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!

I Can See The Cheyenne-Arapaho Nation From My Porch

Hello, it's so nice to finally meet you. I've been a fan for a long time. Do you mind if I call you John? (insert wink)
Great, you can call me Shonda if you'd like. Just go with your gut, I know that's where you really excel anyways.
Well, John, the reason I'm tracking you down today is that I need a job. I mean, with the American consumer going completely freakin' bankrupt and not having the keen foresight of being a corporation so their poor financial decisions could be "bailed out," I fear they'll only be able to scrounge up enough cash for a few beans for their daily meal. Typically a steak dinner is reserved for folks with enough cash to not be, I don't know, homeless, so I'm kinda concerned that the product my husband and I produce, beef, is going to become more of a luxury item for the few rather than the evening meal of the millions. That coupled with $5 a gallon diesel, which makes pulling a profit out of wheat crop easier than Katie Couric wrestling answers out of your girl Sarah, I think this might be the time for me to cut my apron strings and get a job.
But, here's the thing, John, I feel like I am far too qualified and, more importantly, too cool for most the jobs I've been being offered. So, I put on my trust Thinkin' Cap, known by many as shot-gunning a six pack (a little trick I learned from my friend Joe Six Pack. I think he is a common acquaintance of mine and your girl Sarah), and came up with a solution. You see, John, I'm a skilled problem-solver.
As I surfed the world wide web, I learned that the two of the only sectors with positive job growth during the last 8 years of the Homer Simpson Presidency are government and the oil and gas industries. I'm sure you are already aware of that since you supported 90% of that chucklehead's policies and resolutions. In fact, this reassures me of both your and Sarah's competence. God bless you, you saw this shitty economic Hindenburg plummeting toward it's fiery demise and you planted your brilliant butts into job security. Good for you, I say!
Since I'm already living out here in gas-rich Western Oklahoma, I'm sure you'd assume that I was going to pursue a fat paycheck in the oil patch. Well, John, I know lots of folks who work their asses off in that line of work and, to be honest, I just don't really want to have to work that hard. If you ask me, there are only a few activities are acceptable for 5:30 in the morning and drilling ain't on that list. Well, I guess "drilling" is approved, but it is the kind that you don't have to leave your cozy bed to do. I'm just looking for a job that requires a little less, well, work and a little more air conditioning.
I was starting to get a bit discouraged, John, as my quest for the perfect employment was bearing no fruit. Oh, speaking of fruit, does that offer you made for the $50 a hour lettuce-picking gig in Arizona still stand? It's not for me, you know I'm not gonna drag my fat, red-headed ass out in the 110 degree sauna that is Yuma for $50 a hour. But, for that kinda cash, I will totally force my whining offspring to pick that shit all year long. Hell, when they are finished with that, I will make them whip you and I up a nice chicken salad with some ranch dressing, perhaps a few almonds and sun-dried tomatoes. I think child labor builds character. Don't you agree, John?
My brain has always functioned most efficiently after I've cracked open a Bud Light. So, after I listened to that prick who ran Lehman Brothers into the ground whine to Congress about how the value of his Lehman Brothers stock had declined, you know because of his shitty decisions, and how he thinks it is absolutely fair that he gets to keep the $500 million in cash bonuses for his splendid job performance over the last few years, I realized I needed a second beer to really fuel my brain.
That's when it hit me, Joh. I should come to work for you! Like I said before, unless you work in the government or energy, you are probably worried that your job is going to disappear.
So, I googled government jobs. Several caught my eye, but I pushed forward in my quest. I think you will be pleased to know that I'm no quitter, John. When I am committed to task, I do not blink. I am that sure.
And then it happened, the job that I was born to do popped onto my screen. It was like when Derek met Meredith in Joe's bar and he was, like, totally drawn to her. Or like when Sarah Palin saw her first hockey puck.
Are you ready? (Drum roll please)..........
I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Assistant Secretary of the Interior, the one who runs the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Now, I realize that I won't actually be a "candidate," that you would have to appoint me or something along those lines. I just taught "formally announcing my candidacy" had a more professional ring than "please, John, I'm begging for the job."
I know with your super thorough vetting and interviewing process, you are going to rummage through the entire background of each and every appointment you make in your administration. So, on that note, I have a little confession to make. I kinda, sorta already asked Barack if he would give me the job. I mean, I've always believed that you would storm into Washington on the Straight Talk Express and Put Country First. I just didn't know if you would win. You did, after all, lose the GOP nomination in 2000 to George Bush.
After Barack intereviewed me, I realized you guys were righ. He is a snobby elitist. He gets all self-righteous about qualifications and credentials and I was like, "Dude, you think because you went to Columbia and Harvard and have that sky high IQ are you are sooooo special."
The interview really did happen.....in my highly-evolved, not-at-all bizarre brain. It went something like this here:

ME: So, ummm, Barack, I really need a job and I think this Director of the Indian Affairs title would sound awesome right before my name.

BARACK: Well, Ms. Little...

ME: Please, call me Shonda.....or Assistant Secretary Shonda, whatever you feel comfortable with.

BARACK: Uhhh....okay....Shonda......tell me the education and qualifications who have for this position.

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. First of all, I live just outside of Cheyenne, Oklahoma on the Washita River. When I sit out on my porch at night drinking a cold beer while I yell at my kids to stop throwing rocks at one another, I can see the exact location that Custer massacred that sleeping village of Cheyenne women and children. There's a huge monument on the spot and everything. I'm pretty for sure it's part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation. So, yeah, I have very close relations with the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation.

BARACK: And you can see it from your porch?

ME: Oh, yes, absolutely! I can see the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation, well at least the part that not one single person lives on, from my house. As someone who can see another nation from her porch, I feel like that also gives me a wealth of foreign policy experience.

BARACK: Shonda, the Bureau of Indian Affairs is the oldest department in the Department of the Interior. The Department of the Interior only handles domestic issues, so foreign policy experience, as you called it, doesn't necessarily qualify you for that post.

ME: Oh, you want domestic experience! Fantastic! I am a domestic goddess, Barack. I can turn any three ingredients into a gourmet meal. I think my sizable ass will speak for that qualification. Would you like to see my credentials?
Three years ago, I started baking my kids' birthday cakes because I just couldn't stomach forking over $40 for a product that cost $3 to make.I've also pioneered a method to prevent lazy women from ironing. I use it daily.

BARACK: Yes, Shonda, frugality is a positive attribute, however, the Department of Interior doesn't really handle baking or ironing.
Do you have any actual experience in matters that the Bureau of Indian Affairs does handle, such as managing the 66 million acres of land held in a trust for the 562 federally recognized American Indian tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. Yes, I do. As you know, my husband and I farm and ranch. After helping my husband move farm equipment, I have sat stranded in a pick-up truck hundreds of times while Rowdy farmed. I normally manage that time by drinking warm beers left in the truck while texting messaging one of my friends about the enormous pile of bullshit I think being left in that sweltering truck is.

BARACK: Are you actually involved in the land management?

ME: Well, I'm not actually "involved" in making any decisions, but sometimes my husband really gets desperate and forces himself to let me plow. I have to tell you, Barack, that is a time I truly enjoy. I feel at one with land as I drive my giant tractor while listening to NPR Radio and narrowly missing fence posts with my plow.

BARACK: (quiet for lengthy period of time. Clearly he does blink) Another responsibility of the Bureau is to provide quality education. Does your background hold any experience in this field?

ME: Hell yes it does, Barack. I spent my late teenage years teaching younger kids how to drink beer. That's where my passion for education was birthed.
Just this week I taught my oldest son to tell his father that he was making him crazy. I also taught my youngest son to whiz off the front porch. Those diapers we are soaking through freakin' dozens at a damn time are bad for the environment, Barack, and like my Indian brothers and sister, I am want sit in a Circle of Harmony and smoke peyote with Mother Earth.


BARACK: Shonda, I think that statement may sound a bit racists to some.


ME: Oh, forgive me, Barack. I know white folks need to be careful when using racially specific words like "brothers and sisters." I apologize.

BARACK: White people have siblings, too, Shonda. That's not what I was referring to. Rather I was offended by the "Mother Earth" and "peyote" comment. It is wildly offensive to suggest that all Native Americans sit in circles smoking drugs to be one with nature.


ME: I just want the Native Americans and Mother Earth to be happy with me, Barack.


BARACK: Are you saying that you consume drugs, Shonda?

ME: Of course not, Barack! I am one of those people lucky enough to have a brain that hears non-existent noises and sees non-existent things all by itself. It's kinda like having a television in your head that no one knows about but you.

BARACK: You know what, Shonda, let's just move on. Providing quality health care to Native Americans is also a mission of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. How does this reflect your personal values?

ME: Well, for starters, Barack, I feel like they should be able to smoke peyote in the case that they develop cancer....or are a Cancer, like the zodiac sign. I feel like the same right should be available to Virgos, Geminis, Libras and any other strange star formation.


BARACK: (shakes head, clearly annoyed for reasons I don't understand): Let me state this more directly. Have you ever worked in health care?


ME: In what sense, Barack?</span>

BARACK: Well, have you ever worked in health care means have you ever been employed with a job that stabilizing and improving the health of other people was one of your tasks?

ME: As you know, Barack, like Sarah Palin, I've turned my uterus into a baby oven. Just as she has explained, being a mother makes you an expert on anything directly or indirectly linked to your children. Have I studied medicine? Well, in a sense, I have, Barack. Almost every time my children cough medicine, I read the label. I mean, if there is a butterfly or some flowers on the medicine's label, I don't read it. I know the FDA would never allow a drug company to place symbols of safety and happiness on a product they know might harm my kids. In those occasions where a butterfly, for example, his fluttering his majestic wings as he sails over a blooming Spring flower, I fearlessly shot that shit down my kids' precious throats.
Also, I have held the Kleenex while my kids have blown their noses on several occasions. I cared for their umbilical cords until they fell over, which likewise gives me experience dealing with amputees.
Oh, and I also breastfed both my sons, which gives me solid credentials in food production and circulation as well as nutrition. Do you think just anyone's milk glands would just aimlessly produce that perfect formula of breast milk immediately following the birth of an offspring, triggered by hormones that all females naturally make after their bodies give birth.


BARACK: (stares blankly at me. I guess he's taken a class on true leadership since he has clearly given up blinking). As one of the most important functions of the Bureau, you would be responsible for promoting economic opportunities for the Native American tribes in the very off chance that everyone else in America, including Dick Cheney and George Bush and Sarah Palin have disappeared and you actually got the job. Do you have any knowledge in positive ways to promote economic development for these tribes?

ME: I'm glad you asked, Barack. I just wish we had more time to talk about this. I'd like to start by saying that the reason my husband unselfishly exposes himself to lung cancer is so that we can help support our Cheyenne and Arapaho neighbors by puffing away on those cheap ass cigarettes they peddle. I've read that you've been known to light up on occasion, so I would like to call for you to also make the patriotic sacrifice of capitalizing on, I mean investing in, the awesome discounts at the Indian Smoke Shops.
Also, here in Oklahoma our Native American friends have the good fortune of being able to profit because of the great future planning of the ancestors. You see, because their great-grandparents had the foresight to generously donate their land in Western Oklahoma to the Land Runs, now they have the opportunity to operate those casinos. Do you know what makes that big-hearted offer of all that land to the white man even kinder? They gave us all the oil underneath it, too, and because of that philanthropy on the part of the Native Americans, my grandparents now get to use their royalty checks to see America from their 50-foot fifth wheel.
So, I would like use the donation of their land and oil and, now, wind energy to my home state (and, indirectly, those lucky bastards whose grandparents and great-parents ran in the Land Run, thus hooking them up with those fat daddy royalties), I would like to help my Native American brothers and sisters. And the first way I'd like to help, Barack, is by finally serving up the booze in their casinos. Seriously, every single time I go in there, I walk around all clear-headed and sober from the utter lack of intoxicants pumping through my blood stream and think to myself, 'Jesus, Shonda, you'd sure be wasting money at much less responsible rate if these Indians would just get you drunk.'
Listen, I've been to Las Vegas on more than one occasion and I can tell you that the key to successfully pillaging your betting customers is by pouring free drinks down their unsuspecting throats through the helping hand of metallic-lipped, ass-shaking waitresses. Now I realize that our Indian friends aren't quite as crafted at disguising a ploy to steal money through fake generosity of their friends, so I would like to execute my patriotic duty and pale face heritage by helping them with this. And, Barack, we must start with alcohol.

BARACK: This has been a very....interesting interview, Shonda. I appreciate your time and interest, however, I don't think you quite have the experience and qualifications to direct the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It's been nice meeting you and I hope you have a pleasant day.

ME: What, you aren't hiring me? Suck it, Snobby Elitist.



So, John, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first. I know you won't make me mull over my qualifications, looking down your super wealthy nose at me. I mean, seriously, not all of us can be raised in a tiny apartment by a struggling single mother on food stamps, studying our already brilliant asses off to earn academic scholarships. I've always favored your wild child path through education. I mean, I think going to a private prep school and then getting into military college with a good word from your 4-star general dad and granddad shows your ability to excel from an early age. Beyond that, it takes a ton of courage to choose freedom over conforming, and by that I mean the balls to tell your powerful parents to suck it, that you'd rather drink beer with strippers and graduate 894 out of 899 rather than oppressively chain your handsome nose to a book. Now if that's not mavericky, I just don't know what is. That is the exact same course I took through school, John .Like you, I always go with my gut instinct. And if that just happened to be skipping school to drink beer all day at the lake, then by God, that's what I did. I think that should tell you what a fantastic job I would do as Assistant Secretary of the Interior, overseeing the Bureau of Indian Affairs.
John, you recognized that Sarah's ability to see Russia from Alaska earned her foreign policy experience. Well, John, I can jump on a four-wheeler and actually be on part of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Nation in about two minutes (insert wink). Not that long ago, some of our cattle got through the fence and ended up on their land. I was able to negotiate the top-level talks that got them back onto our land. Well, I sat next to Rowdy while he bullshitted on his cell phone with the super nice dude who runs the deal. But, my instincts and swift actions helped lead to peaceful solution. And by that, I mean that I thanked him for his kind help and then offered him a beer, which he in turn thanked me for and then drank. It was diplomacy at its finest, John.
So, I look forward to working with you next year. For uneducated and unqualified people such as myself, I'm glad to see this period of repression for underachievers has finally come to an end. Sure, occasionally horse trainers have ended up running, I don't know, FEMA, which worked out so positively for hurricane victims. So, perhaps it isn't such a ground-breaking phenomenon. But, when George Bush appointed "Heck of a Job" Brownie to the head post with FEMA, it was cronyism. That's not what you are doing by picking Sarah and now me. Oh no, this maverickism.

The Things You Do For Love

***Play the music video I posted below either before or during you read this. I also posted the lyrics to this song in this post, but I think listening to it will really help get you in the right mindset for this story.


Before I tell you the following story, you need to know that I fully believe that Rowdy sits around with some of his wayward friends and brags about the bullshit he can get me to do. Now, he swears he doesn't, but why else would he make me shimmy into a rusty grain truck, seed scurrying into my clothes, to unroll the top canvas? What other explanation could be given to talking me into shoveling pounds and pounds of mud out of an ancient water tank and then periodically making me attempt to heave the heavy slosh pit above my 8-month pregnant tummy? Rowdy is constantly talking me into ridicules bullshit. What's worse is that I know it is ridicules as I am doing it. What can I say, I'm a devoted wife. Even as I type this, that catchy '60s tune by Jimmy Soul is be-bopping through my mind.

A pretty women makes her husband look small
it very often causes a system fall
As soon as he marrys her then she starts
looking for things that will break his heart
but if you make an ugly women your wife
you'll be happy for the rest of your life
An ugly women will put peals on that
and she'll always give you a piece of that.

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty women your wife
Go for my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Don't let your friends tell you you have no taste
go ahead and marry anyway
Her face is ugly her eyes don't match
take it from me shes a better catch

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty women your wife
Go for my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Dude 1:say man
Dude 2:hey man
Dude 1: I saw your wife the other day
Dude 2: Yeah
Dude 1: Yeah and Shes Ugly
Dude 2: Yeah shes Ugly but she sure can cook baby.
Dude 1: Yeah

Now, you may be wondering why I'm listing a few of the grand gestures I lavishly pour upon Rowdy and, furthermore, why I am printing a catchy classic to explain this. Well, the answer to those questions are quite simple, really. Listen up, fellas. This is valuable and honest and will most assuredly save you a ton of heartache, disappointment and, above freakin' all, money if you heed my warnings.
You can either have a good-looking wife or an accommodating one. You simply can't have it both ways. In vain, you will try to fight that. You will search the world or, in the very least, the local honky tonk, tirelessly to find the shiny bombshell blond who will labor gladly over gourmet meals and pre-set your coffee pot so that you'll have a warm pot brewing before you stumble out of bed and gleefully mow the yard because she thinks it is really her job. Oh, and when she's not freshening up you and your buddies' beer koozies while cheering on your favorite football team, she's busy dreaming up kinky new "bedroom" positions to both limit your physical effort while maximizing your "O" face.
I don't mean to break your heart, guys, but this woman doesn't exist. And before you go emailing me that you've already stumbled upon this Kate Hudson/Jenna Jameson/Martha Stewart mirage, I have three more names for you: Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama. IF you happen to love one of these guys, chances are you don't like one or more of the others. But, the reason the American people have all at one point or another picked these guys, as different as they are, is campaigning and marketing. And any dolled up broad who is pimping more bling than J. Lo as she's serving homemade buffalo wings to your friends while she whispering her desire to give you a hummer in your ear is simply that. Lying politicians wrap themselves up in the nostalgic images of leaders of old to get elected and high-maintenance women masquerade as a laidback, freaky Betty Crocker until that take that stroll down the aisle. And, with both, once the deals official, all bets are off. The "Contract with America" becomes null and void. And once Barbie has your credit card number, the highway hand jobs and packed lunch boxes are as withered as your wedding bouquet. Then you realize they were merely a ploy to get your money, jack.
The previous paragraph might lead you boys who are living with buyer's remorse over this poorly thought out purchase, so to speak, to believe I am sympathetic to your plight. That is absolutely NOT the case! You could have had a woman who would've gleefully performed these tasks for the rest of your life. After all, each of you had ample opportunity to tie down multiple ladies who are the truly devoted to pleasing their lover. (Calm down, feminists. I am one of you. Devotion isn't the same thing as enslaved. No matter how liberated we are, no matter if we are male or female, we should all be devoted to serving our lover.) But, while some band geek or slightly fleshy debate captain longed for a chance to love you, you competed for the fleeting affection of the glossy-lipped, Prada-clad socialite. Whether you want to admit it or not, you got exactly what you sought.
Personally I believe that men shouldn't marry until they are at least 30 and I will preach this to my sons. So, if you do want to chase the glittery switch of the glamour girls, do it in your "single years." It's like buying a car; it's just fine to test drive a sexy, high octane Ferrari, but when you get out the check book, you better be pulling off the lot with a gas efficient, smooth riding mini van. You might not feel quite as cool when you pull up to the Elks Lodge, but you'll be more comfortable on the cross country journey with a vehicle full of kids.
Now, for those of you who have taken the route of my husband and heeded the caution of this song, I'm sure you are satisfied, in the kitchen, in the bedroom and in whatever bullshit garage or barn you also have her working in. The newest evidence I am presenting to you, my brilliant readers, is the current "experimental treatment" Rowdy and his chiropractor have me dutifully performing on him twice daily. As you may or may not know, about 8 years ago, Rowdy was hauling hay in an International tractor when two semis collided with him. Well, he actually lept out of the tattered ride before the second plowed into the tractor, but he has some back problems as a lingering result of the accident.
Keeping his back in line is a constant challenge for him and, because he is such a devoted provider and servant for my children and me, I consider his well-being in this regard as one of my top priorities. Unlike most men, Rowdy is willing to try non-traditional treatments if it will yield results, so when I made him an appointment for acupuncture last October, he was more than willing to give it a whirl. While this eastern medicine has been by no means a cure all, it has also been the most effective therapy thus far. After the initial three procedures, he now returns about once every three or four weeks for a tune-up regimen, basically.
Like I said, I am generally pretty eager to help him in any way. But two weeks ago when he returned from Dr. Stover's office, handed me a tooth brush and then explained how twice daily I must rub it across his finger nails and toe nails because Doc Stover believed this would keep his back in place, I scoured the house for hidden cameras. THIS HAD TO BE JOKE!
Bewildered, I said, "What choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"
Rowdy then spilled into his medical mambo jumbo, explaining to his leery lady that each side of your nail cuticles houses pressure points and, when conjoined with his needle therapy, the treatment will be productive longer. If my mom's appendix nightmare hadn't unfolded, I probably would've already called Dr. Stover to question him about this new medical regimen he has me performing on my husband.
I don't think this has anything to do with acupuncture or Rowdy's back. On the contrary, I think Dr. Stover and Rowdy are now competing to see who can get their wife to do the most ridicules bullshit for them. And then somewhere in this sick game, one of them said, "Hey, let's see if you can get Shonda to scrub your hands and feet with a toothbrush two times a day."
I bet Stover's trying to convince his wife Holli of some off the wall nonsense as I type this. After all, the toothbrush "therapy" is going to be hard to beat. But, I'm going right along with it, whether or not its a bet. As absurd and daft as I may look, down on my hands and knees brushing away on Rowdy's "pressure points" like I'm a Vietnamese nail girl, I'm willingly going along for it. If it is a treatment, maybe it will help Rowdy's back throb a little less. And, if it's a competition, which is my guess, maybe Rowdy can take a little cash off his bet with his chiropractor.
Now, the reason I first typed out the Jimmy Soul ballad, then busted the myth about the 3-in-1 wife and lastly documented the latest series of hogwash Rowdy has convinced me to do is this really to further prove that you can either have the gorgeous wife or the good one. Just like you, I know a few real lookers who are very dedicated and self-sacrificing where their men are concerned. But, I think you will find that they still perceive themselves as the geek they blossomed out of after high school. Trust me, boys, low self-esteem is an absolute must when you pick your spouse.
Drinking beer at the local tavern with Rowdy's recently single cousin last December, we listened as he and a few of his other single buddies bitched about their disappointment from all the women they date. Rowdy and I made suggestions of a few unattached local ladies, but they quickly dismissed each one. Apparently, these girls weren't up to their beauty par. After Rowdy explained to his cousin how each of his love affairs will produce the same money-drained result until he re-evaluated his choice in ladies, he wrapped his arms around me and said, "You want to see what the ass of a good woman looks like. Well, here you go."
While some of you might be gasping as though this was horrible, I want you to know I consider this one of the sweetest statements he's ever made about me. Of course I want him to think I am beautiful. I want to feel beautiful. But, far more than that, I want him to see me as the foundation on which his life is built. When his friends bemoan all the accommodations their wives won't make, I LOVE that Rowdy brags about all the star treatment he receives from me. And, you know what, he does, too.
So, just like the song says, IF YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, NEVER MAKE A PRETTY WOMAN YOUR WIFE. GO FOR MY PERSONAL POINT OF VIEW -- GET AN UGLY GIRL TO MARRY YOU!