It’s rodeo week around these parts and because I’m a community-minded type of gal, I am doing my part to contribute. I’m NOT wearing any shitkickers nor a ten gallon hat, but I will go to the local festivities, partake in some brewed beverages and listen to some big shiny tunes.

Because of my civic-minded ways, I have spent an unseemly amount of time in local watering holes. Which of course, leads me to the cheese I have to pass on to you.

So, without any further ado, enjoy le fromage!

A guy is sitting at a bar eating nuts in the bowl that are on the counter.

He looks down and he notices there is a nut talking to him. Leaning closer to hear what the nut is saying, he hears, “Hey you’re one good looking guy!”

Then another nut said, “Yeah and I bet you’re rich too!”

The man asks the bartender, “What’s up with those nuts?”

The bartender just replies, “They are complimentary nuts.”

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Due to the fact that I am off to bond with my mother for a week of hell, and will be unable to post until Friday, I am offering a very special, two-for one offer today.

I dedicate this to the Piano Man. Without your very large television set, I never would have found this particular ditty. Which would be a shame, as it is too cheesy not to share with the world.

What do you call a pig who knows Karate?

A pork chop.

In an effort to restore harmony and goodwill to my nature, I am taking a mini-vacation next week.

I am traveling down to the mountains, staying at a posh resort and I plan on flirting madly with the obscenely young bellboys.

No kids, no husband, no dog. Just me. And my mother. Somebody, shoot me now. It will save me a lot of money, and I’m sure it won’t be nearly as painful as being trapped in small quarters with the lady who gave me life.

The upside is the free booze, plush accommodations and the gourmet food I will be ingesting. (Good thing I didn’t buy any skinny jeans. I am sure to pack on a few extra pounds…)

The downside is, well, my mother. But I’m trying to look at the upside to this mini-vacation. I’m going to be trapped in a vehicle for five hours,alone with my mother, to listen to her nag, whine and criticize. I will have ample time to learn something new about my mother during our travels. I am going to have to drink like a fish to keep my sanity. I plan on taking advantage of the free wine-tasting courses available at the Lodge. I am going to have to sleep with one eye open the entire time. I should remember to bring my own pillows.

How did I get sucked into this expensive, ill-advised mini-vacation from hell, you ask?

I was duped. I was supposed to be going with my sister, who backed out at the last second and my darling mom decided to take her place. I was trapped like a rat.

So now I am looking for a sitter for Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog. Ever.

Because the people I am trusting with my children are notorious dog killers.

And I don’t trust them with my hairy, farthing baby.

Ironic, isn’t it? They’re good enough for my flesh, but not good enough for my pup.

And after four days of hell, you can bet your ass this momma is gonna need a lot of doggy kisses to recover from her personal perdition.

Once a year I have to bite the bullet and do what most women dread. No, not go visit the gynie, (however, there is an appointment scheduled next week, so be sure to look forward to that post) but to wander to the nearest mall in search of the illusive blue jean. Ladies, you know the one I’m talking about. The search for a pair of jeans that accentuates your curves, gives you a butt or takes it away, doesn’t make you look like a peg legged freak or some woman wandering around on her short little stumps. A pair of jeans that actually, gasp, flatters your body.

It’s kind of like winning the damn lottery. Darn near impossible with odds I wouldn’t bet my life savings on.

I have a few rules when it comes to my quest for the perfect fit. First off, I recognize I have given birth to three very large babies. Which means I have a nice roll around my midsection of loose, hanging flesh which I affectionately call my “Jelly roll.” It doesn’t matter how skinny a woman is, once she’s been stretched to the limit a few times, she better include that excess skin in her self-esteem definition. Because short of paying someone to carve it off, it ain’t going anywhere.

So no muffin top. I don’t want to be hanging out in any direction. And while my hubs might like the crack of my ass, I don’t think it necessary to show it off to the folks at the nearest grocery store. Or to any one else.

That effectively rules out low-riding jeans. But to my dismay, my choices were limited to either the low-riding, sausage-making jeans and those back-from-the-past, dreaded skinny jeans. Someone is having a good giggle at my expense some where.

(Don’t even get me started on stretchy denim, either. Because you know that those suckers are gonna slide down and you are constantly going to be hiking them up. Oh, you’ll try to do it discreetly, but you know that cute bag boy is gonna see you do it. As will the haughty rich bitch who you have an unspoken rivalry with and your school principal. Both of whom you will have to face at the next parent council meeting, while trying to ignore the fact that your jeans are slowly falling south.)

I felt like I was in a really bad episode of Punked and I was just waiting for Mr. Kutcher to point and laugh and tell me where the camera’s were. That is, if I was famous…

I just want to know who the hell thought it would be a good idea to bring back the fucking skinny jeans, or drainpipes as the sales girl kept referring to them. I’m a fairly slim chicky, and let me tell you, those damn jeans added thirty pounds and shortened me by four inches. My self-esteem will never be the same again. Those puppies may look good on models like Miss Moss, but really, I don’t have enough money to snort the amount of cocaine needed to get thin enough to look good in those damn jeans.

And to add insult to injury, the stores all want an obscene amount of money so you can wander around with your muffin top, or your delusions-of-grandeur skinny jeans, so people can point and snicker and whip out their camera phones to post pictures of you and your denim dreams on their blog.

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

The only saving grace to the day, was towing my best friend along with me.

Did I mention she is five months pregnant?

Trust me, any jean looks great next to the dreaded pregnancy jeans. I really had nothing to complain about.

Watching her try to stuff herself into those puppies, especially the ones with the elastic front panels, really made me feel a bit better about my choices.

After all, what good is having a pregnant best friend if you can’t occasionally step on them to boost your own self-esteem once in a while?

For all you raging, hormonal blog friends of mine, don’t worry, she got the last laugh. We went bra shopping after. And her swelling mammaries shamed my non-existent, sagging A-cup beaver tails….

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As a salve to my wounded spirit, it was my delight to discover that the incomparable Mrs. Chicky has made Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog. Ever. her doggie of the week on her other great blog.

So, I’m urging you to wander over there, take a look at my darling pup, and read about my hairy, little beast.

We are one step closer in global domination…