The Cutie Round-Up

We got back from the Pendleton Round-Up last Sunday with no major injuries or psychotic episodes - Success!! There were times in the past when beds were wet (by adults), mountings occurred ("and then he tried to mount me as we were chatting and I did a little roll maneuver to get away!"), adulterers took to Port-a-Potties ("mmm - what's that lovely scent you're wearing?" "I call it shit-cake"), and The Legend of Gretchen was born. It's more than a little disappointing to come away with no stories inspired by drunkenness, but I'm over 30 with two small children and my ass just don't buh-donka-donk the way it used to. I went dancing with my grampa (DaDa) at the Eagles Club, and even their drinks have mellowed. It used to be that their $1 rum-n-Cokes could have you applying lipstick to strangers (or putting a chew in a handicapped-guys profered lip). Now I can actually taste the Coke. Humph. The highlight of this trip was the pair of kittens that entertained three small children for three straight days. Kittens from heaven. Kittens that saved my sanity. I love kittens (when they belong to a neighbor of my DaDa and provide a constant source of amusement for my daughter and her two cousins and allow me to get the baby to fall asleep in a strangely-echoey old house).
My cousin, a constant fixture at Round-Up, is this handyman kind of guy of epic proportions. God of Handymans, thy name is Kevin. Kevin likes to wear tank-tops to show off his hairy handyman back and we all feel guilty around Kevin because he's constantly doing all the handyman shit at DaDa's house that we know we should be doing but it's all such a pain-in-the-ass and there's Round-Up. Kevin doesn't go to the rodeo and really has no chance of getting laid, but he's always there, as a constant cousin reminder of what bad grandkids we are on our side of the family. We're the grandkids that let our kids spill milkshakes all over the carpet and break the porch swing and wet the bed. But we're all cute! And if there's anything I've learned from having kids, cuteness gets you shit that homely never will. So DaDa, sorry I left that dirty diaper under the spare room bed and sorry our kids fed the kitties so much turkey that they barfed all over the front walk and now you'll never be free of the little wormy-freeloaders (the cats, not the grandkids), but remember when the baby sat on your lap?
And he smiled at you and cooed and batted at your glasses? You're getting veeerrry sleeepy...veeerrrry, veeeerrrry, sleeeeepy...