ShaunaGlenn.com » why you shouldn’t tell your family where you live

Rodeos ain’t for pussies. Or really cute blonde women who are already on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Shauna — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 13:19:23 +0000

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’m afraid it’s serious. I’ve got the DGs.

Shauna — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 12:19:14 +0000

So the other day I had lunch with my dad and he asked me why I never talk about his side of the family. Because his family DOES offer a lot in the material department. But I told him I really don’t feel comfortable bagging his side of the family. I only feel OK doing that to my husband and kids.

Call me a sensitive softy.

And he then proceeded to tell me stories about *parts* of his family that made me rethink my whole *sensitive* side.

So here goes, Dad.

My dad has 3 brothers. And he is the youngest. Some might argue that that would make him the favorite. Instead I would say he’s lucky he got out alive. And somewhat normal (whatever that means).

His oldest brother is named Darrell.

And Darrell is what you might call…hmm….what’s the word…………..um…………..interesting.

You know how when you’re joking with someone and he/she might say something strange or act bizarre and you ask if he/she was dropped on his/her head when he/she was a baby? And you’re serious but he/she laughs and thinks you’re joking?

But you’re not?

Well, my uncle Darrell thinks you’re talking about blue pancakes.

Like. For serious.

I imagine the conversation my grandparents had with the doctor when he was younger. They take him to see a specialist because he’s “different” and the doctor sits them down in his office and points to the x-ray and says, “You see this black space where the other half of his brain should be?” and they’re all, “OHHHHH. Well, that explains a lot.”

Yeah. That’s Darrell.

And I only tell you this because I feel it’s important that you know where I come from. You know, for those days you don’t quite “get” where I’m coming from. Yes. I’m looking for someone to blame.

So I totally blame Uncle Darrell.

In fact, when I was growing up my step mom would tease us and say, “Well at least I don’t have DGs (Darrell’s Genes). I would be so offended and horrified that I would start crying. Because there was no denying it. I’ve totally got the DGs.

A few years ago my Uncle Darrell was in a car accident. And crazily enough, it wasn’t his fault. He was hurt and received a somewhat large settlement. And because he is “interesting” my family was afraid for him to have access to that kind of money, so they asked my dad to be in charge of it.

Lucky him.

Uncle Darrell has lived with my grandparents for most of his life. Except for those times he’d meet a woman at the bowling alley and marry her after only knowing her for 30 minutes (I think he’s been married 7 times). During his *marriages* he’d move in with the lucky gal, giving my grandparents a much needed mini vacation. And then just as soon as they would get used to Life Without Darrell, he’d find his way on their doorstep again, claiming the woman was a nutjob. My grandparents would sigh heavily and unbolt the door.

It’s not like Uncle Darrell is retarded or anything. No. That would be an insult to retarded people. He’s just bizarrely unaware of reality beyond preschool. I mean, the man still eats crayons. But only the brown ones. And I *may* or *may not* be exaggerating. But dammit, everything tastes better with Tabasco.

So. After the car accident/settlement he was given a monthly allowance. And was told that any money given after that would be on an “emergency” basis. Needless to say there have been a lot of “emergencies.” Emergency bowling ball. Emergency overalls. Emergency pen that writes upside down. Once, he called my dad and when he answered, yelled out, “I need to get to my money!” Dad, taken aback asked, “What’s wrong? What do you need money for?” And Uncle Darrell said, “I need hair transplants!!!” My dad, trying not to laugh, said, “Darrell, you can’t have your money unless it’s an emergency.” To which Darrell replied, “THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!! I’M LOSING MY HAIR!!!” And so that is how the first ever “Emergency Hair Transplant” legislation hit the senate floor.

You should all thank Uncle Darrell.

More proof that Tommy deserves a better wife

Shauna — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 13:32:13 +0000

It’s been a while since I prepared a meal. And when I say it’s *been a while* I mean I can’t remember the last time I did.

Because really? The kids don’t care. They would eat Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup every day or Kraft Mac and Cheese.

And I follow behind them and eat their leftovers.

It’s a great system.

But then there’s Tommy.

He grew up with a mother who prepared a home cooked meal every night–from scratch–and so the first few times I announced it was chili dog night he looked like he’d just been kicked in the man sack.

What? You no like chili dogs, Tommy G?

So. I’ve learned over the years how to prepare a home cooked meal–one that didn’t involve a can or a box.

It’s hard y’all.

Also? He likes a salad with dinner too. And most days I like a salad too. It makes me feel less dirty for eating a cheeseburger for lunch. Like I’m doing my body a favor by introducing it to green leafy non cheesy foods.

But the problem with lettuce and tomatoes and shit, is that you need to wash them.

Really? Who has the time?

So last night I might have skipped that step.

I was *sure* no one would notice. And when I say no one I mean Tommy.

But, he took the first bite and in mid chew, spit it back on his plate.

“This tastes like dirt.”

Oops.

“What do you mean?”

“The lettuce. It’s covered in dirt. Did you wash it?”

Me, acting offended. “Dude. You asked for a salad. You didn’t say *anything* about washing the lettuce.”

He rolls his eyes. “I think I’ll skip it tonight.”

You’re welcome.

Hey!! Find me over at Aiming Low today where I write about how eating is not for pussies.

don’t come near me with that zucchini!

Shauna — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 12:59:00 +0000

it’s raining here in florida. scratch that. it’s coming down so hard that the pounding rain woke me up. i was kind of glad to be startled out of my sleep because i was having the worst dream ever.

i dreamt i killed my grandmother—with a piece of zucchini. i beat her to death with it. don’t laugh. this isn’t funny.

after i bludgened her to death with the vegetable (by the way, i’ll never be able to eat zucchini and feel good about it again) i fled the scene and drove home. it’s not clear where i was when i did the killing, but i ended up at home just in time to watch ace of cakes on the food network. in my dream i was very concerned about missing the show. yep, apparently killing my favorite relative came second to missing my favorite food network program.

side note: dad, you know you’re my favorite MALE relative. mimi is my favorite OVERALL relative. good luck when the new poll comes out next week. maybe you’ll make the cut.

so anyway, back to my dream. i’m watching ace of cakes and my mom calls and screams, “mimi’s dead! someone has killed her!”

the woman was hysterical…and she was interrupting my show. i hit the pause button on my remote.

“mom!” i yelled back in the receiver, “it’s ok. i’m the one who did it. she was getting so annoying–what with her inability to hear and all. she refused (REFUSED!) to put in her hearing aids, saying something about them being uncomfortable or some shit like that. i just lost it. i’m so sorry. she was old, mom. she had a good run. it was time.”

in my dream my mom stopped screaming then and said, “oh, well if it was a family member that did it then i guess it’s ok. shoot. i already called the police. they’ll be here any minute. you better come back and explain what happened.”

before i could tell her i was too busy to deal with all that my front door burst open and cagney and lacey were standing in the doorway, yelling, “ok you freak, come out with your hands up!”

i turned around and said, “i’ll be there in a minute. i have to see if chef duff gets the linda blair exorcist cake finished in time for the big halloween party.”

and then the sound of the rain woke me up.

shheeewwwww. i’m glad that was just a dream. that’s the last time i eat pumpkin pie in bed right before i go to sleep. who knew pumpkins give you nightmares? and the bigger question: are cagney and lacey still alive?

now the rain has stopped now. dammit. i was hoping it would rain all morning so i would have an excuse for not exercising. i haven’t been to the gym or gone jogging in a week. apparently i took the holiday week off. what i didn’t do though was take the week off from pigging out.

you should see my ass.

talk about horrifying.

maybe the rain will start back up again just in time for me to eat my thanksgiving meal breakfast. do not turn your nose up at the idea of turkey and dressing in the morning. don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. it rocks. hey, wouldn’t turkey and dressing in the morning be a great radio show? i could be turkey and i’d say, “good morning everybody. you’re listening to turkey and dressing in the morning right here on KSUX.” it could so happen. no. one. steal. my. idea. k?

in the meantime, let’s play a little game. and for those of you who have played this recently, just suck it up and play again. (i never said i was original–all good ideas are stolen)

let’s see how many people we have do this. come on all you lookey loos who’ve never commented before. i know you’re out there. i can even tell you what city you live in. i have connections–or sitemeter.

anyway, this is fun and doesn’t require any original thought. so everyone can play!

here’s what you do. grab a book. any book. the closest one to you will work beautifully. turn to page 86. go to the 13th sentence and copy it on here.

i’ll start.

“i don’t fish,” she said. “i’m jewish. we’re not a fishing people.”

see? fun.

now it’s your turn.

and, GO!

why you shouldn’t tell your family where you live

Shauna — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 20:16:00 +0000

after i wrote this, the commish made a comment and i knew then that there was a story waiting to come out. so i asked him to spill the goods. and boy did he. after reading his tale, i’m not sure i’m qualified to bitch about my family again. one thing was made crystal clear, it sucks to be mexican.

thanks commish, for sharing your story. collectively we agree that you have it the worst.

don’t forget to leave some love for the commish.

“Dia De La Slug — Revised.”
By Javier E. Najera (a.k.a. The Commish)

Hola, Shauna Glenn fans! I was invited to vent my Mexican dirty laundry on this great blog, and in doing so I must make some disclaimers:

I am a third generation Mexican American, born and raised in El Paso (which is Little Mexico for all intents and purposes). I transferred to the Chicken Fried Nation (which means DFW for you non- Galloway fans) in 1992. So, when I write of my people’s woes, I speak from experience.
If you are a Mexican, Latino(a), Hispanic, et al, please don’t think I’m “dissing” my people. Remember, you laugh and the world will laugh with you. Cry and you cry alone!

The thing I enjoy the most of the 5 o’clock blog is its brutal honesty and color-esque vernacular. When Shauna spoke of trying to have a “dia de la slug,” a myriad of memories came. There is no such thing as a Mexican holiday or day off from family. Really, there isn’t…

In 1995 my wonderful sis-in-law graduated from college. My wife and I felt a celebration was in order, so we “got the word out” to local friends and family in El Paso. We planned a western-themed party, complete with hay, denim, cowboy hats, etc. At that time it was only my wife, sis-in-law and myself that left that nest of El Paso, so we were sure it’d be a quaint little crowd. It would have been precious memory, except for the following:

Mexicans don’t RSVP even if you demand one. We had no clue if we were planning for 20 or 200.
Because we (wife, sis-in-law, and myself) were all at the tail end of college, we shared an 800 square foot apartment near campus with two bedrooms and one bathroom. Thinking nobody would show up from El Paso, we didn’t worry (remember, when Mexicans visit, they stay with you. There’s no such thing as hotel reservations).

Someone in the family did call to say they were coming, and used this exact wording: “It’s just a few of us. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine in the apartment.”

On the eve of commencement, I awoke to the sound of the phone. It indicated someone was at the security gate, surely the “few” from El Paso. I buzzed them in, managed the three S’s, well one anyway, and waited by the door. There were four cars, two vans and a truck with a camper in a distant sight. I started counting passengers, but stopped at 26. I pretended I hadn’t seen them parking yet, went inside and prayed for the first time that year. I awoke the ladies and said, “We have a problem.”

The final count was 28. They ALL stayed in the apartment. At one point, I was able to manage some floor space for a quick nap at night, and awoke to the sound of running water. Grandmamma was on the throne taking care of #1 business, with her gown all the way up. Yes! No over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder in sight! I haven’t been able to get that one out my mind after 13 years.

There are highlights in my memory of a two burned turkeys, a visit form the apartment complex management, who wondered why so many people were lounged in my balcony? At point we couldn’t find grandmamma, and someone spotted her sleeping in the back of the truck, the one with the camper. When asked why she went M.I.A., she moaned, “There are too many people in the apartment. This might have been a bad idea.”

You think?!

Not counting the lodging arrangements, the party was a blast! We danced and drank deep into the night!

Then…

With two kids, XXX nights alone are at a premium. I know most of the readership knows that. Well, my wife and I plan such nights when sleepovers and gracious aunts want the girls to stay over. So, we dust off ye old see-through undies, chill the wine and plan a good meal. Sounds like a routine married-with-children-with-no-children plan. Yeah, but does your entire family have keys to you house? Do they all know the code to your garage door?

Since 1995, we have had some family move here. It’s assumed and expected that they will get keys to your house, cars and know all codes to get in, in lieu of.

In one of our most successful Night Sans Kids, we were just about to the hot wax and feather phase when we heard the garage door going up. A cousin decided she wouldn’t make it to her place to watch her novela (soap opera), so she thought it’d be OK to come to our house and watch it. Unannounced. She saw no problem in tapping the 4-digit code on the garage pad and coming in.

The fact that the lights were all off (we took advantage of all square footage) did not make any impression on her.

We rushed to pickup the props, oils and candles, headed to the bedroom and got dressed. I came out and asked, “What are you doing?”

With a confused almost offended reaction she said, “Nothing. Just came to watch TV. That’s OK, isn’t it?”

“Why not. We weren’t using it anyway. Enjoy.”

Defeated and deflated, I joined my bride in the bedroom. We accepted our defeat and feel asleep hoping our guest would remember to lock the door behind her.

And we can’t leave out…

Camping is a favorite activity. Very, very nice friends of ours offer their 35’ RV every year for our use. The RV is suitable for 12 people. This past summer, we decided to do the unthinkable. We – just the four of us – went camping in East Texas. A wife, two daughters and me – all alone! Finally! It looked like a nice, well planned time. We planned the covert operation with surgical precision and left the house unnoticed at 04:00.

Well, we made it to campsite a couple hours later (still at a 4-count), checked in, and to that point I really felt we could and would enjoy it. Breakfast was the word, and as much as we “roughed it,” cell phones are never far away. They started ringing.

The first calls were to my wife, with questions of, “Where are you guys? We’re here at your house. Your cars are here, where are you?”

The second round o’ rings were friends, who found out from the first group of callers we had an RV.

By the time breakfast was done, the damage was too. Knowing what was about to happen, I convinced the ladies a walk and paddleboat ride was the thing to do.

Katrina? Ike? Bring them on. What was about to happen at the magical family campsite could not compare.

I wasn’t about to make it easy for the masses, which I was sure were on their way. We had to admit our location, but not our campsite. Let them look through the 1000 wooded acres.

I forgot one thing, though. I hoisted my Cowboys flag (in honor of the 13-3 season) and my Red Sox flag (in honor of the World Championship), both high and mighty at our site.

That would be the only beacon they needed. Who else would have a Red Sox flag in East Texas?

From our position on the lake we could see our borrowed RV. I wanted one last look for a lasting picture memory before the storm-o-Mexicans flooded in. We saw about 7 cars pull up, cheerful and excited to be non-invited, unannounced guests.

The fridge was raided. The drinks consumed. Two people, who felt it necessary to “look for us”, broke my Dallas Cowboys folding chairs.

We kept paddling, pretending not to see them.

They did have the decency to go to the campsite store and re-stock. We finally made our presence known at Sunset, and enjoyed a great dinner…for 20.
Those are just a few. I could go on, but I’m already at way-too-long status.

My people are known for their loyalty to family above just about anything. And, though the above named examples made me want to use a nail gun to my temples, in hopes of relieving stress, I wouldn’t change it for the world.

In the end, all we have are memories. And, I have many, many memories of all my unannounced family to take.

The Commish

PS – If you ever want to a Mexican to arrive at your party/meeting/event on time, please tell them it starts two hours before it really starts. Mexicans have two clocks: real time and Mexican time. We don’t pay much mind to the first.

The Commish