So, Apparently Small Farms Only Produce Imaginary Food.....

As we mentioned last week, Senator Pat Roberts (R-KS) disparaged small and organic farmers yesterday during Secretary of Agriculture-nominee Tom Vilsack’s confirmation hearing, claiming small farmers don’t produce real food. Roberts described the typical small farmer as "about 5′2″…and he's a retired airline pilot and sits on his porch on a glider reading Gentleman's Quarterly — he used to read the Wall Street Journal but that got pretty drab — and his wife works as stock broker downtown. And he has 40 acres, and he has a pond and he has an orchard and he grows organic apples. Sometimes there is a little more protein in those apples than people bargain for, and he's very happy to have that."

The Ethicurean had a brilliant idea, asking folks to contribute photos of small and organic farmers on Flickr and tag them to create a giant photo album of small farmers. Which got us to thinking about our own Farmer Heroes campaign, which asked Farm Aid fans to upload photos and stories about their farmer heroes at www.farmaid.org/farmerheroes. So here’s a note we’re sending to Senator Roberts to let him know that we’ve got plenty of small farmers for him to meet!

Dear Senator Roberts,

Farm Aid thinks that you might be interested in meeting some "small farmers," so we'd like to introduce you to Farm Aid's Farmer Heroes (www.farmaid.org/farmerheroes). The photos you see there are of farmers who were nominated as heroes because they do something even more valuable than growing a few organic apples. These people are rebuilding our food system, bringing good local food with values to their communities, nurturing us--body and soul.

These small farmers are heroes and they're the people we work for every day. We bet a few of them would even invite you out to their farm to show you what a real small farm looks like and how much food (and how many different kinds of food!) a real small farm produces. We'd be happy to help arrange that for you.

Best,
Farm Aid

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.

As Good As It Gets

I don't really remember meeting Audrey Suzanne Trevino. Likewise, I don't remember not knowing her. She was just always there, down the hallway or down the road, playing the softball game scheduled right after mine or throwing me the last beer from the ice chest. I was born three years before she was, so logic lets me know that there must have been a time in my life that I didn't know she existed, yet still, I can't recall it. That's both the beauty and the beast of growing up in a small town. Our lives are interconnected and interchanging, weaving in and out of one another like the ebbs and tides of the unpredictable ocean. It's a loop that never ends.
With probably a thousand different sporting events drawing our lives together, be it softball or football or our parents' bowling, Audrey was always on my radar. And, truthfully, she was the shits from top to bottom, from the beginning to the end. That I've always known. I could ramble into a few stories from the bowling ally or fitness center of shenanigans pulled by Audrey or my sister or my cousin Stephanie or Britne, but that post in itself could go on forever.
But somewhere along the time I turned 21 or 22 and Audrey turned 19 or 20, she grew from the brat pack of my little sister into my peer. I worked at the Pizza Hut and she worked at the Subway, which just happened to do be directly across with the street from one another. With the bulk of our friends off chasing grandeur at some distant university or running down the aisle and into the birthing rooms, Audrey and I found the common bond of being the rare and illusive breed of small town young girls that happened to be single and, well, out of high school. For somewhere near 9 months, she spent several nights a week at my house, the both of use swaddled in the magic fabric of sweat pants, watching movies and drinking beer out of straws that, by the way, had tiny penises on the the end. We laughed over tacky jokes, the kind that would make sailors blush, and cried over the uncertainties we both felt about our childhoods. Somehow or another, she got me.
But, just as life always seemed to do, we both moved toward different phases in our lives. For one thing, I met Rowdy, my cowboy romeo, and he swept me off my feet and onto the vast prairies of Roger Mills County. For you non-Okies, that's only, like, 25 miles away from my hometown, but sometimes it feels a world away. Marriage and babies fell upon me like a swift snowfall and my days were quickly consumed with the ins and outs of daily life. Like most of the people of my childhood and early adulthood, I didn't get to see Audrey nearly as often as I would've liked. But, when I did, she always had an uncanny knack for making me feel like she'd been there all along, like we'd never missed a beat.
And as time went along, I heard Audrey's name mentioned by my other friends, from people who she might not have known while we drank beer into the twilight on a frequent basis. It became clear to me that, in my absence, so many others had discovered the treasure I myself had found in Audrey. She had this uncanny ability to make you feel special, no matter who you happened to be. And that was no facade, my friends, she was a lover of people. She just put herself out there, she was totally fearless in that way. She was as good as they make 'em. She had a heart of gold and a tongue of steel, if you know what I mean. She both loved and fought wholeheartedly.
When Audrey died this Tuesday, December 9, I really knew it wouldn't be a right if the only thoughts posted here were mine. As I said, Audrey never met a stranger. And if you ever felt like she loved you, trust me, she did. Her heart was just that big. So, I posted a bulletin on myspace asking for others, folks from all walks of life, to send me thoughts or memories on our beloved girl.
As the threads of a great quilt laced between one another, members of different families mold together in a small town, from birth to death. This is reflective in what Britne (formerly Rainey) wrote:

My mom and Anne (Audrey's Mom) have been good friends for years, so Audrey and I kinda grew up together. I remember she always fixing my hair (bangs especially). Oh, by the "wings" you know the feathered back style and then apply tons of hair spray!! I remember one time our parents had gone out for New Years and Audrey and I got bored so we decided to make a cake. It was a chocolate cake, but we only a few half eaten cans of icing. So, needless to say, the cake had 3 or 4 different types of icing but, you know, it was pretty darn good !! I have a lot of other memories of her that were wonderful and I will always remember her and the awesome person that she was!!! My heart really hurts right now, not just for her family, but for her as well. She was so young and never had a chance to really experience the great things in life !! God Bless her and her family !

Naturally Britne's post warmed my heart and my tear ducts, particularly the last part. Now I know Audrey and she had a zest for living. She tasted life's sweetness often. But, I think what Britne was referring to directly was the fruits of longevity. Just this afternoon, I sat with Audrey's mother and grandmother. The pride they so clearly feel for her is as recognizable as the sun in June's heat. I think Britne knows, just as I know, that Audrey would've been the ultimate momma bear.

The next post from little Katie Farrel. Now I call her little because she's even younger than my little sister, who is, by the way, very grown. You know how some people stand still in time. Well, my sister and all her friends do to me. I don't care how grown up you guys get. The reason I mention just how long I've know Miss Katie is because I have known her through different means than how I knew Audrey, though they knew each other just as long. Do you see the theme of the intertwining lives of small town folks? I think Katie's small passage really speaks volumes for the many dimensions lifelong friendships can have. She wrote:

Audrey was the first person to hit me with a softball and the first person to serve me a beer on my 21st birthday. She was the reasoning in me going to The Long Horn, where she bartended and was a better bouncer than any big man. But most of all. I am gonna miss that laugh that she had and how she was always herself, no matter what. And the penis water gun she gave me on my 22nd birthday. Oh we had a blast with it! I am gonna miss that girl.

But, lastly, I think I will end with a little blurb from my darling friend Josh Bailey. He and I worked together for many years, through many sweat soaked nights at a pizza parlor. Honestly, I had never thought of him and Audrey being friends. For a passage in my life, he and I were around each other more than we were around much of anyone else. But, time moves like sand in the wind and our lives take a different form. However, knowing both him and Audrey, it was no surprise to me that these two great souls had also struck up a friendship. I'm better for knowing them both and I really think Josh's words sum up the whole of Audrey's spirit, the way she seized all moments and loved all people. Her smile lit up a room and she felt just a comfortable around bankers as she did around beggars. She was as good as it gets. Don't take my words for it, take Josh's:

I can't really think of one time with Audrey that stood out above the rest, because every time was a blast. She always went out of her way to make sure everybody was having a good time.There was never a dull moment and never a frown on her face. The short, few years I knew her was certainly not enough and that breaks my heart. You will seriously be missed, Audrey, by so many people. God bless you. - Josh

I want to write this post forever, to let my mumbling words drag on and prevent my sleep. I want to push tomorrow back into the midnight because, with the dawn of day, this nightmare is really real. Tomorrow we lay her to rest. As I close this post, I am leaving you with a Jackson Browne song, For A Dancer, performed by James Dupre. Whether you knew Audrey or not, I want you to listen to the words. However, if you did hit the awesome lottery of actually meeting this beautiful spirit, the words will really resonate with you. To me, the words give explanation to the way I feel not only about Audrey, but all my darling friends I rarely see because of all these adult responsibilities. Even if I don't see you often enough, you are with me and me with you. Here's just a excerpt of the song, I hope it entices you to click on the video and listen to the whole song. I put the sentence in bold that SCREAMS Audrey to me. Enjoy:

I don't remember losing track of you
You were always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you'd always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you're nowhere to be found

I don't know what happens when people die
Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try
Its like a song I can hear playing right in my ear
That I can't sing
I can't help listening
And I can't help feeling stupid standing round
Crying as they ease you down
cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing
Dancing our sorrow away
Right on dancing
There's nothing you can do about it anyway

Just do the steps that you've been shown
By everyone you've ever known
Until the dance becomes your very own
No matter how close to yours
Another's steps have grown
In the end there is one dance you'll do alone

Here's one more for the road from Jacy:

Audry was a bubbly person! We had this thing going between us with, "Your hair looks nice!" One day i had went into the bar and had a bad day and Audry said, "Your hair looks nice!"
I was like, "Are you kidding?!?"
After the day I had, I just knew it looked like shit 'cause I had felt like I had been pulling my hair out. So the next time I went in, her hair looked awesome! So I said, "Audry, your hair looks nice!"
She just gave me this evil eye, but it made her laugh!! You know the laugh, that sounds evil, but you know is innocent. That laugh of Audrey's made me always wanna laugh!!! It was a laugh no one else has!!
I saw her last Thursday night and she had her hair slicked back. I said, "Are you trying to pull off some Chinese bun or what?"
Her famous words came out with, "Shut the f*@ck up!!! I was running late for work!!!"
I am going to miss her serving the drinks. She knew what to say and how to make you laugh. I don't think I have ever heard of anyone not really liking her! She will be truly missed by me!

And in keeping with their inside joke greeting ritual, my friend Aaron wants to send Audrey off in style with two simple words, "Fuck Yea!"

When Kids Invade the Bedroom

Pull up a chair, Readers, it's lessons from Shonda time again.
For some reason, I've been blogging about getting it on and, moreover, the subsequent reproduction that it causes lately. It all started with Bristol Palin and the big no-no she and her hot piece of Alaskan tail Levi Johnston got into. Well, it didn't really start there. You know I've been a weaselly perv for many a years now, that just sparked all the writing. Then I talked to all you teenagers out there about the perks of having a baby at a young age. Mollie did it and now she has a mini nanny. I waited until I was 24 to start having kids, which is like 40 here in Oklahoma. Seriously, my aunt Janet began calling me an old maid when I was 20. To be fair, she and her bunch are more fertile than prime Ohio farm ground. Anyways, my responsibility (or luck, whatev) really paid off. While I'm slaving over six freakin' loads of laundry, Mollie's watching tv as her daughter Hannah loads the dryer and pours milk for the smaller children. It's bullshit.
Well, I figured I might as well keep the raunchy theme going, right. Today I want to talk to you about birth control in its most effective means.
Now, in order for you to take this sure fire route, you must have either already reproduced or have access to a kid you can borrow. I repeat, there must be small children.
I can tell you, Brilliant Readers, that nothing slows down the procreation like a toddler's head peeking over the side of the bed just as you start rubbing on your partner's nether regions.
"Momma, there's a monster under my bed," he whispers as he shimmies into bed and rests between the two of you.
But, you don't give up there. After all, the two of you used to be quite the rock stars in this regard and you are motivated to kick off the reunion tour. You lay like motionless rocks until the little angel is sleeping soundly, then you sneak off to his home. It, after all, is free.
Just as you slip into the Thomas the Train sheets (this is totally hypothetical), you hear a soft cry in the room of the baby. The soft cry quickly turns into a shrill scream. You sigh, leave your handsome spouse in the big kid's room and go to soothe the little kid.
Of course, for some odd reason, it takes twice as long to comfort him as it normally does. You rock and sing, whisper and hug, but the child reminds you there is no rest for the weary and no love for the randy.
By the time you perform the small miracle of hypnotising the kiddo, you creep back into the toddler's room to find a snoring husband.
So, there you, Readers. If you don't want to get pregnant, just have kids.

The Perks to Teenage Reproducing

When I was junior in high school, I packed into the back of my mother's mini van with a handful of friends and we headed south to Dallas for the Fleetwood Mac Reunion Tour. We gutted the seats and sat in a circle. We smoke cigarettes. Some of us smoked other things as well. We held the flame to lighters until our thumbs grew blisters. It was one of those trips that defines youth, living free, taking adventures, being carefree. We drank expensive beers and we all marveled by my ability to not being carded, which I thought was a definite sign of my ultra coolness. Yes, we all had drinks, many drinks, all of us but Mollie.
Not long after the trip, Mollie shocked us all with the revelation that she was, like, almost 8 months pregnant. Underneath flannel shirts and vintage jeans, she had hidden Hannah from us all, her mother included. And when she told me of the pregnancy, I just felt tremendous guilt for the 200 cigarettes I sucked down 2 feet in front of her in a airtight van. My awareness of responsibility at the time pretty much would've ended there, but holy shit, I would've at least cracked a window.
Now, for you to fully understand the impact of this bombshell, you need to know that Mollie is a genius. I don't say that lightly. She scored, like, a 34 on her ACT when we were freshmen. We would marvel wide-eyed as she would take on teachers and out debate them. If there was ever a case of someone being too smart for their own good, this would be it. So, as the prune-faced adult figures in our lives found out about the pregnancy, they thought she had royally screwed up. Hell, I kinda agreed.
Fast-forward a decade. A few years after Hannah was born, Mollie stumbled upon her man Ronnie and they got to reproducing Old World Catholic Style. They had Adie and 15 months later had Wyatt and then 15 months later had Carson. And with each little child, Hannah grows more into Super Nanny.
Mollie brought her crew out to visit one Autumn afternoon. Ridge was nearly a 3-year-old and Rolan had just turned 2. To give an age comparison of our kids, her baby Carson is almost the exact same age as my oldest Ridge.
As one child would toddle up the road and another would roll down the hill, I would spring up to chase them. Mollie would all nonchalantly tell me to sit back down, then she would send Hannah a-fetchin.'
One kid was licking snot from his top lip, Hannah would swoop in with a Kleenex. Another would whine over hunger, Hannah would peel a banana. As I watched this child wonder, a super nanny if I've ever freakin' seen one, I offered Mollie money to buy her. I know, I know. That's illegal. Mollie won't freakin' give her up, dammit, so I'm thinking about kidnapping her. Don't judge me, you have the same scandalous plots if you'd seen her in action.
And then, over my like 12th monetary bid for Hannah, Mollie made a quite profound statement, "Back when we were 17 and I had Hannah, you guys all thought I was fucking up. Well, who's laughing now? It turned out to be meticulous planning."
And, she's totally right.
This last weekend my friend Miranda's girls spent Friday night and Saturday afternoon with us. Her baby Aaralyn is also Ridge's age and her oldest, Madilyn, will be 7 this February. She's a bit younger than Hannah, so there are some things she can't quite do yet. But, I could see as she mothered her little sister and my two boys that she'll make a great child slave. Plus, like Hannah, her eagerness to please will make her totally oblivious to the fact that I am exploiting her maternal instincts and boundless energy. Her momma wasn't a teenager when she was born, though.
So, listen up, folks: I am in the market for a Hannah or a Madilyn. Apparently their mothers want to keep them, which I think is utter bullshit. Can't they see that I'm working to death out here? Don't you think they should, in the very least, share the wealth?
Now, for all you teenage girls out there, I'm gonna give you the truth. When all those uptight parentals are preaching the dangers of teenage pregnancy, plant your fingers in your ears and stick your tongue out. This isn't bad, this is good. The government will fork over the cash for your medical bills and food and you will get a bright-eyed little slave to care for all your future children.

Ode To My Allergies

Ode to my allergies,
my snotty, mucus-packed misery,
my achy head,
my eyes are red,
this Sudafed fueled catastrophe.

I'm going to sleep!

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.

Hay is for Horseshit, Hickman City

As I drove to my aunt's restaurant a few weeks ago, cell phone glued to my ear as always, I came upon a big black man in a turquoise western shirt, galloping on his gallant horse upon the paved city road. Before I even saw his face, I knew who it was -- my father's lifelong friend Ricky. When I say big, I mean BIG, well over 6 foot and built like a concrete refrigerator. And, when I say turquoise, I freakin' mean turquoise, blind-you-in-the-dark turquoise. I'm sure the sight of a man no smaller than the average NFL linebacker riding his horse all over town has made many a passer-by stop and gander throughout the years. But, Ricky has been riding his horses in town for as long as I can remember and he is far from alone in that. Just off the top of my head, I can think of a handful of families who do the same. Yes, periodically you might stumble upon a little horseshit in the roadway, but that seems to evaporate into nothingness after a few vehicles have driven over it. The rear-end exhaust may smell a little worse than that of a Chevy Trailblazer, but it's much better for the environment. Plus, it gives the feel of the Wild, Wild West and God knows we are all about that.
So when the headline "One Horse Town Squabbles Over Banning Horses" on msn.com, I clicked on it figuring it was set in some suburb cresting upon a booming metropolitan. But, holy shit was I wrong.
Yes, apparently the city council of some Nebraska community called Hickman City (for real? Hickman? Not even a great fiction writer could make this up) voted last night to keep an ordinance that bans all horses within city limits.
For me, this would be no problem. I haven't ridden a horse since I got bucked off this wild bastard owned by a local attorney in 1995. The mishap resulted in a concussion and, much to my ornery husband's disappointment, I haven't been on one since. Oh wait, that's a lie. I did get on one 5 years ago at Packsaddle long enough to have a full blown panic attack. But, I don't think that counts.
Anyways, the article on msn will definitely pluck your heartstrings. A 76-year-old Hickman resident Harley Scott (awesome name, right?) and his 32-year-old horse Peter Rabbit are at the center of the controversy. If the ordinance remains in tack, Peter Rabbit will be forced to leave the farm he was born on over 30 years ago or Harley will face a fine of $100 a day.
So, good luck to you, Harley. And Hickman City Council, chill out, bitches. You may or may not have noticed that this Hickman City isn't a big tourist trap. The glitterati isn't descending to your non-existent resort in swarms. In fact, your "western" charm has probably been the only draw you've had and now you are biting the hand that feeds you. Oh wait, that's the wrong pun. You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink. Is that it? Or is it, don't look a gift horse in the mouth? Screw it, you know what I mean.