I'm An Asshole

Yup, it's true. I know you are all, "That's not true, Shonda. You are a total humanitarian. Each and every time I think about you, the images of Mother Theresa pop in my mind. And not just because you look so rockin' hot without make-up, either, because you are so gosh darn saintly. It's like Mother Theresa and then Angelina and then you."
On most occasions, I would have to agree with you and wonder out loud just why the Catholic Church hasn't made one of those silver, round necklace thing-a-majigs with my holy image engraved on it for the worshiping faithful to clutch as they pray. Hey Pope, get that shit on your to-do list, mister!
Anyways, that's what I would so humbly say on most evenings, but not today. Today I am going to have to join the majority very small, almost nonexistent group of readers who come to The Cowboy Chronicles just to find evidence of my assholishness. Today they are right, I'm an asshole. Why, you ask.
I broke one of the cardinal rules of The Supreme Order of Chick Friends. I forgot one of my very best friend's baby shower. And I wasn't just one of the regular 'ole just-show-up-when-you-want-to-with-your-gift crowd. Oh no, I was a hostess, a freakin' hostess. Because I happily accepted that Chick Friend duty, I was suppose to bring a finger food of some sort, which is normally one of my strong suits, totally evident in light of my expanding rear end. But, I didn't get to relish in the lavish praise for my delightful dish because, during the time frame that I should have been preparing it, I was taking a nap.
That's right, I was taking a fucking nap. Don't YOU judge me.
As I was peacefully lounging in my bed, soaking up the rare treasure of a childless house, my friends were wondering if I was going to, I don't know, show up. Finally, and thank God, my friend Sara called and was all, "Soooooo.....whatcha doin'?"
And then I was like, "Sleeping, stretched out like a lazy cat, sleeping."
And then she was like, "Ummm....so, are you coming to Chelsea's shower?"
Yup, that's when I realized I had, in fact, written the shower down on the wrong date in my calender. Five years ago, before I had kids and my mind functioned better than a barely lucid acid freak, I wouldn't have had to put it in the schedule to remember to do it. Yeah, cellulite has dented my ass up like a golf ball and my mind has the memory retention of slobbering Courtney Love and, I don't give a shit what you say, I think Crocs are solid fashion gold. (Insert sharp sarcasm) It's definitely all uphill from here, bitches.
Chelsea is, of course, one of the most go-with-the-flow, easy-to-please people I know, so she was super awesome about the whole thing. In fact, she just chuckled at me and then let me rub her groovy baby belly. Still, she is a good friend and dropping the ball at her shower is just assholish no matter how you slice it.
After I left the shower, I stopped in the grocery store because we were out of milk and, really, how can Rolan be expected to survive without a vast ocean of dairy products. I loaded up the grocery basket with other much needed supplies, including eggs.
As I was checking out, the check-out girl, who turned out to really be an over achiever as far as check-out girls go, inspected my eggs to guarantee they were all in tack (or is it tact?). One little fella, smack dab in the middle of the carton, was cracked on top. She jumped to go fetch a replacement, but I was like, "Dude, you just keep a-scannin.' I'll go get the eggs," since I believed the oozing crack was most likely caused by the giant ham I threw on top of it as opposed to some random shipping or stocking mishap. I mean, I'm not a mathematician or a scientist or an egg-cracking expert or anything along those lines, that would just be my guess.
Anyways, in the meantime, a bag boy showed up and started sacking up my goods. Like the check-out girl, he was a busy little beaver. I mean, he was a sacking son of a bitch. I told him about my current asshole status due to the shower tardiness and he told me about how he was like 3 hours late for work because he forgot he was scheduled and went Christmas shopping instead. I kinda wanted to hug him and that's when I noticed that he had sacked BOTH egg cartons. So I asked if they had charged me for both sets and the girl was like, "Dude, you weren't suppose to put them both in the sack. One of them has a broken egg right in the freakin' middle."
And then my kindred spirit sacker was all, "Oh my, I didn't even check them. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am."
So then I asked him what becomes of poor cartons of eggs with just one fallen comrade. Do they find a replacement egg? Are they trashed?
After a little begging hinting, the sacker said since they couldn't be sold, they could just give them to me for free, which fucking made my day since I love all free shit, even when it is absolutely worthless shit a homeless person wouldn't sleep on in the dead of freezing winter, but especially when it is something like eggs, something I cook each morning. That's like hitting the lotto for a tight ass like myself.
As I walked out of the store, I thought, "Man, I am really am an asshole. First, I forget Chels's shower and then I hackle the grocery store out of eggs I broke."
I'm an asshole.
If you would like theme music for this post, which I think totally makes the deal, listen to Jimmy Buffet's song about assholes here or Dennis Leary's on the same brown-eyed subject here.

8 Reasons Lists Are For Sissies

For the past two days, Anna has been totally pimping out her plan for world domination, which is, simply put, list-making. She says it makes you look more legitimate and God knows I am in dire need of that.
So, I have decided to jump on her awesome bandwagon and make my own list. So, pay attention, kiddies. Here goes.

Shonda's 8 Reasons She Thinks Lists Are For Sissies
1. I want to remember the wildly important shit I need to do solely on the superb power of my brain. I mean, sure, I'm gonna totally drop the ball at times. For example, I've been twisting my mind in knots for weeks to muster up the memory to renew my license so I don't have to take the whole freakin' test again. I thought about putting it on a list, but lists are for pussies, right. So, I wandered down to the tag office today after weeks of the information pinging around in my skull to complete the quest.
They were like, "Dude, this expired a month ago."
And I was all, "Ummm....a month minus one day."
Then she was all cleaver and said, "We don't have a grace period."
And I was like, "Shit, do I have to take the test? I barely passed it the first time and even then it was just by the grace of being a skinny, flirty 16-year-old and striking the good fortune of getting a slightly pervy driving instructor who was slap dab in the middle of his midlife crisis. I mean, I don't think a fatass housewife in gray t-shirt will have the same postive effect twisting her gum and batting her eyelids."
And then the super cool lady eased my concerns by saying, "You don't have to take the test. You just have to have your birth certificate."
So then I blurted, "Well, hell, that's even worse. I live 30 miles from here and tracking that bitch down will be harder than finding an American bank with money left to lend."
And that's when it hit me.....my birth certificate was in my car, where it has been since we went on our cruise in May. Like once a freakin' week I've seen the damn thing and thought as I stuffed it in the crevice beside my seat how taking it in the house and putting it with all the other "properly-filed" important paper work inside the house was the responsible thing to do. But, I would leave it, you know, 'cause I like living on the edge.
I ran out of the tag office and went straight to the birth certificate in my car. So, my inefficiency and supreme unorganization totally paid off, bitches!
Oh, I forgot to mention, though, that the license making machine broke on the girl right before me, so I spent 30 minutes sitting at the kiddie bench staring at a list of the presidents for nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, I do think I have all their middle names memorized now, which should come in handy when I chant them in question form at Alex Trebek while my two sons stare at me as though my hair is on fire.

2. If I started making lists, the polar ice caps would most certainly melt into a rushing universe of water. Now, I know you are probably thinking, "Geez, Shonda, I think your wacky liberal mind is finally eating itself. One list won't rise the temperature of the earth by 20 degrees."
Well, perhaps, ONE list wouldn't. But, in order for the purpose of list-making to be realized, you must actually arrive at the desired location with the aforementioned list. Since I would have to make a list about the list and, in order for it to work, I would have to repeat that process so many times my fingers would bleed from all the rapid writing, at least 8 trees would have to meet their chainsawed end for the mission to met success.

3. I am not Go Go Gadget. Shocking, I know, but I am not. So, for a list to exist (rhyme time, bitches), I would have to figure up a way to transform my finger into a pen. Although my house is a virtual ocean of pens, they all have a use.....one use.....the same use. And, what is this vital purpose, you ask?
Ummm.....to hold my stringy hair out of my face. I have a few mere drops of sanity left and they all depend on my hair staying out of my hair and off my neck. If, for some reason, Operation Keep My Shitty Hair Away From My Skin fails, I fear I will storm into some random barber shop and violently perform the Britney Buzz upon myself. Sadly, I don't possess Brit's class and charm, so I just don't think I could pull the 'do off like she did.
Before all my damn hair ties mysteriously evaporated into the great nothing, our household pens were allowed to be used for other purposes, you know, like writing. Or as medieval weapons in the Great Battles of the Little Brothers. But, for several months now, each and every hair tie I own has vanished. Wait, I take that back. I have one that is broken in the middle so I have to twist it around my hair like 14 times for it to hold up a pony tail and then the wrap is so tight it makes my temples throb, but still, my hair isn't touching my damn neck.
I have intended for a long time to splurge the $3 for the package of 30 hair bands, but I just never remember when I am at the store. If I made lists, I would totally put that shit on it.

4. Shopping without lists turns the boring, drab experience of household duty into a sport. Seriously, I think Las Vegas bookies should make odds on it.
"Hey Moe, Susie Homemaker's got a big birthday party this weekend, plus her diabetic father-in-law is spending the weekend. She has 22 items to buy at the grocery store, 17 to buy at Wal-Mart, plus she needs to have the propane filled in the guest house. I will lay you 4 to 1 odds that she forgets at least 9 things."

"Well, Lucky, let's make it a parlay. I'll say she does remember the propane, but that she forgets to buy the anti-allergic soap her mother-in-law needs at the health food store. Plus, my money says she remembers the kid's cake, but forgets the candle and that she forgets at least 11 items at the grocery store."

"You're on, bitch."

5. For chronic underachievers such as myself, the rare shopping success is an absolute self-esteem boost. When you realize that your outting was victorious, you can relate to Alexander the Great when he conquered the world. Well, the part of the world that they knew existed at the time. Alex can't be docked for the regions he didn't know about just like I can't be punished for not being aware that Rowdy ate his last pickled jalapeno. I don't eat them, I don't like when my bottom burns like a peeing sailor with the clap. Therefore, I cannot be held responsible for replacing them unless Rowdy directly tells me that ass-burning pickled jalapenos are gone.

6. 'Cause I like to party. I realize that has absolutely no relevance to this particular discussion, but I giggle like a school girl every time I get to that part in The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. My sister always busts that out at random times. I find it humorous each time she does, but I bite my lip to strangle the laughter. I mean, seriously, she can't be the pretty sister AND the funny sister. That funny shit is mine. I only let her be the pretty one because I think beauty is for vain people. Well, that and I'm too cheap for plastic surgery.

7. Because I can't find one of those chalkboard necklace contramptions to wear around my neck. Now, if I could hunt down one of those awesome jems, I would make lists for the sole purpose of making my poor husband shake his head and continue to wonder out loud just how many different types of Mexican date rape drugs I slipped him on a daily basis until I lured him down the aisle. Seriously, I should write a book titled, "How To Get Any Man To Marry You Before They Realize What A Thorough, Batshit Crazy Wackjob You Really Are."

8. Well, I'm only to number 8 and I'm out of aimless ramblings to add to this list. I think that only furthers my argument that I am a bad list maker and should just never, ever have to do it. Plus, lists are for sissies.

As If I Don't Cuss Enough Already

Good Morning, Readers. How are you upon this sunshiny Sunday? All is well here and I'm sure you will be glad to know that my political ramblings are over, well, at least for the time being. Today I am getting back on track, back the reasons you come here in the first place, back to to the ridicules antics of my family and semi-tasteless sex jokes.
Now, as far as good, raunchy fun goes, today might as well be a freakin' holiday. No, this isn't some bullshit orchastrated by the Congress and recognized by the federal government, although it should be. This isn't going to get you out of work. Labor Day, a day set aside for day drinking and barbecues, which is right up my drunken alley, is over.
So, what is so special about today, September 7, 2008? Tune your televisions to HBO, bitches. It's time for the season premiere of Entourage.
I discovered this super cursing, super sexed gem last year during a bout with the flu. Dish Network was running one of those free HBO weekends. Now, when these little promos have come along in the past, we would just go through the tv schedule, record each and every show that we might even somehow possibly think about watching and then tell the satellite company, "Screw you, assholes. We are good for the whole year."
But, on this fateful weekend, HBO also happened to be running an Entourage marathon. Lyndi had tried to get us started on the show before, she even brought one of those full seasons on DVD out, but we resisted, knowing full well that we didn't need another show to hold us captive.
I was weak and sick. My immune system couldn't fight off a sneeze, much less the awesomeness of Vince, Eric, Turtle, Drama and Ari.
I know this is based on a life I typically shun, the affluent, superficial influence of Hollywood. I can't help it, they say the "F" word in all the right places. And, before you email me, I know Jeremy Piven is suppose to be a prick in real life. It's not Jeremy Piven I love, it's Ari Gold. He may be a prick, but he's a funny prick.
So, if you want to talk to me this evening, call before 9. Otherwise, you might get the Entourage Shonda, the one who says stuff like, "Are you motherfuckin' kidding me? I told you not to interrupt me even if George Clooney was here to slap my ass."
I doubt I would say that.
VICTORY!

Kickin' Ass, by any means necessary

Ridge was still a baby himself when we brought Rolan home, just 18 months himself. He drug Rolan around like a little baby doll, not old enough to realize he could easily harm his little brother, but big enough to understand he had a considerable advantage when it came to fist throwing time.
That worked well for Ridge until Rolan was seasoned a few months past one year. Through rough interaction with his older brother, Rolan learned to defend himself at a much younger age than Ridge did.
Rolan will bite, he'll claw, he'll kick and he will most certainly find some foreign object to use as a size equalizer, if you know what I mean. Ridge can still handle his baby brother if he puts an effort toward the undertaking, but he doesn't really possess the instinct to go for the kill as Rolan does. He continues to dominate the house wide toy cartel, but that doesn't mean Rolan goes down without a ruthless fight.
When I snapped this photograph, the two boys were just playing chase. Although this is typically one of Rolan's favorite interactive games, a toy caught his eye a few moments into it. Two-year-olds aren't world-renowned for their attention span, so you can see how he was distracted. However, his big brother still yearned to play with his younger sibling. He yanked the toy from Rolan, knowing Rolan would speed after him for the bait and the horseplay would resume.
Ridge achieved his goal in that, but it didn't go as gingerly as he had anticipated. So, just as Rolan caught up to him, I clicked the camera's button, thus capturing the brutal, two-fisted pinch that Rolan unleashed.
Like I said, kickin' ass by any means necessary.