The Life Skill of Proper Cursing

Few things bring joy to a mother's heart like when she sees her young child learn some invaluable life skill. A tears comes to my eye every time I think of my children's first steps, their arms waving erratically for balance, bobbling back and forth as they moved toward me. The bittersweet journey that turns them from infants totally dependent upon you into grown people bound for adventures of their own is marked with these milestones.
Well, friends, I got to experience one today, perhaps the greatest thus far. As I was driving down the road, my oldest boy randomly spouted, "Son of a bitch!!"
Half shocked, I turned back to see what had happened. Apparently his water had spilled on his shirt, which he clearly found displeasing.
"Ridge," I said, "that's a naughty word. You aren't suppose to say that."
The car was filled with an awkward pause as he absorbed my chiding. After he had thought about this for a moment, he explained, "Well, Momma, I just like to say naughty words, just like you do."
At first I was shocked by being outsmarted by a 4-year-old yet again. But, then I realized that I had taught my child a life skill, one he'll actually use. I mean, how often do any of you use sign language. There's no doubt that has made the world a more functioning place for millions of people, but most of us don't have many situations where it is needed. Proper cursing, on the other hand, is priceless. To understand the proper place in a sentence to insert a good "shit" or "hell" is something he'll actually use.
Now, give me my Mother of the Year prize, please!

Fifty Years Old and the Broad's Still Perfect

For those of you living under a rock and have somehow missed the never-ending media blitz on this breaking news, Barbie Doll is turning 50 today. That's right, for half a century, she has now plagued chubby student government dorks and other adolescent females whose awkward bodies aren't all symmetrical like that of head cheerleader. I bet we can't even begin to put a number on all the Mercedes Benz luxury rides Beverly Hills plastic surgeons wouldn't have been able to buy had Barbie not been around to teach us what a woman's body is suppose to look like.

Now, don't get me wrong, Barbie. I ain't mad at 'cha. I know how unprofitable a Malibu Shonda would have been and it's not your fault that your maker made you all super hot. In fact, I will go far nough to say that you helped me as much as you hurt, Barb. Can I call you Barb? Cool.
You see, you were the only pure sex our parents wrapped up underneath the Christmas Tree and gave to us. Well, that's not entirely true, they gave us Ken, too. You know as well as I do that he's nothing to turn your nose up. Good for Barbie, you go girl. Anyways, along with millions of other curious American women, you allowed me to explore the sexual tango between a man and a woman with you and Ken firmly gripped in each of my hands. That's the closet most of us ever got to feeling like Marilyn Monroe or Farrah Fawcett or Christie Brinkley. Good bless you for that. I'm sure you knew our objectification of you would be rather helpful later in life.
Not to mention that, you were always there for us to mutilate when we were feeling a little down in the dumps with our body image or were particularly hating those bitches with the much glorified 36-24-36 frame, or both. It didn't matter if I burned your hair off or wrote on your face with permanent marker, you were always there with a perfect smile.
So, thanks, Barb, for not ratting me out to my folks about all the unick rubbing I made you and Ken do. That along with the head burning would've made a strong case for institutionalization, no doubt. It would help if you aged a little, maybe just one stray wrinkle under an eye or something. But, I know you can't help your plastic perfection. Here's to another 50 years. Someday my granddaughters are going to need someone to give them a healthy dose of self-loathing, pubescent sexual curiosity and a sounding board for their frustration and I know you are just the girl for the job.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Hellbent on Lent

With the final day of drunken stumbling through New Orleans, Rio and other Mardi Gras celebrations now upon us, I've got my Fat Tuesday beer cracked as I try to figure out just what I'm going to sacrifice on the alter of personal growth this year for Lent. I know what you're thinking -- I didn't know you are Catholic, Shonda. Well, you would be thinking correctly, I am not Catholic. You see, not long after high school, I periodically helped out at a small, local cafe. While the owner was the only member of Catholicism working there, the other ladies joined in on the tradition. And since I am so clearly someone abundant in self control, I figured I would be a total natural for this Lent shit.
Yeah, I turned out to be wrong about that. I don't really recall what I swore off for those 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter, but I do remember it being the Titanic of sacrifice. Sure, it started out with good intentions, but in the end, there was only blood curdling screams and a bunch of hysteria.

In spite of my first Lent being a holy fucking disaster, I've tried it each year since then. In 2002, that super fly Josh Hartnett stared in 40 Days and 40 Nights, a comedy about a young single man giving up the impossible for God -- sex. The first year I was with Rowdy I suggested that I might make this same pledge and he nearly peed his pants from the all consuming laughter. He apparently thinks he's such a Man God or that I'm such a lustful harlot that I couldn't withstand the lure of his loving, even if it were for the Almighty. I thought about attempting it just to prove Rowdy wrong, but then I realized if I were to fail at this, Rowdy would really strut around here like rooster in a hen house. Yeah, that's definitely why I didn't give up the nookie. It's definitely not because I didn't think I couldn't do it. Definitely.
Then one tragic year I gave up cussing. Now, if you've been following this blog any time at all or, if by chance, you've happened to meet me in the real world, you have probably figured out that I have had a long and passionate love affair with all words foul. In fact, I will go far enough to say that I believe that Jesus gave us cuss words in order that we don't freak out and start beating people at random. He told us to turn the other cheek, but he didn't say anything about flipping the bird while you are doing so. Not only that, if I took the cursing out of my vocabulary, it would literally be cut in half. But, I've always loved an under dog, so I tried it anyways. I spent the following 40 days walking around like a mumbling fool, no doubt convincing frightened strangers that I had Turrette's Syndrome or was in the middle of some acid trip gone awry. First, I would accidentally cuss and then I would start scolding myself under my breath. By the end of the day, I would just be walking in circles.
Last year I gave up Wal-Mart, which I know might seem rather silly to you, but hear me out. Since I'm kind of, well, a cheap skate, I hate spending more money than I have to on anything. I knew each time I had to pay an extra $5 for a box of diapers I would be tempted to scurry back out to the super store. But, after a week or so, it became incredibly easy. I felt pretty good about spending my money at locally owned shops and the local stores don't send me into the full blown panic attacks that Wal-Mart seems to.
So now, here we are on Fat Tuesday, the eve of Ash Wednesday, and I still have no freakin' idea what I am going to give up this year. I've kicked around giving up beer. But, as my friend Lyndi who also gives up something explains, you want to pick something that would be a challenge, not a miracle. I think we should leave beer off the list until my darling children have left for college.
I've also thought about giving up coupons. Yes, I'm really that geeky. I'm sure a few of you are giggling or smirking at the thought of that. But, let me tell you, I get as high as a Keith Richards on a three day heroin binder when those snotty teenage clerks tell me that I've saved 80% on my grocery bill. It will be a challenge to squeeze that full price out of my tight ass, but it wouldn't be like the whole Moses parting the Red Sea like forgoing the Bud Lights would be.
I still have a few more hours before I make the final decision. Since I think my blog readers could perhaps be a collection of the most brilliant people on the globe, I want to encourage suggestions from you guys. My clever husband has proposed that I give up bitching at him, you know, for the sake of Jesus. I tried to explain to him that the thing with Lent is suppose to be something you enjoy. He then chuckled and said, "You can't be that good at something you don't enjoy, love."
So, get after it, friends. While you guys are doing that, I'm going to watch our new president address our nation. I think I will take a big swig of beer every time he says the economy. After all, it is Fat Tuesday.

Paying For His Raising One Beer at a Time

Sweet Bejesus, I have missed you, blogosphere. My brain has been in a semi-frozen state, totally unable to function outside of the stumble through my daily life. I want to make an excuse for this, but the truth is, I don't have one. Wait, I take that back, I do. I'm paying for my husband's raising. You see, even at nearly 37, Rowdy is an ornery shit filled to the rim with mischief. He spent his youth shooting bee bee guns at roosters and convincing his poor little brother to hurdle down steep hills in little red wagons. And now, in some sick, cosmic twist of karma, I am paying the tab on this with his two wild offspring.
Now, don't get me wrong, I love my boys. It's this deep love that keeps them alive when they start fist fighting at 8am over some flimsy measuring cup. Twenty minutes after I vaccuumed last night, they threw a canister of peanuts at each other, giggling all the while.
After they dumped about 20 pounds of dog food this evening and Rolan somehow got caramel caked in his hair, clearly they needed a bath. I soaped 'em up and hosed 'em off. Then, just like every night, I let them play in the tub as I loaded the dishwasher. Occassionally they might dump a little water on the bathroom floor, but this is typically a pretty uneventful step in our nightly ritual. But, the sun even shines on a dog's ass some days and tonight was just the bath's time to shine apparently.
I've spent most of my life trying to crack the interworkings of the male brain and my two darling boys have only increased that desire. You would think once I started growing males in my uterus every other year I might have figured them out a little, but that's not the case. As I walked into the bathroom and immediately noticed that these two monkies had, for some unexplained reason, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, dunked it in the bath water with them and then proceeded to peg each other with wet wads of tp.
Now, for those of you who have never had the good fortune of fishing a full roll of soaking toilet paper out of a bath water, you should now this task is a bit more time consuming than one might've thought. It sticks to the side and scatters about. After I had wiped it down a good fifteen times, the last remenants of the Toilet Paper Fiasco of 2009 had come to an end. In the meantime, Ridge and Rolan had found a stack of 200 photos and had them strewn across their bed like Mardi Gras confetti.
And it was in that moment that it hit me -- my children must be part of a bigger plan. No, I'm talking about the whole Great Scheme of Things plan. I mean I think perhaps President Obama and Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner have contacted Ridge and Rolan and encouraged them to continue this derlick behavior, thus causing me to consume much, much more alcohol and stimulating the economy. Once I figured this out, I calmed down, cracked a Bud Light and did my patriotic duty. I mean, I have to give it to those guys for their masterminded plot. It is really as good an idea as they've had thus far.

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

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

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

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

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

The Wisdom of Brotherly Beatings

The comic Titus often said that while mothers try to teach their children wisdom, fathers make them earn it. I totally see this in the different parenting approaches Rowdy and I take. For example, while I might discourage the boys from getting near a flame to avoid being burned, Rowdy keeps his lips sealed, insisting that one round with fire will leave a lasting reminder that fire, well, it fucking hurts.
My sons have a rather passionate relationship with each other. Most of the time it is the kind of passion that prompts one sibling to undergo life-threatening surgery to donate a kidney to a brother or sister fighting off death. They protect each other, they get angry at Rowdy and me when we are disciplining the other, they are best friends and playmates. For the most part, the bond Ridge and Rolan share is as strong as a forest of oak trees.
But then there are other times, the times that they are hooked up like two rottweilers tearing each other by the flesh for a scrap of meat. When my boys decide to throw hands, neither one hold back. This is no holds barred combat, a fight to the death, or at least until someone gets hurt bad enough to give in and cry to Momma. And, normally, when I pull the two of them apart, some rinky dink cheap toy is stuck there between them.
So, when they opened a matching pair of toy bulldozers at my mom's this Christmas, I was like a freakin' psychic, foreseeing many a'thumping unleash over these two contraptions.
Naturally, as the person who birthed both of them, I try to discourage these bloody reenactments of Lord of the Flies. Now, I'm not saying that I think Rowdy actually wants them to claw one another's eyes out, but he certainly seems to create situations that he, as a thinking adult, should see will lead to only that. He is constantly encouraging them to wrestle each other or tackle other or some other activity that 100% of the time leads to out-and-out warfare. Fucking constantly.
However, all this time I believed he just didn't think the end game out, that is, until he showed the boys how to have bulldozer fights. That's right, freakin' bulldozer fights.
A few nights ago, I walked into the living room to see Rowdy, the lone grown-up, showing our darling sons how to ram these disastrous toys against each other until one of them was pushed off the table, making one brother the winner and the other a very pissed off loser. Immediately, I snipped something like, "Have you lost your ever lovin' mind, Rowdy?"
Of course, he insisted that this was rather harmless, that they were just being boys. And he stuck by that defense right up until complete and utter lawlessness broke out.
And as I comforted my battered, beaten and bloody boys, I reminded Rowdy once again that they are, as he had just explained, boys. Their instinct simply is to smack each other with big toys until one of them is bleeding and both of them are bawling.
Then he said, "Yeah, but I bet they remember that it hurt."

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.

Revenge is Best Served Cold, with 300 Parts and Instructions Written Half in Chinese

I often spend a lot of time thinking how much easier parenting would be if I happened to be the parent lucky enough to stuff a penis in my pants. Those bitter thoughts have ran through my mind more than usual on this miserable run up to Christmas. While I was in some packed shopping center pushing my way through crazed parents swarming some random toy like a herd of the zombie undead on fresh brains prime for the suckling, Rowdy would be napping in the recliner with our rambunctious children pawned off on his mom. I stayed up until 3 am wrapping presents while he stayed up just as late playing cards with the fellas. Last Saturday he took care of the boys while I photographed a wedding. Because we were leaving the next morning as soon as he finished feeding cattle for our Christmas celebration at Rowdy's dad in Oklahoma City, I knew the next morning I'd be rushing around like crackheads in the middle of a drug sting. My lone request for Rowdy in preparation for this trip to see his family (who I adore, by the way) was to bath the boys before they went to sleep. The next morning when I asked him if he had completed this task, he replied that he had fully intended to do this, especially in light of all the dirt fights they had, but that he simply got too busy with the super exciting football game he was watching. I wanted to kill him, I did, but I knew that would frankly take time that I just didn't have. I would have bitched at him, but Rowdy was also blessed with his uncanny ability to complete ignore all negative input from any and all females and absorbing all the positive ones. It's bullshit, really.
I spent that last few days with an admitted case of penis envy, thank you very much, Dr. Freud. That is, until the bounty of Christmas presents were unwrapped, shredded paper flung from here to yonder, and a small army of unassembled toys stared Rowdy stone cold in the face. It was like they were taunting him. A couple were constructed within a few moments, a couple appeared to require an engineering degree from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to conquer.
Rowdy sat leg-crossed and baffled on the living room floor, nuts and bolts and springs and aluminum bars scattered around him in a semi-circle. Periodically, words that are typically frowned upon on Christmas were muttered under his breath, the four letter kind that with a tendency in starting with "F" or "S" or "D," the words I hold most dear.
And it was in this snowfall of toy parts that I realized maybe I shouldn't have been so rough on Rowdy while I was in the middle of my Christmas fury. I'm sure if Rowdy read this post, he'd swear I bought all those difficult-to-assemble toys on purpose, not because the boys would love them, but just to share some of my Christmas misery with him. But, that's really not the case. Now I see that maybe being the Daddy isn't so easy after all.

Have A Corporate, Corporate Christmas

When I was a little girl, we didn't have The Tosito Bowl. The Orange Bowl was just the Orange Bowl. I don't know what in the hell the super fast shipping of FedEx has to do with football and, for the life of me, I can't figure what the damn Brut Sun Bowl is.
Either way, it is clear that marketing and consumerism have become as deeply ingrained in our society as the unbriddled lust some middle aged women have for the hottest, newest Coach purse. I'm friends with a few of those Coach purse junkies. You know I love them, but when the conversation turns to these must-have accessories, theirs eyes glaze over and their mouths water like frat boys at a titty bar at the mere thought and, I swear to God, you could buy their first borns if you run a hard bargain.
We've been being screwed by the long dick of multi-national corporations for a while now. So long that we don't even seem to notice it anymore. The spidering effect of this endless marketing was particularly apparent in a conversation I had with my four-year-old son yesterday morning. His mind is so consumed with all things Thomas the Train that his obsession tops even those ladies who are searching eBay for Coach purses as I type this.
"Momma," he said, "You need to call Santa Claus to go to Wal-Mart and get me two more trains. I need Duncan and Molly."
(In case you are wondering why he demanded that I call Santa, he "hears" me on the phone with Ole Saint Nick at least three times per day making a report on the latest Christmas-busting shenanigans he and his brother have pulled. Now I realize doing this, I'm just another link in the chain of the corporate Christmas. What can I say, it works!)

I tried to explain to Ridge that Santa wasn't at Wal-Mart, that he was at the North Pole building toys with the elves.

"I don't want him to build my trains," Ridge huffed. "Just tell Santa to go buy them at Wal-Mart."
That little wise ass, I have no idea where he gets that.

Anyways, as we left town yesterday, we drove passed the local Wal-Mart, last minute shoppers crawling through the parking lot like fleas on a mangy coyote.
Ridge pointed out his window, excited by the mere sight of his Holy Land, and declared, "Look, Momma, that's where Santa is going to buy my toys!"

That's right, Readers, you aren't fooling my kid. He knows there's no damn elves diligently assembling his toys at the top of the world. He may be four, but he's no fool. Hell, the only reason he still believes in Santa is because he knows his mother's and father's asses are too damn tight to be footing the bill for all this bullshit.

Merry Christmas.

If You Have An Iritant on your Hands, Don't Rub Your Eyes. Unless Of Course You Want Your Entire Face to Fall Off, and Then Do.

A few months ago, I read in the newspaper that the scent of peppermint oil sends pesky little mice running away from the source and, therefore, into the outdoors. Now, like most country dwellers, I'm constantly looking for ways to outsmart for little bastards. You have to get up early and stay up late, my friends.
So I swung by the local drug store and picked up a tee tiny bottle, which, by the way, was like $20 per freakin' ounce. I also got some cotton balls to douse it on. Then I jumped in the car, tossed the bank-busting bottle of peppermint oil into the backseat of my car with about 45 other items I've been searching for the last six months and went on about my merry way.
As I did my bi-annual car cleaning this morning, I spotted the supposed mouse repellent. Holy shit, I had forgotten all about that stuff! Rushing in the house, my excitement woke my husband from his semi-nap as I soaked a handful of cotton balls and stuffed them under furniture and by the front door.
And then, with absolutely no awareness of the torture I was about to inflict upon myself, I rubbed my left eye. I'm sure you probably already figured this, but it turns about that highly concentrated peppermint oil burns when you touch it to your vulnerable eyeball. It burns with the fire of 10,000 chlamydia infections, as though you've just used a heaping bowl of onion salsa to wash a splinter of your eye. It was pure misery.
With my eyelid squeezed tightly, I hustled to the sink and washed my hands. After all, I didn't want to further this brutal assault. I grabbed a paper towel, ran water onto it and then attempted to wash this rain of hell out of it. Turns out, either I didn't get all the peppermint oil off of my hand or I still had some lingering upon my eyeball. Whatever happened, the swiping of my left eye drew the unbearable pain to the other eye. Not only that, my cheeks were set ablaze. My skin was splotchy red.
My husband, who was sitting in his lazy boy enjoying the spectacle, proved to be less useful than a lump on a particularly useless log. Basically, he was like George Bush in the middle of this financial crisis. As I handed him two wet wipes, he shrugged his shoulders and told me he just didn't know what he should do. And I was all, Seriously, Dude, Rub that sweet relief on my eyeballs. Rowdy maintained that he didn't think that would help as he spouted of other suggestions without taking his attention from whatever bullshit sporting event he was watching.
After I realized my husband would be absolutely no assistance, I ran to our bedroom, flipped on the fan by my bed and pushed my face against it. The gentle breeze was almost instant relief, like an epidural after 6 hours of hard labor. Yes, that's right, I'm comparing the peppermint oil incident to child birth. Yes, I've been through child birth. It's totally the same. Let it go.
After 20 minutes of bellyaching, the hurt finally faded away. That damn peppermint oil better pay off. If I see one mouse in this house this winter, I might freak out and pour peppermint oil in his beady little eyes. Bastards.

The Cowboy Chronicles, Apparent Home of Naughty Nuns

As I'm sure you already know, I'm not super techy. This blog's mere existence is a profound miracles. As far as miracles are concerned, it goes that time Jesus awoke from the dead, that time Moses parted the Red Sea, a never-ending pool of hood rats willing to make themselves national laughing stocks for a shot at Bret Michael's old bandanna-clad ass and then The Cowboy Chronicles being halfway navigational. That's right, I put the conception of this site above the conception of my kids on the miracle list. That doesn't mean I don't love my boys more, I do, but making them only entailed a little loving and then a bunch of laying around and bitching because everybody else could drink beer while I sweltered into a sweaty, pregnant blob in the Oklahoma heat. I may have done a lot of bellyaching about the swollen feet and heartburn, but truthfully, my pregnancies were a cakewalk in comparison to the early days of my blog.
As I've stumbled through my journey of the World Wide Web, I've periodically learned new things that are apparently as second nature to most bloggers as breathing and backtracks. The first was Twitter. Mollie had to explain it to me like 17 times before I understood what the hell she was talking about. I'm still learning my way around it, though I think I've figured it out. I could go on and on, Technorati, BlogHer, layouts. It was like a completely undiscovered, unexplored village existing and thriving within the Internet.
Most recently I found Google Analytics. I know all you geeky, HTML whiz kids are laughing your techy asses off as you read this. Yes, I have been living under a rock. It's called Oklahoma.
Anyways, Google Analytics may sounding boring and, mostly it is. However, it does give us some big steaming pile of awesome and that would be a full list of what random key words folks type into search engines that somehow brings them to me. Looking over this list, you would probably think I'm running some sort of porn site for the devoutly religious. Of course, I did halfway blog about these subject, so I will link that posts that I think are driving these folks to my blog. If you are a new reader, I guess you should read these and see for yourself if you are on a blog about some quirky, bitchy Oklahoma ranchwife or if you are really on a covert smug site. You tell me.
So, without further ado, I give the shinning stars of my keywords list:

3. sexting examples

4. spongebob conspiracy

16. booby duty

17. catlic girls gone wild

18. charlie sheen (as a cowboy)

19. charlie sheen has hairplugs

23. how schools should handle sexting

28. jason biggs douchenozzle
I really have no idea how my blog came up this, but I did write about Dane Cook being a total asshat.

33. mozel tov hat

37. nuns gone bad

**38. nuns who eat snatch

45. sarah palin hooters


47. bill clinton hummer

Now, if you just happen to be one of the folks who found me from the above-mentioned searches, don't be ashamed. Come on out and announce yourself. Clearly a Greater Power is pulling the two of us together. Maybe it's God, maybe it's your apparent love for naughty nuns and their eating habits and Charlie Sheen's bizarre hair patterns. I don't know, I'm just glad you are here.

Momma's Boys

Just as I tucked the boys into bed, I got to enjoy the rare pleasure of a television to myself. Rowdy was watching CNBC or The Terminator or some other atrocious bologna that I have no desire to see on the bedroom television, so the living room tube was mine, all mine.
I skimmed through the channels when a brand new show jumped out at me -- Momma's Boys. Although I'm not normally one for reality television, I'm totally down for a train wreck, which is evident in my unfettered affection for Rock of Love.
No more than five minutes into the show, Rowdy comes through the living room to go outside for a smoke.

ROWDY: What are you watching? Is this that new show Momma's Boys?

ME: Ummmm.....why?

ROWDY: Is it?

ME: Yes, why?

(LONG, LONG PAUSE)

ROWDY: Well, I don't really want you to get started watching that show.

ME: Why not?

(EVEN LONGER PAUSE)

ROWDY: I just can't help but think that a show with momma's boys with noisy mothers is going to somehow bite me in the ass.


Immediately, I was overcome with laughter. And, just in case you haven't been as well, perhaps I should tell you that I live approximately 1,000 feet from my mother-in-law. While she is very good to me and my children, I can't help but think that maybe my darling husband feels periodically squeezed between the never-ending nut vault that is constant interaction with both your mother and your wife. I know all you fellas out there are shaking your heads, wondering if Rowdy is on a steady stream of drugs or just likes female nagging.

Then, it turned out, Rowdy's words were almost prophetic. I paused the show while he told me of this con man Madoff and his swindling. I wasn't recording it, it was just paused during this brief conversation when Rowdy's daily crack, Mad Money, kicked my new beloved show off. It was lost forever in DVR outerspace. Naturally, this caused me to start sniping at Rowdy's feet like one of those yappy lap dogs.
What can I say, when he's right, he's right!

Here's Your Bourne Ultimatum: If you turn that shit on again, I might karate chop your ASS!

Until the Jason Bourne trilogy plagued my life, I loved Matt Damon. I mean, I freakin' loved him. And, truthfully, had I not met and fell in love my darling husband, those three fateful films probably would have held no bearing upon my feelings for Matt.
But, as it is, I did met and fall in love with Rowdy, just like he met and feel in love with Jason Bourne. Every mothereffin' time one of them is on television, you can bet your sweet ass that's what we are watching. It doesn't matter if we just watched that very one the day before. Since we subscribed to HBO and Showtime, the Bourne Ultimatum has been on one of them non-freakin-stop. I have lived in an endless loop of the keenly crafty, brilliantly deadly CIA assassin narrowly escaping his relentless hunter. Thank God Matt is so super fly, that's the only thing that's sustained me to this point.
Now, the thing that makes this particularly aggravating to me is how little control I have over our television programming. During the daytime, the boys dominate it and, in the evening, Rowdy does. When he comes in, he immediately switched the tv. He doesn't ask if I am interested in the current show. Nope, he just switches it. Most the time I just growl inside my head and continue whatever I am doing, knowing I have little chance of winning this battle. Not only that, I know Rowdy works hard and that tends to make me feel like I should let him do whatever he wants to. Even as I type that, the feminist inside my head is going apeshit crazy.
Sometimes, though, when I am feeling a little feisty or if I am intrigued with whatever show I was watching, I turn the tv back as I throw random cuss words at him. Then he bitches back about how I've been home all day with the television and I remind him that it's during the crap Dr. Phil hours, which I don't believe shouldn't count. We make our arguments like two attorneys picking like vulchers of the bones of some wildly important case.
However, the ultimate Achilles heel to my defense in Rowdy's opinion is if I have ever seen the program before. And I don't mean if I've watched it in the last month or 6 months or freakin' year. No, I mean EVER.
I remind him of these strict guidelines he has drafted in past television programming decisions. Now, I know my man and I know that deep down he wants to say, "Well, that's because it is something you've watched before. It doesn't apply to something I want to power watch so many times it makes your hair tingle."
Wisely, he forgoes that argument, but the one he ultimately makes is almost as silly. According to Rowdy, watching the Bourne series and the Crocodile Dundee series and fucking Waterworld over and over and over is much different than watching A League of Their Own once every five years. And that reason, my friends, is because "these movies are just awesome."


UPDATE: About 30 minutes after I published this post, Rowdy came in the house, turned the television from The History Channel to some bullshit football game, kicked up the feet of his lazy boy and then pulled the hood of his coat over his eyes and went to sleep. I waited about 10 minutes and then turned it to Wife Swap. As soon as I did, he popped his eyes opened and demanded that I return it to the game. When I protested because he was sleeping, he explained that he sleeps better if he can listen to the game while he snoozes and then I explained that he would also sleep better if I clubbed him over the head with a fucking skillet. So now I am watching Colorado play Nebraska with the steady hum of Rowdy's snores in the background.


PS--If you haven't entered the contest yet, there is still plenty of time.

Shameless Self-Promotion Contest....

because, really, that's what it is.
Now that I finally feel like my layout is only a partial train wreck, as opposed to the cluttered nightmare of its formal life, I broke down and did a little advertising. What can I say, I was losing patience with the quest for world domination inching along at a snail's pace. I want to rule the blogosphere NOW!
Anyways, like all good evil geniuses, I really want to exploit this boosted exposure while it lasts. After all, Momma's kind of a tight ass, so I need to get my licks while I can.
So, here's the deal-o:

THE PRIZE: $15 gift certificate from Chili's, which can be used there as well as Macaroni Grill, On The Border and Maggiano's Little Italy -AND- $25 K-Mart gift card.

Now, I'm sure you are all leaping up and down with eager anticipation. I mean, those talking heads on CNBC that my husband freakin' insists on watching until my ears start bleeding are really emo about the bleak outlook for this Christmas's retail numbers. In other words, they think you are broke.

So, let's get down to business. I just want to draw extra readers in, so in order to qualify to win this shiznit, you have to help me get 'em here. If you have a blog, you can enter once by writing a post(s) that links back to this blog and another time by adding me to your blogroll. Go ahead and leave a comment if I'm already on it. And kisses to you, by the way. For each that you do, come leave a comment telling me which you did and with a link back to it. If you write more than one post, leave more than one comment with the different link backs. If you put the widget at the bottom of this post up on your blog and leave it up through the end of the contest, add 10 more comments. I don't care what these comments say, you can chastise me for being a scheming lunatic if you want. As long as your write widget somewhere in it, it counts. Hell, you can write that alone. Keep reading, bloggers, because you can do the whole myspace and email methods along with these.

Now, if you don't have a blog, don't get discouraged. I'm an evil genius, remember. I've plotted this shit out. Do you have a myspace? Well, if so, go add me, www.myspace.com/shondalittle. Like the bloggers, you can get 10 entries for adding the widget at the bottom of this post to your profile through the end of the contest. Of course, you could just represent for your homegirl and keep it up forever, but that'll just be for love. No fajitas or toys made in China.
On top of that qualification for myspacers, you can also get extra chances by posting bulletins informing your friends of the contest and directing them to my blog. Now, I have to be your friend to see that you have done this, so add me if I'm not already a myspace friend. Don't forget to come leave your comment to this post after each one.

And for the 13 folks on the planet who don't have a myspace and/or blog, you can also participate through emailing your friends. Like the myspace bulletins, it must tell them of the contest, prizes and list my blog's address. Each email must be spent to 10 different people plus me at shondy26@hotmail.com. So I will notice it, it needs to say something like, "Win Free Stuff for Reading The Cowboy Chronicles" or something else along those lines to catch my eye in case it is filtered to my junk mail. After you send the email(s), you guessed it, come back here and leave a comment.

Also, you hip twitters out there can add me to your twitter and, you guessed it, direct folks to my site for the contest. You can do it once daily and, for each one, you get a chance at the prize.

With each entry, mention in your comment what you did for that particular one. Now, since I clearly love to bullshit, I want to encourage to leave other random streams of your thoughts as well. You don't have to, but I'd like it if you did.

This contest will be decided by a random number generator. I will post the winner's name on Monday afternoon and then I will contact the lucky winner and arrange for the goods to be delivered to your house. Calm down, this isn't a ploy for me to get your address so I can stalk you out and pester you until you promise to read my rambling nonsense daily. I may want to, but I won't.

You can play in as many ways as possible. If are a blogging, myspacing, twittering, emailing fool, then fire from all directions. Also, if you think of any other way to give other methods to enter, let me know.
Ahhhh.....shameless self-promotion!





<a href="http://mommalittle.com"><img border="0" src="http://i107.photobucket.com/albums/m296/shaunacallaghan/cc.jpg"/></a>

PS--Please overlook all the incoherent jargon in this post. I've been plagued with a mind-wrenching headache all day long. It's like my brain somehow senses the hectic chaos that are all holidays looming over us.

PSS--Good luck!

Screwed

That will be the overall theme of this post and I think you'll understand why shortly.

***My day started on the particularly pleasant note of Rolan, the 2-year-old, leaping up and down on my bed like one of those bizarre Olympic trampoline champions and then subsequently landing on my belly like one of those super bizarre professional wrestlers. Since I already bemoan freakin' love dragging my large caboose out of bed in the first damn place, you can imagine how much I enjoyed being awoke by a 30 pound cannonball of adorable mayhem crashing into my abdomen. I don't think I have had the breath knocked out of me since I was in grade school, so as you can imagine, I was probably a real peach today. This isn't really "screwed" in the traditional sense. Or maybe it is. I guess I don't know what the traditional sense of being screwed is. Whatever it is, this is the one that sucks, like when you get stuck on a airplane by my a screaming kid and a relentless gum smacker. Or screwed like when your car breaks down at your mother-in-law's over a holiday that's driven all the local mechanics out of their shops and you half crazy.

The other two little tidbits are over the other kind of screwed, the kind that I like to talk about at very inappropriate places, such as baby showers. That's just a random example. The "talking about sex while you are sitting next to at least a half dozen 80-year-old women of a Baptist persuasion" is completely random and has nothing to do with the fact that I went to a baby shower yesterday. It is a totally hypothetical example. Totally.

***Honestly, the day wasn't that bad, apart from the smackdown breakfast in bed little Rolan served up all warm and toasty. I wrote articles for the paper and scolded the boys about 400 times for head butting each other and scattering pictures as though they were Mardi Gras confetti, so it was basically business as usual. After Rowdy came in from bullshitting at the local convenience store/coffee shop/pizza parlor getting latest minute-to-minute deer season updates doing cowboy things, we ate super and he put the boys to bed. Just after I started my shower, he was there rapping on the door. He, apparently, was in the mood for husband and wife relations, things of which I am clearly far too ladylike to blog about here on the internet for all six of my faithful followers to read. Anyways, my big, strapping, masculine, handsome man smiled as he joined me and then starting squealing like a newborn, decrying the unbearable heat of my water. Of course my gut instinct was to badger him for being a tender skinned wuss, but then I remembered that Oprah told me that sort of chicken pecking tends to take the fellas out of the romantic mood and, let's face, Momma needed a little action before the unstoppable toddler invasion overtook the bedroom.

***When Rowdy and I were on our honeymoon in Cozumel, Mexico, a rather persistent local vendor was pulling out all the stops to convince my husband to buy a necklace for his new bride. After several sales pitches proved unsuccessful, the intuitive salesman whipped out a paper cup and Patron tequila and, well, the grapefruit-sized pendant has been in my jewelry box ever since. Now, the reason I mention this memory is because that is probably the first time I realized that Mexico is just my kind of country. I mean, any place that openly encourages intoxicating customers to boost profits is a country I can get behind. Team that with the nationwide nap they collectively take each day and I'm outside the house with silver duct tape writing out BIENVENIDO over WELCOME on the doormat.
But, while I love that and many other Mexican traditions, customs and laws, absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the absolute infatuation I would develop for the entire country to our south when I discovered that the mayor of Mexico City, some Einstein-level genius named Marcelo Ebrard, is now officially handing out few Viagra and other impotence drugs to men over 70. Now that's a stiff re-election platform if I've ever seen one. In the announcement that proved Mexico CIty is the most hard rockin' city on the globe, Ebrare said that sexuality "has a lot to do with quality of life and our happiness," which basically means I'm inching towards that goal post and I certainly want to score again.
However, I do have one question for Mr. Ebrard. If you are dolling out Viagra like their shots of Patron to half-drunk Americans, the best senior citizen service in history, for Mexico City's men, what are you doing for the ladies? If you will promise free laser hair removal for the chicas, consider my retirement bags packed. I mean, I'm barely 28 and I'm already starting to sprout those menacing little hairs under my chin, so I can imagine by the time I'm 70, I'll look like some creepy red-haired wolf man. You know the gentlemen just go crazy for that. And just who will be the biggest supporters of this plan? My guess is Mexico City's 70-year-old men.

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.

You Ain't Hip if You Don't Twitch

After a GREAT deal of effort upon my part, it has finally happened. My "look" is complete.
Now, how did this miracle, a momentous occasion easily comparable to that time Moses parted the Red Sea, come to pass? Truthfully, I'm not quite sure myself. I just know that it appears that I have developed a little eye twitch. Really, I think it is the accessory that my overall look has been lacking. I mean, some women lust after those fancy schmancy Coach purses or the Gucci glasses. Not me, Readers! I want some physical tick that totally airs my neurosis to the otherwise unsuspecting public. To borrow a phrase from my man Dubya, "Mission Accomplished!"
So, if you see me out and my eyeball is jumping around like it's got a Mexican jumping bean stuck behind it, don't fret. It's my new signature move.
What's up now, bitches?

Eastern Bloc Interrogation Gay

So, thank goodness for the tracker on the side. I get to see the random googles that leads folks to my blog. Well, let me tell you about the little gem given to Aunt Shonda today. Apparently someone googled, "Eastern Bloc Interrogation Gay" and, through the random cosmic powers that is google, it brought them to MY site. Yup, that's right. Some fetish freak out there is searching homosexual torture in Russia and he found mommalittle.com.
I'm putting this in the win bracket, so you know.

Turns Out, Cussing Grandkids Don't Impress Grandmas

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I'm feeling kinda proper I suppose.
Earlier today one of the greatest things that ever happened in the history of mankind unfolded in my living room. As I'm sure you've guessed, there is more than one potty mouth who lives at our house, so in turn, the odds of my offspring carrying on the family tradition of belting out obscenities in the most inappropriate places is pretty good. I'd say it's a sure bet, in fact.
All this cussing really concerns my mother-in-law, who, by the way, has most certainly let a few "Awww....bullshit(s)" and "hell fire(s)" pass over her Jesus lovin' lips in front of the kids. In fact, absolutely nothing warms the hearts of me and my husband like when our sons repeat a curse word right after she says it. Truly, it is as heavenly as brownies fresh from the oven. But, as it is, she does help me fight the good battle of trying to persuade all the cowboys to keep the language clean and she really does want her grandsons to behave like well-mannered gentlemen.
Well, as she was in the living room with us today, Ridge was retelling some current events around the Household Little. He explained some accident he and his dad had to clean up while working with the cattle and that's when it happened. Seriously, Readers, I am putting this in the Top Ten Moments of My Life, including the days my sons were born as well as the time that Fat Albert-sized young Mexican man danced to "La Bamba" on the beach at Progresso for the bargain price of a buck. Both made my heart go pitter-patter.
With eyes bigger than half dollars, his little hands darting with excitement, he looked at his grandmother and said, "Then my daddy said, 'Motherfucker!'
Seriously, I think it shocked at least ten years off her life. Never one to want our senior citizens to leave a conversation confused, I nudged Ridge and told him to tell Grandma what Daddy said one more time.
"That's when my daddy said, 'Moothheerrfucker,' Grandma," Ridge declared.
And that's when her Southern Baptist head started spinning around like that little girl in Poltergeist. She was seriously about to go western on his little butt when I reminded her that Ridge was simply repeating the language of her darling son. After all, he's just 4, he doesn't know what words are "good" or "bad." She then flew into a rant including a detailed description of the ass whooping she was going to give her son. Ridge pointed his finger and told her that she better not whip his daddy and I thought to myself that I totally needed to step in here and help her explain that Daddy said a bad word, but my vocal cords were currently submerged with overwhelming laughter.
I know this probably isn't a good testament to my parental philosophy, but the exchange warmed my heart. You can't stop a freight train with a bb gun, right?