Bad clowns=Bad hair?

So, today my hair looks as though it has been struck by lightening and then tenderly styled by a blind psychopath. I blame the rodeo. Don't look at me like that, I could have blamed Celine Dion, but that would have been weird.

So, last night I got to go to the Spanish Fork Fiesta Days Rodeo. Woo hoo!! In theory a rodeo is lots of fun. Lots of cowboys and the summer crowds swarming around you while you eat deep fried things, plus the added bonus of the chance of mayhem should an errant hoof connect with human flesh. Sounds pretty awesome, right? Well, now add 100 degree weather, three cranky preschoolers, two fighting married couples, a cute but sticky baby boy and a generally hag like pregnant lady. Yep, that was my night. Kind of takes the awesome out of it. And so does that stupid rodeo clown who thinks a urinating car is funny....you had to be there. Needless to say, Boom Boom the clown is not on my list of favorite performers ever. He was pretty lame. And he didn't even get attacked by a bull, so he was lame without a purpose, which is even worse.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Before my clan struck out for cowboy heaven, Charlie and I painted my living room. I've been trying to decide on a color for the better part of a year, and finally I just closed my eyes and picked a grayish blue. It is very nice. But, when Charlie and I do projects together we generally aren't friends for a while afterward. We have good intentions, but after about an hour of working we both are pretty sure that the other one is completely wrong in their approach and bossy beyond reason. And neither of us is ever willing to back down and apologize so we are not the most fun couple in the world for a day or so afterward. Apparently my brother and his wife had some sort of ordeal going on as well because there were dirty looks being thrown in all directions. Poor Dad was trying desperately to make this a joyous experience for us all so we were pretending (with varying degrees of success) that we were thrilled to be sitting on medival torture devices they call wooden stadium benches.

Oh, so back to my hair. When I finally crawled home at about 11 p.m. (which is about 4 a.m. in a pregnant lady's world) I dragged myself into the shower because my lower extremities were covered in spilled snow cone (courtesy of my loving daughter and nieces). And promptly started crying because I then saw that my feet resembled a kindergarteners efforts of shaping clay into a human form. Stupid heat and hormones. So I just crawled into bed, with no forethought of what my half wet hair would look like in the morning. I blame Boom Boom and his dumb rodeo clown ways for all of it.