. I love them to the moon and back. I love them so much I am thinking of puncturing my own ear drums to keep from freakin' killing them.
Rolan, the baby, turned 2 in July and it was as though some magic ass kicking switch turned on when he did. Don't get me wrong, Rolan has been taking up for himself for a while. But, ever since that birthday, he is now on the shit starting end as well.
Most mornings the boys play well until at least 10. At that point, one of them starts playing with a useless cardboard box that the other must have and then they lock both arms at the elbows and scream at one another in a pitch shrill enough to deafen a dog. I discipline them, but they don't care. The fight is on and each boy would rather lay limp and bleeding on the carpet than concede whatever toy they are bickering over. Never mind that we have, like, $1000 worth of mind numbing horseshit from them to tinker with. Toys are only desirable when they are in brother's hands.
The battle cries started particularly early this morning at 9 am. By 10, I was thinking of drinking a half a bottle of vanilla extract to take the parental edge off, but then I remembered that I had to be the role model. Frankly, that's probably what's wrong with this situation to start with. What the hell was God thinking? I'm sure He's scratching His head right now, muling over the desperation he must've faced when he put me of all people in charge of the future. (Yes, children are the future. I know because Whitney Houston sung about it. Also, crack is whack, just another pearl of wisdom from Whit.
As I stare totally dumbfounded at my UFC fighter sons, I remember all the bullshit arguments Katie and I threw down in front of Mom. I remember her pleading for us to knock this nonsense off. I just wanted her to recognize that Katie was a pain in the ass little sister who needed to be stopped at all cost. Those were, after all, my toys she was putting her greasy little hands on. Now I just wish I could buy a time machine, travel back to the early 90s, pimp my MC Hammer pants and give my little sister a hug.

As If I Don't Cuss Enough Already

Good Morning, Readers. How are you upon this sunshiny Sunday? All is well here and I'm sure you will be glad to know that my political ramblings are over, well, at least for the time being. Today I am getting back on track, back the reasons you come here in the first place, back to to the ridicules antics of my family and semi-tasteless sex jokes.
Now, as far as good, raunchy fun goes, today might as well be a freakin' holiday. No, this isn't some bullshit orchastrated by the Congress and recognized by the federal government, although it should be. This isn't going to get you out of work. Labor Day, a day set aside for day drinking and barbecues, which is right up my drunken alley, is over.
So, what is so special about today, September 7, 2008? Tune your televisions to HBO, bitches. It's time for the season premiere of Entourage.
I discovered this super cursing, super sexed gem last year during a bout with the flu. Dish Network was running one of those free HBO weekends. Now, when these little promos have come along in the past, we would just go through the tv schedule, record each and every show that we might even somehow possibly think about watching and then tell the satellite company, "Screw you, assholes. We are good for the whole year."
But, on this fateful weekend, HBO also happened to be running an Entourage marathon. Lyndi had tried to get us started on the show before, she even brought one of those full seasons on DVD out, but we resisted, knowing full well that we didn't need another show to hold us captive.
I was weak and sick. My immune system couldn't fight off a sneeze, much less the awesomeness of Vince, Eric, Turtle, Drama and Ari.
I know this is based on a life I typically shun, the affluent, superficial influence of Hollywood. I can't help it, they say the "F" word in all the right places. And, before you email me, I know Jeremy Piven is suppose to be a prick in real life. It's not Jeremy Piven I love, it's Ari Gold. He may be a prick, but he's a funny prick.
So, if you want to talk to me this evening, call before 9. Otherwise, you might get the Entourage Shonda, the one who says stuff like, "Are you motherfuckin' kidding me? I told you not to interrupt me even if George Clooney was here to slap my ass."
I doubt I would say that.
VICTORY!

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.

Piece of Cake?

Yesterday was my baby Rolan's second birthday and, while Ridge loves his brother, he did not love the adoring shower of attention Rolan received. By the third or fourth phone call singing Happy Birthdy over the speaker phone, he went into a full-on protest, demanding that it was HIS birthday.
He's enjoyed the birthday parties for a long time now, but it was sometime in the last year that he has become so passionate about attendance. And, it really doesn't matter whose birthday it is. As long as he gets cake, ice cream and, most of all, to run in circles screaming like a clothed animal, he's beyond content. I'm sure conincids with Mollie's ridicules bonanzas she organizes for months before each of her four kids' parties, so I guess I'm gonna lay blame for all this obscene behavior at her feet.
Ridge normally has no problem with some other kid being the guest of sugary honor, but I suppose all the pinata-stuffing and icing-whipping was just too close in proximity for him to willingly let this be his brother's birthday. By the time Rowdy made it in last night from a long, hot day of work, Ridge shut down any musicial celebrating he planned.
Since the birthday party, ***insert sarcasm*** an utter joy for momma's everywhere, isn't until tonight, I didn't bake the cakes until last night. I pulled the two round cakes out of the over, placed them on a cooling rack and started a phone interview for The Elk Citan. In case you don't know, The Elk Citian is the newspaper I contribute to weekly and if you aren't reading it, you should be. Can you imagine how much of my literary genius you are missing?
Anyways, while I was speaking with the little girl I wrote about today, Ridge rallied Rolan away from the television they were suppose to watching and the two snuck into the kitchen. Because I was in the kitchen, leaning against one of the counters while taking notes, I'm particularily amazed and, frankly, impressed that the two were able to sneak by me without a peep.
Now, because I didn't actually see these two little shits in action, I don't actually know how this went down. So, I'm just gonna guess.
Rolan can get himself on the counter, but he's still unsteady and awkward in his maneuvers. As I said, I didn't hear a peep until the destructive mayhem was beyond repair. I had moved the cakes far enough back on the counter that there is no way the boys could've reached them without vertical action of some sort. For that reason, I have to assume Ridge, a crafty, experienced climber, was the culprit.
By the time I realized what was going on, one of the round cakes was dumped on the floor and my darling boys were circled around it like a starving pack of dogs on an injured cat. Needless to say, the cake could not be salvaged. Perhaps I should have let this two urchins finish what they had started, satsifying all the sugar cravings I so rarely let them indulge in. After all, they'd already eaten half of it off the floor in two big bites a piece. I had just mopped, so I'm sure it was all saturated in that toxic, but lovely smelling Orange Pine-Sol.
But, I was pissed. Thank God I hadn't decorated it yet because I probably would've had a break down. And not because of the sticky mess it would have created. Decorating cakes is time consuming, in case you have never done it.
So, there you go. If you make it to Rolan's party tonight, and I sincerely hope you do, smile when you see the cake.