Paying For His Raising One Beer at a Time

Sweet Bejesus, I have missed you, blogosphere. My brain has been in a semi-frozen state, totally unable to function outside of the stumble through my daily life. I want to make an excuse for this, but the truth is, I don't have one. Wait, I take that back, I do. I'm paying for my husband's raising. You see, even at nearly 37, Rowdy is an ornery shit filled to the rim with mischief. He spent his youth shooting bee bee guns at roosters and convincing his poor little brother to hurdle down steep hills in little red wagons. And now, in some sick, cosmic twist of karma, I am paying the tab on this with his two wild offspring.
Now, don't get me wrong, I love my boys. It's this deep love that keeps them alive when they start fist fighting at 8am over some flimsy measuring cup. Twenty minutes after I vaccuumed last night, they threw a canister of peanuts at each other, giggling all the while.
After they dumped about 20 pounds of dog food this evening and Rolan somehow got caramel caked in his hair, clearly they needed a bath. I soaped 'em up and hosed 'em off. Then, just like every night, I let them play in the tub as I loaded the dishwasher. Occassionally they might dump a little water on the bathroom floor, but this is typically a pretty uneventful step in our nightly ritual. But, the sun even shines on a dog's ass some days and tonight was just the bath's time to shine apparently.
I've spent most of my life trying to crack the interworkings of the male brain and my two darling boys have only increased that desire. You would think once I started growing males in my uterus every other year I might have figured them out a little, but that's not the case. As I walked into the bathroom and immediately noticed that these two monkies had, for some unexplained reason, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, dunked it in the bath water with them and then proceeded to peg each other with wet wads of tp.
Now, for those of you who have never had the good fortune of fishing a full roll of soaking toilet paper out of a bath water, you should now this task is a bit more time consuming than one might've thought. It sticks to the side and scatters about. After I had wiped it down a good fifteen times, the last remenants of the Toilet Paper Fiasco of 2009 had come to an end. In the meantime, Ridge and Rolan had found a stack of 200 photos and had them strewn across their bed like Mardi Gras confetti.
And it was in that moment that it hit me -- my children must be part of a bigger plan. No, I'm talking about the whole Great Scheme of Things plan. I mean I think perhaps President Obama and Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner have contacted Ridge and Rolan and encouraged them to continue this derlick behavior, thus causing me to consume much, much more alcohol and stimulating the economy. Once I figured this out, I calmed down, cracked a Bud Light and did my patriotic duty. I mean, I have to give it to those guys for their masterminded plot. It is really as good an idea as they've had thus far.

The Genetic Love of Ranch Dressing

I have a small confession. No, I didn't hack up some telemarketer into a thousand pieces, though I have frequently been tempted just to make an example. Okay, get ready for it 'cause I'm just gonna blurt it out.
I love ranch dressing!
Now, I realize I am far from alone in this. In spite of the culinary snobs who deem this "redneck food," I am not scared to step out on a cultural limb and declare from village to dell that I freakin' love this shit. I would eat it on just about anything. In fact, I can't figure out for the fat ass life of me just why those geniuses at Baskin Robbins haven't nixed one of the 25 flavors of chocolate and rolled out a ranch flavor in its place. Apart from that ever-addicting sushi and Bud Light, ranch dressing is my favorite food on the globe.
But, as I explained in my quest to Shine in 2009 (which you need to re-read so you can help keep me to all my resolutions), I would like to reduce my rather sizable ass into one that can be divided between just two women as opposed to the five it would take to tote this bitch around right now. I've been eating steamed vegetables and rice and have even been letting my kids come with me to Wal Mart without their normal kiddie leash on, you know, so I can get my daily exercise sprinting after the two of them as they dart in two opposite directions in search of toys and candy. What can I say, I'm a regular Gene, I mean, Richard Simmons. But there are just some foods you can't part with and, for me, ranch dressing is at the top of that list.
Anyways, as of last night, I came to believe that the deep love of ranch dressing might be genetic, you know, like some folks swear the love of beer is. After I cooked supper and then made plates for all the penis-bearing members of our household, I went to the back end of the house to hang up some wrinkly clothes. At first, I heard nothing but silence, the familiar sound of two boys and their equally ornery father stuffing their bellies with pork chops and the fixins. After a few minutes, the noise came back and I knew the funny business would restart promptly.
Just as I pulled the last shirt from the basket, my youngest boy Rolan tip-toed into our room, a smile on his face with evidence of mischief in his eyes. My room was dark, so it took me a second to notice it.
And just what was "it," you ask. Well, pull up a chair and I will tell you, friends.
"It" was the creamy, white semi-circle that started at Rolan's chin, curving from one cheek to the next while peaking at his button nose. At first, I didn't see it and then I couldn't figure out just what it was. And then I remembered -- I made a jug of homemade ranch dressing. His face looked as though he had a beard of pure dairy delight.
Immediately, I knew a mess of near Biblical proportions awaited me somewhere within our house. I asked Rolan where the dressing was and he responded by acting as though he hadn't heard a damn word I said because he was so simply too consumed with running his chubby fingers through the sauce of his chin and then licking off his spoils. I left my laundry in the bedroom to find a sports-consumed husband kicked back in his lazy boy blissfully unaware that Rolan had gotten into the ranch dressing. Walking by scanning the room for some white explosion, I asked Rowdy if he'd heard or seen the boy getting into anything. Naturally, his response was no, which was no fucking surprise to me since
I searched high and low. I looked in the boys' rooms, behind the television, hell, even on the front porch. I couldn't find the dressing jug, but aside from Rolan's face smothered in dressing, I could not spot the crime scene, either.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few splatters of a creamy, white something behind the refrigerator. Slowly, I inched closer and, as I did, I noticed more and more dressing. Apparently Rolan had swiped the shit, which is awesome, and then snuck behind the frig to basically, well, drink that shit. And in the process, he had also managed to pour it in the vents on the backside of the frig, into the carpet and down cracks in our wall I previously did not know existed. It was an unholy fucking mess.
Naturally Rowdy chuckled, which made perfect sense to me since he wasn't the one shimmying his fat ass behind a large appliance to then scrub a dairy explosion off an entire corner of our house. I'm sure it would have been a real freakin' knee slapper to me, too.
After I hosed down the refrigerator, I had to repeat the process on Rolan. He had to be bathed and his formerly clean pajamas had to be replaced. As I scrubbed the smiling two year old from top to bottom, I noticed just how much he really seemed to enjoy his big gulps of ranch dressing. Laughing at our shared passion, I then realized that he might have inherited more than just my deep love of salad dressing. I mean, holy bejesus, what if he feels the way his mother does about day drinking and cuss words and jokes that would make most sailors blush? Holy shit, I may have created a monster.

The Wisdom of Brotherly Beatings

The comic Titus often said that while mothers try to teach their children wisdom, fathers make them earn it. I totally see this in the different parenting approaches Rowdy and I take. For example, while I might discourage the boys from getting near a flame to avoid being burned, Rowdy keeps his lips sealed, insisting that one round with fire will leave a lasting reminder that fire, well, it fucking hurts.
My sons have a rather passionate relationship with each other. Most of the time it is the kind of passion that prompts one sibling to undergo life-threatening surgery to donate a kidney to a brother or sister fighting off death. They protect each other, they get angry at Rowdy and me when we are disciplining the other, they are best friends and playmates. For the most part, the bond Ridge and Rolan share is as strong as a forest of oak trees.
But then there are other times, the times that they are hooked up like two rottweilers tearing each other by the flesh for a scrap of meat. When my boys decide to throw hands, neither one hold back. This is no holds barred combat, a fight to the death, or at least until someone gets hurt bad enough to give in and cry to Momma. And, normally, when I pull the two of them apart, some rinky dink cheap toy is stuck there between them.
So, when they opened a matching pair of toy bulldozers at my mom's this Christmas, I was like a freakin' psychic, foreseeing many a'thumping unleash over these two contraptions.
Naturally, as the person who birthed both of them, I try to discourage these bloody reenactments of Lord of the Flies. Now, I'm not saying that I think Rowdy actually wants them to claw one another's eyes out, but he certainly seems to create situations that he, as a thinking adult, should see will lead to only that. He is constantly encouraging them to wrestle each other or tackle other or some other activity that 100% of the time leads to out-and-out warfare. Fucking constantly.
However, all this time I believed he just didn't think the end game out, that is, until he showed the boys how to have bulldozer fights. That's right, freakin' bulldozer fights.
A few nights ago, I walked into the living room to see Rowdy, the lone grown-up, showing our darling sons how to ram these disastrous toys against each other until one of them was pushed off the table, making one brother the winner and the other a very pissed off loser. Immediately, I snipped something like, "Have you lost your ever lovin' mind, Rowdy?"
Of course, he insisted that this was rather harmless, that they were just being boys. And he stuck by that defense right up until complete and utter lawlessness broke out.
And as I comforted my battered, beaten and bloody boys, I reminded Rowdy once again that they are, as he had just explained, boys. Their instinct simply is to smack each other with big toys until one of them is bleeding and both of them are bawling.
Then he said, "Yeah, but I bet they remember that it hurt."

There's No Title Because This is Basically Rambling Bullshit. That's it, Rambling Bullshit.

Well, I'm sure you've all been missing me the past few days. With that last of our many Christmas celebrations finally over the last Saturday, we've been strung out on holiday cheer and I just haven't known what to and what not to blog about. So, rather than post a long, never-ending narrative about one of them, I thought I'd just hit the high and low points, which will no doubt lead to a long, never-ending post, but at least you'll get to switch subjects to avoid spontaneous sleep.

1.) Our dog Whiskey died this Saturday. Apparently in the midnight hours, he snuck into town to visit some randy lass we were unaware of. On his way back home, he was struck by a semi and my husband and mother-in-law found him the following morning.
Named after the Willie Nelson classic Whiskey River, Rowdy and I got the border collie pup when our relationship was just as new and fresh as his baby's breath. I was amazed to watch him grow, the way the herding instinct just seemed to rise out of his DNA and, over the past few years, his work had become as important as an extra cowboy's. Sure, it was rough at first. He'd push cattle when he wasn't suppose to and then turn right around and not push when the time was right. But, in just a few short years, that thing inside him took over.
Whiskey had a meek and sweet spirit. He would let me pet him as long as I liked, unless of course Rowdy fired up a four wheeler and then he was off to work. He never called in sick or missed a day. He was a great hand.
Although I always loved Whiskey, I think my real bond with him came after our children were born. They'd tug his ears or yank his tail and, in return, he would drown them with slobbering kisses from his wet tongue. As my boys got older and would periodically be around cattle, we noticed this was perhaps the only time Whiskey didn't dart after his herd. Instead, he kept a steady eye on the livestock and the boys, careful to always be directly in between them and each calf. He was a good dog.
This morning was bittersweet. As Rowdy got dressed to go out and start his day, our youngest yelled out the door for his faithful old friend, "Whick-key, Whick-key, where you?"
Tears were in both our eyes, as we knew his calls wouldn't be answered.

Okay, now onto more sunshiny tales, the ones you come here for.

2.) In spite of our loud and steady pleas each year for each set of grandparents to limit the toys under their trees and candy in stockings, all four pairs (both our parents are divorced) steamed full force ahead with the stockpiles of trains and trucks and enough sugar to keep a bakery in supply for a full year. Rowdy and I dumped each stocking into a big, black bag, hoping to smuggle that shit out of the house before the boys had it strung from top to bottom.
The plan, my friends, was unsuccessful. After I tucked everyone into bed last night, I put the bag up high on the kitchen counter and went off to bed myself.
Then, at 3:30 in the morning, a small boy shook me out of my warm bed and he commanded me to, "Wake Up! Hurry!" I wasn't sure what Rolan was waking me for, but I knew it couldn't be good. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room, where his big brother was fast asleep with the giant bag o' goodies resting next to him. Apparently Rolan was just so proud that he realized in the middle of the damn night that the candy, totally unguarded, was there that he had to wake me to show his spoils. I tried to explain to him that this would be like calling the bank BEFORE you robbed it, took the candy and left him whining in his bed.
And, just to make all the awakening better, my mother-in-law was at the front of our room at 5 am, asking Rowdy questions about the business. Overall, AWESOME! **Que Dry Sarcasm** I'm not at all bitchy today.

3.) As Ridge crawled into my lap this afternoon, he pointed to my groin and quizzed, "Is that where your balls are, Momma?"
I began explaining the whole boy-girl thing and, interrupting me with a choir of giggles, he wisely said, "Oh, you have girl parts. I don't like girl parts. They have poop and oil."
I sort of understood the poop since it is in the same general area and he is, after all, 4 and, when you are 4, poop is a pretty big part of your life. But, the oil I didn't get. It's not like I'm frying chicken in my "girl parts."
Also, I have trained him to chant on demand that his momma is his NUMBER ONE girl and I plan on soon having him brain washed into declaring that no woman will care for him like me. Just kidding. Kinda. I realize this might be pretty costly in therapy charges down the road, so I am trying to reign it in. Trying is the key word.

4.) Can you say Senator Franken? Now, if you've been reading this blog long or if you've gone through my archives, you know I bleed blue (although I can't say I'm super stoked about Obama's stacking conservatives in his Cabinet. But, at least they are really, really smart conservatives, right?).
All the Bleeding Heart Liberal characteristics (**Que More Sarcarsm** which is really popular here in Oklahoma) aside, I didn't even think my friend Al could pull this shit off and I donated to his campaign and have bought every book he's ever written. Hell, I even highlighted through those bastards.
Even though a Minnesota board certified Al the winner over Norm Coleman today, the incumbent Coleman will no doubt take further legal steps to prevent it and, in spite of little room for change, I hope he does. We Americans are impatient. We want to know the winners of our elections as though they are football games. This may have been a pains taken, almost parody of a recount as though it were actually a brilliant Saturday Night Live skit written in Al's past life on the show, but we will have no doubt in the winner. 2.9 million people voted and this baby was decided by 225 votes. Remember that the next time you want to stay home from the polls, thinking your vote doesn't matter.

5.)Mollie's daughter Hannah, who is homeschooled not for religious reasons but because her mother wholly and fully believes she is almost as genius as Stephen Hawking (and she is), somehow stumbled upon those videos from that mascara-drinched Britney fan, yelling at US, all of US, to leave Britney alone. Now, this is particularly hilarious since Hannah didn't know who the hell he was talking about when she found it.
She said, "I don't know who this Britney person is, but I hope they leave her alone so that guy will shut up."
Now Mollie and I want to force Hannah into making our own mascara-drenched video. And the therapy bill just keeps going up.

Rock The New Year

I'm not gonna lie, I'm a bit concerned about the natural ease and instinct the Brothers Little had when I busted out the 2009 shades. With no hesitation, they slapped those bitches on and ran about the house like two season party goers. Fuzzy images of the two of them living it up on New Years Eve circa 2025 went flashing through my troubled mind as they leaped about the living room, making goofy faces for the camera and just reeking havoc in general.
Now, I know you all are constantly want to blame their prominent orneriness upon being the sons of a rather wiseass mother. So, I give you Exhibit A, the photo of them with my Rowdy. As much as I'd love to take complete credit for their quirky wit, you can see Ridge and Rolan are getting a fine lesson in that from both sides of their gene pool.

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 .

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.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree!

My mom came over last night for Bedlam (the Oklahoma/Oklahoma State football game for all you non-Okies and non-football junkies) and I talked Rowdy into fetching the Christmas tree in this rather corny notion that three generations putting the holiday staple would be this postcard-isque memory for all of us. He tried to preach rationality to me, his wife who just happens to be completely immune to absolutely all reason. He said that I should wait until the boys were sleeping or away to put the tree together. Apparently, he's met our sons before and could foresee how this would turn out. I mean, he's no Nostradamus, but he has a pretty telescope for the future than I apparently do.
Well, we got consumed with the football game and the tree didn't get put together. But, since Ridge already has Santa on the brain from the endless loop of The Polar Express he's consumed in the past two days, so he began chanting to put up the tree since he woke up this morning.
Now, before I tell you, my darling readers, what I am about to, you have to promise that, under no circumstances, you will tell Rowdy what I'm going to divulge. I don't care if he ties you up and forces you to sit in front of Crocodile Dundee for 72 solid hours, keep those lips zipped.
Okay, here goes. I'm just gonna do it, like ripping off a Band Aid.
Rowdy was right. I should have waited until the boys were doing anything other than standing beside me when I decided to decorate for the upcoming holiday.
It was a fucking nightmare to say the least, an adorable nightmare I'm sure I will look back upon when Ridge and Rolan are grown all sappy and misty-eyed. But, in the here and now, my nerves were frazzled and those plastic pine needles are scattered across our living room floor like confetti on Bourbon Street the day after Mardi Gras.
Ridge was so excited about the assembly of the tree that his face, all lit up with eager joy, was one big frozen grin. Of course, he was so pumped about all this tree business that he just randomly stuffed the tree pole with various lengths of tree limbs. He put long limbs at the top and in the middle. He cascade short, stubby limbs on the bottom. When Rowdy emerged from our bedroom, which he seems to think is his football playoff headquarters, he quizzed me upon the utter lack of form or order our tree had clearly taken upon. Rowdy moved a few branches to more reasonable position as Ridge rattled off the play-by-play of our decorating as though it was some competitive sport.
I can truthfully say that Rolan, the 2-year-old, didn't place any limbs in the incorrect section of that tree pole. I can say that because he didn't even pretend he was going to use the limbs as a piece of our Christmas tree. No, when Rolan say that limbs on the table, he saw weapons. So, he periodically would snatch up one of the branches and then whack his unsuspecting brother, who would in turn grab another branch and do the same. It was a jostling match, except the boys used fake tree limbs in the place of knives.
As Ridge bounced around with delight and Rolan reeked general havoc, I think Rowdy was secretly enjoying his prophecy's chaotic revelation. He had warned me. He had tried to rationalize with me, obviously an insanely unreasonable woman.
Don't you do dare tell him I said that.
And, as you can see in these photos, all the messes and extra assembly time was well worth it. The boys had fun and, with the tree out in their daily sight, I can start manipulating them into good behavior with threats of Santa Claus.

Rolan Clinton, 2, tree sword fighter extraordinaire

Screwed

That will be the overall theme of this post and I think you'll understand why shortly.

***My day started on the particularly pleasant note of Rolan, the 2-year-old, leaping up and down on my bed like one of those bizarre Olympic trampoline champions and then subsequently landing on my belly like one of those super bizarre professional wrestlers. Since I already bemoan freakin' love dragging my large caboose out of bed in the first damn place, you can imagine how much I enjoyed being awoke by a 30 pound cannonball of adorable mayhem crashing into my abdomen. I don't think I have had the breath knocked out of me since I was in grade school, so as you can imagine, I was probably a real peach today. This isn't really "screwed" in the traditional sense. Or maybe it is. I guess I don't know what the traditional sense of being screwed is. Whatever it is, this is the one that sucks, like when you get stuck on a airplane by my a screaming kid and a relentless gum smacker. Or screwed like when your car breaks down at your mother-in-law's over a holiday that's driven all the local mechanics out of their shops and you half crazy.

The other two little tidbits are over the other kind of screwed, the kind that I like to talk about at very inappropriate places, such as baby showers. That's just a random example. The "talking about sex while you are sitting next to at least a half dozen 80-year-old women of a Baptist persuasion" is completely random and has nothing to do with the fact that I went to a baby shower yesterday. It is a totally hypothetical example. Totally.

***Honestly, the day wasn't that bad, apart from the smackdown breakfast in bed little Rolan served up all warm and toasty. I wrote articles for the paper and scolded the boys about 400 times for head butting each other and scattering pictures as though they were Mardi Gras confetti, so it was basically business as usual. After Rowdy came in from bullshitting at the local convenience store/coffee shop/pizza parlor getting latest minute-to-minute deer season updates doing cowboy things, we ate super and he put the boys to bed. Just after I started my shower, he was there rapping on the door. He, apparently, was in the mood for husband and wife relations, things of which I am clearly far too ladylike to blog about here on the internet for all six of my faithful followers to read. Anyways, my big, strapping, masculine, handsome man smiled as he joined me and then starting squealing like a newborn, decrying the unbearable heat of my water. Of course my gut instinct was to badger him for being a tender skinned wuss, but then I remembered that Oprah told me that sort of chicken pecking tends to take the fellas out of the romantic mood and, let's face, Momma needed a little action before the unstoppable toddler invasion overtook the bedroom.

***When Rowdy and I were on our honeymoon in Cozumel, Mexico, a rather persistent local vendor was pulling out all the stops to convince my husband to buy a necklace for his new bride. After several sales pitches proved unsuccessful, the intuitive salesman whipped out a paper cup and Patron tequila and, well, the grapefruit-sized pendant has been in my jewelry box ever since. Now, the reason I mention this memory is because that is probably the first time I realized that Mexico is just my kind of country. I mean, any place that openly encourages intoxicating customers to boost profits is a country I can get behind. Team that with the nationwide nap they collectively take each day and I'm outside the house with silver duct tape writing out BIENVENIDO over WELCOME on the doormat.
But, while I love that and many other Mexican traditions, customs and laws, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the absolute infatuation I would develop for the entire country to our south when I discovered that the mayor of Mexico City, some Einstein-level genius named Marcelo Ebrard, is now officially handing out few Viagra and other impotence drugs to men over 70. Now that's a stiff re-election platform if I've ever seen one. In the announcement that proved Mexico CIty is the most hard rockin' city on the globe, Ebrare said that sexuality "has a lot to do with quality of life and our happiness," which basically means I'm inching towards that goal post and I certainly want to score again.
However, I do have one question for Mr. Ebrard. If you are dolling out Viagra like their shots of Patron to half-drunk Americans, the best senior citizen service in history, for Mexico City's men, what are you doing for the ladies? If you will promise free laser hair removal for the chicas, consider my retirement bags packed. I mean, I'm barely 28 and I'm already starting to sprout those menacing little hairs under my chin, so I can imagine by the time I'm 70, I'll look like some creepy red-haired wolf man. You know the gentlemen just go crazy for that. And just who will be the biggest supporters of this plan? My guess is Mexico City's 70-year-old men.

You're Giving Me Fever...Fever, Fever, Fever

Well, it has certainly been a rough day for Rolan and his momma and by day I mean starting at midnight and lasting to this point. I think the proper description is "sucks," as in this bullshit sucks.
We've both ran fever, we've both thrown up. And, on top of all that, I had a deadline to complete perhaps the biggest project I've ever gotten myself into. As you know, I often foolishly believe that I can conquer challenges I'm clearly not nearly equipped to tackle. And, as it is, I faced one of those today, this miserable day filled to the rim with fever and vomit.
Now, one of the things I love most about my darling Rolan is the gusto manner in which he just keeps it real. In fact, Rowdy and I have recently nicknamed him Maverick. I look forward to explaining the origin of that nickname to some girlfriend of his as she tilts her head like a dog does when he looks at his nutty owner.
In keeping with his mavericky keeping-it-real lifestyle, Rolan spent the better part of the day protesting his head-to-toe misery. He flopped on the ground and cried. He sprawled out on my body and moaned. When his temperature would rise, he would stomp his feet and pound his fists.
Truthfully, his innocent way of declaring through body language, "Hey Mom, this is total bullshit," kinda made me feel better, too. The only thing worse than when your kids are sick, a utter heartbreak for mommas and daddies, is when you have the good fortune of being sick with them.
Rolan's feeling better now, so much so that he's yipping with each welcomed bite of yogurt, the first food he's eaten all day. So, here's to hoping Halloween is full of tricks and treats.

Rolan Little: Nothing Says Maverick Like Outdoor Nudity

Rowdy: Now THAT boy is a maverick!

The Rewards of Sacrifice

Losing yourself in a sea of motherhood seems almost inevitable. As it, almost my entire friend roster is comprised of mommas and, to one degree or another, they've all reported near-drowning in sippee cups and balanced breakfasts and, sweet bejesus, diaper cream. And as much as we love, love, love our darling spawn, we sometimes find ourselves staring with envy at our single, free friends. Our minds drift back to brisk summer evenings, of drinking cold beers on a quilt as Bobby Dylan belted "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" into dark night, of staying up way too late and then sleeping in even later. With a sigh you push the memories of that totally uninhibited ghost of yourself back into the recesses of your mind and then spoon another helping of macaroni and cheese out for the kids.
But then, when least expect it and need it the most, some small detail reminds you that all things great in this life come with the cost of great sacrifice. Through all your bitching and bellyaching, you are caught completely off guard. That, by the way, is the design of it. If you happened to be expecting some breath-taking moment then it wouldn't be some breath-taking. It would just be, well, a moment.
Now, I don't want this to sound like I am second-guessing my path into motherhood. That's not the case at all. My children are the two greatest people I know and I'm not just saying that because they were housed in my uterus for damn near a year. They are witty and compassionate, quirky and kind. But, in order for them to bloom, they must be the object of my attention. It's easy to get absorbed in such an awesome responsibility.
So, this weekend when I was mentally and emotionally beat down, one of those simple moments crept up on me out of nowhere.
My littlest guy Rolan has always been a lover. While his brother is certainly sweet and full of love, he was never the snuggler that Rolan is. Rolan is just, well, affectionate.
Because both my children are early risers, clearly a trait they inherited from their dad and, subsequently, requires me to drag my wide ass out of bed far early than I would like, I was out of bed Saturday morning with the cravings for more rest luring me back to sleep. I sat in the recliner sipping coffee as Ridge and Rolan watched The Bee Movie. (By the way, if you haven't seen this yet, do. Unfortunately, I watch more cartoons these days than I would like, but this gets high marks from me.)
Just as I was cursing the universe for unfairly crashing into my peaceful slumber, my Rolan made me realize how blessed I am to have him and his brother to be up early with.
He shimmied up my leg and into my lap. First he touched his nose to mine and then buried his head into the nook of my neck. And just when I thought this moment was as sweet as it gets, he grabbed one of my arms, wrapping it around his body, and then reached down to grab the other, throwing it over him as well. He wanted to be near me, to be embraced by his mother. At the risk of sounding pitifully corny, I kind of got a tear in my eye. We know our children love us, we do. But, in these tender instances when you can feel the outpouring of their adoration, you realize that all the personal identity you have had to forfeit for their well-being is worth the investment.
After a few minutes, I broke my embrace and put my arms back at my side. Rolan reached down just as he had before, grabbing one of my arms and then the other, wrapping them around him.
It was a perfect moment, a moment I have been needing.

'Cause the Glass Half Full Makes Me Nervous

I don't like it when life's road is a gingery glide along a tranquil stream or some such shit. Well, it's not that I'm all anti-harmonious made-for-television moments or anything like that. If they were just that, a moment to come and go, then I'd probably skip along side the chipping larks and fluttering butterflies.
But, as it is, I know that when life's road is smooth, it isn't just a moment. It's anything but that. Rather, it's the preface for a stormy Hindenburg collision. You show me a cheerful man whose day is pacing along in perfection and I'll show you a dude who is going to stub his toe while tripping over his dog's puke. Or I'll show you a dude who is going to inadvertently crash his new beloved sports car into a vehicle his wife is traveling in, unbeknownst to him, with her younger, hotter lover.
Now, before you start lecturing me about the sunshiny glass half full philosophy that you live your super corny life by, I want you to know that I love my pessimism. I adore it. And do you know why, Mr. Chipper Pants? Because my pessimism has never failed me.
While all those plastic-smiled optimists are bummed out on the sidewalk because their favorite Idol was booted out on his ass by the ruthless Simon or because a mud puddle somehow found its way into their fresh, clean path, I take life's numerous disappointments and failures in stride because, well, I knew that this shit was most likely going to implode into nightmare. And then, every great now and again when life does throw me a unsuspected curve ball and things work out as though it is happening in some euphoric Hollywood script, I get to be surprise. And, really, who doesn't love surprises? I mean, there are a few no one loves, like when your ex-girlfriend surprises you with the knowledge that her special lady time is a few weeks late, but aside from that, surprises make us feel like cotton candy is in the soul.
Let me break it down for my "special" readers: Optimism = tons of disappoint, Pessimism = occasional surprises!
Now, I'm not detailing my well-established beliefs is suckism to further convince you of my fun hater status, though my guess is that it is. Oh, just so you know, suckism is a word I totally just made up to describe the doctrine that this (fill in the blank) sucks.
Let me get back on track. The reason I am writing all this is because in the rare and random incident that life just somehow cooperates to my will, I get nervous. And I mean real nervous, like that knotted up stomach I get each time Dick Cheney snarls at me on the television.
If, out of the clear blue, life magically falls into place, I start looking for the poop in the corner. So, after I laid Rolan down for his nap, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I walked into my bedroom to find a peacefully napping Ridge.
I didn't tell him to lay down. I didn't scold him for three hours, repeating in an endless loop, "Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down. Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down."
I didn't bribe him with 4,000 empty sugar calories. I didn't even have to turn on some terrible Western. He just took it upon himself to swaddle himself in my covers and rest.
So, because of his divine miracle transpiring from no effort on my part, I know something real shitty is going to happen this afternoon. One of the kids will get sick. No, wait, both of the kids will get sick. After they puke in unison, they will slug it out. Then their favorite toys will disappear. Or George Bush will come on television and, after he gives the super-educated Washington press corp definitions to words already know, he'll announce that he's liked "presidentin'" so much that he's decided he's just gonna keep doing it next year.

Our Country Boy Convert

Here we are on day 4 of the Webling invasion on the ranch. In case you don't know what I mean, my friend Mollie's boy has been bunked up with us while she and her man have been partying down in Vegas.
As my husband would phrase it, Carson is a town boy. Now, for my non-Okie readers, I'm sure you are giggling at the notion of a young man who lives in a community of 10,000 that goes by the name of Elk City being a "town" boy. But, to Rowdy, any area that is inhabited by more than, I don't know, 500 people spread out over 20 square miles might as well be South Central Los Angeles.
Just a few hours away from home, Carson the "town" boy, he's already picked up some of my "country" boys' ways. On morning one and morning two, he found his way to the bathroom to tinkle in the potty. But, by yesterday, he was outside with my boys, masking in the freedom of whizzing off the porch.
Rowdy, as you know, is totally down with the exploitation of child labor. The day he found out I was pregnant with Ridge Rowdy daydreamed about the day he could bark, "Jump down in that grainery, boy, and clean that shit out," or "Run down there and grab that gate and let's sort of those sick calves." I could go on forever. And, as Rowdy continues to inquire about just when I will be caving in and bearing one more future employee, I know his motivation. Dude, we are getting old and we need some teenagers about the time we are 50.
Anyways, after the boys finished their lunches, we went outside to to play and sweep underneath the carport. When Ridge got his new boots for school, we started calling his beloved old pair that he's worn every single day for a year his "work" boots. He just couldn't take the pain of totally retiring them, plus it keeps the new ones looking shiny a little longer.
So, as we went outside, Carson shucked his checkered shoes and pulled upon a spare set of ours while declaring, "These are MY work boots!?
Yup, he's becoming a country convert. Rowdy is basking in his victory. He has one more night with us, so perhaps I'll send him back in a pearl snap with a lunch pale full of calf fries.

A Smokin' Good Time at the Zoo

Up until a few months ago, I could tell Ridge we were going to do something and then later change my mind without him noticing. But, like all good things, that has come to an end. Once the well-intended promise leaves my lips, it might as well be mafia blood debt. In other words, I better come through or my head's gonna end up in a meat grinder, or at least that's how it is going to feel as I am listening to hours of my hardass son line his mother out.
And so, that's how I ended up driving the city with my mom to take him to the zoo today. Yesterday Mom accompanied my sister's family to the State Fair, so she wanted to do something fun with my kids today. Ridge was within an earshot as she and I discussed a trip to the zoo, so he immediately questioned just what we were discussing. I asked if he wanted to visit the zoo and he answered with an emphatic yes.
However, when I was yanked from my peaceful slumber this morning by my youngest boy Rolan bouncing upon my belly as he belted, "Yeeeee Haaawwww," I quickly remembered the unwise pledge I made the day before to Ridge. I didn't want to drive a few hours to drag and chase two boys over a 100 zoo. I wanted to keep my fat ass on the coach while periodically snagging 15 minute naps. Rolan's wake-up call stirred Ridge and, before he could fully open his eyes, he said, "It's morning, Momma. Let's go to the zoo."
Before I realized it, I almost mustered some excuse. But, I knew I wanted the wishful seeds of adventure in his young mind, so I pulled myself from my comfortable bed and started my day. Mom called requesting a later departure time, admitting that she considered canceling. She heard her grandson's excited ramblings in the background and, like me, she knew we had to follow through with our plans.
After our last zoo outing, I learned that we are tram people. If you go, listen to me, get the tram tickets. It beats the hell out of chasing two boys sprinting in different directions.
As we started into the ape exhibit, I looked over at my mother to see her putting out a cigarette.
"Mom, you can't smoke in here," I said, shocked that she was sneaking a few drags.
"I know," she replied, "That's why I am putting it out."
"No, I don't mean you can't smoke in the exhibit. I mean you can't smoke in the zoo at all."
"Are you sure?"
"Ummmm....yes, there's a big sign at the front. Have you seen anyone else smoking?"
She, of course, was mortified. While I was a little scared that the men in the white golf carts were going to boot us out on our smoking asses, I had to giggle a little bit at my mom. I know she's a child of the 60s and 70s when the country was lighting up like a big chimney, but I would think you would have had to have been in a coma for the past 5 years to think smoking at a zoo was still okay.
After several rounds around the zoo, we took my delighted children across the street to the OmniPlex, Oklahoma's Science Museum. Miracously, we made it through that without either boy destroying a single thing. Ridge did wildly desire to scale the dinosaur bones, but we somehow managed to contain him.
The day was long, but well worth it. Through I didn't think so this morning, I am glad I made the promise to Ridge yesterday.

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.

When Kids Invade the Bedroom

Pull up a chair, Readers, it's lessons from Shonda time again.
For some reason, I've been blogging about getting it on and, moreover, the subsequent reproduction that it causes lately. It all started with Bristol Palin and the big no-no she and her hot piece of Alaskan tail Levi Johnston got into. Well, it didn't really start there. You know I've been a weaselly perv for many a years now, that just sparked all the writing. Then I talked to all you teenagers out there about the perks of having a baby at a young age. Mollie did it and now she has a mini nanny. I waited until I was 24 to start having kids, which is like 40 here in Oklahoma. Seriously, my aunt Janet began calling me an old maid when I was 20. To be fair, she and her bunch are more fertile than prime Ohio farm ground. Anyways, my responsibility (or luck, whatev) really paid off. While I'm slaving over six freakin' loads of laundry, Mollie's watching tv as her daughter Hannah loads the dryer and pours milk for the smaller children. It's bullshit.
Well, I figured I might as well keep the raunchy theme going, right. Today I want to talk to you about birth control in its most effective means.
Now, in order for you to take this sure fire route, you must have either already reproduced or have access to a kid you can borrow. I repeat, there must be small children.
I can tell you, Brilliant Readers, that nothing slows down the procreation like a toddler's head peeking over the side of the bed just as you start rubbing on your partner's nether regions.
"Momma, there's a monster under my bed," he whispers as he shimmies into bed and rests between the two of you.
But, you don't give up there. After all, the two of you used to be quite the rock stars in this regard and you are motivated to kick off the reunion tour. You lay like motionless rocks until the little angel is sleeping soundly, then you sneak off to his home. It, after all, is free.
Just as you slip into the Thomas the Train sheets (this is totally hypothetical), you hear a soft cry in the room of the baby. The soft cry quickly turns into a shrill scream. You sigh, leave your handsome spouse in the big kid's room and go to soothe the little kid.
Of course, for some odd reason, it takes twice as long to comfort him as it normally does. You rock and sing, whisper and hug, but the child reminds you there is no rest for the weary and no love for the randy.
By the time you perform the small miracle of hypnotising the kiddo, you creep back into the toddler's room to find a snoring husband.
So, there you, Readers. If you don't want to get pregnant, just have kids.

The Brother Battle Wages On

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

For Those Who Missed It: The Sponge Bob Conspiracy

I posted this the first time several months ago. Since this, I have made a few new friends, one of whom has been bitching about her own children's addiction to this absurd cartoon. You know how seriously I take my patriotic duty, so I am re-posting this to spread the word.

I'm not for sure where my kids got turned onto this little gem, but I have my ideas. SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS! One day they came home, chanting and pleading for me to turn it on the tv. Seemed harmless enough. And since its on Nickelodeon non-freakin'-stop, I just flipped it over and there it was. Because they seemed so pleased and entranced, I went ahead a recorded it for good measure.
Over the next following weeks, Ridge asked for it more and more while Rolan danced gleefully in the background at the prospects at watching this underwater sponge living a pineapple.
Well, one day I decided I should maybe watch this with them. I mean, I know that no tv is really that good for kids, but Thomas the Train, the undisputed champion of Ridge's heart, periodically talks about colors and letters. Plus Ridge has learned to talk like a cheeky little Englishmen, abandoning the word "mad" for "cross," i.e., "Mom, Rolan is playing with my train. I am so cross."
Anyways, let's get back on track. So, I sit down with my guys one afternoon to see what all the fuss is about. With my mouth dropped open, I was shocked at how many times this one tiny sponge could burp and fart, as though my boys need any encouragement in this department. The sponge bumbled around foolishly as some grumpy squid or whatever schemed on selling kids for profit or something, just one more thing my boys probably won't need any further encouragement with.
Immediately I banned Sponge Bob and all his ridicules friends from our house. Just put it on the shelf next to the Nascar and the Grizzly Man log-sawing contest or whatever the hell that is that Rowdy soooo loves to watch.
As soon as I erased this nonsense, my living room looked like Tienanmen Square, China, circa 1989. Ridge and Rolan were in a fully brazen protest and you know I was gonna mow that shit down like all those tanks over those freedom-starved students. (I know, I know it's probably immoral to joke about such a thing, especially coming from a self-described liberal such as myself, but I bet you laughed.)
After the Great Sponge Bob Famine of 2008 began, I spent a lot of time thinking about such a show and how it ever came to be. And before you start sending me some hate mail because you love Sponge Bob, look down at your one-hitter and your hacky sack. Yup, that's why I don't want my kids watching this bullshit.
Now, if you happen to be one of those neocons, follow closely. You are gonna love this. After all, that nutty windbag Jerry Falwell decried that the purple Teletubbie was making our kids homosexuals and you all went banannas. Here goes: I think Sponge Bob was created by the Taliban to dumb down our kids, thus setting the stage for an out-and-out jihadist invasion in about 15-20 years. I mean, if I wanted to conquer their shit hole countries, this is exactly what I'd do. I make a show that was so silly and ridicules that all kids would love it, but have the underlying message be, well, burping and farting. Osama bin Laden is behind this, I just know it.
And since I'm a sworn enemy of Osama, I'm waging war on this Sponge Bob Conspiracy and I think you should, too. I mean, do you want the insurgents to win? To quote my man Dub, you're either with us or against us. Osama is against us and so is Sponge Bob. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I bet Osama loves Sponge Bob.
I don't give a shit what former or current comic geek is credited with the creation of this little cartoon nightmare. Osama was behind it. Haven't you ever seen Super Troopers? Johnny Chimpo, need I say more.
So, there you go. I've done my patriotic duty. George Bush told me if you see something, say something. I've passed along the information. Go well, my friends.

An Economy-Size Pain the Foot

Dear Reader,
I write this to you for your own good. Heed my cautious warnings.

As you know, I am lured into savings like trailer-dwellers into a flea market. That's a lot. Do you know how I know? Because I live in a trailer and nothing warms my heart more than a plastic Jesus with the Ten Commandments written in Spanish. Any place with multi-colored cotton candy and every design conceivable on Zippos is a tropic resort in my mind.
Focus, Shonda. Your readers need you.
Okay, I know it's hard to resist a good deal and, normally, there's few bad things that result in a little extra jingle. However, no matter what you do, DO NOT BUY THE ECONOMY-SIZE SHISH-KA-BOB SKEWERS.
Strolling through the Sam's Club about a year ago, the package caught my eye.
1,000 little sticks for, like, $2.
That's what I spent on a measly 100 not long before that.
I couldn't pass this up. That's like (let me do the math in my head) 900 free. Just imagine how handy that would be if I needed to torture, I mean use "enhanced interrogation tactics," on Rowdy. In case you've never submitted to a totally accurate allergy test before, those little prickly sticks can inflict as much pain as a leather bull whip. Trust me, you'd rather sneeze.
Even though I only make shish-ka-bobs and tempura 12 times a year, at the most, I just couldn't walk away from this bargain. Throwing the skewers, which were in a clear bag as round as a Pringles can, into my basket, I envisioned all the grilled delights I would serve with my nearly endless supply of, well, supplies. I brought them home, stuck them in my cookbook basket and they've rested peacefully there until last month.
Almost magically, Rolan became an adventurous, strong-willed explorer on his second birthday. He is literally everywhere. He's like the wind, like the destructive, giggling wind.
As he was crawling over the kitchen counter (and don't you know that I just freakin' love that he's crawling on the counter), the industrial-size package of shish-ka-bob skewers caught his attention. While most folks see culinary materials, Rolan saw a stockpile of drumsticks. ONE THOUSAND LITTLE MUSIC MAKERS, PERFECT FOR HIS TINY HANDS. And, of course, the metal legs striking out from his high chair chime when the skewers are struck against them. With a powerful tug from his strong little arms, the plastic bag was torn and wooden skewers flew all over the floor. They rolled under the stove and whisked into the living room. They were everywhere!
So, when you stroll past the skewers at the savings club at a price that completely disorients your reasoning, just move past 'em. Leave 'em alone. Trust me, Readers, there's few things more painful than a wooden lance piercing the skin of your unsuspecting feet as you stumble to the coffee pot.
So, Reader, I pray you listen to my advice. I only want what's best for you
I Love You,
Shonda

PS-- Please ignore the messy, cluttered kitchen in the background. It's really not always that way. Well, that's a lie. It is always that way.