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."

Are You Breaking Child Labor Laws if the Kid Really, Really Wanted to be a Maid? Or Cook? Or Personal Assistant?

I'm sure if you've been coming here for more than a week, you're semi-familiar with Mollie. On the blog, she's kind of my hard ass heckler, although she recently referred to herself rather begrudgingly as my sidekick, which I think might be my life's single greatest accomplishment.
She was all, "Hey, I just realized something. Never in my fucking life did I think I would be someone's sidekick, but I've turned into yours."
I understand that might not be as funny to you as it is to me, but if you knew Mollie, you'd know what a hilarious wise ass she is and then you'd laugh, too. Also, if she's my sidekick, I think that kind of means I am a super hero, right? I mean, I do think I have some super powers, like the crafty ones I used to rook my darling husband into marrying me, an unbalanced, quirky, genius-in-my-own-mind pain in the ass. Check Mate, Super Man!
Anyways, back to the subject, my super sidekick Mollie. Well, in real life, I'm more like her sidekick. She's responsible for my rather addictive vices of scrapbooking and couponing. Also, she's also my go-to baby-sitter. I mean, with her four kids already there, what's two more? At least that's what she always says when I ask. So, as I said, here in the not-so-bloggy world, I'm really her sidekick.
Now, I'm sure you are wondering why I'm just randomly divulging all this Mollie information. Well, it is so when you read this sentence, the one where I tell you that 2 of her kids are staying at our house for four days while she and her man party it up in Vegas, you won't think I'm just randomly watching my blog friends' children. I mean, what a disaster it would be if all 7 of my readers thought I'd generously provide childcare while they're off on some brilliant holiday.
As with every time I keep Mollie's kids, I didn't get her oldest, Hannah, because she apparently wants to use the time her folks are away to spend with other pre-teenage girls. Total bullshit, I say, since she's like a tidy maid and dotting little mother all in one. But, the injustice of not getting Hannah aside, I still like it when any of her other kids come out since my boys adore them so. Just imagine Beattle Mania or the likes of any other screaming, shaking fans and you'll know what I mean.
Because Mollie doesn't trust me with all three youngest of her tribe, she doles them out to me one or two at a time. When she and her man Ronnie went to Vegas last September, I got their four-year-old, Carson. He and Ridge were born just a few weeks apart and are in the same class in Rainbow Lane. They'll battle it out like a bloody Iraqi sectarian clash and then cry like they haven't seen each other in 6 months when it is time to part.
Wyatt, her five-year-old, was sad he didn't get to come to Aunt Shonda's last time. He is, after all, a child after my heart. When he was about 3, he copped a feel and then I taught him to refer to himself, a redhead, as a ginger, just as I call myself, and we've been loving it up ever since. So, on this trip, he got to come out, as did his six-year-old sister Adie.
In all honesty, I was a bit nervous about Adie's trip. After all, our house might as well be called Testosteroneville or Tallywhacker City. In other words, it's pretty boy centric. I just worried that she'd be bored out of her mind or smothered by the three little males that would be nipping at her heels at all times. With a brother who's 15 months younger than her and another who's 30 months younger, Mollie ensured me she'd be fine.
My children were already asleep when Ronnie dropped Adie and Wyatt off last night. After reading to the two of them for no longer than three minutes, they were both sawing logs, too, and I wasn't far behind.
Rolan rises each morning with the sun, sometimes even a few minutes before. Not long after I heard him stirring at the ass crack of dawn, sounds of toys clanking and flying were echoing out of Ridge's room. Visions of toys boxes being dumped onto the floor and into piles of mayhem ran through my barely lucid mind.
As the noise continued, I pulled my dragging ass from bed to patrol the party. Well, it turns out that it wasn't a party at all. With no conscious adult for the first 15 minutes of their day, Adie decided to play Mommy, giving the boys direction while she organized their toys.
I'm not fucking exaggerating here. She ORGANIZED the toys.
Immediately, possible games for the remained of her stay darted through my scheming mind. Tax season is upon us. Maybe Adie would like to play Accountant. I think she'd really excel at Laundry Service and Lunch Lady as well.
Now, I know all you do-gooders are cringing at all this possible child exploitation, but don't you judge me. I promise, it was all her idea.

Turns Out, Candy Cures Everything.

After the last post, I'm sure you thought my posts would take on some consistency here in 2009. Well, guess again, bitches. My keyboard has been on the blink for several days and then, just now, my youngest ran a truck over the top of it and it started working once again. I guess he's magic.
As you all know, our dog Whiskey was killed by a semi-truck last Saturday. Immediately, Rowdy and I wondered how to tell Ridge. At just 2 1/2, Rolan is thankfully still too small to grasp it, so we didn't have to worry about him. Ridge, on the other hand, is right at the cusp of understanding. He has seen death on Barnyard and in those ridicules Westerns Rowdy is constantly watching with him. But, then again, he's 4. There's no way he can totally come to terms with the finality of death.
So, in keeping with my standard "Let's Brush It Under The Rug" life philosophy, we just said nothing until he brought it up. After two days without seeing Whiskey, he realized his friend was absent.
Ridge walked in the house, his face drawn with worry. "Where's Whiskey," he asked his father and me.
We exchanged glances, both wondering what the other was thinking. We'd received advice from several people on how we should approach this. I mean, clearly the whole "He went to live on a farm" classic wouldn't work for us. I've always believed honesty is probably the best route to take, unless of course we are referring to the weight listed on driver's licenses and then I say, "Deny Until You Die."
Anyways, I sat on the couch and Rowdy sat caddy cornered from me in his chair. He looked at Ridge and softly explained that Whiskey had been hit by a truck.
Ridge's eyes grew as large as half dollars as he innocently inquired, "Did he die?"
I shook my head and whispered yes. And just as I was hugging my boy, Rowdy pulled a Starburst candy from his pocket and began unwrapping it. Instantly Ridge spotted that shit.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Elvis!
"Oh....candy!" he belted as he scurried to his dad.
And that's how Ridge learned that Whiskey had died.

There's No Title Because This is Basically Rambling Bullshit. That's it, Rambling Bullshit.

Well, I'm sure you've all been missing me the past few days. With that last of our many Christmas celebrations finally over the last Saturday, we've been strung out on holiday cheer and I just haven't known what to and what not to blog about. So, rather than post a long, never-ending narrative about one of them, I thought I'd just hit the high and low points, which will no doubt lead to a long, never-ending post, but at least you'll get to switch subjects to avoid spontaneous sleep.

1.) Our dog Whiskey died this Saturday. Apparently in the midnight hours, he snuck into town to visit some randy lass we were unaware of. On his way back home, he was struck by a semi and my husband and mother-in-law found him the following morning.
Named after the Willie Nelson classic Whiskey River, Rowdy and I got the border collie pup when our relationship was just as new and fresh as his baby's breath. I was amazed to watch him grow, the way the herding instinct just seemed to rise out of his DNA and, over the past few years, his work had become as important as an extra cowboy's. Sure, it was rough at first. He'd push cattle when he wasn't suppose to and then turn right around and not push when the time was right. But, in just a few short years, that thing inside him took over.
Whiskey had a meek and sweet spirit. He would let me pet him as long as I liked, unless of course Rowdy fired up a four wheeler and then he was off to work. He never called in sick or missed a day. He was a great hand.
Although I always loved Whiskey, I think my real bond with him came after our children were born. They'd tug his ears or yank his tail and, in return, he would drown them with slobbering kisses from his wet tongue. As my boys got older and would periodically be around cattle, we noticed this was perhaps the only time Whiskey didn't dart after his herd. Instead, he kept a steady eye on the livestock and the boys, careful to always be directly in between them and each calf. He was a good dog.
This morning was bittersweet. As Rowdy got dressed to go out and start his day, our youngest yelled out the door for his faithful old friend, "Whick-key, Whick-key, where you?"
Tears were in both our eyes, as we knew his calls wouldn't be answered.

Okay, now onto more sunshiny tales, the ones you come here for.

2.) In spite of our loud and steady pleas each year for each set of grandparents to limit the toys under their trees and candy in stockings, all four pairs (both our parents are divorced) steamed full force ahead with the stockpiles of trains and trucks and enough sugar to keep a bakery in supply for a full year. Rowdy and I dumped each stocking into a big, black bag, hoping to smuggle that shit out of the house before the boys had it strung from top to bottom.
The plan, my friends, was unsuccessful. After I tucked everyone into bed last night, I put the bag up high on the kitchen counter and went off to bed myself.
Then, at 3:30 in the morning, a small boy shook me out of my warm bed and he commanded me to, "Wake Up! Hurry!" I wasn't sure what Rolan was waking me for, but I knew it couldn't be good. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room, where his big brother was fast asleep with the giant bag o' goodies resting next to him. Apparently Rolan was just so proud that he realized in the middle of the damn night that the candy, totally unguarded, was there that he had to wake me to show his spoils. I tried to explain to him that this would be like calling the bank BEFORE you robbed it, took the candy and left him whining in his bed.
And, just to make all the awakening better, my mother-in-law was at the front of our room at 5 am, asking Rowdy questions about the business. Overall, AWESOME! **Que Dry Sarcasm** I'm not at all bitchy today.

3.) As Ridge crawled into my lap this afternoon, he pointed to my groin and quizzed, "Is that where your balls are, Momma?"
I began explaining the whole boy-girl thing and, interrupting me with a choir of giggles, he wisely said, "Oh, you have girl parts. I don't like girl parts. They have poop and oil."
I sort of understood the poop since it is in the same general area and he is, after all, 4 and, when you are 4, poop is a pretty big part of your life. But, the oil I didn't get. It's not like I'm frying chicken in my "girl parts."
Also, I have trained him to chant on demand that his momma is his NUMBER ONE girl and I plan on soon having him brain washed into declaring that no woman will care for him like me. Just kidding. Kinda. I realize this might be pretty costly in therapy charges down the road, so I am trying to reign it in. Trying is the key word.

4.) Can you say Senator Franken? Now, if you've been reading this blog long or if you've gone through my archives, you know I bleed blue (although I can't say I'm super stoked about Obama's stacking conservatives in his Cabinet. But, at least they are really, really smart conservatives, right?).
All the Bleeding Heart Liberal characteristics (**Que More Sarcarsm** which is really popular here in Oklahoma) aside, I didn't even think my friend Al could pull this shit off and I donated to his campaign and have bought every book he's ever written. Hell, I even highlighted through those bastards.
Even though a Minnesota board certified Al the winner over Norm Coleman today, the incumbent Coleman will no doubt take further legal steps to prevent it and, in spite of little room for change, I hope he does. We Americans are impatient. We want to know the winners of our elections as though they are football games. This may have been a pains taken, almost parody of a recount as though it were actually a brilliant Saturday Night Live skit written in Al's past life on the show, but we will have no doubt in the winner. 2.9 million people voted and this baby was decided by 225 votes. Remember that the next time you want to stay home from the polls, thinking your vote doesn't matter.

5.)Mollie's daughter Hannah, who is homeschooled not for religious reasons but because her mother wholly and fully believes she is almost as genius as Stephen Hawking (and she is), somehow stumbled upon those videos from that mascara-drinched Britney fan, yelling at US, all of US, to leave Britney alone. Now, this is particularly hilarious since Hannah didn't know who the hell he was talking about when she found it.
She said, "I don't know who this Britney person is, but I hope they leave her alone so that guy will shut up."
Now Mollie and I want to force Hannah into making our own mascara-drenched video. And the therapy bill just keeps going up.

Rock The New Year

I'm not gonna lie, I'm a bit concerned about the natural ease and instinct the Brothers Little had when I busted out the 2009 shades. With no hesitation, they slapped those bitches on and ran about the house like two season party goers. Fuzzy images of the two of them living it up on New Years Eve circa 2025 went flashing through my troubled mind as they leaped about the living room, making goofy faces for the camera and just reeking havoc in general.
Now, I know you all are constantly want to blame their prominent orneriness upon being the sons of a rather wiseass mother. So, I give you Exhibit A, the photo of them with my Rowdy. As much as I'd love to take complete credit for their quirky wit, you can see Ridge and Rolan are getting a fine lesson in that from both sides of their gene pool.

Auld Land Syne in 2009

I know 8 years, 8 wild years have passed, since Kenny G's Millennium Mix of Auld Lang Dyne was released. In case you've never heard it or have somehow forgotten this little piece of historical awesome, as the brilliant musician flawlessly plays, audio bits from the last century lays out over it. From the first recorded sound to Ellen, from both World Wars to Columbine, the Beatles and Woodstock, the embarrassing gutters some of our politicians like Nixon found themselves in to unpredicted strides for the betterment of all mankind such as the civil rights movement, this sound and this video will put a tear in any history buff's eyes.
Listening to it, I wonder just what will be remembered the most from the past 8 years. Will our great-great grandchildren understand the chaos of the 2000 election? Will they know how we rallied around each other and the American flag after 9/11? Will the last season of Friends be in their time capsules? Will Barack Obama's inaugration speech mark them as John Kennedy's does in this song? It's hard to say, we won't be around anyways.
So, I guess in the here and the now, I should say Happy New Year!
Let's Shine in 2009!

I Screwed Up And Let Both My Kids Become Obsessed with Thomas

As I sat down to write this post, the wise words of the big hair band of the 80s, Great White, are humming through my mind, "My, my, my, You're Once Bitten, Twice Shy, Babe."
I wish they would have been a few months ago when I rather ignorantly introduced my youngest son Rolan to Thomas the Train. Now, as I'm sure you already know, my oldest boy Ridge has taken his fascination with Thomas into obsession. I'm sure if he was old enough to have his own means of transportation and actually realized that The Day Out with Thomas that comes annually to Oklahoma City's Railway Museum traveled from city to city, he'd drop out of Rainbow Lane and follow it around like some stoned Dead Head. He knows each little train by heart, even the ones that are the exact same color and look virtually identical to one another except for their length of funnels or some such shit. The Thomas bug bit Ridge when he was about 2 and that cheeky train has been ruining my life ever since.
Because of that, you would think I would have had the fucking foresight not to introduce this Jedi mind-controlling hogwash to the little one. Clearly, I'm like kid who repeatedly sticks her hand in fire or poor dog who runs smack dab into the glass door over and over and over. I just never learn.
So now, just when Ridge's junkie addiction to Thomas finally appeared on the verge of being overcome, Rolan is waking up each morning, demanding Thomas be turned on through the magical genius of the DVR, thus giving Ridge a daily fucking reminder of just how much he still really, really loves Thomas. Instead of one boy making forceful requests as though I'm some hostage negotiator and he's got 10 kidnapped bystanders who can only be saved if the ransom of a Thomas showing is met, I have two.
For a while, I thought I had solved the Thomas crisis through the miraculous hands of YouTube. With Ridge old enough to run a mean mouse pad, I would put the boys in front of the computer, pull up YouTube, type in Thomas the Train and let them go to town. With the similar videos listed on the bottom right of the screen, Ridge just click away, buying me much needed house cleaning time while they watched an endless sea of Thomas videos. But then one day the title of one caught my eye as I walked by, picking up toys that were no doubt Thomas related. It was, "Gordon Kills Thomas," or something along those line. Yeah, apparently some asshole has made a whole collection of videos based on the series with a twist of The Shining or some other sadistic nightmare that 4-year-olds and 2-year-olds don't need to be watching, unless of course you are just wanting them to never sleep again, in which case, bombs away. I wanted to write this dude a nasty note along the lines of, "Thanks for screwing up my sweet thing, you sick bastard," but then I remembered that he's some nut job who apparently thinks turning beloved childhood icons into serial killers is hilarious. In an attempt to not end up as some sickos skin dress or cooked in their fat lady stew, I decided to withhold from the letter and just bitch about him here for the whole Internet to read. I think that's a much safer plan, don't you?
So, after the YouTube solution turned out not to be a solution after all, I had to let the boys start watching Thomas the old-fashioned way again, on the television. And as if my plight of Thomas mania wasn't bad enough, those assholes behind the PBS series have introduced a whole new handful of trains in this season's episodes. That means each time Ridge sees one of these new pricks during his daily Thomas fix, he immediately starts chanting, "Walmart! Walmart!" at the top of his lungs. He's not going to rest until we have each and every member of the Thomas fleet, which not only includes about a million rather similar trains, but also a bus, a traction engine (that's a tractor to us Americans), a helicopter and now a freakin' jet plane named Jeremy. Ridge's new partner in his bloody rebel coup, the formerly darling Rolan, is right beside him, pounding his tiny fists to the table, as he follows his brother's call to arms.
So, I just wish I would have heard The Great White song two months ago. Perhaps it would have sparked my one remaining brain cell into having a thought, which might have then lead to preventing this catastrophe. We already go through $20 a month in batteries just keeping the Thomas and Friends buzzing around the tracks scattered through our house. Will it be $40 this time next year? Perhaps $80? Who knows. Just heed my warnings, Readers, do NOT let your children watch this devilish nightmare or you, too, will be fighting this losing battle .