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!

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

What If?

This week's Spin Cycle topic is >What if? You know, as in, "What if I had gotten that promotion," or "What if I had gone on the that blind date." It is the never ending question swirling around our minds about the life we could be traveling down if we'd only have taken a different turn.
When I saw this subject on Sprite's blog, I got really excited. After all, for the past several weeks, my mind has been plagued with thoughts of just how great things could have been had only one little tragic misstep happened. I've kept it pushed down deep inside, scared to death that once I let it out, there would be no taking it back. Like a festering splinter, this icky subject has continued to rise to the surface.
Okay, I'm just gonna do this, put it out there quickly, like I am ripping off a Band Aid. Here goes:
What if Grey's Anatomy star Katherine Heigl hadn't slapped the show's writers in the face by declining her Emmy nomination last because she felt she was "not given the material this season to warrant a nomination?"
Whenever she withdrew from the award process last year, I was as shocked and stunned as everyone else. I could just see the team of Grey's writers snapping their fingers as they hissed, "Oh no she di'nt."
But then the show let out for its summer hiatus and we forgot about all the Emmy drama. Well, when I watch the show each week and her character Izzy falls deeper and deeper into what has to be the most ridicules plot line I've ever watch disastrously unfold, I think the writers must not have forgotten it after all.
I mean, seriously, what other fucking explanation could there be for these highly talented writers to create and continue this fiasco? If Izzy were just stumbling all over Seattle Grace talking to a non-existent ghost, I would perhaps think it was a silly notion, but it wouldn't make me consider stop watching the show all together. Really, I could handle that.
No, the part where it goes from being a little misguided to just out and out absurd bullshit is when Izzy and her dearly departed old flame Denny start getting it on. I want to be clear, I think Denny (played by the super fly Jeffrey Dean Morgan) is about as hot as they make 'em. I really wouldn't mind living in a haunted house if he was the one doing the haunting. I'm glad that while the Grey's writers are turning this hit into a third rate soap opera, they are at least improving the scenery. But, even with all Denny's hotness, I do not think this storyline can be saved. They need to have an exorcism and bury this shit once and for all.
So, if you are a Grey's fan and, like me, have been thinking that maybe everyone related to the show has developed some terrible acid addiction that is preventing them from realizing just how fucking insane this entire plot line is, that is the best explanation I've come up with.
I think the Grey's writers were like, "Let's watch you turn down an Emmy you aren't nominated for in the first place, bitch."

Shine in 2009

Well, Christmas is over, thank goodness, for 11 more glorious months. I realize that math may not add up to those of you who don't co-inhabit with small children. Those of you who do know exactly what I am talking about, how the network television channels start playing The Polar Express and long list of other Christmas themed movies the day after Thanksgiving, naturally with Santa and the elves and this season's hottest new gadgets in each and every commercial during the presentation.
Oh, but alas, I can pause the Yuletide bitching for almost a year. And since I haven't found something new to bellyache endlessly about yet, I've kinda had blogger's block, Readers. I've stared at the blank screen, the flashing cursor taunting me into just one more beer for inspiration.
Thank goodness I stumbled upon Sprite's Keepers subject for this week's Spin Cycle, New Year's Resolutions. I know this is going to shock most of you, but I am a woman of many flaws. This was just in the nick of time, too. I was about to bust out the beer funnel. So, without further ado, here's my fix it list:

1. Like every New Year's since I was 13, I'm gonna have to put lose weight at the top of this bitch. I mean, unless the government starts giving my sizable ass its own vote, which I think is only fair considering it takes up as much space as some whole people, I guess I should consider getting rid of the uselessness. And, if I should manage to stay dedicated to the goal long enough to have some success, I might as well put keeping the lost weight off for good measure on here. I've lost weight before, but it comes back like a boom-a-rang.

2. Even though I don't get to eat sushi near as much as I would like, which would be every single day if I had my way, I guess I should want to eat less of it. I mean, Jeremy Piven's doctor says that his frequent sushi consumption lead to high levels of mercy in this system, thus making it impossible for old Jeremy to keep this contractual duties in the Broadway play Speed-the-Plow. He was contracted to play the part for 10 more weeks, but he was just too spoiled and douchey ill to uphold those obligations. Of course, he did feel good enough to hop a plan to Bangkok. So, maybe I shouldn't stop eating sushi, but rather become rich enough and famous enough to find some quack awesomely qualified physician like Jeremy's Dr. Carlon Coker to supply me with any wildly unbelievable excuse I might need to get out of something I just don't want to do.
Since Jeremy's plight forced him from the stage, the David Mamet play has lost money and sushi restaurateurs all over the country have called bullshit on his claim. If I were Jeremy, I wouldn't worry about the mercury in my sushi from here on out, but I would keep an eye open for spit.
"I understand Jeremy is leaving show business," Mamet told Variety, "to pursue a career as a thermometer."

3. Teach my children to never trust a fart, at least when they are ill. To add to the misery of Christmas, my children both came down with a stomach bug. But, since they had yet to learn this important life fable, poor Momma has had to wash many an extra pair of undies because of the wrath of stealthy sharts. If you don't know what a shart is, just think really hard. It's one of those two words put together jobs. Yeah.... that's right.

4. Organize, well, my life. I have this uncanny knack of turning everything I touch into chaos. My mentor Mary Fern has always told me that this is just a trait of artistically genius people. I think that may be code talk for crazy, quirky artsy types, but she stands by it. My friend Chelsea, who just happens to be the most talented artist I know, agrees. Truthfully, my mind seems to work best when surrounded by clutter, particularly if I am lucky enough to have it with a looming deadline. Of course, this could all be bullshit, but I'm sticking with creative licensing until I get rich enough to hire a live-in maid.

5. See my friends more often. Since the boys have come into our lives, Rowdy and I have both morphed into these old hermits. Going out and doing things just takes so much effort, not to mention just how much I've grown to love sweat pants. Still, I do have great friends, friends I miss all the time, and I need to pry my lazy, old ass from the comfort of my couch and snuggling kids to see them. Also, they might remind me that I am just 28.

6. Be more positive. Wait, scratch that. I don't mean that at all! I like being a snarky pessimist. In fact, I don't even like to call it that. I think those of us who think that things are probably going to be shitty should just be referred to as realists. You optimists are constantly running around just knowing things are going to fall perfectly into place and, when the certainty of disaster strikes, you are dumbfounded and disappointed by how such a (predictable) thing could happen. All the while we realists shake our heads and say, "Well, I knew that shit was going to happen." And then, every great now and again, when something does work out or run smoothly, we get to be surprised. Really, is there anything better than surprises?
Plus, if I shucked all my negative bitchiness, I would probably have to shut down this blog. I doubt any of you are coming here to read about chirping birds and rainbows and long walks on the beach.

7. Read more. Naturally, I'm not referring to blogs as they've already taken over my life like some unstoppable rebel coup. No, I mean like those ancient contraptions called books. You know, the ones your high school English teacher tried to ram down your thought. Well, I think she was right. Perhaps some of our country's latest conundrums could have been prevented if any one of us still read history books.

8. Be nicer to Rowdy. It's true, he provokes me like a snot-nosed boy rattling a rabid dog's cage. But, I know it's all out of loving orneriness. He is sweet to me like 96% of the time. Plus, he puts up with all my quirkiness, such as wailing on and on about the Bush Administration and teaching our boys to proclaim that Prop 8 is hate and blogging about all our bickering for all the world to read and serving the boys peanut butter sushi for breakfast. Of course, as I type this, he has cuddled up with our two children and flipped the tube to Steven Seagal's On Deadly Ground. I don't want our babies watching some greasy haired ninja. It's like he enjoys ass chewings.
Be nice, Shonda, be nice.

9. Ban Steven Seagal from our household. That is all.

10. Scrapbook more. It is kind of like the crack cocaine of the hobby world, but I have been slacking recently. How else are my children going to know to resent me for all the shenanigan outfits I put them in if they aren't all well-documented?

11. Give to more charities. With retail stores actually closing at Christmas, which is like saying, "With strip clubs in New York City closing right before the entire horny U.S. Navy descends upon it for Fleet Week," I think it clear that the Bush presidency has finally culminated into widespread hard times. Not long ago, I cried when GoodFather shared this story of being laid off. So, while I am worried that we might have a hard time making money raising beef when the entire country is too damn broke to buy a steak, I also think this might be a good time for me to realized how blessed we truly are. We have a warm house and full bellies. So, if you have any ideas on charities, send them to me.

12. Be more environmentally friendly and energy efficient. I've already started using hemp grocery sacks and those funny looking light bulbs. Noble Peace Prize, please! But, I really think the family Little should take it one further. I try to keep the lights we aren't using out and if my family wasn't such pusses about cold weather, I'd shut the heater off. Of course, I could start recycling my beer cans. That in itself might shut down an aluminum mine. Wait, are their aluminum mines? Anyways, I could save a small fortune, too. My Explorer is paid off, so I plan on driving it until its wheels fall off, but the next car is definitely doing to be one of those 50 miles a gallon golf carts. I bet Osama bin Laden hates those cars. So, that's one I am going to focus on, being less wasteful.

13. Shine in 2009. We're all in this thing together.

Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I'll never forget the first time I heard George Constanza nervously ramble to his boss about his father Frank's personal holiday, Festivus, a special observation set aside to protest all the mind-numbing, ridicules bullshit that surrounds Hanukkah and Christmas and every other sacred day recognized by the masses. It's not that I mind the days themselves, just the opposite really. What I do mind, though, is the way the entire population goes apeshit crazy as the day approaches. A man was killed this year at an early bird special, for Christsake.
Now, I know Frank Constanza is technically a fictional character, but Festivus is pure genius. And, as a matter of fact, it was actually inspired by a Seinfeld writer Dan O'Keefe's father's spin on the celebration of, well, not freakin' celebrating.
I'm sure all you Christmas lovers are going berserk as you read this. Well, hold on, friends, it's gonna get bumpier. My beef with Christmas has nothing to do with the holiday itself, in its rawest form, that is. But, really, the nuts-and-bolts of Christmas really wouldn't make much of a holiday, would it? Since the Bible gives no real guidelines outside of birthing in a pile of hay and then receiving some shit called frankincense and Mir from three wise men, which could be anyone I guess, we really don't know how God wants us to commemorate the birth of His son. Should we stuff a pinata and cheer Jesus on as he puffs out his candles, all 3,000 of 'em? I'm not sure what we are suppose to do, but I'm certain God's plan isn't for us to staple enough fucking Christmas lights to our house to single-handily melt the polar ice caps and make the old spinster woman go certifiably insane from all the blinking light reminders that she and her 7 cats are all alone at Christmas. I'm no Biblical scholar, but I gather from the whole feeding a crowd with a loaf of bread and three fish thing that Jesus dug conservation. I'm just not sure he'd want us to mark his birthday by packing three fucking landfills with useless Christmas paper that briefly covered a bunch of gifts we don't really need.
Not to mention that, Jesus seemed to shun both the prideful lust of worldly possessions and really all violence. Well, putting a bunch of genetically related people who can't freakin' stand each other and only manage to restrain from socking each other in the eye with a turkey drumstick because it would break poor ole Grammy's heart in the same room to trade notes over who's pulling down the biggest paycheck according the size of their wastefully wrapped gifts under the tree just makes perfect sense. As soon as the ribbons are untied and punches are flying, I'm sure Jesus is happy as a bride on her wedding day. Honestly, I don't know why we just don't start a new Christmas tradition of gouging out each other's eyes rather than turning the other cheek. That's the only thing missing.
In light of my obvious Bah Humbug spirit, Festivus clearly resonated with me. Festivus is packed full with much more reasonable customs and my favorite of them all is the "Airing of the Grievances." Just in case you somehow missed Frank Constanza's explanation of this practice to Cosmo Kramer, which would be like overlooking Hailey's Comet flying into Earth, this is the time-honored tradition of basically telling everyone that's disappointed you or pissed you off throughout the year just how they did so. Just imagine how the escalated depression and violence of the holiday season would decrease if we all embraced this rather than Christmas caroling.
So, in honor of Festivus, I want to share with you a small excerpt from my Grievances:

Mollie,
Not only are those horseshit knock-off Lego's that you gave Ridge for his birthday constantly sprinkled around my house like Mardi Gras confetti without the beer and flying chi chis, but when I stumbled haphazardly to the bathroom in the middle of the night, my unsuspecting foot struck one of those bastards and the skin on the bottom of my foot was cut. I woke up the next morning with a bleeding and aching foot and was forced to wear two mismatched Crocs to work at the Hog Trough the next morning because every other shoe hurt too freakin' badly to wear. On the account of that, several people continue to make fun of my fashion sense, which is obviously as dead on as that Calvin Klein person.
Also, you gave Ridge those prescription-less glasses so that he would stop pestering your son Carson for his, but I know it was really so he would love you more than he loves me. You were almost successful in that, but no cigar, biznotch. Thanks to you, Ridge is now that Sampson without his long, locks of hair if he doesn't have those damn glasses -- simply useless. A slow poke to begin with, he now takes more time to get dressed because he's looking for those damn glasses than it took me to grow him in my stomach. Freakin' thanks! I guess I should be comforted in knowing that my kids spend the entire time they are at your house being pampered into love since you want to be their favorite, but you are ruining my life with your quest. I'm currently searching for the most ridicules gifts imaginable to give your kids. Just wait.

AT&T,
Since you have acquired the small, local chain of cell phone providers, the suckage of my coverage has increased dramatically. What's up with that? The old guys had the budget to advertise on the local radio, you guys have the cash flow to make your bidding on every national station. Hell, if you can pull the strings to let Dick Cheney listen to my random phone calls about my man and kids without a warrant surely to hell you can make the motherfuckers work without dropping every five minutes.

Mother in Law,
My sons aren't instantly and magically going to be stricken with pneumonia or frostbit or some other terrible affliction if they thermometer dips below 65 and they aren't wrapped up like that poor bundled up kid in The Christmas Story. Seriously, a band of Cheyenne managed to keep their kids alive for decades 1/4 of a mile from here on the banks of a river with the scant help of a leather tepee. Had that asshole Custer not rode along and massacred them, I'm sure they'd have all died old and withered of old age. I know your concern is because you do so dearly love the boys and I am less annoyed when I realize if something ever happened to me that you would mother them into submission, but I promise not to let them freeze to death.

Kentucky Fried Chicken Man,
I'm not being a bitch for wanting my money back. The chicken was simply raw. I don't eat raw chicken. That's not because I'm a snob, it's because I don't like puking water through my nose for three days. I realize my ass could use the downsizing, but I want my money back nonetheless.

Mom,
If you happen to go a week without seeing the boys, all memories of you aren't going to be mysteriously whisked from their brain. I can't help that you work 20 hours a day and, for some damn reason, want to sleep those other 4. I'm not a miracle worker. You can either commission God for 4 more hours in a day or stop with the damn overachieving. I understand that this nagging is just because you love them 5 times as much as you love me, which I am actually cool with because I love that my boys are loved, but I can't produce more daylight.

Satellite Repair Man,
When we call you for a repair and then fork over that ridicules surcharge to get you out here, actually fix our shit. Don't strip some wires and then put together some technical house of cards that we'd have to be skilled magicians or, in the very least, engineers to make work after you leave in 5 minutes. I mean, seriously, if I wanted some solution that required some flimsy coat hanger to rest at an almost impossible angle while Rowdy and I jump up and down and pat our heads, we'd have saved our money and done it ourselves.

Rowdy,
Oh, this could be five posts in itself. In fact, I am not going to write anything here since, well, bitching about you is pretty well the premise of this blog. I will say that it kinda pisses me off that four years into parenting, you have yet to wash one pair of underwear and you still get to be John Wayne wrapped up in Super Man to the boys every time you walk in the door, which I think is total bullshit since you didn't let the boys live inside your belly for 75% of year, gaining untold discomfort, then to turn around and let them thrive off your breast milk for a year. I do all that and you still get to be the super hero. Fucking bullshit.

Melissa,
Seriously, openly laughing at someone who accidentally rubs peppermint oil in their eye and then agonizing through relentless pain because of it. Seriously. I don't know if I'm peeved or excited that you get my humor. It's one of the two.

Ridge and Rolan,
Along with your dad, you two are the loves of my life. If it weren't for you two, I wouldn't even begrudgingly drag myself through this holiday. Damn you two for lighting up my life through the wonder in your eyes. If you two didn't radiate joy and excitement with even the slightest whisper of the magic of Christmas, I'd be a peaceful woman with abundant rest. I'd use all the money I've spent on gifts and what not to buy a plane ticket to some sunny paradise stocked with hot men and cold beer. Instead I'm running on fumes to wrap all the gifts you don't need and to prepare the food for our celebrations just to see the two of you hold your breath as your rip through wrapping paper to discover your next surprise, to see your mouths drop with glee when you realize what lies beneath it. So, you two darling little shits get my ultimate grievance and I wouldn't have it any other way.

HAPPY FESTIVUS! Watch the Festivus video. It's your heritage.

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.

Grocery Store Prices, Just Makin' It Up As We Go

In order to fully appreciate this little conversation I am posting below, you need to know that I was at my local grocery store and literally standing in between the clerk and the assistant manager as they shared this exchange.

CLERK: She got some of that iced coffee, but it's not scanning. Do you know how much it is?

ASSISTANT MANAGER: Ummm....no I don't.

(brief pause, then clerk just pounds in a few numbers,)

ASSISTANT MANANGER: Just charge her 99 cents.

CLERK: I just charged her $1.99.

ASSISTANT MANAGER: Great, that'll work.

Then I'm just standing there, mouth gapping open in shock, looking at the clerk then back at the assistant manager. As soon as the assistant manager, the clerk had the same look and whispered to me that she would just charge me the 99 cents.
In spite of that, I was still shocked. And not because I mind paying the extra buck. It is, after all, just a buck. But, shocked because the assistant manager is just ballparking prices and willing to accept charing a customer, I don't know, DOUBLE. So, readers, tell me what you think about this.

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.

Foot in mouth, Ass in hand

Last Sunday, after Kassie Jackson's wedding (which I will post pix and blog about shortly), Rowdy and I headed south for our cruise to the Yucatan Peninsula. Our sailing mates, brother Chad and his missus Jennifer, picked up my delinquent husband up from his peer pressuring cousin Rocky and then swung by Norman to get me from my overnight stay at Lyndi's. Our vessel, the Carnival Ecstasy, wouldn't be boarding passengers until 12:30 pm the next day, so we decided to rent a room in Galveston, a far superior solution than waking up at like 3 am on Monday to make the treacherous drive to South Texas. Of course, I could have seen my boys for an extra day before we set sails. Either way, the Sunday departure allowed our long drive to be an extra vacation day as opposed to a hustled and hurried dash to the boat, which is what a Monday departure would have most assuredly been.
Somewhere in Dallas Chad and I agreed that it was, in fact, time to crack open one of those fabulous six point beers most Texans are so gleefully proud of. It's that or George Bush, so I think the beer is definitely the one I'd highlight, too. Well, Pat Green and Ron Paul and Willie Nelson and Kinky Friedman and Ann Richards and certainly Molly Ivins are all pretty rockin Texans,' I suppose. And Texas has given me Mark Anderson, the liberal bull hauler, and I'm sure most of you know my deep running affections for him. Since Oklahoma finally legalized tattoos and the lotto, this six point beer is the undisputed champion of south-of-the-Red-River-Okies. We love it! By the early afternoon, Chad and I were sharing a six pack of Bud Light tall boys.
Somewhere during our drive through the Lone Star State Jennifer told us she wanted to swing into College Station to visit her long time friend Austin. About a week ago he and his wife had their first child and, since we were in the driving vicinity, Jennifer wanted to meet the little guy.
Little did she know that this trip into the leafy Texas center would produce perhaps the greatest gaffe in history, a true foot in the mouth situation if I've ever seen one. But, I will get to that in a quick minute.
College Station is a small drive off the highway and into territory none of us were familiar, so the other three on the trip decided to purchase a map. Because we were venturing off the main path and into the Aggie woods, I agreed. However, this also lead me to telling and retelling my quite accurate travel strategy of no maps. It is this: FOLLOW THE SIGNS. Miranda, I know if you are reading this you are agreeing. Through countless beer-soaked trips our parents should have never let us take all over the damned country, we always made it home safely with this fail-proof policy. And we were drunk teenage girls. It's simple: Go to Oklahoma City and then follow the sign to Dallas. Get to Dallas and drive until you see the sign for Houston. Go to Houston until you see the sign for Galveston. Of course if you veer of the well-traveled path, you will need some sort of reasoning system for the unfamiliar community, but if you are just a traveling through, it works. But, for some unknown reason, Chad and Rowdy held doubt on this plan and periodically made clever little jabs at my system.
When Jennifer first mentioned stopping at Austin's, I didn't realize where he lived. And even had I known, I had no idea where that actual location was. I didn't mind swinging by Austin's in light of the new babe, but I was also pretty tired from a late night of photography and a long day of driving and beer drinking. However, any sacrifice I may have felt I was making by prolonging our trip for this visit was more than compensated for with tear-jerking, awkward laughter when we left his home.
Holding her friends' new son, Jennifer admired the baby as she caught up with Austin and his wife Melissa. Just five short days earlier, Melissa had given birth to Tucker. Both she and her husband seemed amazingly calm considering they are both first time parents. Austin's living room is small art gallery of crisp, brilliant photography with a wide range of subjective focus. Since I do consider myself a quasi-artist, I slowly scanned his impressive work like a potential buyer, assuming the photos were for sale in the first place. A team of varied reporters on CNN or Fox or whatever news outlet Austin was watching updated us, their captivated viewers, on the progress for NASA's quest for Mars. The trip to Austin's, it seemed, would be a very typical, non-eventful stop among old friends.
Like a war veteran or red-faced football coach, parents of older children love to tell brand new parents various stories about their own growing and adventurous kids. Some wax nostalgic, often misty-eyed recollections of bringing the soft baby home. Others are funny tell-alls about early mishaps or charming conversations with toddlers. And then of course there are the cautionary shock doctrines of the morphed mom and/or dad. You know the ones, dragging the kicking kid from the store or oil-based paint drenched over new carpet or simple debates with the formerly perfect urchin over what will or will not be played with. After the old moms, me and Jennifer, got our baby fix from Melissa and Rowdy had nicotine floating around in his blood stream like bubbled crude after the Exxon Valdez oil spill, we were ready to convene our travels. As we were leaving, Chad was throwing around a little parental fear mongering as he detailed random fits and/or arguments he has had with his four-year-old Paden. We old parents love it because even when you are explaining these moments of leg kicking, shrieking goodness to even the most intelligent of new parents you can see in their eyes they truly believe their tiny miracle will never behave so appallingly. It's funny because we can still remember when we had those same ridicules ideas when we were new parents.
With the front door opened, I joined Chad's conversation of doom by assuring him and Austin that Paden always behaves like a good boy when he is at my house. He plays and he eats well. After I explained his exceptional behavior, I turned back toward Austin and his wife and said, "Paden does act good at my house, but then again, kids are scared of fat, red-headed women."
Without missing a beat, a smiling Chad then looked right in Austin's eyes and said, "Well, then you shouldn't have anything to worry about."
Okay, take a minute to let that all absorb. Yup, that's right. Chad inadvertinly called Austin's wife fat just five days after she delivered a baby with her standing five feet away.
My typically insensitive husband, who had already walked about ten feet out of the house when Chad made this God awful remark, turned to him with total awe. So you know, when Rowdy Little realizes the full ramifications of something like this so quickly, it's bad.
As it is, Chad is one of the nicest guys I've ever met. In my mind, he is about the last candidate I can think for intentional rudeness. I think it goes without saying that he just hadn't heard my entire statement or didn't realize it all until after he had said that awful and really, really funny statement. You see, Melissa is a redhead. The redheaded portion of my statement was either all he heard or his mind was so saturated with stout Texas brew that it just didn't register. When the words rushed out of his mouth, they were as unstoppable as the forceful hurricane byproduct gushing over Lower Ninth Ward levees. The comment Chad made was certainly not what he had intended to say, but he said it nonetheless.
As soon as the four of us opened the doors to their Blazer and poured in, the laughter and shock spilled into the vehicle. Chad had quickly realized the full scope of the wordy exchange and the three of us damn sure had. Rowdy and I both wanted to stop laughing, but we just couldn't. And, of course our cackling only encouraged Chad to as well, although this was only because he just didn't know what to do and felt like an asshole. Poor Jennifer sat as still as a statue. Trying to make light of this hysterical and embarrassing situation, I asked her if she was going to miss Austin and I could tell she knew the tragic tongue slip would be funny if it in were some gut-busting sketch comedy skit. But, since this bore the solid potential of tears for a freshly postpartum mother who is also the wife of one of Jennifer's oldest friends, she was too nervous to laugh just yet. We discussed each and every reason Chad should call to explain and apologize and each and every reason we shouldn't. Naturally the reasons for calling go without saying, but then what if she hadn't heard? If he called and Melissa had somehow missed this dreadful tongue slip then she would have to know about it for no reason. On the other hand, Austin could've been consoling her at that very moment, vowing to never expose her to the wicked venom of Chad Little. In other words, none of us really knew the right way to handle this. After a few minutes, Chad manned up and called. The regret in his voice would have been recognizable for a deaf person. After all, Chad is a great man. He immediately apologized and flowed into a heart-felt explanation. Austin said that Melissa had not heard it and the relief lifted off Chad's face like a space shuttle into the sky. After a few moments of repeated apologies, Chad ended his phone conversation with Austin a ton of bricks lighter. Naturally Rowdy and I seized his golden opportunity to gig Chad, suggesting that Melissa had heard him, but both Austin and Melissa are far too kind to mention it. In all honesty, I don't know what she heard. I do, however, know that the four of us laughed for days and days about it. Most of the time the shocked regret would wave over Chad's face when this incident was reopened, but the laughter would roll with it. It was just unreal. It was like witty comedic writing at its finest.
So, for all you lazy readers who skim over the top and bottom halves of a posting, let me recap one last time:
Noting that kids often behave for me, I suggest that kids must be scared of "fat, redheaded women."
Chad looks at his friend whose recently postpartum wife is standing next time him and says, "Well, you shouldn't have anything to worry about then."
It was awesome.