'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.

All My Bags Are Pack And I'm Ready To Go

Rowdy went on a "cattle buying" trip last week, which is basically code talk for "you and the two kids we have are driving me nutso, so with the added children I think this is a good time to let our cattle buyers in East Texas take a break for day." Don't get me wrong, Rowdy loved having the Webb children with us, but when both they and our two spawn started puking, he was all, "Peace out, Bitch."
Now, the reason that this is important to what I am about to tell you about is that he rode to East Texas in a cattle truck that was hauling our recently bought cattle to us here in Western Oklahoma and Rowdy decided to hop on board and let that be his transportation. And, unfortunately for me, as he was heading out the front door, he mentioned to our oldest boy Ridge just where he was going -- A SALE BARN. Now, I realize that many of you don't fully know just what that is and that those of you who do don't understand why my son would be so freakin' excited about it. So you know, a sale barn is basically what it sounds to be, a barn where cattle and other livestock are, well, sold. And to my boy Ridge this is fucking Disneyland.
After the extremely traumatic experience of his father not only riding on a cattle truck without him, but also going to his beloved sale barn without him, Ridge was on high alert for this sort of underground behavior. He was suspicious and trusted no one, particularly not his mother and father.
So when they cattle truck pulled down the drive way two days ago and backed into the shoots, Ridge immediately went into action. Rowdy, of course, was down there unloading the truck and I was in the bathroom with Rolan, working on the potty training. Like a swift gust of wind, Ridge yanked a suitcase from the closet and threw his clothes in it. Before I finished in the bathroom with his brother, he had shimmied the front door open and was dragging his packed luggage down the driveway.
He was off, a free man ready to ride the open road and see where the road took him. As much as I tried to convince him his father was, in fact, not leaving on that cattle truck, he was steadfast in his disbelief. Eventually I called Rowdy and asked him to come home in order to end the rather annoying protest that was taking place at the front door. Rowdy's skeptic paranoia subsided a bit then, but still lingered some.
Since then, Ridge has insisted on only wearing clothes that come from his suitcase. But, not only that, clothes that he himself actually physically removes from it. For example, I can't go yank something out of there for him to put on, even if it is in front of his own compulsive eyes.
So, yeah, not only did Rowdy get his little trip, but now I will forever have to deal with Ridge darting out of the house, blubbering and screaming, when a cattle truck unloads two or three times a week, but I will also have to adhere to him only wearing clothes that have been prepacked.
It's like I'm God's comedy.

Ridge the Train Hunter

The other night I watched this Law and Order re-run. In this particular episode, this Go Go Gadget, Super Sleuth police dogs rapidly hunted down this dude simply from a brief whiff off some shredded clothes this guy had worn once upon a time. While I do know law enforcement agencies have pretty amazing canine units, I thought this scene was a bit far-fetched, that is, until my four-year-old son did a real life reenactment of this shit in front of my very eyes. Well, maybe not an EXACT reenactment. He wasn't sniffing out suspect or dead bodies. No, it was far worse. He freakin' magically sniffed out the Thomas the Train toys stuffed under a mountain of clothes at the bottom of my closet, trains intended to be delivered by Santa Claus in a little over two weeks.
I don't know if I've mentioned this to you before, but Ridge is kind of obsessed with all things Thomas. And when I saw kind of, what I'm really trying to say is if this cheeky English train was a real life celebrity and Ridge was a bit older, I fear we might have one of those super bizarre fan stalkings to worry about. And because Ridge has been utterly consumed with the cartoon and all the toys quite cleverly marketed to kids like him for about 2 years now, little Rolan was never lived in a house not blanketed with Thomas, Gordon, Henry, Purcy and the freakin' 200 other trains that shunt around Tidmouth Sheds and, somehow, Toys 'R Us. Rolan's far from the Thomas freak his big brother is, but he kinda digs him, too.
So, as you can imagine, when Ridge found these buried Thomas toys as though the actual voice of God had somehow directed him to them, a riot no smaller than the chaos that ensued after the Rodney King riot broke out in my closet.
HE WANTED TO PLAY WITH THOSE **NEW** TRAINS RIGHT THEN, RIGHT FUCKING THEN!
He screamed until his face blistered out like a hothouse tomato and each word that left his mouth sprayed the spit of a rather pissed off little boy. Of course, I couldn't let him open them. First of all, at this point we have nearly acquired each and every accessory related to Thomas. I have to give him something on Christmas morning. Secondly, while he is a darling boy, the whole Santa guidelines are clearly based on a naughty-to-nice scale. Ridge minds and randomly picks hims momma wildflowers but, let's face it, he hasn't been near good enough for two rounds of Santa gifts.
Eventually I pulled the trains from his steel death grip and hid them in a new and improved location, one that (fingers crossed) should take him at least another three days to hunt down. Until then, I will be in a constant state of pointless reasoning with a four-year-old who just wants his damn Thomas trains. He doesn't give a shit about Santa's broken heart or waiting until Christmas or any other reason I gave him to put the trains down. After all, he's been demanding a Christmas celebration each night for three days and now this. I just don't know if his heart can take it.

Meet My Demands -- Give Me Christmas NOW!

With Christmas lights sparkling into the darkness all over town and Christmas trees and an army of other holiday decor going up in each and every house Ridge visits, the pending arrival of Santa Claus is consuming his mind. And when I say consume, I mean freakin' absorbing every molecule of his little 4-year-old brain. Let me tell you, Friends, this is leading to a little DRA-MA at the Little Household.
After watching The Polar Express for the second time last night, now a nightly ritual, he emerged from his television haze demanding that we have Christmas then, RIGHT THEN! Not tomorrow, not in 17 days when Christmas was actually marked on the calender, but at that exact moment.
I tried to rationalize with the boy, a feat proven virtually impossible. Man, he's hard-headed. I have NO idea just where he inherited that.
After a solid 30 minutes of what could best be described as a shit fit, Rowdy and I decided to call in the big guns -- SANTA! Of course, Santa just happened to be discussing the naughty or nice list from the my dad's phone. Ridge backed off the "Christmas better happen right effin' now" ledge, although he did mention that he hoped Santa would make a surprise visit during the night.
So, it is with great angst that I report that Christmas is still 16 days away, 16 different potentials for another full-blown protest for the trains Ridge has begged Santa for.
Ohhhhhh.......parenting. Thank God for spiked egg nog.

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree!

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

Rolan Clinton, 2, tree sword fighter extraordinaire

The Hat Came Back

With the first gusts of the blistery cold each year, Rowdy breaks into the same annual panic. Just like the year before, his ridiculously hideous Elmer Fudd/WWII pilot's cap is missing. Panicked, he searches in feed pick-ups and barns. He yanks coats out of closets, scouring through their empty pockets to no avail. After a few days, he surrenders the battle, heartbroken at the thought that THIS is finally the year that his beloved hat is lost to him in the vast oceans of our random junk.
As Rowdy mourns the loss of this eyesore, I relish in the hope that this ridicules hat is at last gone from our lives. Secretly I celebrate its due departure. Now, I know my man works hard out in the frigid Oklahoma elements, so I buy him some attractive replacement.
But, just like each year before, the brown furry nightmare returns. It is like the Henry Houdini of winter accessories. I think it is finally gone and then, BAM, out of nowhere it reappears.
And so goes the story of this last week. We looked for the hat unsuccessfully. I delighted in its death. Five days later Rowdy comes in for lunch with it fastened upon his head. That's right, fastened! Did I mention it has a chin strap that Rowdy proudly ties around his mug? Well, it does!
When I was a little girl, there was this brief cartoon that came on Nickelodeon in between shows about a relentlessly annoying cat whose hapless owner couldn't be free of, no matter how hard he tried. With each attempt, a song played in the background.

The cat came back the very next day. The cat came back, thought he was goner. But the cat came back, he just wouldn't stay away.

Throughout the cartoon, this poor, grumpy old man simply wants peace from this nagging, irritating cat. No matter what he tries, his attempts are fruitless. I never knew how much sympathy I had for his plight until now. Damn cat, damn hat!

When Rowdy walked in this weekend with his unholy trophy, that song ran through my hopeless head. He can look for that damn thing in every possible place he can think of with absolutely no luck. And just when the search party is abandoned, it show up. Every.single.time.
It's like magic.....horrible, unbelievable, pain-in-my-freakin-ass magic.

Just in case you still aren't understanding my torture, I'm gonna go ahead and post the "Cat Came Back" so perhaps the extent of my plight will be seen.

The Random Ramblings of a Sleepless Maverick

Well, Readers, I am staring dumbfounded at this blank page. In between the last presidential debate and wrapping my mind around that bitchy know-it-all Kenley somehow making it to the Project Runway finale, I just can't seem to compose a full thought. But, you know I am dedicated to your entertainment, Readers, so I thought I would jot down a few of my fragmented brain drizzle.

I love negative ads. It's just political shit talking. Is it true? Unlikely. Is it fun? Hell yes. So, listen up, boys: Why don't you come run some of those nasty tidbits on mommalittle. I won't player hate, I'll participate. Word.

That brings me to another. I love hip hop jargon. I've been trying to introduce it into my daily life, but thus far it has been unsuccessful.

I really like drinking coffee in the late evening. That is, until I'm laying in bed wide awake as a crackhead on a 3 day smoke feast.

Ridge snuck into Rolan's room and interrupted his peaceful nap this afternoon by shimmying into his crib and then subsequently pouncing on his little brother's head while chanting, "Wake up, Rolan!"
Rolan, in turn, spent the afternoon randomly jabbing his big brother in the eye for the torturous awakening. With each incident, rather than responsibly disciplining my offspring, I just thought, "Man, I'm so glad my sons are mavericks."

Speaking of swaggering with the big balls of a maverick, Ridge and I build some wooden car inside the house today and then proceeded to paint it on the kitchen table. He seriously had slaps of blue paint in his ears.

I am exhausted. I am so freakin' exhausted that I cannot sleep. Such is the divine comedy of life.

There are several ways to show your patriotism. One of them just happens to be paying taxes. God knows I pay my share, but I love America and don't want to further become a "sharecropper nation," as Warren Buffet described the negative effect of our expanding foreign held debt.

I love Kenny G. I mean, I really love Kenny G. He played on Dirty Sexy Money last week and my long, lost love affair was reignited. Few things get my blood pumping like that long-haired genius blowing away on his saxophone.

I think blue eyeliner rocks. I wore it daily for many years, using it for some reason on only the outer halves of each eye, which made it rock even harder. After much badgering from my more fashion savvy friends, I begrudgingly abandoned my aqua beauty trick. I'm really thinking about bringing it back. What do you think?

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N. That's just how I roll. In fact, I think it is fair to say that's what I am doing right now. So, I'm gonna stop. I'm going to force myself to sleep so I won't drag around like a zombie tomorrow.

Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees

I was already about half-sick when I was driving through Elk City, taking Rolan to the doctor's office today when I saw the signs of the inevitable. This is Elk City's Rodeo of Champions weekend. Each year I feel the same dreadful pit in my stomach when I first spot the red, blue and white banners. Like a cramping period, you can do nothing but grit your teeth and push through it. I am a well-documented fun hater and I'm sure you think this is just more evidence to that fact. Trust me, it's not. Just ask any of my former co-workers. (For further evidence of my fun hater status, click here or here.)
Now, I know that many of you locals are already all up in my arms by my last statements. I know because I've mentioned my pure disdain for this ridicules bullshit to some of you businessmen and, with your eyebrows scrunched all disapprovingly, you scold me for lack of loyalty to the town.
"Don't you know how much extra business this thing brings in for the town? they ask.
Well, fuck yes, I know this brings extra business to town -- a shit ton of unmanageable business. And, do you know how I know that it brings in a shit ton of business? Well, let me tell you how.
For ten years, I hustled and grunted through the swarms of descending "cow"boys, packed 10 to a dozen in each booth that typically seats four at the Pizza Hut. Then the parade would start, that motherfucking parade, and the Pizza Hut parking lot would get so damned full with onlookers, totally spellbound as though they've never seen a shitting horse or a high school marching band, that our delivery drivers would have to park two blocks away to come in and get another round of deliveries.
And, yes, the Pizza Hut made some sweet profits each of those years I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off, explaining to one drunken "cow"boy after another that I would serve them a beer, just not Coors Light. We didn't carry Coors Light. And every other damned week of the year this wasn't a problem. But, on Rodeo Weekend when everyone is a bonafide, true blue cowboy, they cannot be expected to demean themselves by drinking Bud Light. So, while the restaurant I was working my dog ass off for was clearly some bank, I never made any extra money. Sure, there were a swelling number of tables, but they were generally bad tippers. Plus, I would spend half the damn day scrapping horseshit out of the carpet because you know each parent let their children run into the road to pick up parade candies they could buy 50 fucking pieces of for $1 at the dollar store. As Little Johnny or Little Suzy would bend down to snag their sugary prize, you could bet a million dollars their adorable boots with the waffle soles would land smack dab in the middle of a fresh turd. After the parade, they would mosey into the Pizza Hut where each one of the little bastards would brush their new boots off on our floor.
In between dealing with the hurricane of poo and the belligerent Coors Light loyalists, I would periodically have to lock myself in the walk-in to keep from laughing in the faces of local business people. I would see these folks on a regular basis throughout the year in their polo shirts and Gucci shoes, all combed and slick for a day of commerce. But, when the rodeo rolls around, you can bet your sweet ass they are dressed up like Pecos Bill.
Now, you are probably thinking, Shonda, I thought you dressed your kids in Western clothes all the time. I thought you married a cowboy and together you run like 7,000 head of cattle each year.
Well, you would be correct on all that. My husband is the quisessential cattleman. He ropes steers off a four-wheeler, chasing cattle down dusty lanes, lives half his life riding around in pick-ups taking head counts and patching fence and the other half doctoring sick ones and shipping off the ones ready to sell. And yet, with all this cowboy-esque duty, he manages to do it without looking like an extra in the Tombstone movie. Sure, he sports Wranglers and a pearl snap, sometimes even with a flower print, but he leaves the chaps at the house.
But, for these people on this weekend, it is like Halloween for adults. The more gaudy cowboy accessories they can pile on, the happier they are about it. As I would serve them pizza, just during this solitary week, they'd wink and say, "Why, Thank ya, Ma'am."
Then I would walk off, shaking my head at the bizarre alternate universe we will embark to once a year.
Now, I have to say that I really respect the hard work of the ten men on the rodeo board. They spend most of their year working hard to bring a professional level event to our tiny corner of the world. If half the community didn't go ape shit crazy during Rodeo Weekend, it probably wouldn't aggravate me a bit. In fact, I don't remember harboring all these volatile feelings about the thing until after I went to work for the Pizza Hut when I was 14ish. But, after slaving through that first year with barely a bump in pay, I knew this damn rodeo would forever be my arch nemesis.
So, listen up, folks. Take your kids out to the rodeo, I really hope you do. It's good family fun and I am all about supporting the community. In fact, my boys are getting old enough that I am sure I am going to have to end my protest and take them. But, if you wear Levis or Dockers for the rest of the year, by all means, wear them to this. If you let your children rush into the street during the parade, for God's sake, brush off the shit from their shoes BEFORE you take them into a restaurant.
However, if you are really wanting to witness some real life, crazy cowboy shit, come on out to our place. I think Rowdy has to rope a few steers later on this evening. After you see him drive his four-wheeler with one hand, zooming by at 30 miles per hour as he ropes a 900 pound steer, you'll nod your head and agree that that is a show. As I've always believed, Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees.

The Spirit of the American Farmer

The alarm clock buzzed at 5 am. As though I was still dreaming, I sprung from bed, turning the damn thing off. Crawling back into bed, I remembered that Rowdy told me he had to be up that early.
"Baby, if you are still wanting to get out of bed at 5, then it's time to wake up," I said, softly shaking his shoulders.
I stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of water. When I returned, he was still half-asleep. I didn't want to go back to bed myself until I knew he was awake. After all, I turned off his alarm without thinking. Rowdy's unfettered will to work even in the most undesirable circumstances has always amazed me, so I knew he would be up in just a second.
Since I hitched my wagon to his star five years ago, my knowledge of agriculture families has taken on a new definition. Most of what I thought to be true before has gone to the wayside, things I didn't even know was done has turned out to be the foundation of farming and ranching.
With our operation, Rowdy has to be a jack of all trades. Before he goes out each morning and when he comes in late at night, he scours the internet for market data. And not just the Chicago Merchantile Exchange either, all of them. He scouts weather patterns and veterinary trends. He mechanics on everything from bulldozers and large tractors to pick-up trucks and plows. His days are long, longer than anyone else I know and I've never heard him even mutter a small complaint.
The rain fell early this year, so he's started sowing wheat. Although no time of our year is technically slow, this is hands down the busiest. The success of the crop is so dependent on Mother Nature, circumstances completely beyond our control. It must be done when it can be done.
I don't know anyone else who saves their vacation time to farm, but Rowdy's little brother Chad (please click on Chad's name for the GREATEST story ever) comes out every year to drive tractors and labor in the unforgiving Oklahoma sun. He lives in Edmond, a suburb of Oklahoma City, with his wife and children. Although he isn't technically involved in agribusiness, he is still married to our farming and ranching success. I'm sure many others are committed to their family's businesses as well, but I think his is particularly true of farm and ranch families. It's not just the notion of livlihood, although that's an issue at hand, but also being a part of the whole, belonging to something larger than yourself. Chad knows the prosperity of our year, or lack thereof, is tied to this expensive slither. Plus, he and Rowdy are closer than perhaps any other two siblings on the globe. I mean, they are like Fidel and Raul Castro, dominating a country, close. Although we do pay Chad for his hard work during this time, there are some things money cannot compensate for. He and his wife could use this vacation time to be off on some lover's retreat together. Hell, he could spend it swaying in the hammock in his backyard. Instead he's caked in sweat and dirt, tending to cattle and plows for us. In fact, Chad's childhood on the farm continues to play such a large role in who he is today, he wrote a song about it.
So, when Rowdy and I were in John Deere, the same dealership my grandfather ran the parts department and worked on many a tractor for nearly 40 years until his death four years ago, I spotted this bumper sticker on one of the office windows. It spoke to me, not in a tripping on acid way, but in a waxing nostalgic way.
Of course, our greatest motivation in this line of work is to provide for our family. But, even though we produces only a small little dent in the country's food chain, it is there, on the kitchen table's of strangers. We know that China already produces 1 out of every 2 vegetables grown each year. We might not be able to match that ever again, but we can at least do our little part.


PS--For all your readers who visit my page for my foul-mouthed antics and mishaps, I will be posting one you'll love later on this evening. I promise to dry up my recent sappy behavior.

How To Spot A Real Man

Our nightly ritual is no less than a "enhanced interrogation" at Guantanamo Bay. For those of you who don't speak fluent Bush, that's torture. We're still conditioning Ridge to sleep in his own bed, no easy feat with the strong-willed, red-haired boy. I tuck him into bed and read him three books, kiss him on his forehead and tell him good night. A few minutes later, his door creeks open, his face peeks out. And then I start the process all over again.
On round # 6 or 7 last night, he drug out the dump truck book. Now, the jest of this tale is pretty simple. Old dude has a dump truck and rides around collecting animals to slosh up and down in it. It's kinda sadistic, really.
As we are reading our nightly stories, I always encourage Ridge to tell me what's happening in the illustrations. So, when the dump truck man arrived at the farm to load up even more animals in his truck, Ridge's eyes grew round and excited. He wanted to to talk about this.

Ridge: Is that boy a cowboy?
Me: Yes. How did you know he is a cowboy?
Ridge: 'Cause he has a hat and boots. He's a real man.

I laughed until my side hurt. Then I went and retold this little exchange to Ridge's cowboy dad, who thought this was the most genius thing he had ever heard.

Oh, don't forget to come back to mommalittle later today. I'm going to post first day of school photos.