Hellbent on Lent

With the final day of drunken stumbling through New Orleans, Rio and other Mardi Gras celebrations now upon us, I've got my Fat Tuesday beer cracked as I try to figure out just what I'm going to sacrifice on the alter of personal growth this year for Lent. I know what you're thinking -- I didn't know you are Catholic, Shonda. Well, you would be thinking correctly, I am not Catholic. You see, not long after high school, I periodically helped out at a small, local cafe. While the owner was the only member of Catholicism working there, the other ladies joined in on the tradition. And since I am so clearly someone abundant in self control, I figured I would be a total natural for this Lent shit.
Yeah, I turned out to be wrong about that. I don't really recall what I swore off for those 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter, but I do remember it being the Titanic of sacrifice. Sure, it started out with good intentions, but in the end, there was only blood curdling screams and a bunch of hysteria.

In spite of my first Lent being a holy fucking disaster, I've tried it each year since then. In 2002, that super fly Josh Hartnett stared in 40 Days and 40 Nights, a comedy about a young single man giving up the impossible for God -- sex. The first year I was with Rowdy I suggested that I might make this same pledge and he nearly peed his pants from the all consuming laughter. He apparently thinks he's such a Man God or that I'm such a lustful harlot that I couldn't withstand the lure of his loving, even if it were for the Almighty. I thought about attempting it just to prove Rowdy wrong, but then I realized if I were to fail at this, Rowdy would really strut around here like rooster in a hen house. Yeah, that's definitely why I didn't give up the nookie. It's definitely not because I didn't think I couldn't do it. Definitely.
Then one tragic year I gave up cussing. Now, if you've been following this blog any time at all or, if by chance, you've happened to meet me in the real world, you have probably figured out that I have had a long and passionate love affair with all words foul. In fact, I will go far enough to say that I believe that Jesus gave us cuss words in order that we don't freak out and start beating people at random. He told us to turn the other cheek, but he didn't say anything about flipping the bird while you are doing so. Not only that, if I took the cursing out of my vocabulary, it would literally be cut in half. But, I've always loved an under dog, so I tried it anyways. I spent the following 40 days walking around like a mumbling fool, no doubt convincing frightened strangers that I had Turrette's Syndrome or was in the middle of some acid trip gone awry. First, I would accidentally cuss and then I would start scolding myself under my breath. By the end of the day, I would just be walking in circles.
Last year I gave up Wal-Mart, which I know might seem rather silly to you, but hear me out. Since I'm kind of, well, a cheap skate, I hate spending more money than I have to on anything. I knew each time I had to pay an extra $5 for a box of diapers I would be tempted to scurry back out to the super store. But, after a week or so, it became incredibly easy. I felt pretty good about spending my money at locally owned shops and the local stores don't send me into the full blown panic attacks that Wal-Mart seems to.
So now, here we are on Fat Tuesday, the eve of Ash Wednesday, and I still have no freakin' idea what I am going to give up this year. I've kicked around giving up beer. But, as my friend Lyndi who also gives up something explains, you want to pick something that would be a challenge, not a miracle. I think we should leave beer off the list until my darling children have left for college.
I've also thought about giving up coupons. Yes, I'm really that geeky. I'm sure a few of you are giggling or smirking at the thought of that. But, let me tell you, I get as high as a Keith Richards on a three day heroin binder when those snotty teenage clerks tell me that I've saved 80% on my grocery bill. It will be a challenge to squeeze that full price out of my tight ass, but it wouldn't be like the whole Moses parting the Red Sea like forgoing the Bud Lights would be.
I still have a few more hours before I make the final decision. Since I think my blog readers could perhaps be a collection of the most brilliant people on the globe, I want to encourage suggestions from you guys. My clever husband has proposed that I give up bitching at him, you know, for the sake of Jesus. I tried to explain to him that the thing with Lent is suppose to be something you enjoy. He then chuckled and said, "You can't be that good at something you don't enjoy, love."
So, get after it, friends. While you guys are doing that, I'm going to watch our new president address our nation. I think I will take a big swig of beer every time he says the economy. After all, it is Fat Tuesday.

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.

The Epic Rises and Falls of History

As I listened to John McCain give his concession speech, I thought of the likes Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson, of great American statesmen who inched so close to the presidency, falling just short. Both men helped define America, though most citizens know not who they were. They served long and hard. And, as it is, both sought the highest office, both full of qualifications and brilliance, and both didn't live to achieve that aspiration. Sadly, most Americans know little of either, two of the greatest statesmen of our time.
And as I watched John McCain surrender his great fight last night, my mind also drifted to General MacArthur, when he declared that old soldiers don't die, they just simply fade away.
Truthfully, I will always think it is one of the great Shakespearean tragedies of our time that John wasn't the president on 9/11. I imagine he would have hunted Osama bin Laden personally, like some rabid dog on the trail of a crippled rabbit. But, the Republicans didn't nominate John in 2000 and, subsequently, we got George Bush. I suppose we could hash over a million different factors that lead to tonight's outcome, but either way, I think we will all agree the Bush presidency decided it more than the war or history or the economy.
With the mentioning of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson, you might have suspected that I love history, particularly American history. I've loved this country my whole life, so much so that I continue to love learning passages of its history I don't know yet. I know that is novel to some. While I don't want to take this victory away from Barack and from the family that lifted the most unlikely young man to a place of greatness, I also want to note this victory is not his alone.
If you have followed this blog much at all, you've probably learned many things about me. Like my father, I have a profound memory and, like him, I can often relate current events to my own personal life. Of all the emotions, nostalgia is one of my favorites.
I spent most of this day thinking not just of Barack Obama, but rather, thinking of Bobby Kennedy. I remembered that not long before his own death in 1968, Bobby declared that we would have our first black president within 40 years. Bobby was a trailblazer, burning paths for the equal rights of others even when it burned bridges for him. As I told my father that, a man who is legendary at least in my mind, Dad recalled his own memories of his life as it fell around the death of Bobby. I could tell it pleased him that this served Bobby's memory well. And as Dad ran through his own life's intimate connections to Vietnam and Civil Rights and most things related to the 1960s, the victories and losses of today's election were poignantly clear. On one hand, a prisoner of war from that era, a man who bleed almost endlessly for this nation, was rejected for the second time from the high office. On the other, the battles of my father's greatest idol, Mohamed Ali, were finally put to rest. My father is a living, breathing paradox for the time period that produced both John McCain and Barack Obama and, honestly, without him I would a smaller understanding of both men.
As I listened to John's concession speech last, I saw the statesmen I've always thought him to be. Frankly, my heart broke. During this campaign, John seemed not to resemble that at times, but I saw him clearly last night. While I have pulled so heavily for Obama, I've also known John is one of the great statesmen of our time, like Clay, like Stevenson. Like so few remember the two of them, 100 years from now, most Americans won't remember the Shakespearean highs and lows of John McCain. Under different circumstances, maybe I would've voted for him. I look forward to continuing to know John, especially now that a presidency is most definitely out of reach. I look for these next few years to be his greatest, where he will help guide both America and his own legacy. He has been a very special brand of leader and I'm so thankful to call him ours, as in "our time."
But, with the certain end of John's presidential aspirations, our nation embarks upon another journey, a journey as exciting as I can imagine. Barack Obama's life is that of epic proportion and I won't pretend that I am not in awe of the amazing resilience in overcoming his life's obstacles. When I look at him, I see Bobby and Martin. I also see my two baby sons. While I think Roberta McCain has the class of a great lady, I don't see myself in her. However, I do see myself in Ann Dunham. If my sons chose to stay out here in Western Oklahoma, I will shutter at the mercy of God. However, if they dream of horizons that cascade upon the Seine and trickle down Tigris and lead them to destinations I have never even read of, then I will consider my life a success. I want them to ride the great waves into the bliss. I want them to make love in a waterfalls just outside of Delhi and leave poker tables at dawn, ahead of course. Whether they fly big planes over Egypt or drive big tractors of the beautiful American plains, I want their lives to be their ultimate dream. I want them to taste life, even when it is bitter.
Congratulations, President Obama. Our challenges are the biggest of our generation and I am excited to see how you rise to meet them.

A Tribute To Mothers

Well, one day left until election, one day left until we (hopefully) have a winner. From reading this blog you should have no doubt about who I'm pulling for, Barack Obama. But, at this late date, I don't desire to debate policies and platforms and promises. Rather, I want to say no matter who wins, on Wednesday, we must come together as one nation, a whole nation. I realize you are probably thinking, "Sure, Shonda, that's easy to say right now when it appears your guy should stroll to victory."
Well, don't forget the past two elections that have left me drowning in at least 3 30-packs of beer, wondering how the hell Little George pulled off another one. But, at the end of the day, I accepted his presidency, even if I still doubted his Florida 2000 win.
Again, this post isn't an invitation for debate, just a small explanation of my beliefs, but moreover, my love for this country. I love this country so much that I actually learn about it. My quest for that knowledge will never end. I love reading of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson and Theodore Roosevelt. I love reading over policies changes. FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm a covert dork. Okay, maybe not covert, but a dork nonetheless.
Simply and purely, I just think Obama's platform is the best for the country. But, I want to focus this post on something else that pulls me toward him.
When I see Barack Obama, I see my own sons. I realize that is probably a strange thought for many, since he is the son of a Kansas woman and a Kenyan man while my two sons are the offspring of two vanilla white Oklahomans. He lived part of his childhood in Indonesia, they will likely spend most of theirs in Cheyenne, Oklahoma. But still, when I see and read of his mother, Ann Dunham, I see myself.
I see a woman who valued education and wanted her son to have a broader knowledge of the ENTIRE world as it is, to see the big picture. I want my sons to dream of horizons beyond what society believes they, the offspring of cattle ranchers in Western Oklahoma, can achieve. When I see my sons, I dream for them, for their greatness. So, when I examine Ann Dunham and Roberta McCain, both women worthy of great respect, I simply relate more to Ann than Roberta.
In the last 8 years, our country has experienced the most divisive period of my lifetime. Regardless of tomorrow's outcome, I hope that we can move past our differences. We our one nation.
But, I'm also leaving you with a passage from Barack's audiobook, a part he reads of his mother. All mothers of sons will be warmed when hearing this. I listened with tears down my face, not because of Barack, but because Ann isn't here to see the achievements of her son. I hope you enjoy.

A Beautiful Mind

Okay, Readers, I am apologizing in advance for all the lack of good humor and rank jokes on my blog this week. I've been busy and sleepy and, frankly, lazy. So, while I'm still all scrunched faced and serious, I will leave you with a few thoughts and quotes from the richest man in the world, Warren Buffett, who is the Michael Jordan of investing and also a vocal Barack Obama supporter.

On the Bush tax policies and tax loopholes, Warren, a true humanitarian, lamented that in spite of being the wealthiest man on Earth, he only paid 19% of his personal income in 2006, which was (48.1 million), in federal income taxes while his middle income employees paid 33% of their incomes although they made much, much less money.

Buffett believes that the U.S. dollar will lose value in the long run. He views the United States' expanding trade deficit as an alarming trend that will devalue the U.S. dollar and U.S. assets. As a result it is putting a larger portion of ownership of U.S. assets in the hands of foreigners. This induced Buffett to enter the foreign currency market for the first time in 2002. However, he substantially reduced his stake in 2005 as changing interest rates increased the costs of holding currency contracts. Buffett continues to be bearish on the dollar, and says he is looking to make acquisitions of companies which derive a substantial portion of their revenues from outside the United States. Buffett invested in PetroChina Company Limited and in a rare move, posted a commentary[49] on Berkshire Hathaway's website why he would not divest from the company despite calls from some activists to do so. (He did, however, sell this stake, apparently for purely financial reasons.)

Buffett favors the inheritance tax, saying that repealing it would be like "choosing the 2020 Olympic team by picking the eldest sons of the gold-medal winners in the 2000 Olympics". In 2007, Buffett testified before the Senate and urged them to preserve the estate tax so as to avoid a plutocracy.

In his letter to shareholders in March, 2005, Warren Buffett predicted that in another 10 years’ time the net ownership of the US by outsiders would amount to $11 trillion. “Americans … would chafe at the idea of perpetually paying tribute to their creditors and owners abroad. A country that is now aspiring to an ‘ownership society’ will not find happiness in - and I’ll use hyperbole here for emphasis - a 'sharecropper society’.”

Did you get that, folks? Sharecropper society. While Bush has started three wars, Iraq, Afghanistan and the War on Terror (referred to in the Pentagon as the "Long War"), he has mortgaged the entire country to the Chinese to give the first tax cuts in the history of the country during wartime. In other words, Warren believes that we, the people of the United States, have borrowed more money than we can pay back, which in effect sells our nation to our foreign debtors, we will be like sharecroppers. We will be working for a small percentage of the profits, the rest being shipped abroad the folks who actually own us.

Buffett has endorsed Barack Obama for president and intimated that John McCain's views on social justice were so far from his own that McCain would need a "lobotomy" for Buffett to change his endorsement.

With the economic meltdown streaming into every sector of the American commerce, the American people are getting a good lesson in how important the selection not just of the president, but the folks they let head up Cabinet positions. During last week's debate, Barack said that he felt like Warren would be a good choice for the Secretary of the Treasury. My right-leaning husband's ears perked up.

"If I knew for sure Barack would pick Warren and I knew Warren would accept, I would vote for him," Rowdy declared.

Like anyone who follows markets, Rowdy admires Warren Buffet. He's shown, simply, that he knows more than anyone else about the world's finance systems.

The world's most successful investor, the richest man on the globe, Warren Buffet believes Barack is the best candidate to turn around this financial crisis. Warren wasn't born into wealth. From a middle class Nebraska family, he has remained in Omaha to run Berkshire Hathaway. He has shunned the glamour of Wall Street, his home and heart still in the Midwest. He owns no yachts and considers his big screen television as a splurge.

I Can See The Cheyenne-Arapaho Nation From My Porch

Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you. I've been a fan for a long time. Do you mind if I call you John? (insert wink)
Great, you can call me Shonda if you'd like. Just go with your gut, I know that's where you really excel anyways.
Well, John, the reason I'm tracking you down today is that I need a job. I mean, with the American consumer going completely freakin' bankrupt and not having the keen foresight of being a corporation so their poor financial decisions could be "bailed out," I fear they'll only be able to scrounge up enough cash for a few beans for their daily meal. Typically a steak dinner is reserved for folks with enough cash to not be, I don't know, homeless, so I'm kinda concerned that the product my husband and I produce, beef, is going to become more of a luxury item for the few rather than the evening meal of the millions. That coupled with $5 a gallon diesel, which makes pulling a profit out of wheat crop easier than Katie Couric wrestling answers out of your girl Sarah, I think this might be the time for me to cut my apron strings and get a job.
But, here's the thing, John, I feel like I am far too qualified and, more importantly, too cool for most the jobs I've been being offered. So, I put on my trust Thinkin' Cap, known by many as shot-gunning a six pack (a little trick I learned from my friend Joe Six Pack. I think he is a common acquaintance of mine and your girl Sarah), and came up with a solution. You see, John, I'm a skilled problem-solver.
As I surfed the world wide web, I learned that the two of the only sectors with positive job growth during the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson Presidency are government and the oil and gas industries. I'm sure you are already aware of that since you supported 90% of that chucklehead's policies and resolutions. In fact, this reassures me of both your and Sarah's competence. God bless you, you saw this shitty economic Hindenburg plummeting toward it's fiery demise and you planted your brilliant butts into job security. Good for you, I say!
Since I'm already living out here in gas-rich Western Oklahoma, I'm sure you'd assume that I was going to pursue a fat paycheck in the oil patch. Well, John, I know lots of folks who work their asses off in that line of work and, to be honest, I just don't really want to have to work that hard. If you ask me, there are only a few activities are acceptable for 5:30 in the morning and drilling ain't on that list. Well, I guess "drilling" is approved, but it is the kind that you don't have to leave your cozy bed to do. I'm just looking for a job that requires a little less, well, work and a little more air conditioning.
I was starting to get a bit discouraged, John, as my quest for the perfect employment was bearing no fruit. Oh, speaking of fruit, does that offer you made for the $50 a hour lettuce-picking gig in Arizona still stand? It's not for me, you know I'm not gonna drag my fat, red-headed ass out in the 110 degree sauna that is Yuma for $50 a hour. But, for that kinda cash, I will totally force my whining offspring to pick that shit all year long. Hell, when they are finished with that, I will make them whip you and I up a nice chicken salad with some ranch dressing, perhaps a few almonds and sun-dried tomatoes. I think child labor builds character. Don't you agree, John?
My brain has always functioned most efficiently after I've cracked open a Bud Light. So, after I listened to that prick who ran Lehman Brothers into the ground whine to Congress about how the value of his Lehman Brothers stock had declined, you know because of his shitty decisions, and how he thinks it is absolutely fair that he gets to keep the $500 million in cash bonuses for his splendid job performance over the last few years, I realized I needed a second beer to really fuel my brain.
That's when it hit me, Joh. I should come to work for you! Like I said before, unless you work in the government or energy, you are probably worried that your job is going to disappear.
So, I googled government jobs. Several caught my eye, but I pushed forward in my quest. I think you will be pleased to know that I'm no quitter, John. When I am committed to task, I do not blink. I am that sure.
And then it happened, the job that I was born to do popped onto my screen. It was like when Derek met Meredith in Joe's bar and he was, like, totally drawn to her. Or like when Sarah Palin saw her first hockey puck.
Are you ready? (Drum roll please)..........
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Assistant Secretary of the Interior, the one who runs the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Now, I realize that I won't actually be a "candidate," that you would have to appoint me or something along those lines. I just taught "formally announcing my candidacy" had a more professional ring than "please, John, I'm begging for the job."
I know with your super thorough vetting and interviewing process, you are going to rummage through the entire background of each and every appointment you make in your administration. So, on that note, I have a little confession to make. I kinda, sorta already asked Barack if he would give me the job. I mean, I've always believed that you would storm into Washington on the Straight Talk Express and Put Country First. I just didn't know if you would win. You did, after all, lose the GOP nomination in 2000 to George Bush.
After Barack intereviewed me, I realized you guys were righ. He is a snobby elitist. He gets all self-righteous about qualifications and credentials and I was like, "Dude, you think because you went to Columbia and Harvard and have that sky high IQ are you are sooooo special."
The interview really did happen.....in my highly-evolved, not-at-all bizarre brain. It went something like this here:

ME: So, ummm, Barack, I really need a job and I think this Director of the Indian Affairs title would sound awesome right before my name.

BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...

ME: Please, call me Shonda.....or Assistant Secretary Shonda, whatever you feel comfortable with.

BARACK: Uhhh....okay....Shonda......tell me the education and qualifications who have for this position.

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. First of all, I live just outside of Cheyenne, Oklahoma on the Washita River. When I sit out on my porch at night drinking a cold beer while I yell at my kids to stop throwing rocks at one another, I can see the exact location that Custer massacred that sleeping village of Cheyenne women and children. There's a huge monument on the spot and everything. I'm pretty for sure it's part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation. So, yeah, I have very close relations with the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation.

BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?

ME: Oh, yes, absolutely! I can see the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation, well at least the part that not one single person lives on, from my house. As someone who can see another nation from her porch, I feel like that also gives me a wealth of foreign policy experience.

BARACK: Shonda, the Bureau of Indian Affairs is the oldest department in the Department of the Interior. The Department of the Interior only handles domestic issues, so foreign policy experience, as you called it, doesn't necessarily qualify you for that post.

ME: Oh, you want domestic experience! Fantastic! I am a domestic goddess, Barack. I can turn any three ingredients into a gourmet meal. I think my sizable ass will speak for that qualification. Would you like to see my credentials?
Three years ago, I started baking my kids' birthday cakes because I just couldn't stomach forking over $40 for a product that cost $3 to make.I've also pioneered a method to prevent lazy women from ironing. I use it daily.

BARACK: Yes, Shonda, frugality is a positive attribute, however, the Department of Interior doesn't really handle baking or ironing.
Do you have any actual experience in matters that the Bureau of Indian Affairs does handle, such as managing the 66 million acres of land held in a trust for the 562 federally recognized American Indian tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. Yes, I do. As you know, my husband and I farm and ranch. After helping my husband move farm equipment, I have sat stranded in a pick-up truck hundreds of times while Rowdy farmed. I normally manage that time by drinking warm beers left in the truck while texting messaging one of my friends about the enormous pile of bullshit I think being left in that sweltering truck is.

BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?

ME: Well, I'm not actually "involved" in making any decisions, but sometimes my husband really gets desperate and forces himself to let me plow. I have to tell you, Barack, that is a time I truly enjoy. I feel at one with land as I drive my giant tractor while listening to NPR Radio and narrowly missing fence posts with my plow.

BARACK: (quiet for lengthy period of time. Clearly he does blink) Another responsibility of the Bureau is to provide quality education. Does your background hold any experience in this field?

ME: Hell yes it does, Barack. I spent my late teenage years teaching younger kids how to drink beer. That's where my passion for education was birthed.
Just this week I taught my oldest son to tell his father that he was making him crazy. I also taught my youngest son to whiz off the front porch. Those diapers we are soaking through freakin' dozens at a damn time are bad for the environment, Barack, and like my Indian brothers and sister, I am want sit in a Circle of Harmony and smoke peyote with Mother Earth.


BARACK: Shonda, I think that statement may sound a bit racists to some.


ME: Oh, forgive me, Barack. I know white folks need to be careful when using racially specific words like "brothers and sisters." I apologize.

BARACK: White people have siblings, too, Shonda. That's not what I was referring to. Rather I was offended by the "Mother Earth" and "peyote" comment. It is wildly offensive to suggest that all Native Americans sit in circles smoking drugs to be one with nature.


ME: I just want the Native Americans and Mother Earth to be happy with me, Barack.


BARACK: Are you saying that you consume drugs, Shonda?

ME: Of course not, Barack! I am one of those people lucky enough to have a brain that hears non-existent noises and sees non-existent things all by itself. It's kinda like having a television in your head that no one knows about but you.

BARACK: You know what, Shonda, let's just move on. Providing quality health care to Native Americans is also a mission of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. How does this reflect your personal values?

ME: Well, for starters, Barack, I feel like they should be able to smoke peyote in the case that they develop cancer....or are a Cancer, like the zodiac sign. I feel like the same right should be available to Virgos, Geminis, Libras and any other strange star formation.


BARACK: (shakes head, clearly annoyed for reasons I don't understand): Let me state this more directly. Have you ever worked in health care?


ME: In what sense, Barack?</span>

BARACK: Well, have you ever worked in health care means have you ever been employed with a job that stabilizing and improving the health of other people was one of your tasks?

ME: As you know, Barack, like Sarah Palin, I've turned my uterus into a baby oven. Just as she has explained, being a mother makes you an expert on anything directly or indirectly linked to your children. Have I studied medicine? Well, in a sense, I have, Barack. Almost every time my children cough medicine, I read the label. I mean, if there is a butterfly or some flowers on the medicine's label, I don't read it. I know the FDA would never allow a drug company to place symbols of safety and happiness on a product they know might harm my kids. In those occasions where a butterfly, for example, his fluttering his majestic wings as he sails over a blooming Spring flower, I fearlessly shot that shit down my kids' precious throats.
Also, I have held the Kleenex while my kids have blown their noses on several occasions. I cared for their umbilical cords until they fell over, which likewise gives me experience dealing with amputees.
Oh, and I also breastfed both my sons, which gives me solid credentials in food production and circulation as well as nutrition. Do you think just anyone's milk glands would just aimlessly produce that perfect formula of breast milk immediately following the birth of an offspring, triggered by hormones that all females naturally make after their bodies give birth.


BARACK: (stares blankly at me. I guess he's taken a class on true leadership since he has clearly given up blinking). As one of the most important functions of the Bureau, you would be responsible for promoting economic opportunities for the Native American tribes in the very off chance that everyone else in America, including Dick Cheney and George Bush and Sarah Palin have disappeared and you actually got the job. Do you have any knowledge in positive ways to promote economic development for these tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. I just wish we had more time to talk about this. I'd like to start by saying that the reason my husband unselfishly exposes himself to lung cancer is so that we can help support our Cheyenne and Arapaho neighbors by puffing away on those cheap ass cigarettes they peddle. I've read that you've been known to light up on occasion, so I would like to call for you to also make the patriotic sacrifice of capitalizing on, I mean investing in, the awesome discounts at the Indian Smoke Shops.
Also, here in Oklahoma our Native American friends have the good fortune of being able to profit because of the great future planning of the ancestors. You see, because their great-grandparents had the foresight to generously donate their land in Western Oklahoma to the Land Runs, now they have the opportunity to operate those casinos. Do you know what makes that big-hearted offer of all that land to the white man even kinder? They gave us all the oil underneath it, too, and because of that philanthropy on the part of the Native Americans, my grandparents now get to use their royalty checks to see America from their 50-foot fifth wheel.
So, I would like use the donation of their land and oil and, now, wind energy to my home state (and, indirectly, those lucky bastards whose grandparents and great-parents ran in the Land Run, thus hooking them up with those fat daddy royalties), I would like to help my Native American brothers and sisters. And the first way I'd like to help, Barack, is by finally serving up the booze in their casinos. Seriously, every single time I go in there, I walk around all clear-headed and sober from the utter lack of intoxicants pumping through my blood stream and think to myself, 'Jesus, Shonda, you'd sure be wasting money at much less responsible rate if these Indians would just get you drunk.'
Listen, I've been to Las Vegas on more than one occasion and I can tell you that the key to successfully pillaging your betting customers is by pouring free drinks down their unsuspecting throats through the helping hand of metallic-lipped, ass-shaking waitresses. Now I realize that our Indian friends aren't quite as crafted at disguising a ploy to steal money through fake generosity of their friends, so I would like to execute my patriotic duty and pale face heritage by helping them with this. And, Barack, we must start with alcohol.

BARACK: This has been a very....interesting interview, Shonda. I appreciate your time and interest, however, I don't think you quite have the experience and qualifications to direct the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It's been nice meeting you and I hope you have a pleasant day.

ME: What, you aren't hiring me? Suck it, Snobby Elitist.



So, John, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first. I know you won't make me mull over my qualifications, looking down your super wealthy nose at me. I mean, seriously, not all of us can be raised in a tiny apartment by a struggling single mother on food stamps, studying our already brilliant asses off to earn academic scholarships. I've always favored your wild child path through education. I mean, I think going to a private prep school and then getting into military college with a good word from your 4-star general dad and granddad shows your ability to excel from an early age. Beyond that, it takes a ton of courage to choose freedom over conforming, and by that I mean the balls to tell your powerful parents to suck it, that you'd rather drink beer with strippers and graduate 894 out of 899 rather than oppressively chain your handsome nose to a book. Now if that's not mavericky, I just don't know what is. That is the exact same course I took through school, John .Like you, I always go with my gut instinct. And if that just happened to be skipping school to drink beer all day at the lake, then by God, that's what I did. I think that should tell you what a fantastic job I would do as Assistant Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
John, you recognized that Sarah's ability to see Russia from Alaska earned her foreign policy experience. Well, John, I can jump on a four-wheeler and actually be on part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation in about two minutes (insert wink). Not that long ago, some of our cattle got through the fence and ended up on their land. I was able to negotiate the top-level talks that got them back onto our land. Well, I sat next to Rowdy while he bullshitted on his cell phone with the super nice dude who runs the deal. But, my instincts and swift actions helped lead to peaceful solution. And by that, I mean that I thanked him for his kind help and then offered him a beer, which he in turn thanked me for and then drank. It was diplomacy at its finest, John.
So, I look forward to working with you next year. For uneducated and unqualified people such as myself, I'm glad to see this period of repression for underachievers has finally come to an end. Sure, occasionally horse trainers have ended up running, I don't know, FEMA, which worked out so positively for hurricane victims. So, perhaps it isn't such a ground-breaking phenomenon. But, when George Bush appointed "Heck of a Job" Brownie to the head post with FEMA, it was cronyism. That's not what you are doing by picking Sarah and now me. Oh no, this maverickism.

Even Dooce is Getting Poltical, so I Guess I Should, Too

Every little subculture has their god, their holy being for which the entire group revolves. You know, like the way all the chest-beating UFC fans (love ya, Dad) swoon over that bald-haired beauty Chuch Lidell. Or, the way aspiring Susie Homemakers get all tingly in their panties when Martha Stewart rolls out her full assault strategy for the perfect Mexican Fiesta Birthday Celebration, approaching the party as though they are mounting a military a coup. The glass will be tinted purple and full 3/4 to the brim with cactus-shaped ice cubes, the sombrero pinata will be stuffed with chocolate grown in the Yucatan and then air-expressed via Air Mexico (love you, Mollie.)
In the ever-expanding world of female bloggers, snidely coined "mommy bloggers" by the geniuses at The New York Times (you know, the same assholes who ran daily prewar stories about Iraq's hand in 9/11, which turned out to be, I don't know, false), we worship at the alter of Dooce. She can write witty ass jokes and lay out cleaver bribes she pulls on her kid and we suck it all up like adoring lap dogs. Even those of us who aren't totally hypnotised by her brilliance are intrigued by her unchallenged reign of Blogger Extraordinaire. From jotting down the silly bullshit her husband and daughter do, which is freakin' child's play in comparison to my man and his two hellcat spawns, Dooce's blog supports her family. I am awestruck and jealous all at the same time.
I have to admit, I check her blog daily, often many times. Normally I giggle a little and then think to myself how much I want to be Dooce.
Dear Jesus, why didn't you make me Dooce? I don't want to be me, I want to be the awesome, rockin' Dooce.
But, like Chuck Lidell isn't the only badass who can defeat a wiry opponent by forcing their face to his crotch or like Martha Stewart isn't the lone domestic goddess to over-coordinate a 2-year-old's birthday party, Dooce isn't the only female blogger to make me giddily squeel, "Oh no she di'nt." They all bring something different to the table. From Anna, I get all knowed-up on the necessity of high-end eyebrow waxers, quite beneficial to a lady like me who buzzes hers off with her man's shaver and calls that bitch good. Cathy inspires me to cook outside the box, to turn my shabby kitchen into a gourmet masterpiece. She's a little Martha herself, I suppose. While Suzanne and I share many political views, I really love her site because, like me, she believes there are some places no razor belongs. Listen fellas, I just don't care what Jenna Jameson did.
But, as a political junkie, I normally get the best fix at PunditMom. Through the last week, I've been there multiple times a day, my head all drunk with the notion of a mayor running the vice presidency.
There are about 25 other blogs I visit on a daily basis and they all have a unique flair they bring to my otherwise bland life, but I would never get to the meat of this bloggy sandwich if I didn't get to it. So, here goes. Step aside, rambling, my readers want a point, any point. Focus.
When I went through my daily stalking, I mean reading, of Dooce yesterday, I giggled a little when she wrote about the universe humping her face. That shit happens to me all the time. Then I read the rest of the post, the part about her anger over McCain's choice of the unqualified Sarah Palin. Dooce doesn't normally write about politics, so it kinda took me back for a second. Then, of course, my infatuation grew into unfettered love and I wondered to myself if she would leave her man to be my first lesbian lover.
At the risk of firing up my conservative friends and family, I agree with Dooce. Now, I know I have already disclosed that I worship her Holy Blogginess at least three times a day, you know, like Muslim people turning to the East in prayer, so you probably think that my opinion is comprised. During Sarah Palin's speech on Wednesday evening, I cussed and spit, shouting at Rowdy how distorted I thought many of her statements were. He just agreed, not because he really agreed (He's a nutty Republican. Can you believe I married one?), but because he knows with even a smigen of encouragement, I will ramble on 'til his ears bleed. For a calmer, fact-founded, non F word flinging article from the Associate Press over the misrepresentations of Palin, click here. This was also in Dooce's post. Seriously, read it.
As far as Republicans go, I have always loved John McCain. Just ask my husband. I haven't always agreed with him and I certainly won't vote for him, but he hasn't come close to making my head spin around like that little girl in Poltergeist. Now, George Bush, that's a whole other story. But, no matter who John would've picked, short of Chuck Hagel, I am an Obama Momma.
That said, like Dooce, I am fired up about his selection of Sarah Palin. Not because she is a mother to all those kids or because her 17-year-old daughter is pregnant (abstinence-only education, bay-bay). Just like I don't give a shit about who Bill Clinton or John Edwards are screwing, I don't care that Bristol Palin is getting down with that hot hockey player or that Sarah Palin is reproducing like Catholics on a Mardi Gras binge. I take that back, I do care about that hockey hottie. Bristol, my email address is shondy26@hotmail.com. Be a good girl and email a desperate, old housewife some steamy details about that hot piece of Alaskan ass. I totally love you, Levi Johnston.
Anyways, I've got to stop daydreaming about Palin's superfly future son-in-law or I won't get a thing done. I don't want Sarah Palin as my vice president because I've already lived through 8 years of Cheney. I don't want a vice president who has made statements that the War in Iraq is a mission from God. Hitler told the Germans that invading Poland was exactly that, a mission from God, but that didn't make it so. I don't want a vice president who asks her church to pray for completion of pipelines. I don't want a vice president who doesn't believe in global warming, or at least that it is being caused by man. I don't want a vice president whose spouse belonged to the Alaskan Independence Party, a group dedicated to leaving the USA and starting their own country. Country First, what? And, I don't want a vice president who has run a town smaller than Elk City and been a governor for 20 months. I know Alaska is the largest in size, but it is the smallest in population.
As John McCain gave his acceptance speech last night, my entire family cuddled in our bed, Rowdy and I absorbed each word while Ridge and Rolan bounced over one another. As my darling boys played hide-and-seek under the covers, I touched my husband's hand. Even though this wasn't my party's convention, it was a very "American Dream" moment. We felt very much like our dreams were coming true as a young couple with our two small and healthy children and I know it will be one of those Wonder Years memories that stays with me always. Plus, I discovered that John McCain used to keep company with strippers and I fell a little in love with him. You know I love a dirty dog.
John McCain made some pledges in his speech I hope he keeps, like the one where he vows to re-educate workers whose jobs have been shipped overseas in the last eight years or the resources he promised to our educational systems. He vowed to make college more available for upcoming Americans and I sincerely pray he follows through. Like John McCain, I am a Christian and, like John McCain has said on many occasions, I believe religion doesn't have a place in government. When our country bombs another, and there will be times we do, I don't want a president that tells me God told him to do this. I want a president that tells me he weighed all the options and this was all he had left. I've always felt that when a leader puts that decision on God, they also give him the deaths of the innocent people who perish because of it. Although I knew I probably wouldn't vote for John, I have found comfort that, when faced with that kind of violent and tragic decision, that he knew all the subsequent fall-out from that sort of warfare would be held at the hands who made it. I think it makes a leader think a little more about the choice they are making if they don't convince themselves that they aren't responsible for the innocent casualties. I've respected John's persistence, especially when he has gone up against his own party, like when he voted against the Constitutional amendment to define marriage between a man and a woman. With his pick from the religious right, I hope his belief wields his potential administration's policy on that, not the other way around.
Of America's 43 presidents, nine of them have to office by the death of resignation of their predecessor. Some crazy religious zealots are praying through their blogs that McCain be elected and them smited by God (I guess that's nut talk for killed) so, I don't know, the country can be one big church. As I type that, I am seriously shrugging because the thought of praying for one man to be elected and then off'd is something I cannot wrap my mind around. Can you?
As a war protester held up a sign that said, "You Cannot Win an Occupation," and chanted something I could not make out, John McCain said that American wants us to stop yelling at each other.
Well, in between that and your former love of strippers, you almost have my vote, John. (To me, promiscuity is a sign of real leadership skills. Stop laughing, I am being serious. You know I love Bill Clinton). I think you've been a great servant to the nation, John, I do. If those fruit loops weren't putting some voodoo hex on you as I type this, maybe I could. If their vengeful prayers are answered, you'll be swallowed by the Earth or turned to stone or some other Biblical nightmare and I just can't get behind your girl.
Okay, now I have to go. I bet Dooce has posted something new and I'm having separation anxiety.

18 million cracks in the glass celing and some lady named Sarah Palin slips through

Well, Readers, it looks like we finally have a follow-up to Geraldine Ferrarro, the first and only other woman to be nominated as a vice presidential running mate. John McCain announced Sarah Palin, the 44-year-old Alaska governor who has served only half a term, will be second chair on his ticket.
I wonder if my girl Hillary busted her cell phone against the way when this news broke or if she's happy that the 18 million cracks she just busted in the invisible ceiling has now allowed some lady lumberjack to slip through. (Hey, Sarah calls herself "outdoorsy.")
I was really hoping John would give the veep nod to that dousche Mitt Romney just because we could mop that floor with his plastic-haired, flip flopping ceramic grin.
Sarah's political career really just started, so we don't know a lot about her. On one hand, she seems to be more conservative than McCain on issues such as abortion. That will please his base, but you know, conservatives scare Aunt Shonda.
On the other hand, she recently threatened to kick Exxon Mobile, Chevron, BP and other big oil giants out of her state if they didn't bend to her will. That's not so conservative.
Of course, she's already the focus of an investigative probe from the Alaskan legislature over a personnel case. As you know, I love crocked politicians, so this only warms my heart to her. Sometimes you gotta bend the rules a little, right?
When Hillary left the race, the only thing I liked about it was that the ridicules talking heads on the television, namely those asshole on Faux News, could stop the endless debate over pant suits and their witch doctor inturpretations over just what Hillary was trying to convay by dying her hair. Well, welcome aboard, Sarah. I hope you like fashion because you are about to get to talk ten times more about it than you will about the issues our nation faces.
I'll be an Obama Momma through the end of this deal. I think a four year extension of these poor Bush policies will leave us bankrupted or close to it and likely expanding this war into even more countries that we have possibility of winning in. But, if McCain does happen to win in November, at least we will still seeing history, a history that's been a long time coming.
As my girl Tina Fay said, "Bitch is the new Black."

Joe Momma, Joe Biden. I'm so Excited!

I just checked my email. He's running with Joe Biden. He's running with Joe Biden! Ummmm.....in case you can't tell, I freaking love Joe Biden. I was kinda holding out hope for my favorite Republican Chuck Hagel to swoon the Democratic VP position, but I'm about to do a cartwheel. Joe's perfect! Top that, McCain.
Here's my email from Barack, which you know he wrote directly to me.

Shonda --

I have some important news that I want to make official.

I've chosen Joe Biden to be my running mate.

Joe and I will appear for the first time as running mates this afternoon in Springfield, Illinois -- the same place this campaign began more than 19 months ago.

I'm excited about hitting the campaign trail with Joe, but the two of us can't do this alone. We need your help to keep building this movement for change.

Please let Joe know that you're glad he's part of our team. Share your personal welcome note and we'll make sure he gets it:

http://my.barackobama.com/welcomejoe

Thanks for your support,

Barack

Paris Does Politics

Well, I've been meaning to blog about John McCain's sad and desperate campaign ad, the one comparing a scholarship-winning Columbia and Harvard graduate who also happened to be the first black editor of the Harvard Law Review, to globe trotting trust fund babies. Please forgive me, my brilliant readers, I've been busy wrangling my lawless children into conformity.
Now, if I would've gotten around to writing that blog, I would've explained how it reminded me of a middle-aged, desperate divorcee, dressing two generations younger than her age or buying midlife crisis Corvettes he can't afford, just to win the attention of an uninterested old lover or a new one, young enough to be his/her child. During McCain's speech last April given aboard the Straight Talk Express, I was all inspired as the old geezer promised to run a clean race, focused on the country's issues and problems rather than dipping into the gutter for spin-doctor dirty politics. Honestly, I already knew the false, sensational email chains on the Internet would add enough smut to this election, so I hoped McCain would stick by his good guns on this one. After all, he knows better than anyone what the collateral damage caused by this kind of politics. Few campaigns have been nastier than the primary he ran against President Bush in 2000, in the Carolinas in particular. He took a few below-the-belt hits thrown by Dubya. But, after some Bush mob, namely Karl Rover's protege Steve Schmidt, went to work for the McCain Camp this week, they lured Ole' Johnny to the dark side. It's hard for me to pinpoint what I find most alarming about the Bush presidency, but at the top of the list is his spoiled frat boy badgering he has lavished upon other world leaders who have disagreed with him. I hope this cheap shot ad of McCain's isn't an indicator of the same isolationist, Imperialistic Bush policies.
Well, I kept scolding myself for my lack of productivity in blogging, Readers. Now I'm glad I spent all that time scouring myspace profiles rather than writing about this ridicules bullshit.
I woke up this morning not knowing it was going to be better than any childhood Christmas morning. No, Santa's elves didn't whip my cluttered house into shape as we slept. Yes, that wise-crackin' Ridge is still talking back to me. So what, do you ask, made this day's dawn better than Kahlua in my coffee? Well, let me tell you. In response to McCain's (the old, white haired dude) ad comparing her to Barack Obama, Paris the heiress released her own. The best part is when she boasts, "Get ready for the debate, bitches."
Simmer down, McCain fans. As you see in the video, Paris, like, totally tells Barack what's up, too.
Like a cocktail waitress in a tacky wig, John McCain was reaching for something that simply wasn't there. When I saw this video this morning, I could just envision John flying into one of this famous shit fits, like the time he called his wife a CUNextTuesday in front of TV cameras. But, it was he who ran that ridicules ad, so it was he who invited this hilarious rebuttal by either of the two people featured in it who aren't running for the presidency. As absurd as Paris is in many ways, she quite cleverly demonstrates that she and the Democratic Nominee are apples and oranges, or three-piece men's suit to a barely pieced swim suit.
***Oh, on a side note, my man Barack has pissed me off recently with his FISA vote, a strategy to look tough on national security.

See more Paris Hilton videos at Funny or Die