Boxers? Nope. This one is briefs.

I've got a long (see: length of House Bill 3200) update on the way. I promise. But in the meantime, allow me to update you in brief.

* Cowboy and I drove 788 miles in a borrowed car to visit my family for Thanksgiving.

• Said family wasn't expecting us.
• I should have majored in lying... oh wait I studied PR. 

* While visiting, Cowboy flashed his house plans like a pedophile on the playground. 

• My 23-year-old brother questioned why a person would chop trees to cook food in an oven kept in the living room. A conversation regarding wood-burning stoves and their heating capabilities ensued.  
• Framing for Cowboy's house begins this weekend. If you have a hammer, you're invited. Double points if yours is pink (like mine).
• I was a little embarrassed by my brother's city-dom until...

* We ran out of fuel 40 miles from home and couldn't fill up because it was after 6 on a Sunday. Even on one of the biggest travel days of the year, small town gas stations in North Dakota CLOSE. Cowboy said we could call Triple A. I disagreed. Now, Cowboy's left ear is slightly longer than his right. I'm going to blame it on his bling, despite his un-pierced ear. 

* Cowboy asked if our roadside badger-sighting "blew my mind." Yes. Much like my reaction to Einstein's theory of relativity, Beethoven's fifth and Pluto's dis-planet-ness, so blown is my brain right now. Kind of like yours, if you could just hand me your deer rifle, please.

* For the winter holidays, Cowboy said he'd prefer a makeover to traditional gifts like hammer saws and bathroom slippers. I'm starting with his wardrobe. Next time you see him, he'll be wearing a paddy cap and argyle sweater vest. 

* We played Nintendo 64 like it was 1996 again. I got so aggressive, I "rammed the shit" out of Princess Peach's face. 

Oh yeah. Don't miss that one. 

PS: Here's a shout out to the person/people in Tanzania who read my blog for 64 minutes yesterday. Jambo to you :)

 

Christmas shopping: What to buy someone you hate

Dear mom,

If you are shopping this Black Friday, please resist the urge to buy this.

Although its star-studded frames are charming and rustic, I'd prefer frames like this:

Happy holidays,

Katie

I am woman, hear my rectum

So, something happened the other night as I slumbered at Cowboy's grandmother's (his GRANDMOTHER’S! PG thoughts, please). 

And just as a forewarning, I wasn’t going to post this... but I feel its my obligation, nay, responsibility as a woman and a blogger to let these issues air. Women have come a long way since the days of corsets, voting rights and emergence into the workplace. But the lives of men and women are not equal. No, no, no. Not until we can pee standing up, will we achieve equal pay and equal stature. It’s all about the bowels.  

Anyways, Cowboy wakes every morning at 5. And at 5:08, 5:15, 5:23 and 5:30. 

In the midst of the 5:15 to 5:23 slumber, at his grandmother’s house, mind you, I did one of the most terribly awful, no good, downright disgusting things a girlfriend can do. This was worse than stealing all his ex's e-mails and sending viruses to make their iTunes play MMMBop over and over. And much more horrifying.  

I farted.

Not even kidding. Air attack, anal acoustics, after dinner mint-- whatever you want to call it. I did it. Seriously, I'm not even sure why he hasn't dumped me yet.

It wasn’t the silent kind or the one you can pass off on the dog or the house settling or something. It was a rip resembling a ketchup bottle almost empty.

Kind, sweet Cowboy said nothing and feigned sleep. 

I'm in the clear, I thought, unmoving, pretending to snooze and promising to yodel for Jesus if only to keep the smell away.

Cowboy didn’t say anything that morning. He went to work and I too did my... business. 

But Cowboy's generosity lasted only until evening when he met me for burgers and quizzed me on the after-effects of our shrimp dinner the night before.

"I've been gassy all day," he said. "Did you feel that way too?"

That’s the thing about boys. They can totally toot and the world applauds. But should a lady break wind, you might as well give her facial hair and remove her uterus. She is no longer female.  

"NO," I said, a little too eagerly. "But maybe that's because I ate a handful whereas you consumed ohh... the entire Pacific Ocean."

"Maybe," he said.

So later, just as our food arrived and our starving bodies could re-nourish, Cowboy blows the gasket.  

“So last night, I don’t know if you remember, but I think I heard you...”

Horrified and no longer hungry, I blamed the cat. I blamed the bed spring. I even blamed a drive-by shooting. But since his grandmother lives near nothing, he knew it wasn't true. 

"You don't have to make a stink about it," he said. "I thought this was proof of our comfort with each other. Why are you so embarrassed?"

"You couldn't be a gentleman and not mention it?" I asked. "I would never do that to you. I would NEVER-EVER-NOT-IN-A-MILLION-YEARS-HERE,-AT-HOME-OR-IN-MY-BLOG tell anyone something like that. I don’t even SAY the word ‘fart.’ Musical butts belong unspoken."

"Sorry..." he said.

I shouldn't blame him. Where he comes from, parents teach their children to pull fingers and belch the ABCs. 

Many people may blush or say "excuse me." But at the sound of oral and anal emissions, one local 2-year-old instead says "beeeep." Which is funny and cute until men in their 30s fart out loud ON PURPOSE just to hear the child’s response. 

I'm pretty sure the only other human to hear such a babel from my backside is my brother. And since we’re getting all share-y here, I should probably tell you that back then, I did it on purpose, and... on his head. Sorry brother.

I only find the audacity to write this from dooce.com and her recent post: http://www.dooce.com/2009/11/09/featured-community-question

And from my mom, who said her coworkers had a conversation about colon calamities and how they were such a faux pas. Well, ladies, it’s time to be silent no longer. We will pass gas and men will hear it.  

So I tooted. And then I blogged about it. It’s like my generation’s way of burning bras. 

So dear readers, it’s time to air it out, shoot the shit, make cheese. Are women still feminine if they fart? What if they just TALK about farting? Do you pass gas in front of your man or does your lovely lady launch a wiffer in front of you? And if so, is it cute, gross, sexy? What do you think?

Blood, guts and Bambi

Guts, gore and innocent blood on his hands.

One shot. And he was dead. A carcass, warm and alone in an empty field.

That's what I witnessed Friday night.

My boyfriend: The Horror Movie

Here I am, La-De-Daa, my boyfriend's great. I call him Cowboy and he helps flooded people. Isn't he swell? Wowie, he sure is cute in that Ace Ventura costume. The world is all unicorns and butterflies and rainbows shooting out of asses.

Gee, do you think Katie might (gasp) be in love?

Wrong.

The other night, Cowboy's dad, Cowboy Sr., shot himself a "five-by-five somma bitch" a.k.a. a boy deer with five points on each antler.

With knife in hand, Cowboy braced himself before the buck's testicles, screamed yee haw, and suddenly skin, head and gizzards were flying wayward across the prairie.

What did I get myself into?

Picture this: I drive to the middle of nowhere and before I even exit the vehicle, Cowboy launches a vest at me.

Cowboy: Put this on.
Me: What? Why? Orange isn't exactly my color...
CB: This is the country, Kate, we don't take chances around here.
Me: But I'm in a driveway, with a horse pasture. Is it even legal to shoot here?
CB: Kinda hard to argue that when you're dead.

Deer gun season opened Friday. In the country, or even semi-cities like Jamestown, schools cancel class and hold parties and beer sales in its honor. Like I said in the blog before, it's like Halloween, but the only appropriate costumes are that of Irish Protestant and Yellowstone National Forest.

This is how it started:

Boom. Smash. Pow.

CB: Here that? Someone's shooting out yonder.
Me: Neat. Can we pet the horsies now?

Suddenly the phone rang and we hopped in the pickup and headed to the even middler of nowhere, to fetch the fallen fawn. Except it wasn't a fawn. The alliteration just worked better. Get over it. 


Anyways, Cowboy and Cowboy Jr. loaded the carcass into the pickup just to unload it again into the gutting pile. Yep. It has a name. The gutting pile.

Wanna help us hold his legs, Kate? Cowboy called.

You've got to be kidding me.

After they'd excavated all the intestines, heart (which Cowboy assured me he'd fry) and liver, the boys REPACKED poor Bambi and took him to the butcher shop.

(If you want pictures of that, I'll send them to you. I don't mind writing words like "testicle" and "ass" but I'm afraid skinless deer might offend some readers. That and if you really want to see bloody Bambi picture, you're a perv, and I don't really want you reading this blog anyway.)

At the butcher shop, the Cowboys hung Bambi BY HIS HIND LEGS and skinned him like I did to the cat in biology class. Except I didn't skin it. My partner did and I just took notes.

I stood outside the butcher shop doorway, taking pictures because I knew I'd need evidence. The FBI readers would SURELY need proof of this one.

You can come inside, Cowboy Sr. said. There's enough room here.

Thank you, but I prefer to remain far away for fear the dead deer's soul will haunt me.

"There's nothing impure we're doing here," Cowboy said, his hands the color of MacBeth. "Where do you think you're meat comes from?"

Uhhh... the grocery store... duh.

Shooting spree hits North Dakota!

Do you have school today? I thought so. Throughout North Dakota, most districts don't.

Despite popular belief, no. It isn't winter yet. School was not canceled due to weather. Actually, it's a temperature many North Dakota's consider too hot.

With the exception of my Northern neighbors, no one calls calls 60 degrees "too hot." In fact, 60 is the IDEAL temperature for all things softball, basketball, football and golf. Swimmers may balk at its sweat-shirt requiring nature-- but they're indoor people anyway.

The first Friday in November is a holiday by state standards-- one like Halloween where to trick or treat, one must act the part. Costumes are limited for this celebration, however, as participants may only dress as pumpkins, construction cones or an overgrown thorn bush.

Liquor stores stock up on beer, bars add more employees and accidents occur inside the gas station as all the patrons are in camouflage and therefore, blend together.

Today, is a day of bonding for many families. Today, there is no vehicle but a pickup and Today, 14-year-olds may handle firearms.

Happy Deer Gun Season Day.

To see the effects of deer gun season on local businesses, click here.

Hollow weenie

I haven't written in a while. I'm sorry. It won't change. Not until December anyway.

I'm working on a novel... 50,000 words written in haste. My only goal is to have a beginning, a middle an end and some conflict and resolution in between. More on that some other time.

To make up for my lack of posting, I'll share some Halloween photos for your judging pleasure. I haven't even facebooked these yet, so congratulations! You get the first look.

For Halloween, I tried to be the scariest thing I could think of: a cowgirl. Some co-workers say there's no way my outfit would pass for a cowgirl, but rather, it's the outfit of a farmgirl. Uggh. What's the dif?

Me as a cow/farmgirl minus the shoes. I bought Cowboy boots for the occasion. Cowboy suggested I wear them on days that aren't Halloween. 

I told him they'd be better thrown at his face than worn on my feet. 

And Cowboy? He's Ace Ventura. Because he balked at the frat boy of my suggesting.

Alrighty then.