Fifty Years Old and the Broad's Still Perfect

For those of you living under a rock and have somehow missed the never-ending media blitz on this breaking news, Barbie Doll is turning 50 today. That's right, for half a century, she has now plagued chubby student government dorks and other adolescent females whose awkward bodies aren't all symmetrical like that of head cheerleader. I bet we can't even begin to put a number on all the Mercedes Benz luxury rides Beverly Hills plastic surgeons wouldn't have been able to buy had Barbie not been around to teach us what a woman's body is suppose to look like.

Now, don't get me wrong, Barbie. I ain't mad at 'cha. I know how unprofitable a Malibu Shonda would have been and it's not your fault that your maker made you all super hot. In fact, I will go far nough to say that you helped me as much as you hurt, Barb. Can I call you Barb? Cool.
You see, you were the only pure sex our parents wrapped up underneath the Christmas Tree and gave to us. Well, that's not entirely true, they gave us Ken, too. You know as well as I do that he's nothing to turn your nose up. Good for Barbie, you go girl. Anyways, along with millions of other curious American women, you allowed me to explore the sexual tango between a man and a woman with you and Ken firmly gripped in each of my hands. That's the closet most of us ever got to feeling like Marilyn Monroe or Farrah Fawcett or Christie Brinkley. Good bless you for that. I'm sure you knew our objectification of you would be rather helpful later in life.
Not to mention that, you were always there for us to mutilate when we were feeling a little down in the dumps with our body image or were particularly hating those bitches with the much glorified 36-24-36 frame, or both. It didn't matter if I burned your hair off or wrote on your face with permanent marker, you were always there with a perfect smile.
So, thanks, Barb, for not ratting me out to my folks about all the unick rubbing I made you and Ken do. That along with the head burning would've made a strong case for institutionalization, no doubt. It would help if you aged a little, maybe just one stray wrinkle under an eye or something. But, I know you can't help your plastic perfection. Here's to another 50 years. Someday my granddaughters are going to need someone to give them a healthy dose of self-loathing, pubescent sexual curiosity and a sounding board for their frustration and I know you are just the girl for the job.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

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

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

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

What If?

This week's Spin Cycle topic is >What if? You know, as in, "What if I had gotten that promotion," or "What if I had gone on the that blind date." It is the never ending question swirling around our minds about the life we could be traveling down if we'd only have taken a different turn.
When I saw this subject on Sprite's blog, I got really excited. After all, for the past several weeks, my mind has been plagued with thoughts of just how great things could have been had only one little tragic misstep happened. I've kept it pushed down deep inside, scared to death that once I let it out, there would be no taking it back. Like a festering splinter, this icky subject has continued to rise to the surface.
Okay, I'm just gonna do this, put it out there quickly, like I am ripping off a Band Aid. Here goes:
What if Grey's Anatomy star Katherine Heigl hadn't slapped the show's writers in the face by declining her Emmy nomination last because she felt she was "not given the material this season to warrant a nomination?"
Whenever she withdrew from the award process last year, I was as shocked and stunned as everyone else. I could just see the team of Grey's writers snapping their fingers as they hissed, "Oh no she di'nt."
But then the show let out for its summer hiatus and we forgot about all the Emmy drama. Well, when I watch the show each week and her character Izzy falls deeper and deeper into what has to be the most ridicules plot line I've ever watch disastrously unfold, I think the writers must not have forgotten it after all.
I mean, seriously, what other fucking explanation could there be for these highly talented writers to create and continue this fiasco? If Izzy were just stumbling all over Seattle Grace talking to a non-existent ghost, I would perhaps think it was a silly notion, but it wouldn't make me consider stop watching the show all together. Really, I could handle that.
No, the part where it goes from being a little misguided to just out and out absurd bullshit is when Izzy and her dearly departed old flame Denny start getting it on. I want to be clear, I think Denny (played by the super fly Jeffrey Dean Morgan) is about as hot as they make 'em. I really wouldn't mind living in a haunted house if he was the one doing the haunting. I'm glad that while the Grey's writers are turning this hit into a third rate soap opera, they are at least improving the scenery. But, even with all Denny's hotness, I do not think this storyline can be saved. They need to have an exorcism and bury this shit once and for all.
So, if you are a Grey's fan and, like me, have been thinking that maybe everyone related to the show has developed some terrible acid addiction that is preventing them from realizing just how fucking insane this entire plot line is, that is the best explanation I've come up with.
I think the Grey's writers were like, "Let's watch you turn down an Emmy you aren't nominated for in the first place, bitch."

I Screwed Up And Let Both My Kids Become Obsessed with Thomas

As I sat down to write this post, the wise words of the big hair band of the 80s, Great White, are humming through my mind, "My, my, my, You're Once Bitten, Twice Shy, Babe."
I wish they would have been a few months ago when I rather ignorantly introduced my youngest son Rolan to Thomas the Train. Now, as I'm sure you already know, my oldest boy Ridge has taken his fascination with Thomas into obsession. I'm sure if he was old enough to have his own means of transportation and actually realized that The Day Out with Thomas that comes annually to Oklahoma City's Railway Museum traveled from city to city, he'd drop out of Rainbow Lane and follow it around like some stoned Dead Head. He knows each little train by heart, even the ones that are the exact same color and look virtually identical to one another except for their length of funnels or some such shit. The Thomas bug bit Ridge when he was about 2 and that cheeky train has been ruining my life ever since.
Because of that, you would think I would have had the fucking foresight not to introduce this Jedi mind-controlling hogwash to the little one. Clearly, I'm like kid who repeatedly sticks her hand in fire or poor dog who runs smack dab into the glass door over and over and over. I just never learn.
So now, just when Ridge's junkie addiction to Thomas finally appeared on the verge of being overcome, Rolan is waking up each morning, demanding Thomas be turned on through the magical genius of the DVR, thus giving Ridge a daily fucking reminder of just how much he still really, really loves Thomas. Instead of one boy making forceful requests as though I'm some hostage negotiator and he's got 10 kidnapped bystanders who can only be saved if the ransom of a Thomas showing is met, I have two.
For a while, I thought I had solved the Thomas crisis through the miraculous hands of YouTube. With Ridge old enough to run a mean mouse pad, I would put the boys in front of the computer, pull up YouTube, type in Thomas the Train and let them go to town. With the similar videos listed on the bottom right of the screen, Ridge just click away, buying me much needed house cleaning time while they watched an endless sea of Thomas videos. But then one day the title of one caught my eye as I walked by, picking up toys that were no doubt Thomas related. It was, "Gordon Kills Thomas," or something along those line. Yeah, apparently some asshole has made a whole collection of videos based on the series with a twist of The Shining or some other sadistic nightmare that 4-year-olds and 2-year-olds don't need to be watching, unless of course you are just wanting them to never sleep again, in which case, bombs away. I wanted to write this dude a nasty note along the lines of, "Thanks for screwing up my sweet thing, you sick bastard," but then I remembered that he's some nut job who apparently thinks turning beloved childhood icons into serial killers is hilarious. In an attempt to not end up as some sickos skin dress or cooked in their fat lady stew, I decided to withhold from the letter and just bitch about him here for the whole Internet to read. I think that's a much safer plan, don't you?
So, after the YouTube solution turned out not to be a solution after all, I had to let the boys start watching Thomas the old-fashioned way again, on the television. And as if my plight of Thomas mania wasn't bad enough, those assholes behind the PBS series have introduced a whole new handful of trains in this season's episodes. That means each time Ridge sees one of these new pricks during his daily Thomas fix, he immediately starts chanting, "Walmart! Walmart!" at the top of his lungs. He's not going to rest until we have each and every member of the Thomas fleet, which not only includes about a million rather similar trains, but also a bus, a traction engine (that's a tractor to us Americans), a helicopter and now a freakin' jet plane named Jeremy. Ridge's new partner in his bloody rebel coup, the formerly darling Rolan, is right beside him, pounding his tiny fists to the table, as he follows his brother's call to arms.
So, I just wish I would have heard The Great White song two months ago. Perhaps it would have sparked my one remaining brain cell into having a thought, which might have then lead to preventing this catastrophe. We already go through $20 a month in batteries just keeping the Thomas and Friends buzzing around the tracks scattered through our house. Will it be $40 this time next year? Perhaps $80? Who knows. Just heed my warnings, Readers, do NOT let your children watch this devilish nightmare or you, too, will be fighting this losing battle .

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.

Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I'll never forget the first time I heard George Constanza nervously ramble to his boss about his father Frank's personal holiday, Festivus, a special observation set aside to protest all the mind-numbing, ridicules bullshit that surrounds Hanukkah and Christmas and every other sacred day recognized by the masses. It's not that I mind the days themselves, just the opposite really. What I do mind, though, is the way the entire population goes apeshit crazy as the day approaches. A man was killed this year at an early bird special, for Christsake.
Now, I know Frank Constanza is technically a fictional character, but Festivus is pure genius. And, as a matter of fact, it was actually inspired by a Seinfeld writer Dan O'Keefe's father's spin on the celebration of, well, not freakin' celebrating.
I'm sure all you Christmas lovers are going berserk as you read this. Well, hold on, friends, it's gonna get bumpier. My beef with Christmas has nothing to do with the holiday itself, in its rawest form, that is. But, really, the nuts-and-bolts of Christmas really wouldn't make much of a holiday, would it? Since the Bible gives no real guidelines outside of birthing in a pile of hay and then receiving some shit called frankincense and Mir from three wise men, which could be anyone I guess, we really don't know how God wants us to commemorate the birth of His son. Should we stuff a pinata and cheer Jesus on as he puffs out his candles, all 3,000 of 'em? I'm not sure what we are suppose to do, but I'm certain God's plan isn't for us to staple enough fucking Christmas lights to our house to single-handily melt the polar ice caps and make the old spinster woman go certifiably insane from all the blinking light reminders that she and her 7 cats are all alone at Christmas. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I gather from the whole feeding a crowd with a loaf of bread and three fish thing that Jesus dug conservation. I'm just not sure he'd want us to mark his birthday by packing three fucking landfills with useless Christmas paper that briefly covered a bunch of gifts we don't really need.
Not to mention that, Jesus seemed to shun both the prideful lust of worldly possessions and really all violence. Well, putting a bunch of genetically related people who can't freakin' stand each other and only manage to restrain from socking each other in the eye with a turkey drumstick because it would break poor ole Grammy's heart in the same room to trade notes over who's pulling down the biggest paycheck according the size of their wastefully wrapped gifts under the tree just makes perfect sense. As soon as the ribbons are untied and punches are flying, I'm sure Jesus is happy as a bride on her wedding day. Honestly, I don't know why we just don't start a new Christmas tradition of gouging out each other's eyes rather than turning the other cheek. That's the only thing missing.
In light of my obvious Bah Humbug spirit, Festivus clearly resonated with me. Festivus is packed full with much more reasonable customs and my favorite of them all is the "Airing of the Grievances." Just in case you somehow missed Frank Constanza's explanation of this practice to Cosmo Kramer, which would be like overlooking Hailey's Comet flying into Earth, this is the time-honored tradition of basically telling everyone that's disappointed you or pissed you off throughout the year just how they did so. Just imagine how the escalated depression and violence of the holiday season would decrease if we all embraced this rather than Christmas caroling.
So, in honor of Festivus, I want to share with you a small excerpt from my Grievances:

Mollie,
Not only are those horseshit knock-off Lego's that you gave Ridge for his birthday constantly sprinkled around my house like Mardi Gras confetti without the beer and flying chi chis, but when I stumbled haphazardly to the bathroom in the middle of the night, my unsuspecting foot struck one of those bastards and the skin on the bottom of my foot was cut. I woke up the next morning with a bleeding and aching foot and was forced to wear two mismatched Crocs to work at the Hog Trough the next morning because every other shoe hurt too freakin' badly to wear. On the account of that, several people continue to make fun of my fashion sense, which is obviously as dead on as that Calvin Klein person.
Also, you gave Ridge those prescription-less glasses so that he would stop pestering your son Carson for his, but I know it was really so he would love you more than he loves me. You were almost successful in that, but no cigar, biznotch. Thanks to you, Ridge is now that Sampson without his long, locks of hair if he doesn't have those damn glasses -- simply useless. A slow poke to begin with, he now takes more time to get dressed because he's looking for those damn glasses than it took me to grow him in my stomach. Freakin' thanks! I guess I should be comforted in knowing that my kids spend the entire time they are at your house being pampered into love since you want to be their favorite, but you are ruining my life with your quest. I'm currently searching for the most ridicules gifts imaginable to give your kids. Just wait.

AT&T,
Since you have acquired the small, local chain of cell phone providers, the suckage of my coverage has increased dramatically. What's up with that? The old guys had the budget to advertise on the local radio, you guys have the cash flow to make your bidding on every national station. Hell, if you can pull the strings to let Dick Cheney listen to my random phone calls about my man and kids without a warrant surely to hell you can make the motherfuckers work without dropping every five minutes.

Mother in Law,
My sons aren't instantly and magically going to be stricken with pneumonia or frostbit or some other terrible affliction if they thermometer dips below 65 and they aren't wrapped up like that poor bundled up kid in The Christmas Story. Seriously, a band of Cheyenne managed to keep their kids alive for decades 1/4 of a mile from here on the banks of a river with the scant help of a leather tepee. Had that asshole Custer not rode along and massacred them, I'm sure they'd have all died old and withered of old age. I know your concern is because you do so dearly love the boys and I am less annoyed when I realize if something ever happened to me that you would mother them into submission, but I promise not to let them freeze to death.

Kentucky Fried Chicken Man,
I'm not being a bitch for wanting my money back. The chicken was simply raw. I don't eat raw chicken. That's not because I'm a snob, it's because I don't like puking water through my nose for three days. I realize my ass could use the downsizing, but I want my money back nonetheless.

Mom,
If you happen to go a week without seeing the boys, all memories of you aren't going to be mysteriously whisked from their brain. I can't help that you work 20 hours a day and, for some damn reason, want to sleep those other 4. I'm not a miracle worker. You can either commission God for 4 more hours in a day or stop with the damn overachieving. I understand that this nagging is just because you love them 5 times as much as you love me, which I am actually cool with because I love that my boys are loved, but I can't produce more daylight.

Satellite Repair Man,
When we call you for a repair and then fork over that ridicules surcharge to get you out here, actually fix our shit. Don't strip some wires and then put together some technical house of cards that we'd have to be skilled magicians or, in the very least, engineers to make work after you leave in 5 minutes. I mean, seriously, if I wanted some solution that required some flimsy coat hanger to rest at an almost impossible angle while Rowdy and I jump up and down and pat our heads, we'd have saved our money and done it ourselves.

Rowdy,
Oh, this could be five posts in itself. In fact, I am not going to write anything here since, well, bitching about you is pretty well the premise of this blog. I will say that it kinda pisses me off that four years into parenting, you have yet to wash one pair of underwear and you still get to be John Wayne wrapped up in Super Man to the boys every time you walk in the door, which I think is total bullshit since you didn't let the boys live inside your belly for 75% of year, gaining untold discomfort, then to turn around and let them thrive off your breast milk for a year. I do all that and you still get to be the super hero. Fucking bullshit.

Melissa,
Seriously, openly laughing at someone who accidentally rubs peppermint oil in their eye and then agonizing through relentless pain because of it. Seriously. I don't know if I'm peeved or excited that you get my humor. It's one of the two.

Ridge and Rolan,
Along with your dad, you two are the loves of my life. If it weren't for you two, I wouldn't even begrudgingly drag myself through this holiday. Damn you two for lighting up my life through the wonder in your eyes. If you two didn't radiate joy and excitement with even the slightest whisper of the magic of Christmas, I'd be a peaceful woman with abundant rest. I'd use all the money I've spent on gifts and what not to buy a plane ticket to some sunny paradise stocked with hot men and cold beer. Instead I'm running on fumes to wrap all the gifts you don't need and to prepare the food for our celebrations just to see the two of you hold your breath as your rip through wrapping paper to discover your next surprise, to see your mouths drop with glee when you realize what lies beneath it. So, you two darling little shits get my ultimate grievance and I wouldn't have it any other way.

HAPPY FESTIVUS! Watch the Festivus video. It's your heritage.

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!

The Slammy Awards?

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

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.

LOVE is The Hip and Trendy, The Old and Sappy ACTUALLY

Being the tragically old and unhip pair Rowdy and I have somehow morphed into, we are naturally at home on a Friday night. We are not out dancing into the hazy twilight as we most certainly would have been five years ago. But, actually, we are both wildly delighted about this fact, though in front of trendy company we sometimes pretend to desire to someday retake our places on bar stools and dance floors. Nonetheless, we were particularly ecstatic about being decrepit old shut-ins this evening because Love Actually, the 2003 heart-warming flick with an all-star cast. Rowdy is systematically opposed to all movies that can even halfway, kinda, sorta because categorized as a movie that would be filed in near the love stories, but he really likes this one. So much so, in fact, that he let me watch it the second time it came on (Bravo did that thing where they run the same movie back-to-back, which normally annoys me because it is so crap Jean Claude Van Dam train wreck. I love it on days like today, though.)
As we watched it, I whipped out my finely tuned multi-tasking skills, which as you know can be considered primitive at best, and editing photographs from a wedding I recently shot. Cody and Ashlie are a beautiful couple and their shared love is quite visible, even to a stranger. That makes my job much easier. Plus, they wed in a beautiful old church, which added a very romantic feel to the photos. They also did something I've never seen before. As you can see in this photograph, rather than have the minister face their guests, they did.
So with my heart all warm from perhaps the great love movie in history, I wanted to share two of my favorites from this wedding.

Whenever I get gloomy at the state of the world, I think of the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed. But, I don't see that. It seems to me live is everywhere. Often it is not particularly dignified or newsworthy. It's always there: fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, old friends.
When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as fas as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or of venge. They were all messages of love. If you look for it, I have a sneaky feeling you'll find love actually is all around us.
Hugh Grant, Love Actually

The Greatest Interview Setting Ever

I am not posting for any reasons political, but rather, because watching the dude in the background straight up kill those turkeys while Governor Palin is interviewed right in front of him is simply awesome, especially because both Sarah and the interviewer seem not to even notice all the beheading in the background.

People's Sexiest Man Alive Is.......

HUGH JACKMAN!!!
The People's magazine dude just announced it on The Today Show, so I knew my readers would love the early info.
By the way, Michael Phelps made the list. You know how I feel how the hot piece of swimming ass.
What do you think?

The Offspring Rising Has Conquered the Internet: BOOBY DUTY EDITION

After my last post about my darling spawn's new dominance of the computer, the result of which has left me booted off my blog, I received several comments and private messages from other parents lamenting the same overtaking by their children. Now, I don't know how many of you read the comments, so I wanted to leave one of the best on the front page.
She warns of the pervy future of computer searches of my sons. And because I chose to reproduce with the King of the Pervs, I absolutely know the scenario Lorie laid out will definitely play out. (Poet alert, poet alert!
Lorrie said:

Sure at 4 they are all about Thomas The Tank Engine, then before you know it, they are seven, and you check your google history and someone has typed in SEXY BOOBS and why, yes, that DID happen to me.

Learn from my mistakes. Force them to read books.

I thought this was some pretty awesome shit. He googled "SEXY BOOBS." I absolutely love that he threw some descriptive words in there, as though BOOBS alone wouldn't have sufficed. Just for fun (not at all because I'm secretly kinda a 7-year-old pervy boy), I went ahead a googled it. Ahhhh.......if I wasn't already worshipping at the House of Google, I would be now.
The very first website on the list is a classy little location called "Booby Duty." Immediately, I was overcome by jealously of the genius mind who brainstormed this. Clearly for accurate research purposes only, I had to click on it. Well, I am here to tell all of you, Lorrie included, that the folks behind this site have somehow managed to find a collection of the biggest jugs on Earth. I mean, one or two pairs like these watermelon-sized breasts would be impressive, but they managed to accumulate a collection every spine surgeon would dream of. And as I looked over the site, my mouth hung wide open as a pop can, I could only think how many future backaches would plague that page. The words "bulging disc" swirled around my mind, I think that in itself is a testament to how old I have gotten.
So, thank you, Lorrie, for sharing tales of what my future holds so I can laugh here in the present. As most mothers of sons will testify, we spend a lot of time trying to understand the workings of our male offsprings' minds. Good stuff, good stuff.

Oh, and those of you who live in or near Elk City, Oklahoma, don't forget the benefit dinner and auction for Jamie Munford this afternoon at the Gathering Place from 4-6.

8 Mavericky Ways to Stress Free Parenting

A few weeks ago, my bloggy friend Anna taught me about the brilliance in lists, or rather blogging lists. It seemed easy enough, right? Well, it's that time again.
This morning as I was wandering around the home of my heart, the beloved Internet, I found this article, 8 New Mom Stresses and How to Relieve Them. Sure, some of the ideas were golden, such as this one:

There was one week when my daughter Faye screamed -- and I'm talking ear-piercing, uncontrollable screaming -- for hours on end. I would call my husband, crying, and hold the phone so he could hear what I was going through. By Friday I couldn't take it anymore. I put her in her crib and went into the kitchen to try to pull myself together. A few minutes later, she stopped! I realized that seeing me stressed and upset just fueled her fire. But when I left her alone -- and played it cool when I did go back to her -- she calmed down."

But, as I was reading this monstrous bitch, I realized none of my tried and true mommy tricks were on there. And, really, I'm nothing if not helpful. So here goes, Mommas. You want to survive newborns and toddlers, then soak up the profound wisdom of Momma Little.

1. Take the above-mentioned advice of walking away and taking a brief break from the crying baby. In fact, wander on into the kitchen as that mom suggest. But don't just play it cool, DRINK it cool. And when I say drink, I don't mean water. Beer's the poison of my preference, but I think vodka, tequila or rubbing alcohol will suffice.

2. Now, this "walking away" technique will only work for so long. At some point your darling little offspring are going to gain some mobility and, take it from me, this makes the whole "escape the shrieking madness" a bit tricky. Once they do start toddling all over the place, they are absolutely adorable exploring the world except, of course, when you want to escape them. Then they will bobble after you, all red-faced and screaming, and you will think back to how some yahoo told you to just "take a minute" when your babies are having some unexplained meltdown. At these times, you will be glad you put a lock on your bedroom door. Sure, they will plant their bottoms on the other side of it, belting out unholy shrills sharp enough to puncture a dog's eardrum, but you will have that moment you've been long for. My friend Mollie, who is Martha Stewart in living color, taught me this trick. For those of you can't stomach the sounds of your crying kiddos, I think those scrunchy earplugs are also nice to have on hand.

3. Speaking of the mobility of our darling spawns, when they aren't using their new found tricks to chase after you, they deploying the skills to run away from you. Now this can be particularly troubling if you have a little weight in your trunk, if you are picking up what I'm putting down, or if you have multiples running in different directions. And, if you just happen to be unlucky enough to be like me, a fatass with two wayward children, you are totally screwed. It is for that reason that I truly recommend a leash.....or some awesome laser that, like, paralyzes them in their tracks. Really, it's the only way you'll win.

4. More alcohol. I would seriously consider opening a liquor store so you can get that shit at a discount.

5. If you don't have friends with similarly aged children, make some. Not only will they share their tips for neutralizing the enemy combatants, but sometimes you can blend your herd in with theirs and gain a few moments of adult interaction.

6. We all start out our adventures in parenting with the good intentions of raising the only set of American kids who aren't all strung out on the baby-sitting goodness of Dora the Explorer or Spongebob the Terrorist, but then we get starved for a free minute to do laundry or some asshole lets them watch it at their house and the next thing you know you haven't seen a single episode of those fantastic Maury Paternity Shows because you are in a power struggle for control of the television. So, listen up, Readers, just swallow all your aspirations of productive and responsible parenting from the start and buy those kids a spare television.
Sadly, I still haven't taken my own piece of advice here and sadly, in between my remote hogging husband and kids, I almost never get to watch my shows. Take it from me.

7. Don't read ridicules lists posted on the Internet, clearly written by someone who doesn't have children or has the luxury of hiring a nanny. While I like to joke about this sort of stuff, I really don't lock my kids out of my room or walk them on a leash. In fact, I know if I did try to put my wild kids on a leash, they would just one-up me by sitting their darling asses on the ground and forcing me to drag them to our desired destination.
Truthfully I just get tickled when I read these parenting lists. Occasionally you do get a good tip, but normally it's just the same list over and over. So, if you want my advice and, let's face it, I know you want to soak up my genius, just love your kids and hope they have grandparents who want to be involved enough to give you a small break.
I hope my fake list made you laugh. If it didn't, you are either a fun hater or you are still in the eye of the storm. If that's the case, go ahead and guzzle the rubbing alcohol. And laugh.

8. I just realized the list I found on msn had 8 tips on it. I can't think of number 8, so let's just call this an invitation for you, my awesome readers, to give us your appallingly awesome tips for child rearing.

Old Friends Are Gold

I first came to know Jimmie Jackson when I was at the end of my high school career. I know I am using "career" a little foot loose and fancy free, as the bulk of my time was spent acing six-packs as opposed to sixth hour. But, that's neither here or nor there now, although my crafty beer drinking skills definitely served as a firm foundation for my friendship with Jimmie.
He went to work for my mother and her business partner Sherisse at their former hair saloon, The Creme of the Crop. Stop laughing, it was the 90s. Jimmie was unlike anyone I had ever met before. He was a large man, both in his size and in his vibrant personality. He was silly in ways that I still struggle to explain. His smile was that of a child, devious and ornery and, in so many ways, quite innocent. He was tender, he let his heart by seen by anyone who cared to see it and I loved him for that. And, he was gay, which put a human face on homosexuality for me. Although a few of my childhood friends have since come out of the closet, Jimmie was the first gay person to openly share his struggles and his triumphs with me.
Now, to understand Jimmie you need to know that he was a queen with a flair for drama that ran deep in his . spirit. And that, by the way, is just how he talked me into allowing him to color my hair a week before prom. The outcome was suppose to be deep red highlights. It was not. Instead, my hair was streaked with thick bands of a dark shade of purple that was almost magenta. Naturally, I cussed for a few moments while Jimmie poured me drinks, but it eventually faded and even grew on me a bit. That's the story of how I went to prom my senior year with purple hair. Mind you, this was before the funky-colored hair craze kicked off, so I now inadvertently look kinda like a fashion trailblazer, a farce I am willing to continue.
In keeping with Jimmie's love for the dramatic, he aspired to someday star as a Cher impersonator at a drag show. He loved Cher almost as much as he loved his mother, which was a lot. Seeking out research for his future show, sometime during that same time period, Jimmie and Sherisse talked my square peg mother not only into driving to the city to rock out at a gay bar, but even managed to talk her into letting me come along as well. Jimmie found an ID for me to use, so off we went. For about the first minute in the gay bar, I suffered a bit of culture shock. But then Jimmie introduced me to the owners and a few of his drag queen friends and I was in total heaven. These girls showed me their fabulous collection of evening gowns and metallic lipstick while I slammed keg beer in their dressing rooms. For an 18-year-old girl from Western Oklahoma, this was an epic adventure. We danced late into the night, hopping from gay bar to gay bar. Even as I type this now, a decade later, ABBA plays in my head as I recall shaking my booty with a multi-colored feather boa streaming behind me.
Although Jimmie was a solid 15 years older than I was, we became fast and furious girlfriends. We would stay up late into the twilight, sobbing over my latest teenage crisis while Jimmie consoled me and guided me toward much-needed giggles. He was full of love, ready on demand to dispense affection to those in need. I always marveled at how he freely put himself out there for new friendships, even though he had been burned in the past. He was a sweet spirit and, in so many ways, an innocent soul.
Then I grew up and our adventures took Jimmie and I in separate directions. After a few years, I had almost lost track of my friend. But then, through their miracles of myspace, he found me. Right off the bat, he told me of the death of his mother. Through our emails, his pain in that loss was profoundly seen. As I said before, Jimmie was incapable of loving only a little and his relationship with his parents was paramount in that. After a few emails, he just asked for my number. I sent it to him and within minutes my phone rang. We talked and reminisced for hours. I told him of the love of my life, Rowdy, and our two children and he told me of his, Ken. Jimmie laughed out loud at the prospect of me living on a ranch, running around in the mud chasing cattle. I laughed with him, knowing that image is that of fine comedy.
Our communication continued for months and I had planned to photograph his wedding to Ken. But then, out of the blue, it just stopped. I emailed him a few times, but got no response. After awhile, I was lost once again in my daily existence and forgot to keep trying. Little did I know, my friend had gotten ill.
So, you can imagine my surprise and my guilt when my mother called me on October 8 to tell me Jimmie had died. Truthfully, I still don't fully know what killed him. I just know that he had been sick for most of this year. I also know that he was one of the finest people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend. I am comforted in knowing that in the last few years he found the love of his life. He was true to himself in ways few people have the courage to be. He was full of love and full of life and he ushered in acceptance for all people. Above all, he was a friend.
Jimmie's memorial is in Enid tomorrow. Sadly, I won't be able to attend. I've been meaning to write this ever since I learned of his tragic passing, but each time I sat down to it, the pain choked my words. It's hard even still.
Jimmie,
We loved you for all that you are. I hope we meet again somehow in the great scheme of things. You were the best example I know of honesty in the face of great scrutiny. May peace find you, old friend.
I love you,
Shonda

The Random Ramblings of a Sleepless Maverick

Well, Readers, I am staring dumbfounded at this blank page. In between the last presidential debate and wrapping my mind around that bitchy know-it-all Kenley somehow making it to the Project Runway finale, I just can't seem to compose a full thought. But, you know I am dedicated to your entertainment, Readers, so I thought I would jot down a few of my fragmented brain drizzle.

I love negative ads. It's just political shit talking. Is it true? Unlikely. Is it fun? Hell yes. So, listen up, boys: Why don't you come run some of those nasty tidbits on mommalittle. I won't player hate, I'll participate. Word.

That brings me to another. I love hip hop jargon. I've been trying to introduce it into my daily life, but thus far it has been unsuccessful.

I really like drinking coffee in the late evening. That is, until I'm laying in bed wide awake as a crackhead on a 3 day smoke feast.

Ridge snuck into Rolan's room and interrupted his peaceful nap this afternoon by shimmying into his crib and then subsequently pouncing on his little brother's head while chanting, "Wake up, Rolan!"
Rolan, in turn, spent the afternoon randomly jabbing his big brother in the eye for the torturous awakening. With each incident, rather than responsibly disciplining my offspring, I just thought, "Man, I'm so glad my sons are mavericks."

Speaking of swaggering with the big balls of a maverick, Ridge and I build some wooden car inside the house today and then proceeded to paint it on the kitchen table. He seriously had slaps of blue paint in his ears.

I am exhausted. I am so freakin' exhausted that I cannot sleep. Such is the divine comedy of life.

There are several ways to show your patriotism. One of them just happens to be paying taxes. God knows I pay my share, but I love America and don't want to further become a "sharecropper nation," as Warren Buffet described the negative effect of our expanding foreign held debt.

I love Kenny G. I mean, I really love Kenny G. He played on Dirty Sexy Money last week and my long, lost love affair was reignited. Few things get my blood pumping like that long-haired genius blowing away on his saxophone.

I think blue eyeliner rocks. I wore it daily for many years, using it for some reason on only the outer halves of each eye, which made it rock even harder. After much badgering from my more fashion savvy friends, I begrudgingly abandoned my aqua beauty trick. I'm really thinking about bringing it back. What do you think?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. That's just how I roll. In fact, I think it is fair to say that's what I am doing right now. So, I'm gonna stop. I'm going to force myself to sleep so I won't drag around like a zombie tomorrow.

If Life Were A Beer Commercial and My Kid was the Star

I don't really recall what year it was, but I know the Budweiser "Whhhaaaazzzzz Up" commercials made their debut many moons ago now. Whenever I figure up years gone by, I start by deciding if this event took place before Rowdy and I met. In this case, I know it was. So, my guesstimation would be that they aired 7-8 years ago, maybe 9.
Anyways, like all good beer ads, they were rolled out during the Super Bowl and, almost instantly, every young male I knew was borrowing this ridicules phrase from the Budweiser guys, not only using it to answer questions, but also randomly whipping it out into the peaceful silence. Two words are coming to mind right now: "Brandon" and "Schreck." He was still in high school at the time. We worked together and, I swear to God, if I had a penny for every time he said that in a three month period, we could sell all these fucking cattle and retire on a tropical beach somewhere.
However, like all pop culture fads, this faded into the abyss, stuffed back in the recesses of my mind. I hoped it would stay there, that I would never have to think about this again. But, alas, I was wrong. Such is the comedy of life.
In the last couple of weeks, my youngest boy Rolan has developed a comedy routine of his own. It goes something like this here:
He wiggles up close to one of us. He's a real cute kid and I'm not saying that just because I'm his mom. Trust me, I think about how much money I could fetch for him on the black market and it's tempting not to take the fat cash and head of to before mentioned beach. (Just kidding, simmer down.)
Anyways, once he is next to us, he lets out a ripping fart that would pride any large, hairy, flannel-clad trucker and then, with his eyes as wide as half dollars, he says, "Whhhhaaazzzz that?"
Now, I know it's not quite the same phrase as the Budweisers guys, but the fashion in which he belts it out sounds just like them. He summons the words from deep in his chest and, as they leave his precious lips, his voice is as raspy as a 30 year smoker. He then rolls on the ground, triumphant in his gassy victory while I look at my husband, who is of course beaming with pride that his boy discovered the humor in farts all by himself, and wonder if perhaps I should've selected offspring from a different gene pool. (Calm down, I'm just kidding. You know Rowdy's my guy.)
As soon as Rolan started doing this, it felt eerily familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Then last night he whipped out the comedic routine once again and it was like some twisted, pop culture de ja vu. And it hit me, it's the freakin' Budweiser guys, that commercial that I lamented for months. I wanted to throw a keg party when Budweiser switched to the frogs. (Wait, did the frogs come first? Either way, they were better.)
So, there you go, Readers. I think this is a fine example of the great comedy of life. Everyone else loved those commercials, all but danced in the streets when they come across the television screen. Not me, I hated them. Yet, somehow in a cosmic mystery, my darling son has channeled this absurd ads that aired before he was freakin' conceived to use in his two-year-old stand-up routine. Rowdy is soooo proud, so proud.
In case you've forgotten those commercials, take a moment to walk down that memory lane.

Oops, She Did It Again

As you already know, I didn't watch the VMAs last night. All my attention was honed toward Vinny and the boys on the season premiere of Entourage. However, I knew Britney Spears was scheduled to, I don't know, do something and I hoped to myself that she did well. I still don't think she's role model material, or at least not for teenage girls, but like just about everyone, my fingers are crossed that this train wreck comes to a halt. I talked to a friend after it was over and she Britney had looked all put together. And, I pushed it to the back of my brain with the Lloyd Benson quotes and hammer pants.
So then this morning, just a few minutes ago really, the ladies on The View were debating the Jonahs Brothers promise rings exchange when Sherri Shepherd mentioned that Brit's momma, Mother of the Year herself Lynn Spears, said in her upcoming tell-all book that her diva daughter was getting it on at 14. I think we all remember the marketing of Britney Spears, virgin extraordinaire.
Now, first let me say this, I never cared whether or not Britney was doing it. I watched a documentary on her that included her older high school boyfriend and, like most the folks on the show, it seemed plausible to me that these two were getting at it. But, really, I didn't care either. Her music isn't really my style and that's all that matters.
I'm not blogging about this because I am all shocked by the dishonesty of a teenage Britney. I seriously doubt she was the one who cooked up the whole "ramble on about your committed stance on abstinence until marriage" plan in the first damn place. In that documentary I watched, her old flame said that he went to one of Brit's first concerts and Lynn ushered him away, knowing that her albums would rack in a little more dough if she were unattached.
No, the reason I am blogging this is because I am shocked, freaking shocked, that after everything Britney has been through and now that she finally seems to be pulling her head from those murky waters that her mother, the woman who is suppose to protect her, is writing a book that says Britney started drinking at 14, having sex at 14 and doing drugs at 15. First, I cannot imagine selling my children to alter of fame like she did. Britney was too young and too immature to handle Hollywood when she broke out. But, doing this now is just disgusting to me.
Tell me what you think.

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!