Shameless Self-Promotion Contest....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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

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

PSS--Good luck!

Screwed

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

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

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

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

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

I'm An Asshole

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

Dear Axl, Dreads Ain't For Gingers

I've been a longtime Axl Rose fan. Even when the rest of the world questioned his sanity, when they collectively wagged their disappointed fingers at him for showing up hours late for concerts, when he randomly said on stage that Jon Bon Jovi could, for a lack of more refined words, orally suction his man junk, I shrugged my shoulders and chalked it up to Axl being an eccentric artist. What can I say, we are a quirky and erratic people. That's just the price tag for creative brilliance. Yes, I am putting my random blog and wedding photography in the same category as a musical mogul. I don't care what you say, I totally think it is the same.
Anyways, I've defended my man Axl for a long time. Sure, I've agreed that his behavior at times could be described as unbalanced. But, I thought anyone might hole up in a Malibu mansion and turn into a hermit, the Howard Hughes of music, for like 13 years if they faced constant media scrutiny like Axl has. I would have defended his rationality to the end of time. I could have, that is, until he unveiled this.....the dreadlocks.

Now, I know we are living in this historic time of liberation from racial barriers, shattering old restraints formerly shackled to race. But, call me closed minded if you must, there are just some things that should always be in place. Now I am in no way saying that the hair style of the beloved Bob Marley should be limited just to black people. No, I'm not saying that all. What I am saying, though, is that dreadlocks should most certainly be OFF limits for people with the same hair color and skin tone as me and Carrot Top and Ronald Mc-freakin-Donald and, in spite of being a hard-rockin' badass, Axl Rose. I can promise you that if my darling son Ridge, who just happens to be also be a fellow ginger, tells me he is seeking a new 'do, I will absolutely fucking never say, "Well, my dear child, I think your red hair would just look fantastic in dreads."
No, of course I wouldn't. I love him, so why would I direct him down such a delusional and disasterous path? I think Axl should be asking himself that same question about whatever fool helped him kink his hair before they
Listen, Axl, you can smash guitars and drape yourself with adoring groupies and make a billion more dollars selling awesome rock ballads. Hell, I'm a fan, I hope you do. But, at the end of the day, you are still a ginger and, even if you are a rock star, gingers just can't pull of the dreads.

On a different, but equally rockin' note, Happy Birthday, Miranda!

LOVE is The Hip and Trendy, The Old and Sappy ACTUALLY

Being the tragically old and unhip pair Rowdy and I have somehow morphed into, we are naturally at home on a Friday night. We are not out dancing into the hazy twilight as we most certainly would have been five years ago. But, actually, we are both wildly delighted about this fact, though in front of trendy company we sometimes pretend to desire to someday retake our places on bar stools and dance floors. Nonetheless, we were particularly ecstatic about being decrepit old shut-ins this evening because Love Actually, the 2003 heart-warming flick with an all-star cast. Rowdy is systematically opposed to all movies that can even halfway, kinda, sorta because categorized as a movie that would be filed in near the love stories, but he really likes this one. So much so, in fact, that he let me watch it the second time it came on (Bravo did that thing where they run the same movie back-to-back, which normally annoys me because it is so crap Jean Claude Van Dam train wreck. I love it on days like today, though.)
As we watched it, I whipped out my finely tuned multi-tasking skills, which as you know can be considered primitive at best, and editing photographs from a wedding I recently shot. Cody and Ashlie are a beautiful couple and their shared love is quite visible, even to a stranger. That makes my job much easier. Plus, they wed in a beautiful old church, which added a very romantic feel to the photos. They also did something I've never seen before. As you can see in this photograph, rather than have the minister face their guests, they did.
So with my heart all warm from perhaps the great love movie in history, I wanted to share two of my favorites from this wedding.

Whenever I get gloomy at the state of the world, I think of the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed. But, I don't see that. It seems to me live is everywhere. Often it is not particularly dignified or newsworthy. It's always there: fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, old friends.
When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as fas as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or of venge. They were all messages of love. If you look for it, I have a sneaky feeling you'll find love actually is all around us.
Hugh Grant, Love Actually

The Greatest Interview Setting Ever

I am not posting for any reasons political, but rather, because watching the dude in the background straight up kill those turkeys while Governor Palin is interviewed right in front of him is simply awesome, especially because both Sarah and the interviewer seem not to even notice all the beheading in the background.

Fuel For Fantasies

Well, Readers, today has been a long, chaotic day. I had this whole blog planned out in my mind, but you'll have to somehow park your eager anticipation and sleep through the night. It will be here tomorrow, though.
But, until then, I leave you with this, something to get you by. This is a little convo I had with my brother in law Chad last week. To fully appreciate it, you need to know before hand that this wife Jennifer can definitely be described as straight laced.

CHAD: Holy cow, did you see that gas fell below $2 gallon?

ME: Yeah, I saw that. It's crazy.

CHAD: I thought I'd have a threesome before I saw that shit again.