The Bitch is Back Redux

 Hello internets and faithful stragglers,
After a few years of faithful blogging back in 2008 and 2009, I abruptly stopped. For the 4 of you who did regularly read, I apologize. Honestly, I don't know what had fired up me to blog in the first place and what extinguished the flame two years later. Then, in what has to speak volumes about the cluttered oasis that is my mind, rather grandiosely I announced that I was back, never be heard from again. Weird, right? I do shit like that.
Just like my vagina when violent misogynist Mel Gibson ruins an otherwise awesome explosion movie, all my other writing dried up when my blogging stopped. I was freelancing for small papers, writing a novel I won't finish and blogging here. As went the Cowboy Chronicles, so went everything else.
Lately, I've been re-reading my old blog posts and I'm thankful I journaled so many things that my oldest two boys did in their early years. What a strange segway, going from arid lady parts to reminiscining about my children's babydom.  That's just how I roll. If you are reading this, I assume you know what you are getting yourself into.
Since that time, a few things have changed. Really, only one big thing. We had another baby. In May, 2012, we welcome our third boy, Ryder. I guess I thought life was getting too easy since everyone had learned to wipe their own rears. That, or I knew my husband was gonna make me get a real, take-a-shower-daily kind of job if I didn't dust off the ole uterus. Jokes aside, Ryder is a hunk of a baby -- feather blond hair, baby blue eyes and a face so angelic you want to squeeze his cheeks. His big brothers are loving, mostly patient older siblings, a real feat for 7 and 9 year old boys.
So, creating another delightful little life has put me back on the toddler track.
Another new thing is that I'm in the process of getting a new design for this blog. Hating the layout has been my most used excuse for not blogging. About a year ago, I hired a woman to revamp my blog. After paying her and 6 months of runaround excuses, I finally accepted she was never going to actually do the work. Sidetracked, I didn't look for anyone else for a few months, but I am now working with a new designer who I confidently believe understands what I want. She designs a blog per week and has me scheduled for January 13. I'm excited!

• A note, though. I'm shucking "The Cowboy Chronicles" as the blog title. This title served me well, but to be honest, I'm not a cowboy. I'm not even married to a cowboy. I'm married to a cattleman. You would have to work around the industry to know the difference. I have loved the cowboys who have worked for us. By far and large, they are often some of the most tender, gentle spirited people you could ever meet, but they also are basically hippies in pearl snaps. My husband Rowdy isn't a cowboy. Yes, we raise cattle for a living, but his feet are pretty nailed to the married-wtih-three-kids board. When I first started this blog some 5 years ago, I was unaware of the existence of the Pioneer Women. Kudos to her on brilliant marketing and turning her mommy blog into her own money-making venture, but she kind of has the corner on ranch wife raising little cowboys. If you weren't in a similar business, it would be easy to get swept up in the romanticized idea of rustic life on the wild West. While we run cattle for a living, make no mistake, our business is very 21st century. We have tractors that sow perfect rows of wheat through GPS navigation. My husband watches livestock auctions a thousand miles away through a smart phone. We aren't Ma and Pa Joad and neither is the Pionner Woman. Rowdy has not roped a calf and branded it with an iron from a campfire since, well, ever. If he did, outrageous labor costs would diminish any profits. Our cattle are worked through a hydraulic shoot and branded with an electric iron. And as a big ass woman, I'm sure you know I have many great recipes to share, but any hillbilly with purple sweatpants (check and check) can cook chicken fried steak. If you happen to be into breaded, deep fried meats, I am your lady. I have no delusions of becoming a mommy blog superstar, but in the off chance someone does read this, I also don't want to be a knock-off. 

Anyways, that's what I have going on. If you have any suggestions for my new blog design, I would love to hear them.

The Bitch is Back

Well, after taking a few years off from blogging, I am ready to dive back into it. My husband has been almost like a cheerleader, constantly pumping me up to get this totally lucrative venture up and running again. And by lucrative I mean producing absolutely no money, but being a gold mine of otherwise forgotten family stories.
So, anyways, if for some reason there happens to be even one of you out there who for some unknown reason had my blog bookmarked, I am assuming because you have been handcuffed to a desk and are desperately seeking a way to alert the world to your captivity, I am back at it.
Now, I realize much has changed since my last real post. The first being that both my boys are now in school, the oldest in the mighty first grade and the youngest kickin' it new school in pre-k. We also are now in a new home. It is a total change of scenery. By that, I mean that it is exactly one whole mile from where we lived before. Oh, my husband is also threatening to nickname himself "The Satisfaction" and wear pink rimmed glasses in all places public if I watch another episode of Jersey Shore.

Hi

The Life Skill of Proper Cursing

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

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!

Come On Baby Light My Fire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ridge for the rock, "It is bullshit."

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

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