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.

in case you didn’t know this, hitler was a bad man–the worst. and really this kid’s parents shouldn’t be surprised at [...]]]> i was just reading a story about a 3 year old boy who was denied by the local grocery store of having his cake decorated with his full name…which happens to be adolf hitler.

in case you didn’t know this, hitler was a bad man–the worst. and really this kid’s parents shouldn’t be surprised at all about society’s squeamishness (aka outrage) to accept his rather unusual/horrific name. but alas, they are. and just so you know, these parents? not mensa candidates.

the dad made a comment like, “we’re not racist. we know people of other races and stuff and we don’t want them dead.” (you realize i’m paraphrasing. my version of what he said is funnier). “if my kid grows up and wants to be around other people besides white ones then that’s his choice. not all jewish people are bad. and we got some black kids in our neighborhood and everything. i think a couple of em even came to our house once.”

and then, “it’s just a name. it’s not like he’s going to grow up and be like hitler.”

yeah, but he’s going to get his ass kicked in a rainbow variety you idiot! and then you know what? he’s going to totally fucking hate you for naming him that. i’d sleep with one eye open if i were you, starting tonight.

to make things worse, he then dragged our new president into it! he said, “we’ve got a new president (who i’m learning to tolerate cuz he’s black and i’m a racist) and he says now is the time for change. so we’re trying something new. like getting everyone in america and the world to hate us–and our kids.”

apparently, this is nothing new for nazi family. they were also denied having a swastika iced on a cake a few years ago. what? no tree with a noose? maybe that’s next year’s cake. i can’t wait.

the story gets uglier because it turns out they have a 2 year old daugther whose name is joycelynn aryan nation. i swear to god i’m not making this up.

sigh.

why are people stupid? and why am i still surprised by them?

i have some advice for the family who are not nazis. here’s what you need to do. take cake decorating lessons. then, you can write whatever the hell you want to and you won’t end up on the front page of msn. well, that’s until your son named hitler who you’re not raising to be like the other hitler gets beat up for the 87th time and you sue america–or, he kills you.

i guess it could be worse. his name could be numbnuts mcboogereater.

now that would suck.

what name would you not want on your birthday cake?

i always thought you were the one. when i met you 10 years ago i said to myself, “girl, now this guy’s worth holding on to.” you were practically perfect in every way (it’s hard typing that sentence without busting out in laughter or falling out of my chair) and nothing you [...]]]> dear hubs,

i always thought you were the one. when i met you 10 years ago i said to myself, “girl, now this guy’s worth holding on to.” you were practically perfect in every way (it’s hard typing that sentence without busting out in laughter or falling out of my chair) and nothing you did got under my skin or on my nerves. i felt sure i’d met the greatest, non-annoying man of my dreams.

i’m having second thoughts.

here’s the problem…when exactly did you become the human noise maker?

i appreciate that in these difficult financial times you’re trying to come up with other ways to make money and you’ve obviously chosen the path of a carnival sideshow act with your sniffing, snorting, slurping, gulping and chewing, but if you’re going to be a freak in the show, get going then. there’s no reason to stick around here perfecting your act (although bravo, it’s flawless). you should be on the next greyhound bus headed for whatever small town the carnies have set up shop.

do you need help packing your bags? (notice i said bags and not bag. i think you should really give this freakshow, i mean sideshow, thing a try so feel free to stay away as long as it takes)

let’s talk for a minute about these noises you’re making because either someone has turned up the volume or you’re WAY more annoying than ever before.

the clearing of the throat. is it really necessary to do it 536 times a day? what the fuck you got stuck in there, a live baby seal? because that’s what it sounds like. cough that shit up and be done with it! i’m aging here–and not gracefully, i might add. a permanent scowl has formed on my face and i’m afraid i’m getting wrinkles. every time you try and clear out whatever it is that’s in there an angel kills herself. do you want to keep killing angels? i’m sure there’s some penalty for doing that. do you really want to piss off the big guy upstairs?

the slurping and chomping. why is it that you choose to come over and sit next to me with a big bowl of granola? there are 6 perfectly good chairs at the table. why must you sit so close? why not take your food in the bedroom and close the door? ooh, or go outside. eating outside is fun. think of it as an adventure. but more than that, think of it as a way to live a longer life. i have killed someone you know. with a vegetable. for the very reason of being annoying. do you want to be next?

sidenote: it was only a dream. i’ve never actually killed killed someone. at least not that i know of. and definitely not on purpose. if i’ve ever accidentally killed someone then i’m sorry. i’m not generally a violent person. i did hit a bird once. it flew right at my car and there was nothing i could do. feathers and bird parts went everywhere. it was traumatic. i’m sure it was no day at the beach for the bird either. and then i’ve killed numerous squirrels. hey, i can’t help it if squirrels are stupid. they decide at the last minute to run across the street. i say, you do that, you deserve to die. squirrels are a waste anyway. all they are is a rat in a better costume. plus their beady little eyes freak me out.

now where was i? oh yeah, contemplating your death. look, i don’t want to kill you. i really don’t. it’s messy, there would be legal ramifications, it’s messy, i would have to plan a funeral, yada yada. and with christmas right around the corner i just don’t have time for all of that. who can decorate the house, shop online, wrap gifts, bake cookies, plan the school parties AND pick out a casket? not me brother.

so please, i beg you. control yourself. no one (especially me) wants to hear you chew your food to the tune of rock me amadeus. i promise. take my word for it.

no one wants to be there when you finally DO get whatever is caught in your throat…out. ok, that’s totally not true. i SO want to be there. it’s gotta be something good. like maybe a car or a pine tree, or even better, that set of car keys i lost awhile back.

more importantly, i want to feel like you’re the one again. i want to…OH MY GOD! I CAN HEAR YOU RIGHT NOW–IN THE OTHER ROOM–CLEARING YOUR THROAT!!!

i’m sorry. all bets are off. maybe i wouldn’t need to buy a casket. maybe i can just bury you in the backyard next to the squirrels.

signed,
the bitch who put a bounty on your head.

it appears that the tallest and strongest one in our house (he can open any jar i give him–yes, he’s THAT strong) has come down with the dreaded cold. i’m afraid it’s serious. all forward [...]]]> everyone, stop what you’re doing. we have a man down. i repeat, we have. a man. down.

it appears that the tallest and strongest one in our house (he can open any jar i give him–yes, he’s THAT strong) has come down with the dreaded cold. i’m afraid it’s serious. all forward motion has come to a screeching halt. all plans have changed. all schedules cancelled. all clocks–stopped.

i was awakened in the night by moaning and coughing and blowing (get your mind out of that gutter this instant!) followed by more moaning.

*let me just preface this by reminding all of you that i had this same cold last weekend and was shown no sympathy whatsoever. in fact i remember a certain ‘jar opener’ handing me some advil and some sage advice like “hang in there–you’ll be ok–it’s just a cold.”

(i love it when karma’s wicked finger isn’t pointing at me)

it was 2:30am. i wanted to punch him in the face. i really did. it’s bad enough when the little ones wake me up–i mean don’t get me wrong, i want to punch them in the face too–but now i got this big, grown up man/child poking me in the arm and moaning, “shaun. a. help. me. uuhhhh.”

i threw back the covers, got up, and turned on the bedside lamp. “what’s wrong?” i asked, trying not to sound too much like a bitch. (i’m sure you can appreciate how hard that was for me)

“i’m sick. i feel terrible. you’ve got to do something. i’ve never felt this bad before.”

yeah, ok. first off, we went through this about a year ago. remember That? jar opener man? back THEN you felt terrible, you never felt so bad, yada yada. so let’s get our facts straight.

i didn’t say anything like that though. i oohed and ahhed and fetched pills, liquids, suppositories, ointments…you name it. i was like a modern day florence fucking nightingale.

*sidenote: do you think the real florence nightingale was resentful? i mean, don’t you think she was sick and tired of helping nurse poor people back to health? i bet she secretly hated them. oh, and on wikipedia, they reveal that she was quite popular–if you know what i mean.

one of the pills i gave him was of the sleeping kind. i didn’t do it for him–i did it for me. i had to get some sleep. i knew what the day held in store for me and it wasn’t pretty–and it required that i be well rested. so, true to the pill’s effects, resident jar opener fell asleep after an hour of moaning and saying things like, “have you EVER felt this bad? do you think anyone has ever felt as bad as i do?”

gee honey, i doubt it. you are probably the only person who has ever lived who’s felt this bad.

around 7, he awoke. and i knew this because the moaning picked up where it left off a few hours before.

i dialed my doctor to see if tommy could come in as a new patient. it wasn’t happening. why didn’t i call HIS doctor you ask? because jar openers don’t need doctors. ok? (me, rolling my eyes) so we did what we had to do. doc in a box.

he was too sick and too weak to drive (again, me rolling my eyes) so i rearranged my schedule and drove him to the doctor. we were called back to the room and when the doctor came in, she seemed a little puzzled as to why a grown man had his wife in the room with him. she was probably even MORE puzzled as to why I did all the talking. jar opener lay on the table (moaning) while i explained his symptons to her. she was busy jotting notes and looking from me to him and then back to me. when she went to examine him she spoke very loudly and very slowly. why was she talking to him as if he were a 5 year old?

ooohhhhh. she thinks he’s my very “special” husband. i couldn’t help but laugh. she thinks i’m married to a retarded person! that would explain why a grown man needs his wife in the room talking for him. i totally got it then. and so, i just played along.

she explained TO ME what was going on with him. she gave instructions TO ME about the medication, yada yada. after awhile, she didn’t address him at all. she spoke to me as if we were the only 2 people in the room. i don’t even think she looked at him again.

and it was fucking hilarious.

when we left, jar opener decided to drive. he was nauseated and thought that driving would make him feel better. we pulled up to the pharmacy window and he looked at the stack of papers in his lap and asked, “what do i do now?”

seriously, i think he might actually BE special.

“um, press that button right there and tell the nice lady you need to drop off your presciption.”

he turned to me and said, “i know why you’re making fun of me and it’s not funny.”

“oh trust me–it’s funny,” i said before snorting a laugh.

so he pressed the button…ok, this could take all day. basically, he couldn’t do it. he couldn’t drop off a prescription without my involvement. i had to lean over him and talk into the speaker. i had to show him which slip of paper to put in the doo-hickey so that it could be sucked up and delivered inside the store. yes, i had to do it all. and frankly, i wonder what the hell would happen to him (and the children!) if i was to die–or run away from home.

so, really, everyone better hope i outlive him or something really bad is bound to happen. and that, my friends, ain’t so funny.