Did You Say Pet Rock or Pet Mock, as in this kid is totally mocking me with that rock he's carrying

Like most young children, I remember often facing the unjust oppression of my fun-hating parents. Mom would sternly shake her head no to my pleas for six or seven other girls to invade our house after she'd worked 12 or 14 hours in the beauty shop in our garage and I was completely dumbfounded by her blind tyranny.
And when these moments would pop up, overcome with frustration at my unfair treatment, I would dart behind an open door and the wall and softly whisper some foul tongue lashing to my otherwise unsuspecting mother. I revealed in the genius of my cursing revenge. You see, not only did I get to fling a few cuss words at the iron-fisted dictator running our household, but I also got off scott free because my angry words went totally undetected behind my wedge of wooden secrecy.
I thought of my little tempter tantrums this week as my oldest boy Ridge picked up a new habit. Now, I've known for a long time that the day would come with that my cooing babies would slowly start morphing into clever little wise asses who lament me for ruining their good time. While I'm sure this recent incident wasn't the first time my first born mulled over what a stick in the freakin' mud that his mother is, this is the first time that he carried on a conversation about my motherly injustices right in front of me.
To be clear, this discussion was not with another person. Oh no, it was with his pet rock. First of all, I have no damn clue where he got the idea for a pet rock in the first place. I don't know if he saw it on a movie or if one of his friends planted this notion, but its there nonetheless.
Secondly, I feel like calling the softball-sized pebble a "pet" rock is a better misleading. I think we should dub it his "psychiatrist" rock or something along those lines. You see, just like the four walls of a mental health professional's office, Ridge really feels like when he's with his pet rock, he's in the "safe zone," that he can say anything to the rock without fear of being in trouble. If he is excited, he tells the rock. If he is sad, he tells the rock. And, if he is pissed off at his killjoy mother, he most definitely tells the damn rock.
On Sunday afternoon, I took the boys to my cousin's son's birthday party. Like all good parents who want to fork out an insane amount of money and do an even more insane amount of work, my cousin Krista had a yard freakin' full of rides and concessions nothing short of some circus midway. Ridge and Rolan were in little kid heaven. They jumped on the bounce house and stuffed their mouths full of cotton candy. They hit baseballs and cruised the yard in a Power Wheels Mustang. After a couple hours of birthday party joy, I gathered the boys' scattered belongings and prepared them for the trip home. My youngest, Rolan, wasn't just eager to leave his sugar-coated dream, but he also didn't drag the deal into some episode for the baby books. The same cannot be said for his big brother Ridge.
At first Ridge argued his case for staying just a bit longer like some seasoned pro arguing Constitutional law before the Supreme Court. When that didn't work, he whipped out the red face and tears and, lastly, begging. He realized as I buckled him into his car seat that this, leaving the birthday party, was in fact going to happen. He cried for a few months, whimpered two or three good times and then dried up the tears. After a few moments of silence, I assumed he had accepted his fate of an uneventful night with his boring parents and pain in the ass brother. Wrong.
Just we hit the highway, he and his pet rock began discussing the enormous pile of bullshit they had just been subjected to. It went something like this here:

Ridge asks the rock, "Are you sad that you had to leave the party, Rock?"

Ridge replying for the rock, "Yes, Ridge, I wanted to stay at the party but your mom is being mean and won't let me play."

Ridge to the rock, "All our friends get to stay and play and their mommy isn't mean."

Ridge for the rock, "I want to keep playing with our friends, Ridge."

Ridge to the rock, "Are you mad that you can't play?"

Ridge for the rock, "It is bullshit."

Naturally, that's just a small excerpt from the witty back-and-forth between my son and his rock, which clearly was thinking for itself and not being the mouthpiece for my child.The rallied for at least five miles about how I just murdered fun. Every few minutes I would remind Ridge that he needed to be nice and, spoken like a true smart ass, he would point out that he wasn't the one lobbing in these sharp complaints. It was the rock, the hard-partying, good time rock. As I kicked myself for playing into being outsmarted by a four-year-old, my childhood trips to the wedge of wall and door ran through my mind. I wish I would've come up with the cussing pet rock. At least then someone would have known I was pissed.

On a different note, Ridge had his Rainbow Lane program tonight. I will post photos tomorrow, or at least I plan on it. Those of you who are regular readers, go ahead and remind me. LOVE!

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."

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.

Ridge and The He Man Woman Haters Club

So, it turns out that my oldest son is a rampant sexist. Ridge only recently showed me this brutally macho side of himself, but once he let that bulky beast out of the bag, there was just not stuffing it back in.
It all started about four days ago. Just like most Sunday nights, Rowdy had blanketed our television set with an eternity of football. As one game was finally ending, he switched to another and I belted, "OH, bullshit!"
Out of the corner of the room, Ridge, the sudden cuss word cop, came flying toward his naughty mother. Naturally, I thought his scolding was because his ears were too delicate for such profanity. I turned out to be quite wrong about that. After he punished me for saying that bad word, he declared, "Only Me and Dad came say bullshit."

I said, "Oh really? You and Dad can say bullshit, but Momma can't?"

"That's right, Momma, my bullshit is better than your bullshit."

I did my best to strangle the wild laughter trying to burst out of my mouth as I corrected my son. It was definitely one of my prouder moments as a mother. I mean, not even I would have thought one of my kids would be such a successful potty mouth at such a young age. Truly an accomplishment, I say! But, not only that, I wondered if my boy was already becoming a card-carrying member of the He-Man Woman Haters Club. He's more than willing to lavish his momma with kisses most of the time, but he also seemed quite natural and at ease when he puffed out his chest and declared that only he and his dad were clearly premium, platinum gold bullshitters.
I continued to laugh about this incident, but I didn't think much more about my son's sudden flare for sexism until this morning. As he sat on my lap and stole sips from my coffee, a commercial with two women playing football came on television. Apparently this offended Ridge's masculine sensibilities.

He said, "Mom, why are those girls playing football? Girls can't play football."

I tried to explain that, while it is generally a boys only sport, girls were allowed to play if they wanted to. This rationale only sent Ridge further into his chest-pounding rant.

"No, No, No, Momma! Girls can't play football. Only boys can play football!" He insisted.

While my husband may still sport a cowboy hat, this is far from an old-fashioned home. Rowdy and I were both puzzled by this, wondering where he could have picked this up. Trust me, I've tried to play the whole "Girls Can't Do That" card when Rowdy's been dragging me off into some horrible ranch activity like dragging off dead calves or building fence. Thus far, it hasn't worked yet. One time he made me work like 400 head of cattle with him and one lone hired hand when I was like 8 months pregnant. There was certainly no chick leniency that day. So, we have no idea just where Ridge's new "No Girls Allowed" attitude has spawned and we don't know just how far his new found sexism will run.
But, we don't know this: Ridge apparently has world-class bullshit and he doesn't want any ladies touching the pigskin.

Ridge the Train Hunter

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

Meet My Demands -- Give Me Christmas NOW!

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

Time Change = Bullshit

Dear Time Change,
Tell me why, just why, are you out to ruin my life? Now, I know this is surprising coming from me, Old Shonda who once loved the fall time change. Ahhh....the good old days. The bars would actually "fall back" on Saturday night, thus creating an extra hour of beer drinking PLUS I would gain an hour of sleep before dragging my hungover behind out of bed to go wait table.
But, alas, those days are gone and now I'm living here in Old Geezerville. In fact, I've been entertaining a run for mayor, but I figure John McCain might throw his hat in the ring since Obama is about to retire him from national politics.
Bring it on, John. I look forward to debating what time "Lights Out" should be called and I am running on a tough platform on noise security. You know, as in "Damn kids, stop with all that noise."
Anyways, this time changing is totally screwing up my day. As you should suspect my kids are now waking up at the taint of dawn. Yes, you read that correctly. They were already getting up at the asscrack of dawn, so I have to assume taint is the next step in the "really freakin' bad" progression. On the up side, if you can call it that, they went down really early. But, that only further lets me know they are going to crawl their energetic asses out of bed as an insane hour. All I want to do is sleep 30 more minutes, damn it.
So, listen up, Time Change. I've got my eyes on you.
Shonda

'Cause the Glass Half Full Makes Me Nervous

I don't like it when life's road is a gingery glide along a tranquil stream or some such shit. Well, it's not that I'm all anti-harmonious made-for-television moments or anything like that. If they were just that, a moment to come and go, then I'd probably skip along side the chipping larks and fluttering butterflies.
But, as it is, I know that when life's road is smooth, it isn't just a moment. It's anything but that. Rather, it's the preface for a stormy Hindenburg collision. You show me a cheerful man whose day is pacing along in perfection and I'll show you a dude who is going to stub his toe while tripping over his dog's puke. Or I'll show you a dude who is going to inadvertently crash his new beloved sports car into a vehicle his wife is traveling in, unbeknownst to him, with her younger, hotter lover.
Now, before you start lecturing me about the sunshiny glass half full philosophy that you live your super corny life by, I want you to know that I love my pessimism. I adore it. And do you know why, Mr. Chipper Pants? Because my pessimism has never failed me.
While all those plastic-smiled optimists are bummed out on the sidewalk because their favorite Idol was booted out on his ass by the ruthless Simon or because a mud puddle somehow found its way into their fresh, clean path, I take life's numerous disappointments and failures in stride because, well, I knew that this shit was most likely going to implode into nightmare. And then, every great now and again when life does throw me a unsuspected curve ball and things work out as though it is happening in some euphoric Hollywood script, I get to be surprise. And, really, who doesn't love surprises? I mean, there are a few no one loves, like when your ex-girlfriend surprises you with the knowledge that her special lady time is a few weeks late, but aside from that, surprises make us feel like cotton candy is in the soul.
Let me break it down for my "special" readers: Optimism = tons of disappoint, Pessimism = occasional surprises!
Now, I'm not detailing my well-established beliefs is suckism to further convince you of my fun hater status, though my guess is that it is. Oh, just so you know, suckism is a word I totally just made up to describe the doctrine that this (fill in the blank) sucks.
Let me get back on track. The reason I am writing all this is because in the rare and random incident that life just somehow cooperates to my will, I get nervous. And I mean real nervous, like that knotted up stomach I get each time Dick Cheney snarls at me on the television.
If, out of the clear blue, life magically falls into place, I start looking for the poop in the corner. So, after I laid Rolan down for his nap, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I walked into my bedroom to find a peacefully napping Ridge.
I didn't tell him to lay down. I didn't scold him for three hours, repeating in an endless loop, "Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down. Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down."
I didn't bribe him with 4,000 empty sugar calories. I didn't even have to turn on some terrible Western. He just took it upon himself to swaddle himself in my covers and rest.
So, because of his divine miracle transpiring from no effort on my part, I know something real shitty is going to happen this afternoon. One of the kids will get sick. No, wait, both of the kids will get sick. After they puke in unison, they will slug it out. Then their favorite toys will disappear. Or George Bush will come on television and, after he gives the super-educated Washington press corp definitions to words already know, he'll announce that he's liked "presidentin'" so much that he's decided he's just gonna keep doing it next year.

The Clothes Hangers are Melting My Brain

To The Person Sneaking Into My House to Steal My Clothes Hangers,
Fucking stop. No seriously, stop. I'm hip to you, I know what's going down. I mean, what other explanation is there for 20 hangers disappearing each and every week. Are the children gobbling them up for a mid-morning snack?
Every time I do laundry, and I mean every damn time, I have two or three items left in the basket without a hanger to call its own. This is leading me spiraling toward an inevitable meltdown, friends.
So, listen up close hanger thief, I'm through with being nicey nice Shonda. It's time for the claws to come out, bitches.
Sincerely,
Shonda

PS--If you would like to donate clothes hangers toward the cause of me not going completely apeshit crazy, by all means, do. They only have a life-expectancy of 1 month max at our house, but perhaps that will save me from an inevitable freak out.

The "Don't Be A Douchey Joke Thief" Campaign

In case you've somehow missed it, the heavens came together this week to make the universe just a little more harmonious than it was before that. No, I am not referring to the fact that the government is finally keeping it real rather than trying to mislead you into believing that you live in a capitalist country. That's not it at all.
Dane Cook, douche bag supreme that he is, is finally being recognized as such by the rest of the world. Apparently his little puppy has been shitting all over his Los Angeles neighborhood and, in keeping with being a total dick, Dane has refused to pick up the doo. I mean, he is a semi-star, right. You wouldn't ask Brad Pitt to pick up shit. Except that Brad Pitt isn't a dick, so he would.
The neighbors complained, the poop continued. His landlord gave three formal notices to pick up the mess, the poop continued. The landlord finally filed a lawsuit to evict Dane and, after the judge ordered his ass out, Dane suddenly takes this shit (pun very much intended) seriously. While appealing the ruling, Dane has explained that leaving the apartment would deal him an emotional hardship. You see, Steve Martin and John Belusi once lived in the same building and Dane claims that he draws inspiration from that for his work.
Here's my question: Are you fucking kidding me, Dane? Inspiration for what? Writing? Pah-lease! For comedy fans like myself who are constantly looking for a good act to follow, we know that many of your jokes have been stolen, straight up stolen, from other comics. Listen up, Readers. Do you know how to tell if a Dane Cook joke was written by someone else? If you laugh, that's how.
For my dime, few things are most lowdown than a joke thief. It goes beyond stealing money, it steals the craft the writer uses to make money.
In case you don't take me at my word on this, just watch these two videos below of jokes Dane Cook has stolen. Then you can join me in my quest for the extermination of Dane Cook, or at least his presence on my television.


When I rented Dan in Real Life, I was excited to watch this movie with my man Steve in it. But, I couldn't get into it. I spent the whole movie wondering how that asshole Dane Cook got in the damn thing. Where all the actors dead? Couldn't they find some vagabond on rubbing alcohol to play the part?
I'm far from alone on these sentiments, just google it. As yeeeah, said, "In what might possibly be the first concrete evidence that God exists and does not hate us, Dane Cook was evicted from his apartment because he is a selfish, oblivious asshole who refuses to use a pooper scooper."
Now, I've believed in God my entire life, so I don't see this has the first evidence of his existence like yeeeah does. I just think of it more as Him giving me this little gift to make up for the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson presidency, kinda like when your man sends you flowers after he feels up the babysitter.
So, heed my warnings, Readers. Dane Cook is a dick and, even worse, a dirty joke thief. Don't watch his movies, no matter how much you love Jason Biggs and/or Kate Hudson. I've always enjoyed both their movies, but I won't be watching this new movie My Best Friend's Girl. Why, you ask. Because Dane Cook is in it and, unless the video is of him being a joke thief or getting evicted or enduring some other act of misery, I will watch no footage that includes him.
I think I am going to have some of those bracelets made to raise public awareness. We will call it the "Don't be a Douchey Joke Thief" campaign.
Or, as yeeeah also said, "I mean, you can’t expect a sack of shit to go around cleaning up piles of shit. That’s like asking someone to shoot their own brother in the face."

Real Cowboys Don't Pay Entry Fees

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