The Sushi Haunts My Dreams

The first beams of the day's light slid through our bedroom blinds as Ridge pulled me from my fleeting slumber, his small hands pressed upon my cheeks. Ready or not, the day had begun.
"Momma, I'm hungry AGAIN," he whisper with a heavy emphasis on the last word of his declaration. Like a bear in a preparatory binge for winter's hibernation, Ridge has been on an almost never ending eating spree in the last few weeks. I know he'll sprout like corn toward the sun before too long.
"Momma, I need some sausage," he impatiently sighed. "I'm really, really hungry AGAIN."
After the boy complied to my demand for an energizing kiss, I pulled my dragging ass from bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, nagging aches trickled from my shoulders to my toes. The night's rest provided no rejuvenation, none at all.
Since I started that marathon reproductivity campaign a few years back, this shit has taken a more regular occurrence than my much less rested years of my booty-shaking youth. Now, don't feel too sorry for me, crippled old lady that I am. Most mornings I leap from bed like a Spring chicken. Well, maybe an early Autumn chicken, if there is such a thing, but nonetheless I normally feel better than I deserve considering how I've treated my body. And when I do creek from bed like rusty old doors on a forgotten barn, I figure I did something to encourage it and just chalk it up to the rather fantastic years of beer drinking.
However, on this back-throbbing, knee-knocking morning, I knew it wasn't the good times of yesteryear that painfully plagued my quite sizable rear. Nope, that wasn't it at all.
Now, before you go suspecting Rowdy of spousal abuse and, Lord knows, it's a wonder he hasn't taken up that honored pastime yet, let me tell you that I already know the culprit of this crime. It's sushi!
Yes, you read that correctly. It is mind-numbing, almost-as-good-as-sex sushi. When I say it haunts my dreams, I mean that as literally as it can be taken. Damn that sushi, I tossed and turned all night long as visions of salmon and eel danced in my head. I envisioned ingredients from my favorite rolls merging, thus creating the Elvis or Einstein or whatever icon you happen to worship of Japanese cuisine. Sushi ran through my mind with such vibrant dominance that my body simply didn't recharge as it was suppose to. It was as though I was unsuccessfully seeking shelter from a sushi tsuanami, forceful waves of sticky rice and postachios beating against the helpless levees of my willpower. And I know I will have no peace until my taste buds are satisfied.
Because I live in a region of the country with more cows than people, as you can imagine, we are kind of in short supply of sushi-serving restaurants. Otherwise you can bet your sweet ass that I would have probably eaten $50 worth for lunch. I text messaged almost every person I know to see if they were in Oklahoma City or had any possible reason to go, hoping I could bribe them in bringing some back for me.
So, if ANY of you are going to Oklahoma City for any reason, you can overtake the loving part of my heart generally dominated by my darling children if you will just bring me the freakin' sushi. If you need something from the city, but can't go, please push your need upon me so I can have an excuse to make the journey. I mean, seriously, show your compassion -- GIVE ME THE FISH! As you know, this would typically be where I made some awesomely randy joke about the female anatomy that would make any teenage boy proud, but I just can't. My mind is too sushi-consumed to even do what comes naturally to it.
So, if you have never tried this addictive goodness, DON'T! It will take over your life like a ruthless crack habit. For those of you who have, hook a sister up. GIVE ME THE FISH!

Ode To My Allergies

Ode to my allergies,
my snotty, mucus-packed misery,
my achy head,
my eyes are red,
this Sudafed fueled catastrophe.

I'm going to sleep!

Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees

I was already about half-sick when I was driving through Elk City, taking Rolan to the doctor's office today when I saw the signs of the inevitable. This is Elk City's Rodeo of Champions weekend. Each year I feel the same dreadful pit in my stomach when I first spot the red, blue and white banners. Like a cramping period, you can do nothing but grit your teeth and push through it. I am a well-documented fun hater and I'm sure you think this is just more evidence to that fact. Trust me, it's not. Just ask any of my former co-workers. (For further evidence of my fun hater status, click here or here.)
Now, I know that many of you locals are already all up in my arms by my last statements. I know because I've mentioned my pure disdain for this ridicules bullshit to some of you businessmen and, with your eyebrows scrunched all disapprovingly, you scold me for lack of loyalty to the town.
"Don't you know how much extra business this thing brings in for the town? they ask.
Well, fuck yes, I know this brings extra business to town -- a shit ton of unmanageable business. And, do you know how I know that it brings in a shit ton of business? Well, let me tell you how.
For ten years, I hustled and grunted through the swarms of descending "cow"boys, packed 10 to a dozen in each booth that typically seats four at the Pizza Hut. Then the parade would start, that motherfucking parade, and the Pizza Hut parking lot would get so damned full with onlookers, totally spellbound as though they've never seen a shitting horse or a high school marching band, that our delivery drivers would have to park two blocks away to come in and get another round of deliveries.
And, yes, the Pizza Hut made some sweet profits each of those years I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off, explaining to one drunken "cow"boy after another that I would serve them a beer, just not Coors Light. We didn't carry Coors Light. And every other damned week of the year this wasn't a problem. But, on Rodeo Weekend when everyone is a bonafide, true blue cowboy, they cannot be expected to demean themselves by drinking Bud Light. So, while the restaurant I was working my dog ass off for was clearly some bank, I never made any extra money. Sure, there were a swelling number of tables, but they were generally bad tippers. Plus, I would spend half the damn day scrapping horseshit out of the carpet because you know each parent let their children run into the road to pick up parade candies they could buy 50 fucking pieces of for $1 at the dollar store. As Little Johnny or Little Suzy would bend down to snag their sugary prize, you could bet a million dollars their adorable boots with the waffle soles would land smack dab in the middle of a fresh turd. After the parade, they would mosey into the Pizza Hut where each one of the little bastards would brush their new boots off on our floor.
In between dealing with the hurricane of poo and the belligerent Coors Light loyalists, I would periodically have to lock myself in the walk-in to keep from laughing in the faces of local business people. I would see these folks on a regular basis throughout the year in their polo shirts and Gucci shoes, all combed and slick for a day of commerce. But, when the rodeo rolls around, you can bet your sweet ass they are dressed up like Pecos Bill.
Now, you are probably thinking, Shonda, I thought you dressed your kids in Western clothes all the time. I thought you married a cowboy and together you run like 7,000 head of cattle each year.
Well, you would be correct on all that. My husband is the quisessential cattleman. He ropes steers off a four-wheeler, chasing cattle down dusty lanes, lives half his life riding around in pick-ups taking head counts and patching fence and the other half doctoring sick ones and shipping off the ones ready to sell. And yet, with all this cowboy-esque duty, he manages to do it without looking like an extra in the Tombstone movie. Sure, he sports Wranglers and a pearl snap, sometimes even with a flower print, but he leaves the chaps at the house.
But, for these people on this weekend, it is like Halloween for adults. The more gaudy cowboy accessories they can pile on, the happier they are about it. As I would serve them pizza, just during this solitary week, they'd wink and say, "Why, Thank ya, Ma'am."
Then I would walk off, shaking my head at the bizarre alternate universe we will embark to once a year.
Now, I have to say that I really respect the hard work of the ten men on the rodeo board. They spend most of their year working hard to bring a professional level event to our tiny corner of the world. If half the community didn't go ape shit crazy during Rodeo Weekend, it probably wouldn't aggravate me a bit. In fact, I don't remember harboring all these volatile feelings about the thing until after I went to work for the Pizza Hut when I was 14ish. But, after slaving through that first year with barely a bump in pay, I knew this damn rodeo would forever be my arch nemesis.
So, listen up, folks. Take your kids out to the rodeo, I really hope you do. It's good family fun and I am all about supporting the community. In fact, my boys are getting old enough that I am sure I am going to have to end my protest and take them. But, if you wear Levis or Dockers for the rest of the year, by all means, wear them to this. If you let your children rush into the street during the parade, for God's sake, brush off the shit from their shoes BEFORE you take them into a restaurant.
However, if you are really wanting to witness some real life, crazy cowboy shit, come on out to our place. I think Rowdy has to rope a few steers later on this evening. After you see him drive his four-wheeler with one hand, zooming by at 30 miles per hour as he ropes a 900 pound steer, you'll nod your head and agree that that is a show. As I've always believed, Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees.

An Ass Whoppin' You Can Take to the Bank: Pollyester Kotton For President.

Until this week, I thought I was an Obama Momma. Turns out, by Golly, I want Polly....ester Kotton that is.
This little gem stars an Elk City native who will remain nameless for the time being. Now, if you are an Oklahoman, you will recognize the names as local township, which only made me giggle more.

I don't know who I'm going to vote for in this president erection. Yes, I said erection 'cause somebody's gonna get screwed. --Pollyester Kotton

An Ass Whoppin' You Can Take to the Bank. --Pollyester Kotton

If you are an uptight, stick in the mud, by all means, don't watch the youtube video. However, if you like to giggle so hard you piss your pants a little, please watch. This paints rainbows all over my blues.

They Call Me the Al Gore of Western Oklahoma

I just finished up one of my articles for this week's Elk Citian, the local paper I contribute to for those of you who don't know, and I wanted to share a little of this information with my web readers.
As you know, I'm very interested in "Going Green," and by that, I mean saving a shit ton of money. If a few trees are spared in the process of my bills piling up, even better. I am nothing if not a humanitarian.
In the middle of this month, a business in Elk City will start selling those street legal electric golf carts called the Tomberlin Emerge. Some of you might see the max speed of 25 mph as a downside, but I've embraced senior citizen driving for a long time now. 10 and 2, bitches, that's what's up! I'm totally Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy.
Not only will you turn heads buzzing around town in a golf cart, but the state of Oklahoma will give a FIFTY PERCENT refund on your Tiger Woods-mobile. A full battery charge will cost a whopping $.62, but the little micro car will go 30 freakin' miles on that one battery. Sixty-two cents will buy like 1/10 of a gallon of gas. I know that's probably a pint or some other fancy metric measurement, but I've never been any good at converting. So, we'll just go with 1/10 of a gallon. Leave it alone.
Ever since I got off the phone with Rolling Retreats owner Alicia Tennery, I've been all drunk on the notion of me, zooming around town in my eco-car, folks fashioing me as the Al Gore of Western Oklahoma, an Earth-savvy tree hugger, much cooler than my typical "tight ass" tag I get among friends. (Don't mistake tight ass for toned ass. Trust me, no one calls me that!) Anyways, I already use those funny-shaped light bulbs, I think I should be nominated for the Noble Peace Prize. Hell, I might even buy a shirt made from hemp and start recycling my beer cans.
Go check out the Tomberlin!