February 04, 2009

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

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

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

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

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Anonymous said...

all this AND you sleep in the wet spot . . .

we women are just givers, i tell ya. G-I-V-E-R-S.

the apology thing, though. he was way off the reservation with that one. and one can't be held accountable for what happens to a certain rowdy someone when he wanders so far off the reservation.

i promise i will be a character witness for you at your spectacle of a trial.

Chris said...

*raises her hand to also be a character witness*

I bout shit when you said he thought you were apologizing. "The constant potential for a bloody homicide" Yeah! I wonder why...

BTW, Mr. Imp does the same damn thing to me. The kids are happy with hotdogs or a cold sammich, but I'll take 30 minutes to make one marvelous sandwich for him and "you forgot mustard" or "why is there mayo on this?" "what, we don't have onions?" *BOOT TO THE HEAD!!!*

Michelle said...

I am a bit frightened of you right now Shonda!!!

You are my new hero! One favor though:
If you ever make me a chicken fried steak sandwich, please leave the cheese elsewhere!!!

Thank you Shonda!!!!


Anonymous said...

I'm not sure I would ever make him another sandwich or pot of coffee again. We had a similar issue early in our marriage where I folded my husband's socks wrong. Since then he's been folding his own socks. I say that if you have particular requirements, you earned yourself a new job. Now you can make sure everything is up to code and I can eat my ice cream in peace. ;-)

Issa said...

Ok this is off subject a bit....but what exactly is chicken fried steak? I've always wondered and never had the balls to ask. Chicken? Steak? How can it be both?

I'm from California if that makes you feel better about my stupidity. They banned frying in LA long before I was born, which is sad because I love anything fried.

Shonda Little said...

@ Issacs,
Chicken Fried Steak is this particularly awesome form of food that could be the worst possible thing you could ever eat, but is also kind like heaven at the same time.
Basically you take tenderized round steak, roll it in a milk and egg mixture and then in flour, then back to the milk and egg, then once more in the flour and then fry that bitch. It's total health food.

Michele said...

I feel for you, honey.

At our house there seems to be some sort of effing unwritten rule that you can't run the remote without a penis. I'm the only girl in this house damn it. So this rule only applies to ME!

I love our coffee maker with a timer because then I can have my coffee before I even have to speak. I'd prefer an IV-drip but they don't let you have those. Probably another effing unwritten rule made up by a man.

Irish Gumbo said...

Shonda: You can put anything you want on my steak sandwich*. Hell, I'd be so freakin' appreciative that someone made one for me, i'd probably cry!

Deep breath, lass. Whew!

*except mayonnaise. Ew.

Trixie said...

Oh Shonda...I'm so glad you found me. You my dear, nearly had me peeing my pants with this post. Luckily I didn't 'cause I haven't any clean ones to wear. You're in trouble now...cause I'm gonna stalk ya!

Oh, and your suggestion on my blog to report my mothers reaction to the fisting photo? Inspired me to make a toon out of it, now posted.

Thanks for the inspiration!!!

Anonymous said...

Okay Shonda, as a woman who also loves the news, let me give you my small piece of advice. I have been married almost 19 years to my wonderful husband. You have to learn to hide the remote when you are watching something you really want to see. I don't mean in a couch cushion. I am talking devious hiding, like drawer he would never look in, or box in bathroom most guys won't touch. Tell him the boys must have played with it or some other bs line. When your show is over quietly remove said remote and put it under the couch or someplace he hasn't looked.

Casey said...

OMG dude, you have me rolling over here. I'm pretty sure you might just end up knifing him in his sleep at some point. It's just fucking cheese, dude. Get off your ass and make your own damn sammich if it's that big a deal.

Anonymous said...

It's stories like these that help me to see the silver lining in not having one of those husband types anymore! No one ever fights me for the remote (mom always wins...hey, they can watch Disney when they buy their own damned tv).

Glad to find you on WMDA

Jen said...

I don't even know where to begin. I'm glad you really really love him. I have an couple of ex's just like him. Damn idiots.

I made meatloaf once and my soon to be ex got all worried because we had a fight a few days before. While making the meatloaf I took off my engagement ring. He saw me without the ring and was sure I was packed and ready to go. Later, after we were married and I really did want to pack and leave, I'd take off the ring to see if it got the same effect. No, but he was looking forward to the meatloaf.

Laura said...

Well, it's too late for you now, and it was too late for me by the time I heard it, but to all you young, unmarried chicks out there - remember this - NEVER DO ANYTHING IN THE FIRST TWO WEEKS OF YOUR MARRIAGE YOU DON'T WANT TO DO FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. And yes, you can add "in bed" to the end of that, too.

Anonymous said...

I have no idea what a chicken fried steak sandwich is, but I am pretty sure I would want cheese on it.

Cause cheese goes with everything!

Lorrie Veasey said...

I'm thinkin a man like Rowdy's gotta have him some special "attributes" that would allow a woman such as yourself to continue to deal with such abuse.

I don't like cheese on my cowboys. Just sayin.

Robert E. Morgan, Jr. said...

Wive's must learn you are more than a wife to us husbands, you are also our substitute mother. It pains me to say this but, I have come to the realization my wife has a lot of my dear mothers traits. We are all momma boys.

shopgirl said...

He seriously thought you were apologizing?? OMG!! This, this is why I'm single - I'd end up on the Lifetime movie of the week about the woman who crucified her husband because I didn't put cheese or some such BS on his sandwhich!!

You are too funny girl!!

Suzanne said...

Crap, this all makes me feel better about cooking breakfast and dinner yesterday. My husband seemed thankful, although I cannot now recall if he actually did thank me. He did wash the dishes, though, so no complaints here.

jennyonthespot said...

Oh my goodness girl... you are delightfull exh-friggin'-sausting!

HeatherPride said...

I'm pretty sure this will be my favorite post of the week, anywhere in the blogosphere. Fabulous rant. Your husband is a heck of a lot better sport than mine is. But then you are a heck of a wife to be making some sophisticated lunches like chicken fried steak sandwiches. Settle down, girl. You're spoiling that man and making the rest of us look bad.

Snooty Primadona said...

Oh. My. God. Either you & I are married to the same man or someone has been doing some cloning. Lord knows we don't want some of the men cloned, for any reason.

Went through the remote wars with The Ruler of The Remote. Now, I watch in my den/office because I like to watch other things besides major violence, really old cowboy movies with the same soundtrack in every damn one, or barbarian type movies. Uh-Huh.

Went through making coffee the night before thing. We now have two coffee makers, marked His & Hers.

This man has been driving me crazy for more than 31 years. I must be an effing saint...

I don't recall how I found you but am thrilled that I did. Now I can stalk you like all the others.


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