Cowboy Romeo

Okay, ladies, in case you are scouring the internet for evidence for the efficiency of endless nagging or drowning downpours of tears, you've come to the right place.
Just before we opened the doors to my aunt's restaurant today, the flower lady arrived bearing gifts for yours truly. Rowdy has insisted for a long time that buying gifts is a waste of energy and money. In fact, he even hates it when people buy them for him because he believes that they will, in turn, expect him to do the same for them.

I'd like to think that the gorgeous bouquet of roses, daisies and carnations was a symbol of his undying devotion, but I'm sure it had more to do with this desire to not spend three hours evaluating the ebbs and flows of our marriage. You know he just loves talking about his innermost feelings.
Either way, I'm tickled pink because my man showered me with romance on my 28th birthday. The flowers were blooming beautiful and the snazzy vase will make great decor until the boys use it as wicked weapon.
Oh, and happy birthday to Anna. The date of your birth is just another sign of your genius.

Self-Celebrating Day Drinking: I love BIRTHDAYS!

Oh, birthdays, the one day a year when self-celebrating naricism and mid-morning day drinking is A-okay! How I love you, birthdays.
Ridge and I have already gotten into a jaw-locked battle of wills over one of my birthday prizes. Aunt Lyndi sent me a box full of goodies, including Burt's Bees, Jelly Bellys and this finger-lickin' Ghardi (or however the hell you spell it) caramel-filled chocolate.
Ridge cried for like 20 minutes, whaling, "No, it's not your birthday. It's my birthday. Don't eat my chocolate! Don't eat my candy."
And I was all, "Back off, punk. This shit is mine."
And then I slowly sucked all the sweet caramel goodness out in front of him and he flopped around like a protesting fish out of water. But, I didn't care because he's not getting my birthday. I don't care how cute he is.
So, happy birthday to you, Shonda. I only have one more year until I celebrate my first 29th birthday. My Grandma Nita tells me the third 29th birthday is really the best, but I still have a few years before I am there yet.

Bill, I Love You So, I Always Will.

Dear Bill,
Happy 62nd birthday! I hope you are having a good one.
I miss you so much, Bill. I look out the window and long for the days that the definition of sex was our most controversial national debate. Remember that time you said, "It depends on what your definition of 'is' is."? Oh man, I'm tearing up.
After you left office, the American people started looking for a president they could have a beer with. I told them all this was a mistake. Everybody knows good presidents are like the neighbor you'd have an affair with. Geez!
Now that Little George is borrowing billions from the Chinese each month, I'm so thankful for the budget surpluses you left us with. Just imagine how big our already overwhelming debt would be if you hadn't! I sure wish Little George would have followed your good example of "blowing" off steam, no pun intended. I think he needs a blowjob, Bill. Wars are the products of the sexually repressed, right Bill! That's why I follow your prestine example and get laid as often as possible. Ask not what your country can do for you, ask if you can just do your country. What's up now, bitches?
So, Bill, I hope your living it up on your birthday. Hell, look at who I am talking to you, I know you are, Big Pimpin'! You are my favorite president ever, hummers and all.
I Love You,
Shonda
PS -- Aren't you glad the FDA approved Viagra, coincidentally during your administration. Now, that's what I call universal health care.

PSS -- I really, really love you. I love you like you love big-haired blonds with blue eyeliner. Kisses! Hugs! Remember that song, "Bill, I love you so, I always will?" Do you think that could be our song? Please?

PSSS -- Happy Birthday, Melissa! I love you half as much as I love Bill, which is a freakin' lot.

Nothing Turns Me On More Than Sturdy Cookware

So, I went shopping for my birthday present with my grandma today. She, of course, wanted to get me a bra because that's what grandmotherly people always want to purchase for boulder bearers like myself. If your pimping a C cup or less, I'm sure you've never had this not-at-all-awkward convo with your female elders. But, if you are "blessed" as my cousin and I are, you undoubtedly have had the extreme pleasure of pulling your shirt up in front of strangers as your grandma rambled on about lifting and smoothing.
When Grandma called to schedule this underwear outing, she asked what else I would like for my upcoming birthday.
A skillet, I quickly replied.
A skillet? she quizzed.
Yes, a skillet.
For your birthday?
Yes, a skillet.
After Grandma generously dropped more cash on one bra than I have invested in ten others picked up in some discount bin, we went out in search of the perfect cookware. Now, fellas, you don't get an ass (or jugs, for that matter) this big if you don't take food preparation seriously. And, trust me, I take it, like, disassembling-the-live-bomb serious. Like the world's gonna combust if I don't master this lemon alfredo sauce serious.
We strolled down the aisle, first sailing past each beautiful skillet and then slowing down in front of our favorites. We held them above our heads, examining them against the light. We read dimensions and then compared that against its weight. If the store has a surveillance camera, I'm sure the geeky tech kid is gonna have a field day with that footage. (Yes, I'm calling someone else a geek. Let it go.)
After a solid 30 minutes of muling over our three favorites like we're adopting a kid from some foreign orphanage, we made our selection -- a dark, sleek lover I'm gonna make some beautiful, creamy, spicy music with.
Rowdy was home when I came in, a true oddity this time of year. I had a great time with Grandma and Rolan. On top of birthday prizes, she treated me with a delicious meal and, good Lord, Mississippi Mud Pie.
I burst in the house, beaming with pride for my new culinary find. I held my Extra Large Martha Stewart Fryer out toward him.
Check this out, baby. This bad boy's got a porcelain exterior. This is damn near 7 quarts of cooking right here. It was made with aluminized-steel construction for even heat distribution, I purred.
Then Rowdy said, You sound like some car junkie bragging about their wheels, Shonda.
What?
You know, like horsepower and cylinders. I mean, that's what you sound like.

Yeah, Rowdy think he's a damn comedian.
Madonna turned 50 today. I wonder what Madge is doing to commemorate half a century of life. Alex Rodriguez, perhaps? (I thought I'd use this post as a slimy opportunity to mention Madonna sexing it up with Alex Rodriguez. In case you haven't noticed, ads pop up with similar themes to my blogs, so I was hoping that those might be the catch words that ads grab. Let's do it one more time for good measure, Madonna may or may not be getting it on with A-Rod. Okay, I'm done shamelessly fishing for funny ads.)
Anyways, my birthdays isn't for a few more days, but my paryting will likely be limited to entertaining with my new cookware. I know many of you think I'm overexaggerating about my fun hater status, so if calling friends, who are no doubt drowning in boredom when talking to me, to share my excitement over my new skillet doesn't convince you, I don't know what will.
Also, please overlook any typos in this post. My giant boobs are pulled up to my eyeballs, so I can only see half the computer screen. Thank goodness for the fancy, new bra. These bitches are like weapons now!

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A Whirlwind Surgery

To all my faithful readers, the most intelligent demographic of the population, I am so sorry for my two day hiatus from blogging. I realize you are probably suffering from Shonda withdrawls. God knows I've been jonesin' for you!
This has been the craziest of weeks or definitely at the top of the list. Tuesday night I held Rolan's poorly planned second birthday party. Originally, I was having it at the Cheyenne Pool, but that fell through so I moved it to the Cheyenne Park. Well, I'll be damned if it didn't start raining, so at the last minute, I frantically called all the people I managed to invite. (If you didn't get the call or email, please note the poorly planned. I'm not kidding. With weddings and family reunions almost every weekend, I couldn't tie down an available day until just a few days before.) I spent the day writing and baking and then baking some more. My sons knocked the one of the cakes on the floor, the little shits, and then devoured it like a pack of starving dogs on some lifeless carcus. Fortunately, my procastination had most Rolan's buddies already busy, so we actually only had two mommas and their kids, equaling four. My mother brought my nephew Gage. The small turnout resulted in a sea of leftover pizza and enough cake and ice cream to kill four diabetics, but it was still a great party. In fact, it went smoother than any other one I've organized and planned since I started having kids and the boys had as much fun as they ever do.
After I came in Tuesday evening, I cracked a beer and relaxed. I thought the madness would be over for the week. Boy, was I wrong! For several months, my mother has been plagued with periodical abdonomen pain and nausea and Wednesday morning turned out to be the culmination of that misery. Her appendix was rupturing and she had to have an emergency surgery to rectify that. Her gall bladder will likely also have to be removed, but the appendix had caused too much infection for it all to be done together. So, while during the party I thought I might should have waited, yesterday I was glad I had it when I did. There is no telling when I could do it now and my mother would have been devastated if I would've hosted one she missed. She is all about being NaNa.
I spent most of my day at the hospital with my mother. When I got there, her pain levels were literally off the chart and being the never-rock-the-boat rug she often is, she wouldn't say a word. The day nurses on her wing at GPRMC, especially Carol, Sheila, Donna and Kelli, were amazing and the nurse who cared for her after the shift change last night, Gina, was also great. Sadly, I can't say the same for the woman who was suppose to be caring for her the night before, but I'm not going to turn this into a rant about some lazy nurse who wants to play doctor. Plus, as upset as I was at her, the other nurses are either Earth Angels or just labored to compensate for that one. Either way, I cannot sing enough acalades about them. I'm sure dealing with me required a pound of patience, too, because I wanted my momma to be comfortable.
After about 10 hours with Mom, I decided to come home. I think my wild hoodlum boys had driven my mother-in-law to a margarita or at least made her desperately need them. I wish I could be at the hospital today, especially because I think Mom is going to be discharged and I would like to be there to take notes for the doctor. But, I have a wedding in Mangum and that's not the kind of gig you can call in sick for. After Ridge's t-ball game in the morning, I plan on spending as much as my day with Mom as I can. She is, by nature, such a busy bee and she cannot relax if her house isn't in some perfect Home and Garden layout.
I'm so thankful for her well-being and all the thoughts and prayers we have received from you guys!
Oh, I am going to blog tonight about that asshole Phil Graham and the Fannie Mae/Freddie Mac debacle. I know you are excited about that. There will be cuss words.

Piece of Cake?

Yesterday was my baby Rolan's second birthday and, while Ridge loves his brother, he did not love the adoring shower of attention Rolan received. By the third or fourth phone call singing Happy Birthdy over the speaker phone, he went into a full-on protest, demanding that it was HIS birthday.
He's enjoyed the birthday parties for a long time now, but it was sometime in the last year that he has become so passionate about attendance. And, it really doesn't matter whose birthday it is. As long as he gets cake, ice cream and, most of all, to run in circles screaming like a clothed animal, he's beyond content. I'm sure conincids with Mollie's ridicules bonanzas she organizes for months before each of her four kids' parties, so I guess I'm gonna lay blame for all this obscene behavior at her feet.
Ridge normally has no problem with some other kid being the guest of sugary honor, but I suppose all the pinata-stuffing and icing-whipping was just too close in proximity for him to willingly let this be his brother's birthday. By the time Rowdy made it in last night from a long, hot day of work, Ridge shut down any musicial celebrating he planned.
Since the birthday party, ***insert sarcasm*** an utter joy for momma's everywhere, isn't until tonight, I didn't bake the cakes until last night. I pulled the two round cakes out of the over, placed them on a cooling rack and started a phone interview for The Elk Citan. In case you don't know, The Elk Citian is the newspaper I contribute to weekly and if you aren't reading it, you should be. Can you imagine how much of my literary genius you are missing?
Anyways, while I was speaking with the little girl I wrote about today, Ridge rallied Rolan away from the television they were suppose to watching and the two snuck into the kitchen. Because I was in the kitchen, leaning against one of the counters while taking notes, I'm particularily amazed and, frankly, impressed that the two were able to sneak by me without a peep.
Now, because I didn't actually see these two little shits in action, I don't actually know how this went down. So, I'm just gonna guess.
Rolan can get himself on the counter, but he's still unsteady and awkward in his maneuvers. As I said, I didn't hear a peep until the destructive mayhem was beyond repair. I had moved the cakes far enough back on the counter that there is no way the boys could've reached them without vertical action of some sort. For that reason, I have to assume Ridge, a crafty, experienced climber, was the culprit.
By the time I realized what was going on, one of the round cakes was dumped on the floor and my darling boys were circled around it like a starving pack of dogs on an injured cat. Needless to say, the cake could not be salvaged. Perhaps I should have let this two urchins finish what they had started, satsifying all the sugar cravings I so rarely let them indulge in. After all, they'd already eaten half of it off the floor in two big bites a piece. I had just mopped, so I'm sure it was all saturated in that toxic, but lovely smelling Orange Pine-Sol.
But, I was pissed. Thank God I hadn't decorated it yet because I probably would've had a break down. And not because of the sticky mess it would have created. Decorating cakes is time consuming, in case you have never done it.
So, there you go. If you make it to Rolan's party tonight, and I sincerely hope you do, smile when you see the cake.

Pee Wee's "Play"house

On Sunday afternoon, we all scurried over to my darling little cousin Mikayla's second birthday party. Born at 28 weeks gestation, Kay Kay is a true miracle. She cheated death in her very first breath. Look at that, I'm a poet and I didn't know it.
Anyways, because we are all so thankful for the little toot and because we knew there would be cake, we were front and center at Kay Kay's birthday blow-out in her Grandmommy's backyard. Grandmommy, by the way, is my Aunt Tam. With a thousand varieties of plants and flowers, the green, shady stretch is more like a resort than a backyard. And this year they added a fancy, schmancy pool with a slide and all. Sugar-coated hooligans were littered about like New Year's Eve confetti.
Although my dad, Big D as I like to call him, is generally anti-social, he will make the social gatherings if one of these three people are included: Aunt Tam, Cousin Stephanie and, for God's sake, Cousin Krista. It's really a goal of mine and my sister's to be loved as much as those ladies. Tammy and Dad were once married to siblings and, although both marriages ended in divorce around the same time, my father has always considered them his family. He's pretty selective in that group, so I've always been glad for them in his life.
Now I'm only laying all this out so you, my devoted reader, will understand just how much my dad loves The Tam. The term, I believe, is like a fat kid love cake, to borrow a line from 50 Cent. (On an unrelated note, my dad loves 50 Cent. Big D ain't scared to bust out a rhyme, either.)
As one score of children leaped in and out of the pool while a whole other score bounced upon that huge, rental castle, my little Ridge snuck up in the playhouse swing set to, well, relieve himself. I didn't notice it because I was busy chasing Rolan, who was literally double-fisting Coca-Colas abandoned by other random guests. I don't really allow for the pop drinking so he was gulping this shit up like it was last call at some honky tonk.
So, perhaps you are wondering how I did notice Ridge pulling down his pants just in time to stop the impending urination. Well, that's because PaPa Dennis freaked out as though the peeing 3-year-old was our old buddy Pee Wee at the back of that adult theater. I scurried over, pulling up Ridge's underwear before the business started. Of course he was confused. As most of you know, men at any age don't understand why peeing outside is such a big deal. In fact, I think my dad may very well be the only one.
As all this pandemonium was busting out, Rolan sprinted gleefully toward a ice chest lined with half-empty pops. Miranda, Krista, Katie and Aunt Tam bit their lips to suppress rolling laughter, as they all well know just how damn seriously Big D takes the proper manners. In the mean time, Dad is warning of Ridge's future expulsion from school and other delinquent fall outs as a chain-reaction from such behavior if I don't get a handle on it. I blame it on his Marine Corp raising, I suppose. Of my dad, my father-in-law Wallice likes to say, "With a please and a thank-you, Dennis will politely kick your ass."
After I got Ridge moved to the front yard, where only random motorist might sneak a peek of his business, I couldn't help put chuckle. Seriously, I thought of Pee Wee Herman.


***On a side note, Ridge went down the slide into the pool and that fast little Rolan certainly tried!