It’s a big deal around here. You even get a day off from school. It’s called Rodeo Day. But since most grown ups [...]]]> One of the highlights of living in Cowtown (Fort Worth, Texas) is the annual Fat Stock Show and Rodeo. It happens this time every year. That’s why it has “annual” in its name.

It’s a big deal around here. You even get a day off from school. It’s called Rodeo Day. But since most grown ups don’t get off work for “Rodeo Day” it’s just another day kids are out of school, leaving parents with this question, “What the hell am I supposed to *do* with you today? I have to work!”

At least that’s how it was at my house growing up. Rodeo Day for me and my brothers was a day spent at my grandmother’s house watching her “stories” with her. I remember the lineup. Ryan’s Hope. All My Children. One Life to Live. And General Hospital.

Rodeo Day sucked.

Now that I’m grown and have kids of my own, I always try to take the kids to the rodeo every year because I am still fucked up from childhood think they will enjoy it.

So last week I suggested we go and the family was all “Yay Mom, you’re the best!” Or that could have been the voices in my head.

What I think I actually heard was “I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO WEAR.” And I was like, “Calm down Ethan, you sound like a girl!”

Beat down and already wishing I hadn’t brought up the idea of going to the rodeo as a family, we trudged to the cowboy store to get cowboy things to wear to the cowboy event.

And this is what Harley came up with.

She looks exactly like the girl from Toy Story. If only I knew her name.

So we get to the Rodeo and what’s the first thing we see? A huge table filled with overpriced toys. Naturally Ethan makes a beeline there where I proceed to spend twenty dollars on crap that lights up and then breaks ten minutes later. Thanks a lot, China.

But what was worse than that was Ethan’s indecision on the toy selection. He wanted the light saber. No. Scratch that. The pop gun. No. Wait. Here’s a shiny pair of handcuffs. He’ll take those. No. Forget that. The light saber turns 3 different colors. Oh, but Harley picked out a light up butterfly necklace. He’ll have one too.

Do you think they sell *real* guns at a Texas rodeo? You know, so I CAN BLOW MY BRAINS OUT!!!

Once we got to our seats and the rodeo began, Ethan and Harley were fascinated with the pageantry of the horses running around the arena and the pretty girls carrying the American (and Texas) flags.

Then… the dude selling sweets came by and stole my happiness. Fucker.

I would like to blame someone for the fact that he's holding a snow cone AND a candy apple, but I'm afraid the person to blame is typing this right now

Finally, after eating his weight in junk food, Ethan started watching the show. He liked the calf roping and the bucking broncos, but he was holding out for the bull riding.

“When are the bulls coming?”

“In a minute. Look over there! That horse is pooping!”

“You said pooping.”

“I know. Poop is funny.”

Laughs and points at me. “You’re funny, Mommy. When are the bulls coming?”

“After this girl finishes making out with her horse.” (Seriously? It was a little weird. This woman was doing tricks with her horse and every time he did what she asked him to, she practically stuck her face in his mouth.)

“Will there be a lot of blood?”

???

“What are you talking about E?”

“When the cowboy kills the bull? Will we see blood?”

“THE COWBOY ISN’T GOING TO KILL THE BULL.”

Starts to cry. “But I want to see that.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m E-fun Thomas Gwenn.”

“Yes, I know who you’re *supposed* to be, but *my* son doesn’t want to see bulls being killed.”

Looks confused. “Who’s your son?”

“I don’t know. Eat your snow cone.”

Makes a face.

“Oh look! It’s time for the bull riding! Your favorite part!”

“I wanna go home.”

Sigh. I miss watching soap operas with my grandmother.

I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and noticed they were tight. Like too tight to button. And naturally I convinced myself that I couldn’t button them because they had just been washed. You know, cuz jeans totally shrink when you dry them. [...]]]> So I was standing in my closet, getting dressed for the day.

I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and noticed they were tight. Like too tight to button. And naturally I convinced myself that I couldn’t button them because they had just been washed. You know, cuz jeans totally shrink when you dry them. I mean, it couldn’t have *anything* to do with the amount of calories I took in last week versus how many I put out.

That would be ridiculous.

And involves some form of math and we all know I’m terrible at math. But I’m pretty sure the results would be astoundingly depressing.

Anyway, I finally managed to get them fastened, then proceeded to do the whole bend and stretch routine to loosen them up a bit.

And that’s when I blew out the whole crotch. In rock star fashion.

Behold. The jeans that used to not be ripped in the crotch.

Just then Ethan walked in right as I was bent over, observing the damage.

He shook his head and said, “You’re going to need a really big band-aid.”

Agitated with myself, I unbuttoned my jeans, kicked them off, and threw them across the closet. They landed in the corner with a sad little thud.

Ethan watched in awe as I threw a mini tantrum.

He looked at the jeans and then back at me. “What’s the matter, Mama?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I’m too fat for my clothes right now. I ate too much last week.”

He looked at my half naked body and said, “You’re not fat, Mommy.”

I managed a smile. I mean he *is* the most adorable little man on the planet. “Thanks for saying that, E. You really don’t think I’m fat?”

“Well, maybe just a little bit.”

And then he ran out of the closet.

For sale: One adorable little boy who *may* or *may not* fully grasp the art of lying flattery.

PS. I would never eat a sandwich that my dog made me because I know for sure that he eats his own shit. What, you really think I’d eat something a *dog* made? I bet you think I’d eat out of the trash can too, huh. Oh, wait.

my [...]]]> what is it with people (without kids) and their dislike of people (with kids). what? you were never a kid? you just showed up here on planet earth, a full grown douchey adult? i think not. although, you are douchey. bra-vo. *claps hands together and gives standing ovation*

my latest encounter with said annoying, intolerant people came yesterday at lunch. the 6 of us strolled into our usual sunday hangout for lunch, and were greeted with less than approving eyes. a couple sitting in a booth in the corner of the room took one look at us (2 teenagers, 1 adolescent, 1 toddler and 2 seemingly responsible adults *remember they didn’t know us yet so we at least looked responsible enough*) and decided–before we even sat down!!–that this arrangement wouldn’t work for them. as we took our seats at a table not so near to them, the woman got up from the booth and went looking for another place to sit. the man said, “any place else we can move?” and the woman puckered her overly lipsticked mouth and replied, “doesn’t look like there’s an empty table anywhere,” and then she threw up her hands in disgust. mind you, they had this exchange of words RIGHT IN FRONT OF US.

the irritated woman sat back down, sighed heavily, and then furrowed her brow. what the fuck was wrong with these people? ethan hadn’t climbed on the table, or under the table, or punched harley in the gut, or screamed out, or even spilled his drink yet. that came 4 and a half minutes later…in that order. we were being prematurely judged. was she correct in wanting to move? that’s not the point. but yes. i’m not saying they weren’t justified. i’m saying it’s rude to be that obvious.

so you know what i did? i did nothing to persuade ethan to do anything other than what he usually does. i let him “do his thing.” uptight couple had already decided my kids would misbehave and ruin their dining experience, so i just helped fulfill their prophecy. i showed them. and you should have seen the looks they threw my way. how dare my children speak, or heaven forbid, laugh or show some spirited excitement. for being alive. i ask you, who’s really the obnoxious ones here? (don’t you just love my overuse of drama?)

this wasn’t an unusual occurrence. this shit happens all the time when we’re all out in public together. what am i supposed to do? lock them in a basement until they’re grown? oh. wait a minute. i may be on to something. heh. excuse me for one second. note to self: look into possibly building a basement in which to lock up the children.

ok. i’m back. i wonder, why do some people hate kids? i don’t get it. i mean, if you have kids you understand why you hate them (at times), but people without kids? really? i say no. if you don’t have children then you have no reason to hate them, nor are you allowed to. they didn’t break your favorite platter, or piss in your bed, or eat the last of your dark chocolate that you were sure you hid in the perfect spot, or take over the television in your room right about the time you were going to sit down to watch grey’s anatomy.

so, no, you don’t get to act burdened, pissed off, let down, disappointed, or put out.

if anyone gets to feel these things, it’s the people with kids. in fact, WE’D like to sit at a separate table. as far away as possible. but hey, you don’t get everything you want. life’s a bitch, get over it.

here’s a thought. if you would like to legitimately feel this way (you know, about kids in public places) then please sign up below to babysit for me. don’t worry, i won’t be gone too long. just long enough to go to a restaurant for a nice quiet meal and judge the people with kids.

e: “mommy, my butt hurts. will you put your finga in it?”

me, sighing heavily: “what do you mean ‘put my finger in it?’”

e: “it itches. stick your finga in my butt and scatch it.”

me: “wait. i thought you said it hurts. now it itches? make up your mind dude.”

e: [...]]]> conversation i just had with the e-man:

e: “mommy, my butt hurts. will you put your finga in it?”

me, sighing heavily: “what do you mean ‘put my finger in it?’”

e: “it itches. stick your finga in my butt and scatch it.”

me: “wait. i thought you said it hurts. now it itches? make up your mind dude.”

e: “mommy, i wuv you so much. you my cold tamale.”

side note: i always say to him, “come here you little hot tamale.” to which he replies, “i not your hot tamale. you my cold tamale.”

that’s our little thing. cute, isn’t it?

so then he forgets about his butt ailment and says, “mommy, where you work?”

i thought for a minute and said, “well, i work here…at home…and i’m a writer. mommy wrote a book. did you know that?”

and then he farted.

and not like a cute little baby fart that makes you go, “aawww, what a cute little stinky baby fart,” but an “OH MY GOD, WHAT DID YOU EAT?” fart.

and then he ran out of the room squealing and screaming, “I FAWTED! I FAWTED ON MOMMY!”

i don’t know what happened. one minute i was excited to come to [...]]]> i’m afraid i’m becoming one of those angry, bitter women. you know, the ones who have a scowl permenantly fashioned on their faces? they constantly look like they’ve just swallowed something sour. well, my brow is furrowed as we speak.

i don’t know what happened. one minute i was excited to come to the beach (which we haven’t even SEEN yet) and the next…well, let’s just say i feel like murdering someone.

i think i’m tired. i’m spoiled and i’m tired. at home, patricia is there to help out during the day–there are 4 of them you know and 3 of them are smarter than me (and the only reason the 4th one isn’t smarter than me is because he picks up old food off the floor and eats it, and i haven’t done that in like 2 weeks) but here it’s just me against them and i’ve spent the entire week so far running around like a crazy person meeting their every whim. one of them farts and i jump up and yell, “what do you need? what can i get you?”

it’s exhausting. tommy has watched all of this from a very comfortable chair in the living room and keeps saying, “why are you doing this? they’ve got you trained. you’re like a monkey on the street corner. blah, blah, blah.”

ok first off, i’ve NEVER seen a monkey on the street corner so i have no idea what he’s talking about. monkey prostitutes?

anyway, i think it all started on the drive down. we didn’t leave until noon on sunday and our original plan was to drive until we got tired and then drive the rest monday morning. but because i was making such good time (yes, i was driving. i have to drive because tommy’s driving drives me nuts to the point where i’m grabbing the steering wheel and pressing his leg down on the accelerator–it’s better for our marriage if i do the driving) so i let the family know we wouldn’t be stopping. they didn’t care. they were all nestled in the back watching movies. i whipped into a convenience store and bought one of those tall full throttle energy drinks. that shit works. i STILL haven’t been to sleep and it’s wednesday.

and therein lies the problem. i’m tired. AND also…i cut my finger on a starburst candy wrapper and it’s finger i use to pick my nose…so that has me all bummed out too. have you tried to pick your nose with a finger that’s NOT your nose picking one? suddenly it’s like you’re retarded or something. so i just gave up.

seriously, i cut my index finger on a candy wrapper. who does that? i don’t even eat starbursts. ok, that’s a lie. i totally eat starbursts–except the red ones. the red ones are gross. my favorite is pink. pink starbursts are the bomb. anyway, i wasn’t opening a starburst for me this time–it was for one of my ungrateful, slave driver children and i cut my finger.

the good news is ethan’s better. i’m sleeping with him just in case. and that’s awesome. he digs his little ninja feet in my back and scratches me with his razor sharp baby toenails. i’m afraid to look at my back for fear i might find open wounds. i don’t have time to go to the doctor and get stitches–someone might need their ass wiped or a yogurt opened or another bowl of cereal–what would they do if i wasn’t here to do it for them–if i was off, i don’t know, seeking medical attention?

tommy informed me when we got here that he’d have to work some. so he’s been disappearing in the morning and coming back in the afternoon. lucky bastard. i’m not really sure about the whole “work” story though. so far he’s emailed me 2 videos from youtube and made comments on facebook. how much does this type of “work” pay? sign me the fuck up.

last night around 9 i turned in. a minute later tommy came in the bedroom and asked, “want to watch a movie?”

i looked at the clock again. maybe i’d read it wrong. maybe it was earlier.

nope.

“it’s 9:15,” i said.

“yeah, so?” he went to put the movie in the dvd player.

“at NIGHT,” i answered back, annoyed.

“i know,” he said.

and then neither of us said a word. he stood there looking at me and i lay in bed, wishing his head might explode into a million little pieces, right before my eyes.

and then, “fine. i’ll go sleep in the bunk bed with ethan.”

“ok, goodnight,” he said. “i love you. i hope you get some sleep.”

and then i flipped him off (behind his back of course) as i headed down the hallway to the kids’ room.

here’s an observation: bunk beds…not so comfy.

i got up in the night and moved to riley’s room and slept with her. and of course, i brought ethan with me. sleeping without little ninja feet in my back just wouldn’t be the same.

oh, here’s a bonus bit of information. tommy told me last night that he’s having the best time.

i’m so glad.