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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ridge for the rock, "It is bullshit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

No, My 2-Year-Old Isn't Talking About That......

Well, letting my youngest boy follow in his Thomas the Train-obsessed older brother's footsteps has turned out to bear more damage than just the cheeky little engine further dominating my life and starting up more than one brutal battle between the brothers. It is now leading to more embarrassment than I already face when taking my children out in public.
When young children first start verbally communicating, the general public normally can't understand them for several months. To everyone but their parents and perhaps a few grandparent-types, their mumbled words are gibberish. No two children have the same language. But, to the parental figures of these children, this special language is crystal clear.
As Rolan's infatuation with the Thomas and Friends has grown, he has found his favorite train -- Percy. Maybe that is because he has been strictly forbidden from ever touching some of the others by Ridge the Toy Cop. Either way, Percy is the train of his little heart. He carries a Percy toy in his hand as he darts about the house chanting his name.
But, here's the thing with the chanting. As Rolan delightfully bellows Percy's name, he leaves out a very important part of it, the part that keeps it from sounding like, er, the nether regions of female porn stars. Simply put, there is no "ER" sound, just a PU followed by SEE.
As I was pushing him in the shopping cart a few days ago, his kung foo grip on his Percy toy loosened for just a second, long enough for him to accidentally drop the green train as I pushed forward. I was so focused on my ass-kicking coupons that my frazzled mind simply did not register his frantic screams until several other shoppers had already taken notice to my boy.
"PU-SEE</span>!" he yelled. "I WANT PU-SEE! WHERE'S PU-SEE?!?!"
I backtracked through the aisles, my eyes darting under displays and around carts. With each step, Rolan continued his loud chants and the eyes of many, many others were on me. And just as I was thinking to myself that his echoed words didn't really sound that bad, a rather witty friend just happened to stroll by.
"Hey, so what's that your boy is asking for?" she quizzed with a smirk on her face.
"His train, Percy," I replied. "He dropped him and we are looking for him."
"So, you're sure it's the train he wants?"
"Ummmm.....yes."
"Really? Because it sounds like he is saying something else."
"Oh yeah. Just what is that?"
"Well, I'll just say it sounds like the apple did not fall too far from the tree. Tell Rowdy I said that."
"You're an asshole. Do you think that's what everyone is thinking, too?"
"Oh," she giggled, "definitely."

On a different note, I hope none of you hope for me to love you as much as I love Chris right now. Don't get me wrong, you are pretty rockin' awesome, too. But, Chris has definitely figured out the way to my heart. Sure, he called me a good writer and I do love him for that, but when he complimented by skills at, well, bitching, he won my heart. Check out his site.

Just A Talk Among Friends

Dear One Hour Photo Place,
Hi, How are you today? Me? Well, I'm not well, not well at all. You see, I don't feel like I'm the asshole for assuming that you'd have my photos finished within an hour. That is, after all, directly in the name of your business. It's how you advertise. The three words "One Hour Photo" are displayed all freakin' over your store. Now, because the last four times I've developed with you it has taken at least three hours for you to get my stuff done, I knew when I started uploading my photos that it'd take awhile. I was fine with this. I still had to pack up my scrapbooking supplies and drive the 30 minutes on over to Elk City and then unload my boxes. Sure, the other ladies would have a jump start on me, but I would at least get to hear the sailor talk from a bunch of 30 something mommas. Really, no one does pervy quite like my friends.
Since it was 7 pm when I sent the photos to you, I figured I would run up to your store right before you closed at 10 to pick up my stuff. I mean, that's triple the one hour promise. So, you can imagine my complete and utter fucking shock when you told me that they would not be finished until 1 pm today. Seriously, you open at 8. I realize that I did send almost 200 photos. That's a lot, I get it. But, assuming that you are part of a nation wide chain and that the big dicks in your corporate office are pretty obsessed with the now-elusive profit, I would think you probably have to be equipped to print that much relatively quickly. I mean, "One Hour Photo" is all over your store, surely you would be prepared to handle more than one customer in that hour.
Naturally, I would like to ask you if this is some sort of joke. I don't fucking want to be on Punk'd, Ashton. But, since I know in my heart that you are rather serious, I need you to explain to me how the hell it takes you 8 hours to develop 158 pictures. I sincerely think you should change the name of your service to "One Day Photo." Sure, we crazy old ladies in the scrapbooking posse would all be less inclined to use your business, but I also wouldn't be a big bag of swinging hormones wrapped into a ball of pissed off when I did.
So, even though I wanted to spend my time scrapbooking my family's more recent activities, I guess I will just do some random photos from the early part of last year. Having Christmas done by January would have been awesome, it would have. And, if I would have sent my photos to the OTHER "One Hour Photo" place like Miss Smarty Pants Mollie so wisely did, I'm sure I would have got it done. But, I didn't. Quite ignorantly, I held out faith this, this would the time you got it done in a responsible amount of time.
Suck it, assholes.
Love,
Shonda

Dear One Hour Photo Place (again),
Okay, so maybe I'm the asshole. I don't know why I thought I ordered like 158 photos. Somehow I got that first 1 confused with a 7. My bad. Remember that cluttered mess that was your college professor's desk? Yeah, that's my head.
I'm sure you are a little pissed about all that dry sarcasm in the last letter. Man, I was kind of a dick. You see, I haven't been able to scrapbook the last two times the ladies got together because I was photographing weddings. I still have freakin' t-ball to do from this summer. So, I'm gonna blame my nasty behavior on my motherhood insanity. My boys' books are getting kind of behind and I just can't let them grow up without all the shenanigans being well documented, you know, in case I need to use the whole, "Look at what you boys put me through" to keep my old ass out of a third world nursing home because I don't want to forget a moment.
The young girl who was working last night was not nearly as helpful as you, hard working manager. I'm really sorry that I said I was going to the other place. You know I could never leave you. You guys really do take good care of me and I hope you except my sincere apology. I can't believe you are going to have almost 800 photos done by 11 am. WOW!
So, please, don't suck it. I'll suck it. I'm totally the asshole.
Love,
Shonda

8 Mavericky Ways to Stress Free Parenting

A few weeks ago, my bloggy friend Anna taught me about the brilliance in lists, or rather blogging lists. It seemed easy enough, right? Well, it's that time again.
This morning as I was wandering around the home of my heart, the beloved Internet, I found this article, 8 New Mom Stresses and How to Relieve Them. Sure, some of the ideas were golden, such as this one:

There was one week when my daughter Faye screamed -- and I'm talking ear-piercing, uncontrollable screaming -- for hours on end. I would call my husband, crying, and hold the phone so he could hear what I was going through. By Friday I couldn't take it anymore. I put her in her crib and went into the kitchen to try to pull myself together. A few minutes later, she stopped! I realized that seeing me stressed and upset just fueled her fire. But when I left her alone -- and played it cool when I did go back to her -- she calmed down."

But, as I was reading this monstrous bitch, I realized none of my tried and true mommy tricks were on there. And, really, I'm nothing if not helpful. So here goes, Mommas. You want to survive newborns and toddlers, then soak up the profound wisdom of Momma Little.

1. Take the above-mentioned advice of walking away and taking a brief break from the crying baby. In fact, wander on into the kitchen as that mom suggest. But don't just play it cool, DRINK it cool. And when I say drink, I don't mean water. Beer's the poison of my preference, but I think vodka, tequila or rubbing alcohol will suffice.

2. Now, this "walking away" technique will only work for so long. At some point your darling little offspring are going to gain some mobility and, take it from me, this makes the whole "escape the shrieking madness" a bit tricky. Once they do start toddling all over the place, they are absolutely adorable exploring the world except, of course, when you want to escape them. Then they will bobble after you, all red-faced and screaming, and you will think back to how some yahoo told you to just "take a minute" when your babies are having some unexplained meltdown. At these times, you will be glad you put a lock on your bedroom door. Sure, they will plant their bottoms on the other side of it, belting out unholy shrills sharp enough to puncture a dog's eardrum, but you will have that moment you've been long for. My friend Mollie, who is Martha Stewart in living color, taught me this trick. For those of you can't stomach the sounds of your crying kiddos, I think those scrunchy earplugs are also nice to have on hand.

3. Speaking of the mobility of our darling spawns, when they aren't using their new found tricks to chase after you, they deploying the skills to run away from you. Now this can be particularly troubling if you have a little weight in your trunk, if you are picking up what I'm putting down, or if you have multiples running in different directions. And, if you just happen to be unlucky enough to be like me, a fatass with two wayward children, you are totally screwed. It is for that reason that I truly recommend a leash.....or some awesome laser that, like, paralyzes them in their tracks. Really, it's the only way you'll win.

4. More alcohol. I would seriously consider opening a liquor store so you can get that shit at a discount.

5. If you don't have friends with similarly aged children, make some. Not only will they share their tips for neutralizing the enemy combatants, but sometimes you can blend your herd in with theirs and gain a few moments of adult interaction.

6. We all start out our adventures in parenting with the good intentions of raising the only set of American kids who aren't all strung out on the baby-sitting goodness of Dora the Explorer or Spongebob the Terrorist, but then we get starved for a free minute to do laundry or some asshole lets them watch it at their house and the next thing you know you haven't seen a single episode of those fantastic Maury Paternity Shows because you are in a power struggle for control of the television. So, listen up, Readers, just swallow all your aspirations of productive and responsible parenting from the start and buy those kids a spare television.
Sadly, I still haven't taken my own piece of advice here and sadly, in between my remote hogging husband and kids, I almost never get to watch my shows. Take it from me.

7. Don't read ridicules lists posted on the Internet, clearly written by someone who doesn't have children or has the luxury of hiring a nanny. While I like to joke about this sort of stuff, I really don't lock my kids out of my room or walk them on a leash. In fact, I know if I did try to put my wild kids on a leash, they would just one-up me by sitting their darling asses on the ground and forcing me to drag them to our desired destination.
Truthfully I just get tickled when I read these parenting lists. Occasionally you do get a good tip, but normally it's just the same list over and over. So, if you want my advice and, let's face it, I know you want to soak up my genius, just love your kids and hope they have grandparents who want to be involved enough to give you a small break.
I hope my fake list made you laugh. If it didn't, you are either a fun hater or you are still in the eye of the storm. If that's the case, go ahead and guzzle the rubbing alcohol. And laugh.

8. I just realized the list I found on msn had 8 tips on it. I can't think of number 8, so let's just call this an invitation for you, my awesome readers, to give us your appallingly awesome tips for child rearing.

The "Don't Be A Douchey Joke Thief" Campaign

In case you've somehow missed it, the heavens came together this week to make the universe just a little more harmonious than it was before that. No, I am not referring to the fact that the government is finally keeping it real rather than trying to mislead you into believing that you live in a capitalist country. That's not it at all.
Dane Cook, douche bag supreme that he is, is finally being recognized as such by the rest of the world. Apparently his little puppy has been shitting all over his Los Angeles neighborhood and, in keeping with being a total dick, Dane has refused to pick up the doo. I mean, he is a semi-star, right. You wouldn't ask Brad Pitt to pick up shit. Except that Brad Pitt isn't a dick, so he would.
The neighbors complained, the poop continued. His landlord gave three formal notices to pick up the mess, the poop continued. The landlord finally filed a lawsuit to evict Dane and, after the judge ordered his ass out, Dane suddenly takes this shit (pun very much intended) seriously. While appealing the ruling, Dane has explained that leaving the apartment would deal him an emotional hardship. You see, Steve Martin and John Belusi once lived in the same building and Dane claims that he draws inspiration from that for his work.
Here's my question: Are you fucking kidding me, Dane? Inspiration for what? Writing? Pah-lease! For comedy fans like myself who are constantly looking for a good act to follow, we know that many of your jokes have been stolen, straight up stolen, from other comics. Listen up, Readers. Do you know how to tell if a Dane Cook joke was written by someone else? If you laugh, that's how.
For my dime, few things are most lowdown than a joke thief. It goes beyond stealing money, it steals the craft the writer uses to make money.
In case you don't take me at my word on this, just watch these two videos below of jokes Dane Cook has stolen. Then you can join me in my quest for the extermination of Dane Cook, or at least his presence on my television.


When I rented Dan in Real Life, I was excited to watch this movie with my man Steve in it. But, I couldn't get into it. I spent the whole movie wondering how that asshole Dane Cook got in the damn thing. Where all the actors dead? Couldn't they find some vagabond on rubbing alcohol to play the part?
I'm far from alone on these sentiments, just google it. As yeeeah, said, "In what might possibly be the first concrete evidence that God exists and does not hate us, Dane Cook was evicted from his apartment because he is a selfish, oblivious asshole who refuses to use a pooper scooper."
Now, I've believed in God my entire life, so I don't see this has the first evidence of his existence like yeeeah does. I just think of it more as Him giving me this little gift to make up for the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson presidency, kinda like when your man sends you flowers after he feels up the babysitter.
So, heed my warnings, Readers. Dane Cook is a dick and, even worse, a dirty joke thief. Don't watch his movies, no matter how much you love Jason Biggs and/or Kate Hudson. I've always enjoyed both their movies, but I won't be watching this new movie My Best Friend's Girl. Why, you ask. Because Dane Cook is in it and, unless the video is of him being a joke thief or getting evicted or enduring some other act of misery, I will watch no footage that includes him.
I think I am going to have some of those bracelets made to raise public awareness. We will call it the "Don't be a Douchey Joke Thief" campaign.
Or, as yeeeah also said, "I mean, you can’t expect a sack of shit to go around cleaning up piles of shit. That’s like asking someone to shoot their own brother in the face."

Spiders on Crack and Lesbian Love Affairs

Okay, I'm really sorry that I didn't get the photos from Ridge's first day up yet. I was tired, so I took a nap. I said I'm sorry, dammit. You'll get 'em tomorrow.
As I've already disclosed on a previous blog, nothing warms my heart more than praise that stroke my eccentric ego. Yes, I love you Mommy gets close, real close to be exact. But, still, no cigar. I'm sure before too much longer I'll brainwash Ridge and Rolan to run their little fingers through my hair as they tell me how much smarter I artie wrote:am than all the other mommies. But, until then, I will just have to get that crazy need from you, my darling readers.
Almost as much as creative idol-worshipping, I love that so many of you get my twisted sense of humor. Next to a downpour or compliments upon my genius wit, nothing warms my heart like tits and ass jokes. I love you Mommy applies to this as well. As a mother of sons, I know someday my boys and I will have that to bond over. There friends are totally gonna be like, "Dude, where's your mom? We want to hear some of those fabulous ass jokes."
And then the boys are going to be not-at-all embarrassed. I'm sure winning life's parental lottery is going to be a blessing to them.
Anyways, back to my readers, my favorite people on Earth, people I love more than Bill Clinton. And I didn't even know that was possible. Unless of course Bill is reading and then he would be totally unsurpassable.
This morning Dustin, whose lavish applause already landed him in one post recently, sent me a youtube video "documenting" spiders on drugs. I laughed until I peed. Maybe I shouldn't have disclosed that. Jesus, Shonda. Any biopic that reviews how one species makes another it's bitch is gonna have me from the start. That's just how I roll, bitches.

Then, as if his awesome video wasn't enough, I want to share with you a comment I receive earlier this week. It really tickled my fancy.
Martie wrote:

If I was a lezbo... I'd be in love with you. You're about as cute as a speckled pup pulling a little red wagon (Ok, so I totally stole that line from some dude who used it on me 20 years ago...it worked for the weekend anyway).

Well, Martie, you might need to know that much more sweet talk like this and you might just have one short, fat lezbo on your hands.
When I told Rowdy about this, I could see the excited anticipation on his face. Like, so can we have a lezbo? Please, Shonda, please. I will feed her. I will walk her. Please, can we keep her.
After one of our kids was born, I told him I wanted to join a thespian moms groups and he was all for it.
I was like, So you don't mind if I have to drive 45 miles to be in it.
Him, No, at all if that's the closet.
Me, Yup, and then I might have to be gone a couple a nights a week for practice.
Him, They have practice?
Me, Uh, well, yeah, they aren't going to just put 20 women up on stage without it.
Him, Now wait just one minute. Why do you have to do this on a stage? Won't a bedroom work? Maybe a big hotel room?
Me, What the hell are you talking about?
Him, Nothing.

Okay, that conversation totally never happened. Being in a thespian group would be way too much work and would seriously cut down on my internet time. You know I'm letting nothing come between me and the world wide web. Nothing!
But, if I were to tell him I wanted to join a thespian group, I can tell you that's exactly how the conversation would go since supporting our ladies in the rainbow army is his top priority. We all deserve equal rights, huh Rowdy? When my husband thinks of all the oppression of lesbians, the way they can't make out with each other in frilly little nightgowns out in public, it just breaks his little humanitarian heart.
Anyways, thanks, Martie. As you all know, lavish praise is the way to my heart, so bring it on, bitches.
Okay, fine, you twisted my arm. I will leave you with one more. Cousin Cookie knows how to pluck the heartstrings of my dirty soul.

Well I have to give ya a high five for this one. I assume the cousin you preferred to is my well endowed daughter. It does make a difference when ya spend a little extra for the girls to be held up.No matter what its ALL about comfort. Don't let anyone tell ya different. I must add I think that you are the most brilliant, witty, classy but yet still with humor beautiful women whom loves the 'F' word, but wait there is more, who can cook.... Love you girl. Cookie

That's right. She called me brilliant, witty and classy and managed to keep a straight face when I asked her if she was being a wise ass.

You Rock My Face Off!

I have a confession: I love myspace. I don't mean love like it's kinda a good way to pass idle time. I mean love like inhaling the scent of your newborn baby love. That's right, bitches, I just compared a tacky online social network to the moment I first held by babies in my arms. What I can say, I really, really love it.
Now, the reasons for my undying affection are as vast as the catty bickering or sexy photos posted through the site. It's like an alternative universe. Ex-girlfriends talk shit to new girlfriends. It's Maury Show awesome and I can't get enough.
Although the viciousness of myspace does put a smile on my face, I'd be lying if I said the ability to keep up with old friends doesn't make me log on, like, a million times a day. It helps if they call their ex-husband/ex-wife a series of names that would make any sailor proud, but even if they appear all chemically-balanced, it's cool to keep in touch with the click of a mouse.
When I log on and see the red letters on the right, "New Message," I'm as giddy as a frat boy in a strip club. Who's it from? The fact that it could be anyone, literally, anyone makes opening the message as suspenseful as which chick on Rock of Love 3 will show her tatas first. Like I said, could be anyone.
Oh, did you know there's going to be a Rock of Love 3? I'm sure you as shocked as I am that Bret's love affair with Ambre didn't pan out.
Anyways, you can imagine my utter delight when I logged on yesterday to see I had not only a message from my old friend Dustin, but that subject for the message was "mommalittle."
The note was short and sweet and totally made my heart go pitter-patter. In case any of your boys are currently hatching plans to steal me away from Rowdy, let me make things easier for you. There's no need to call me pretty. I know I'm not and I wouldn't believe you if you said it. Plus, it's not nearly as effective as calling me brilliant or funny. My loyalty can be easily swayed if you throw those bitches out, particularly if you join 'em together. Hell, I might even get your name tattooed on my arm.
Dustin wrote,

i love reading your blogs!!! you rock my face off.

I'm not 100% sure what "rock my face off" means, but I know I love it like Kathy Griffin loves the "F" word, which is exactly how I love the "F" word, by the way. Now, Dustin's a little freaky-deek. His long-time nickname is Cochino, which apparently means nasty in Spanish. I'm taking his and the hundreds of folks who call him that at their word. My second language is Pig Latin, so I call him asty-nay. Dustin wears Cochino like a badge of honor, so I'm a bit nervous about the origin of this statement.
Whatever it means, this ranks up there with this hand-written Mother's Day card Rowdy penned for me the year after Ridge was born. In fact, I'm going to print off Dustin's message and paste it next to the hand-written card in my scrapbook.
Can't you just totally see the boys flipping through that keepsake in 20 years with their future brides?

Girl: Ummm....why did your mom print out this 2 sentence email that said she rocks this dudes face off?

Son (all embarrassed): I don't know.

Girl (confused, shaking her head): Ummm..... you aren't going to let her give a toast at the wedding, are you?

Son: No.

Thanks to Dustin for the sunshiny note. We've known each other our whole lives, although we don't get to see each other often these days. He's a city slicker these days. He recently had his right kidney removed and I quite thankful he's well enough to have his face rocked off, by me or anyone.

The Water is Nice, Come on In!

(None of these men are Mrs. Cowboy Chronicles. They are, however, Rowdy's friends.)

If'n you ain't figured it out by now, we's a lil' country.
If you aren't convinced, which would clearly indicate that you are deaf and/or blind, I'll throw out some random hillbilly stats:

~My husband's first name was inspired by Clint Eastwood's character in the TV series Rawhide, Rowdy Yates. As much as it pains me to admit it, Rowdy talked me into Rolan's name because, I shit you not, the theme song for that series was the "Rollin,' Rollin,' Rollin,' keep them doggies rollin,' RAWHIDE!" Seriously.

~Rowdy not only makes his living cutting nuts out of bulls, but he refers to the ballsy delicacy (I'm being cavalier with delicacy, eh?) as his "Breakfast of Champions." Once when I asked him what the benefit of all the nut cutting is, my ever-witty man explained that it takes their minds of ass and onto the grass.

~I no longer find grown men gathering in swarms to yank 20+ pound fish from a river bizarre. To quote one of these angling poets, "I told my son noodling is just like dating. If you stick your hand in a dark hole, it might come out smelling a little fishy." I can't believe Hallmark isn't printing that up my the millions for Valentine's Day.

I've been put in some twisted fishing spot protection program, so I can't print the location where this giant, kid-sized fish was snagged or my house will be surrounded by a herd of angry, sunburned men in macro-made, fringed shorts. (Love you guys!)
I have already been planning to post these photos taken earlier this week, but my quirky son Ridge spouted off something yesterday that I thought went well with all this. Probably explains his thinking, really.
Ridge will be 4 in November, so he has been swimming quite a few times, but the occurrence has grown exponentially this summer. Of course, living on the Washita River, the boys are constantly belly-aching to go down there to fish, splash around and throw mud at one another. You know cleaning that shit out of their ears is dream for all mothers.
Ridge spent the day after this monster and 3 of his similarly-sized scaly friends were plucked from a deep hole beneath the water's banks staring awestruck at the photos. Periodically he'd call it to my attention, his eyes big like half dollars.
Now, all of this might have nothing to do with perhaps one of the funniest things he has ever said, which I was sadly not present for. But, keep it in mind as I lay this out.
Yesterday afternoon Ridge went swimming at my sister-in-law's with his grandma and three cousins.
When they first arrived, my normally aquatic water boy panicked, shaking his head and protesting any possible dip in the pool. So you know, Ridge will go straight Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man if something freaks him out.
Naturally, he calmed down pretty quickly as he eased into the water, first a toe then a leg. For the next couple of hours, his 15-year-old cousin Dakota served dutifully as his personal motor boat.
Just as Grandma was rounding he and his 4-year-old cousin up to come home, Ridge gleefully hugged Dakota, face bright with excited relief, his eyes dancing with giddy relief and declared,

I'm not going to die! I'm going to live!

Isn't that the funniest shit you've heard in at least week?