Young love

In an effort to claim the elusive "Mother of the Year" award, I took my kiddies out to a matinee show yesterday afternoon. Yes, I know dear internet, movie and popcorn does not alone entitle me to that trophy. What gave me an edge, was the fact I made sure some of Fric and Frac's friends would also be in the very same theatre at the very same time, for the very same show. Aren't I thoughtful? Because I am such a hip mom (and this was proven when a dozen eight and nine year olds gathered around my nose and ohh'ed and aww'ed) I let the kids go sit with their friends as I joined the gaggle of mothers in the middle of the theatre.

Fric joined her buddy, and twittered like the school girl she is, about her little school crush, who I'll call Frank. Frank and his buddy sat two rows ahead of Fric and kept looking behind him to make kissy eyes with Fric. Ahh, young love.

Frac and his cronies, sat two seats over from Frank. Frac is no dummy. It wasn't long before he figured out the kissey eyes Frank was making were directed to his sister Fric. As the younger, immensely less mature brother, this grossed Frac out to no end.

Now Fric and Frank have yet to declare their young love. They prefer to pull one another's hair and hide each other's shoes out on the playground. When together, they blush and pretend that neither is actually alive. However, in the darkness of the theatre, and away from their prying mother's eyes, all bets were off. I don't think either actually saw the movie since they only had eyes for one another.

Eventually, little brother had enough of this. Apparently, making kissey eyes is against an unwritten boy's code. Frac didn't watch the movie either. He was too busy tossing popcorn at Frank and conjuring a plan to wreak maximum embarrassment on his sister.

I, being the wonderful mom I am, watched all this go on and pretended they weren't my children.

At the end of the show, everyone gathered in the lobby to say goodbye. Fric and Frank resumed ignoring one another. Frac had other plans though. In a very loud voice he announced to the group his sister had written in her diary that she intends on marrying Frank. Frac then said "Good luck with that Frank. I've slept with her and she snores and picks her nose while she sleeps."

My poor darling girl died a thousand deaths, and Frank was mortified. Frac however, giggled like a loon and ran to hide in the bathroom like the pansy he is.

I consoled my daughter and told her revenge is a dish best served cold. Perhaps a little bird needs to whisper in Fric's ear about her brother's crush on Lexie...

Hillbilly Wars - It's a Piss Off

Part of the charm of living out here in the sticks is the show nature puts up for us on a daily basis. We are adjacent to not one, but two local nature sanctuaries so we see a lot of nature. Birds, rabbits, porcupines, beaver, a badger or two, some coyotes and a fox. They all call my property home. Not one of them pays me any rent.

Things get interesting when the larger forest critters come out to play. We have several deer who have taken to eating my trees until they are nothing but sticks. Then there are the swamp donkeys, also known as moose, who nest in my trees and poop on my lawn. Lovely. But I always have organic fertilizer.

Last summer, a big boy came out to play. Not a wimpy, grass-eating, manure-spreading herbivore. More of the hear-me-roar, blood thirsty carnivore type. A cougar. We are surrounded by bears and cougars, and for the most part, we ignore them - carefully. And they generally stay away from the residential areas. But this was an aging grampa who didn't see the carefully posted Nature Sanctuary signs and made his way over to my side of the fence.

Since my small children were inside, and my dog was away sowing his seed, there was a decided lack of food at my place. So off to the hillbilly neighbors he went. Over there in Hicksville, he found himself an assortment of penned sheep and little goats. He, literally, had the pick of the litter. So after making his choice he would then bring the carcass over to my property and have himself a merry little feast. Nothing like a picnic on a sunny afternoon.

My hillbilly neighbors soon noticed livestock was missing and set out to solve the problem. They tracked them big ole paw prints and found several half-chewed animals. After having the local authorities out to confirm the kill as a cougar's, the friendly neighborhood hillbilly made his way to my house.

Now, I know, dear internet, you are thinking, well that was mighty neighborly and all. Clearly, Hillbilly neighbor is not that bad of a guy. After all, he went out of his way to let me know a rogue cougar was out and about, and please, don't let the kiddies get eaten. Up to this point, I might even have agreed with you, dear internet. But stay with me here. I do have a long-winded point.

Seeing my neighbor's battered pickup truck weave up my driveway, I went out to greet him. I am no fool. I didn't want him in my house.

"Howdy," he said. Clearly a little inebriated, he wobbled, and then pulled an eviscerated goat out of the back of his truck. "Found this here, out on your property. Damn cougar is picking off my goats and eating 'em out in your trees."

Being the good neighbor I am, I thanked him profusely for the heads up. After all, it is a tad alarming knowing a large hungry cat is on the prowl, possibly waiting in the woods just to take a bite out of you. But the hillbilly neighbor is leering just a bit, having trouble making eye contact. Great a damn cougar and now a hillbilly pervert. A little uncomfortable, I take a few steps backwards and try to get him to take a fucking hint and leave. Clueless hillbilly. The dumbass wants to know if I have any beer? After all, it's thirsty work tracking pussy. Picture a crestfallen hillbilly when I told him I had no beer.

Saying thanks and goodnight for the umpteenth time, I backed up more. He took two steps forward, and then seemed to clue in, and muttered goodbye. Halle-fucking-llujah. But just as I think he's going to weave his way home, he unzips, whips out ole millimeter peter and starts to piss. On the ground. In front of me. His whizz splashed my slippers.

What did I do, dear internet? Stood there like a fucking statue and waited till he finished. It is not everyday a complete stranger pisses on my feet. And not a quick pee either. It was the mother load of urine, a river puddled at my feet and ran down my driveway. Finally, he gave his willy a quick shake, tucked it in and like a true gentleman, offered to shake my hand.

I wish I had a snappy comeback, but admittedly, I was in shock. My first golden shower. There were no words at the time. I scurried into my house, bathed and burned my slippers.

In the end, the evening taught me something. I learned nature knows no boundaries and most importantly, I learned that my husband is hung like a friggin' horse next to our neighbor.

**Stay tuned for next weeks edition of Hillbilly Wars when I write about the hillbilly's dog from hell. It involves dirty diapers and dead chickens. How's that for quality entertainment?**

Whose my Daddy?

Having survived a long weekend with five of my favorite nephews and niece, as well as saying good bye to my brother's puppy, you would think waking up this morning I would be the picture of Susie Sunshine, all bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Instead, imagine a bleary eyed, red-nosed grouch who seems to be in withdrawal. Like the town drunk, only I apparently, am in withdrawal from lack of urine to clean up. Go figure.

With all the kiddies gone home, to be tucked into their own beds, I counted on having a fairly blissful sleep. Hubs was home for the evening which meant there was even a chance for some romance in the night. I always was a dreamer. Instead of back rubs, and passionate kisses, we argued over who was going to get up and close the damn door. Because we are mature. Hubs, having lost that argument, decided to take revenge. Upon his return into our love nest, he rolled over and gazed sweetly into my eyes.

"You're not the boss of me you know." Hubs whined.

"I am if you want any tonight, big boy," I replied in my sexy voice.

He muttered something about revenge being a dish best served cold and then gave me a quick peck on the lips and rolled over.

"What, where's the love?" I countered. He looked over his shoulder, sighed like he is doing me a big favor and rolled back in my direction. I should have figured something was up when I saw the evil gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, I've got the love, baby. Don't you worry," he says as he reaches down to pull the covers up while closing his eyes to lay a big romantic kiss on me.

I have said it once, I will say it again. I, the Redneck mommy, am a fool. Outfoxed by a man. Bastard.

Instead of laying the big one on me, and kick starting our night of passion, he pulled the covers over our head (isn't that romantic?) and let loose the biggest, smelliest damn fart I have ever had the misfortune of inhaling. Picture me thrashing wildy around, trying to escape. While being poisoned.

When he deemed I had sufficiently inhaled enough of his sour gas, he loosened his iron grasp on the covers and let me come up for air.

"Whose your daddy now?" he purred.

Next time, I'll shut the damn door myself.

Party Pooper

Out here in the sticks, we do not have access to highspeed internet. Which means I spend a lot of time in front of my Mac, staring at the screen, waiting while my dial-up connection tries to work like an old plough horse on a modern farm. It can be frustrating, especially when I am trying to download something, but for the most part, I don't mind. It gives me the excuse to avoid the real world. I have been known to connect to the internet and then walk away to go watch telly, just so I won't be bothered by well, family and friends. Yes, I know, dear internet, at my rate it is a miracle I have any of either still willing to call.

But in my defense, there is only so much well wishing, and enquiring about our marriage that a redneck mommy can stand. So to all you who are curious: My hubs and I are fine. He still likes working out in the field, and we are still having sex. No, the loss of angel boy isn't tearing us apart, and yes, we have spoke to a counselor. And NO, I do not need any more damn company. NO, I'm sorry, this week I will be too busy to watch your brats kids. Are you getting my point, dear internet?

But as you know, ever-expanding, cookie munching, so-pregnant-it-is funny/scary sister is due to pop in a week. Which means any day. As her birthing partner, I am now tied to the phone like a child's tongue to a frozen goal post in the dead of our good ole Canadian winter. Both are a lot of fun.

Now, every time the phone rings, I am required to make a mad dash to it, to see, if in fact, I will become a new auntie to yet another small child whose bottom I will invariably, at one point or another, wipe. Seems to be my destiny these days.

So when the phone rang, and caller i.d. (really the world's greatest invention next to penicillin, washing machines and the wheel) showed my mother's cell phone, I had to pick it up. Preggo might have popped! Imagine my dismay when I find Preggo, has in fact, NOT popped. No, mom just wanted to know if hubs was working, how my marriage was going, have I had sex recently, have I seen a counselor and did I survive puppy/child sitting. Again. Because apparently, she didn't believe my answers from two days before. But dear mother had a new twist.

I knew I shouldn't have answered the phone. It seems, as older sister, and birthing coach it is my required duty to throw Preggo a baby shower. So start planning, I was told, because mom and sister expect a good one. Perhaps, I could go on the net to find some fun... games.

OH MY EVER LOVING GOD, they expect games. Nightmares of my baby shower have flooded back. Damn, it took nine years to forget them. F%#k. I remember blind folds, cotton balls, oven mitts and a wooden spoon. I remember cutesy word puzzles and diapering dollies with mustard stained tissues. I distinctly remember wishing I could hide in the pantry. And yearning for booze. Why, oh why, must I do this again? What did I do, to be punished in this manner?

How inappropriate would it be to throw sis a party, have everyone oooh and aaaah over the rat baby, and watch her open gifts like I would watch a football game. With a beer in one hand and a chip in the other. Think of the commentary I could provide as she moved on from one gift to the next. Another f*@king rattle? Really people. A diaper genie, now there is a present a mom can use. It could be fun.

The reality is I will be up to my newly pierced nose in blue or pink streamers, handing out napkins for cucumber sandwiches that I will have to make, while explaining the rules to whatever cutesy games my mother has thought of. This time around though, screw it. No hiding in the pantry for me. I promise you dear internet, there will be booze.

At least in my cup, which will be kept far away from nursing mommy and new grandma. (Who has a nose like a bloodhound.)

Pansy Ass No more!

Earlier this year I turned 30. This wasn't a big deal to me. I, in fact, must have pissed off God when I toasted that 30 would be my best year yet. A month later, and tragedy struck. Who's laughing now? In the aftermath of grief, I have been possessed by an uncontrollable urge to permanently mark my body with tattoo. I wish for the whole world to know I had an angelboy. There are problems with this plan though. I am the biggest pansy-ass I know. And having someone scrape needles across my skin while injecting a permanent dye just sounds painful. And you have to pay for the joy of that pain as well. I am nothing if not frugal.

Another problem to the tattoo dilemma would be dear hubby. He is adamantly opposed to the idea of a tattoo on my lovely, neon-white flesh. Apparently, my freckles and the odd mole, are sexy to him. Who knew?

What to do, what to do? Aha! I will pierce myself, said the foolish Redneck mommy. It is pretty and I can take it out. Not permanent, but isn't over the top. But what do I pierce? My husband voted for a tongue piercing, something about being extremely erotic during a certain sexual activity. But having my tongue swell up, sounding like Daffy Duck and not being able to enjoy my java for weeks nixed that idea.

He then suggested marring my nipples. I told him if he did his, I'd do mine. That conversation ended rather quickly. I may be a pansy ass, but he is also my lovable chicken-shit.

My kiddies suggested having my nose pierced. Now, I have never been one to stew over the shape and size of my nose. I figure it could have been worse. I could have a huge nose instead of the slightly crooked one I am sporting. In fact, I have a rather healthy self image. Due in part to my lovely husband who keeps telling me I rock and due in part to the fact that I look nothing like any of my cousins. Hallelujah!! Seriously dear internet, my larger breasted, shorter legged brethren are well, furry, with honkers the likes of which no man should ever have to blow. Like their parents bred with apes and elephants - at the same time. And somehow only the women have facial hair. And a lot of it. Puzzling. So I have always kissed God's ass, thankful for my smallish nose, and for the fact that I need a scarf to keep my face warm during our long Canadian winters, unlike my cousins.

Could I pierce my face? Could I handle the pain? Would it look good on my slightly pointy, crooked nose?

Yes to all three. I am here to tell you I am no longer a pansy ass. And I now have an extra nostril hole to breathe out of when the other two are clogged.

But nobody told me it would feel like the worlds biggest booger. Or how I would want to pick it. Bugger!

Pass the Puns, Please

Sunday morning again, and I have been making waffles for seven kiddies this morning. This little ditty seems appropriate. Enjoy!


A young man was in love with two women and could not decide which of them to marry. Finally he went to a marriage counselor. When asked to describe his two loves, he noted that one was a great poet and the other made delicious pancakes.

"Oh" said the counselor, "I see what the problem is. You can't decide whether to marry for batter or verse."

My Cherry has been Popped

I have found the answer to my babysitting dilemma: I pawned them off on Grandma! Why did I not think of this earlier? She lives just down the road, and she is now, my bestest, coolest relative in the world. Sorry mom, the mother-in-law won this round!

It is eerily quiet now. Hubs is off at work, the kids are being stuffed full of sugar and the damn puppy is finally asleep. I am almost lost, not having to wipe up puddles. Almost. So now, instead of hiding in the pantry, I am sitting here, with my wine and trying to relax by surfing the ol' net. Imagine my delight and surprise to find I have been tagged by the fabulous, irresistible Kristen. My very first meme. She has popped my cherry, so to speak. So without any further ado, and before Grandma brings the tribe back, here it goes:


Accent - None, eh. We Canadjuns speak just like you Americans, dontcha know, eh?

Booze of choice - Any that is in my cup. Or in my pantry. I am not picky.

Chore I hate - Mopping the floor. Really, what is the point? It is not like we eat off it or anything.

Dog or Cat - A week ago I would have said dogs. Tonight, I am loving my purring pussy all the way. (My cat dear internet. Naughty people!)

Essential electronics - Computer and wash machine. Have you ever tried washing eight loads of laundry by hand? Do I look like Laura off of Little House on the Prairie?

Favorite perfume(s)/cologne(s) - Perfume makes my nose itch. Doesn't it all smell like soap anyways?

Gold or Silver? - White gold or silver. But I will take either if you want to give me some.

Hometown - Edmonton, Ab

Insomnia? - Every night since Oct. 21. 2005

Job Title - Indentured servant to an unappreciative flock.

Kids? - Living or dead? Haven't figured out correct response to that question just yet. How 'bout 2 who breathe and one who flies with the angels.

Living Arrangement - Not big enough for all my hubby's nieces and nephews. But a pretty house, nonetheless.

Most admired trait - Apparently I am personable. Translation: I make others uncomfortable with my biting wit and odd sense of humor.

Number of Sexual Partners - Not enough to make any history.

Overnight Hospital Stays - A million nights in hospital to watch over my Bug. But none because of me.

Phobia - Dragon flies. Nature's helicopters who like to buzz in your face. They dive bomb me any chance they have. Scary.

Quote - "Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much." Oscar Wilde

Religion - God and I are currently on the outs.

Siblings - One brother, who is a year older. One sister, who is three years younger.

Time I wake up - About fifteen minutes before the school bus comes rumbling down the road. Every morning is a mad dash to get dressed, make breaky, pack lunches and style kiddy's hair. And I think I could squeeze it into ten if I tried really hard.

Unusual talent/skill - I can put my feet behind my head. The real reason my husband married me.

Vegetable I refuse to eat - Beets. They taste like dirt and they are purple. Gross in so many ways.

Worst habit - Chewing the insides of my cheeks until they bleed. I tried chewing gum, but I guess I am a bit of a vampire.

X-rays - Teeth. Knees. Facial bones. (A future post on why we don't walk behind horsies.)

Yummy foods I make - Kraft Macaroni and cheese. I am especially proud of the consistency of the cheese.

Zodiac sign - Libra. Which means I always try to be the mediator. Which means I am always being told where to go and how to get there!

Well dear internet, that was fun! Whoo hoo! I'm not a virgin anymore. I am pouring myself more wine. I still have an hour before the terror squad comes back. Thanks Kristen, for thinking of me!

I tag Jellyhead, Mom-101, and Thumper.

Hillbilly War

My hubs and I used to live in the city. For three whole years. For me, it was fine. Nice. Normal. I grew up in the city. I like noise, exhaust fumes, listening to the angry arguing of the neighbors next door. My favorite hobby was going for walks at night and peering in through their windows to see how other people lived. (Don't misinterpret, dear internet. I peered from the sidewalk, I did not creep through the bushes and press my nose against the glass. I am a redneck, not a perv.) For my husband, this was tantamount to torture. A transplanted farmer, with no farm. An unhappy match indeed.

So off to the country we moved. Five miles down the road from the family farm. Five miles down the road from his mommy's apron strings. At first I thought this was a bad thing. I now appreciate this for the gift it is: a built in babysitter, and a fully-functioning, free restaurant. What is not to love?

There are drawbacks to living out in the sticks. We are miles from any hospital. Problematic. I have to drive the kids miles to the nearest child's home for a playdate. No walking to the nearest convenience store for a treat. No Starbucks or Tim Hortons. And we live in a heavily treed area. I am just waiting for a forest fire, or for a tree to fall on my house.

The biggest drawback is my neighbors. For me, having humans living near me is a good thing. I can't see them, but I know they are there. Comfort in numbers, right? It is me vs. Nature, and to be frank, nature is ahead.

My husband however, is annoyed because you can occasionally hear them. They have a teenage boy who likes to rev his engine (in more ways than one, I'm sure) and the parents aren't the most happily married folks, if you catch my meaning. For those of you who need it spelled out: THEY SCREAM LIKE BANSHEES ARE RIPPING THEIR LIMBS OFF WITH BUTTER KNIVES.

But it was nice to take a piece of big city life with me, to here, my home out in the countryside. Until last night. When they kept me up all night, having a tractor orgy next door. I don't know what the hell was happening over there, but until 3 a.m. large engines and chainsaws were roaring through the night.

My patience has run out. The gauntlet has been thrown. The white glove was slapped in my face. It is ON. How, I don't know. But I do know, I am a city-girl at heart. I can outfox these hillbillies. I am going to make them wish they never laid eyes on this pretty, little redneck.

But it'll have to wait for tomorrow. I need some shut-eye first.

**Stay tuned for the upcoming post of the time when the aforementioned Hillbilly neighbor peed on my slippers- while I was wearing them. I shit you not.**

I'm hiding in the rabbit hole

When I got knocked up, I mean pregnant, I never fully appreciated how difficult a job parenting could be. I was primarily focused on the pregnancy, the hemorrhoids, and the delivery part. I trusted within myself and my man, that we could handle anything the little buggers, er, children threw at us. And we have. Perhaps not eloquently, nor with our dignity intact, but we have managed.

As they age, new challenges are presenting themselves. Right now, academics is a top priority. They missed a lot of school when their brother died. So we are doing the proverbial dog padde to catch up.

My son Frac, is learning French in school. He believes this makes him tres sophisticated. Of course, all it makes him is a redneck's kid with a bad french accent, but who am I to kill his dreams? He came home yesterday with a previously completed school assignment which had a note attached from the teacher. Wanting to know if everything was alright at home?

WHAT??? My blood pressure rises, thinking my child is not doing as well as perceived. As I look over the french assignment I realize the problem. The assignment was a word scramble, where the kids had to make a correct sentence with the listed words, all jumbled up. At the end of the assignment, they were to use their own words and make up their own sentence. Not so difficult, right, dear internet?

Here is what my son's homework said:
A bunny hops in the grass.
He has two long ears.
He has a white tail.
His nose wiggles.
He likes to eat carrots.
I will take him home.

Sounds good, right? He managed to unscramble and put the words in the correct order. With no mistakes. My son, the genius. So what's the problem you ask?

WRITE YOUR OWN SENTENCE:
My son's response: I shot the bunny.

Should I be worried, dear internet?

The dog house

I want a dog. I need a dog. I spend copious amounts of time alone, on the couch, with out anyone to warm my lap. Not that my husband doesn't offer, but until the hair in his ears grows a little longer and he can hang his tongue out of his mouth for at least two minutes straight, I am going to pass on his offer. Which leads me back to wanting a four legged, furry critter I can call my own.

The problem with this, is my hubby hates all animals. Yes,*shudder*, he is one of those. He grew up on a farm, so unless an animal serves a purpose, i.e. you can eat it, he thinks all animals are wastes of oxygen. How I managed to marry him, knowing this, is beyond me. (Must have had something to do with me being pregnant with our second child at the time, and my father's angry looks.)

But to pacify me, because he loves me so, the hubs has relented. He granted me permission. Or at least, that's what he likes to think. The reality is, I have already talked to a breeder, placed an order and am waiting for the birth of my couch cuddler. All the while, I have been whispering sweet doggy love thoughts into his ear as he sleeps the day away. The perils of working at night, and being home alone, sleeping all day, unprotected from your bored wife.

I digress. To prove my doggie devotion, I have offered to puppy-sit this week for my brother and his woman, while they travel to far away places to spread the sweet melodic tunes of his death metal band. My mother is so proud. I'm am the proud aunty/sitter for a soon to be over-grown, speckled, white german shepard/husky cross, named Pink Meat.

What I didn't anticipate is the constant whining, scratching, puking and potty accidents of a puppy. Yes, I know, dear internet, it is a puppy. But it is not my puppy. There is a difference. I will love my puppy no matter what. This puppy, I have to give back. Why get attached? And, if it pee's on my floor one more time when the kids come into the room, I am going to make the damn puppy clean it up.

Meanwhile, my husband is grinning like some cat with a canary in it's mouth, and muttering something about "I told you so, worthless mutt...." I wonder, who is he referring to? Me or Pink?

Redneck's Rant

I had an entirely different post written for today, all shined up and polished, ready to be served to you, dear internet. But before I post, I like to peruse my favorite blogs. Get inspired, learn something, smile, comment, do all the things a blogger is supposed to do while riding the waves of the web. But then I read something that made steam come out of my ears.

One of my favorite bloggers, Kristen, brought to light the fact that mommy bloggers are a dirty word out here, in the blogosphere. She does this eloquently and pointedly, as only she can do. Now, this is a topic that steams my petunias, primarily, because I am supposedly one of the offenders. I dare to write about my kids, my husband, and well, my life.

I no longer have any babies. Not by choice, as many of you know. But I still have kiddies and I still love them. I don't wear high waisted jeans, but I love a good turtleneck. I have driven a mini-van, with a handicapped sticker in the window to boot. I am a soccer mom but I avoid parent committees like the plague. My hubby says I am a MILF. (But by law he has to say this.) I am a mom of many contradictions. But more importantly, I am a human being with a brain in between my ears, capable of thinking above and beyond my kiddies. As well as thinking of them, from time to time. Mostly, just to feed them, but hey, I never claimed to be mommy of the year.

To all of those out there who are offended by us mothers, mommies, or to borrow Kristen's phrase, "bitch with a baby", who plug up the ol' internet, I say Grow up! How the heck did you get here? Don't you think if the internet was around back in the day, your mother would be whining about your snotty nose to anyone who would read it? Back off, and go away if you don't like us.

To the many mothers out there, who argue over whether they are a mom blog or a mommy blog, get a life. Go do something with your time, with your kids, because life is too short for this type of quibbling. It is you, the petty ones, who are giving all of us a bad name. Shame on you.

And to the many who don't want to read our mommy/mom/momma blogs, well, turn the page buckos. Cause we are here, and we aren't going anywhere.

And I am done my rant now. Thanks Kristen.

Pass the Puns, Please

Once again, it is Sunday morning. Here in the home of Redneck Mommy, that means bacon, eggs and of course, puns. Enjoy!

Three strings come across a bar and decide they'd like to stop in for a drink. The first string walks in, goes up to the bartender and says, "Bartender, gimme a beer." The bartender looks at him and says, "I'm sorry. We don't serve strings here." Feeling dejected and a bit angry, the first string goes outside and tells the others what just happened.

When the second string hears the story, he decides he wants to give it a try. He goes in, walks straight up to the bar and asks the bartender for a beer. The bartender looks right at him and says, "Hey, just like I told your buddy, we don't serve strings here." Denied his refreshment, the second string storms out of the bar with the same story to tell his friends.

By this time the third string is getting pretty thirsty and decides he isn't going to give up yet. After thinking for a little while, he messes up his hair a bit, gets himself all twisted up, and heads into the bar. As he approaches the bar and orders his drink, the bartender looks at him for a moment and then asks, "Say, aren't you a string?"

The third string replies, "No, I'm a frayed knot."

Bad Blogger

Blogger is being bitchy - again. I am beginning to think me and Blogspot don't mix. Hmm, might have to do something about this. Bad blogger, bad.

A Sensitive topic

I love being married. Really I do. Next to having kids it was the smartest thing I have ever done. Particularly 'cause my husband is gorgeous, kind and really interested in making me happy. Really, dear internet, could a woman ask for more?

Maybe. Perhaps a better memory and the ability to pick up the phone once in a while would be handy as well. So for instance, when he uses the last roll of toilet paper while you are at the grocery store, shopping, he could perhaps, call you on the fancy phone he bought you for Christmas, and tell you it might be a good idea to buy some more.

Or we could go the route he did, which was wait till I got home, help me carry in hundreds of dollars of groceries (and no toilet paper) and not say a word. Until this morning, when the final sheet on the roll was gone, I was in the biffy and well, let's just say it was a good thing I keep a roll of paper towel under the sink. Scratchy paper towel. On my sensitive parts.

What's that saying? Oh yeah: If momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. Right honey?

Banished from Blogging

Ahh, it is so good to be back. Yesterday and earlier today, Blogger banished me. I was forbidden to access my blog. Bastards. I was beginning to feel like the poor, little, geeky girl trying to fit in with the cool crowd. And they were throwing peanuts at me. But now, the redneck mommy is back, just in time to go to bed.

Burning Ring of Fire

My mother is a seamstress. She is truly one of the most talented people I have ever met. Give her a needle, thread, and some fabric and she will whip up a beautiful creation. Without breaking a sweat. But it is to my mother's ever lasting lament that neither of her daughters received the 'sewing gene'. Both El' Preggo and I prefer to go to the store and buy off the rack. And if it needs tailoring, well, that is what our mother is for. But to ease my mother's angst, she and I reached a compromise. Every Wednesday I bring Fric and Frac to Gramma's house where she does her best to indoctrinate them into loving sewing. It is too early to say if it is working.

Last night, aforementioned pregnant sister joined us. She needs mommy time before she, herself, becomes a mother to an overgrown, ungrateful, naughty child. (Wait, I think I am confusing my kids with her unborn.) Any ways, after years of her teasing me, the shoe is now on the other foot. With labour looming in the very near future, she asked my mommy and I to ease her anxiety. To tell her it doesn't really hurt. That millions of women before her have exaggerated their agony.

However, revenge is a dish best served cold and I have waited nine years.

I played her Johnny Cash's song "Burning Ring of Fire." And dear internet, no remorse was felt. None at all.

A hairy tradition

My girlfriends and I have a weekly tradition. We go out for lunch. Since the birth of seven children collectively, we have to be a little flexible with the date, but come hell or high water, we lunch. However, our location limits us to a few um, interesting restaurants. And dear internet, I am using the term restaurant in it's broadest definition. A place where you go to sit, pay for food and eat. Because none of these places could pass for five-star cuisine.

We have the four dens of dining-apathy to choose from if we don't want to drive for more than thirty minutes to get there. Let me see, there is the traditional eatery, named after the local couple who travelled from the far eastern corners of the world to escape persecution, and decided to set up shop here in Redneck County just to feed us. Let's call that place Uncle John's. Now, the owners mean well, and I have spent many an hour, nay, many a dollar on their cuisine, but it was time for a change. I was beginning to fret about my future battle with lung cancer if I continued to eat there frequently. (One good thing about a smokey eatery, you never had to complain about your food. You can't taste it past all the smoke.)

Across the street is the long standing Miller's. My husband won't allow me to eat there because in grade school the now, current owner, pull my hubby's pants down in front of his whole class. Except the poor bugger didn't just grab on to my honey's sweat pants, he grabbed a fistful of undies as well. Hence, the entire class of grade fivers got to see my honey's family jewels at their finest : Pre-puberty. Apparently, my honey has yet to recover from this indignity. I have offered to whip down his pants in the crowded restaurant, just to shown everyone how he has grown, and how proud we are of Mr. Pickle, but he refuses to take up my offer. I can't figure out why.

Then there is the typical small town Chinese food place. I used to take my kids to Emeralds all the time. Until I told my daughter they ran out of chicken and used mouse meat instead. I was joking. She was six. We haven't been back since they very politely asked us to leave.

So that leaves the local truck stop. Farmers, snowmobilers, travellers and even a few truckers. And for the most part, the food is edible, if somewhat over-priced. But what is a girl to do? I have exhausted my options. My hubby says I could save money and my stomach lining if I had them over to my house instead. Boys. They just don't get it. Not one of us wants to eat something home-cooked. We do it every day. We want to see our sliver of the world, gossip about whose divorcing who, whisper about someone's ass crack hanging out, and snigger over impossibly-high country hair-do's. Because we are cool. Because we can. Because we will never be one of them. (Leave us to our delusions if you please.)

We do all this and enjoy our hairy soup as well. And gas pain. And we'll do it again next week.

A potty post for you

One of the best things about being a parent to an eight and nine year old is .... They are already potty-trained. Not that there aren't many wonderful things about kids this age, because really, there are just so many. Allow me to list a few: They still think you are cool. They are just beginning to understand sarcasm yet not know enough about it to use it effectively themselves. You can still put them to bed by eight o'clock at night. Oh, and you can watch movies based on superheros (i.e. X-men 3) and tell everyone you had to because you were doing it for the kids. But above all of this, you don't have to wipe their asses. Only yell at them to flush the toilet. And clean up any splash. And PUT THE SEAT DOWN. But I digress.

I know, dear internet, you are wondering where am I going with this potty post. Let me explain. I am surrounded by toddlers. I have three nieces and nephews who are currently learning where to aim their pisser. And both my best friends are hip deep in potty-seats, potty-songs, and my personal favorite, potty-parties. For those less informed, let me educate you. This is when said parent calls up every person on their speed dial and makes a big fuss when the little darling manages to get something, anything, into the pot. I am beginning to feel like Pavlov's dog, when I hear the bell, I know someone managed to poo.

But being immersed (against my will) in the potty-training culture has brought back memories. Memories, my son, would rather I had never recovered. Memories that I know I will blackmail him with until the day he locks me, kicking and screaming, into some far away, geriatric facility. Memories that I feel the need to share with you, dear internet, because I am a kind and generous Redneck mommy.

It all started on a dark and stormy night. Just kidding. It was warm and sunny out. I was at the kitchen sink, washing yet another load of dishes by hand (damn hubby wouldn't hook up the dishwasher which, to this day, is still collecting dust in the shed.) My freshly potty-trained boy was waking up from his afternoon nap. He wandered into the kitchen, yawning, all warm and fuzzy and slightly disoriented from sleep. I said "Hello Frac, did you have a good nap?" as I rinsed another glass.

Frac didn't answer me. Now this should have rung a few alarm bells, but what can I say? You can't be on red alert all the time. Instead, he opened up the refrigerator and pulled down his pants....While I stood two feet away and watched like a dumbass. You guessed it, dear internet. My dear, sweet, darling boy, whipped it out and peed into the refrigerator.

About mid-stream he figured out the seven foot tall, cool, white box was not the toilet. About the same time I fully comprehended the little pisser was pissing in my fridge. He turned to me. I stepped towards him. And he peed all over my feet.

But I learned a valuable lesson that day. No, dear internet, not the one about making sure the little fella was pointed in the direction of the bathroom after getting up from his nap. The other lesson. The one were I learned urine cleans dry jam off the bottom of the fridge like nothing else. And it's environmentally friendly too!

Pass the Puns, Please

For you, dear internet, I will pass this cheese for all to enjoy:

There was a family of three moles. They lived outside a human home. The family in the house was making breakfast. The father mole stuck his head outside of the hole and said, "I smell bacon and eggs."
The mother stuck her head out the hole and said, "I smell sausage and french toast."
The baby mole not able to get his head through, said "I smell molasses."

Shout, Shout, Let it all Out

I'm walking around looking like the happy purple pussy himself. That came out slightly more pornographic than I intended.
A big shout out to se7en at Blogs Gone Wild! He came to my rescue and set me up. Without any direction from me. Surprising really, seeing as I am a technical wizard.

Really I am.

Why are you laughing, dear internet?


*I totally snaked the image off the net. If it is yours, and you want it removed or appropriate credit, let me know.

100 things you didn't want to know about me.

1. I am a retired journalist.
2. I retired after the birth of my third child.
3. My hair color used to be naturally blonde.
4. It is now naturally what ever color comes out of the box.
5. I married the love of my life.
6. I have known my husband all of my life.
7. I used to think my husband was an annoying boy with big lips and bad hair.
8. His lips are still big, but his hair is great.
9. I am the white sheep in a flock of black.
10. I love Elton John's music.
11. And Tina Turner.
12. And Louis Armstrong.
13. And Melissa Etheridge.
14. I read a book a day.
15. I held the provincial record for my time in the 1500 metre race for 7 years.
16. I no longer run.
17. My first job was at a discount clothing store. I started the day after I turned 14.
18. I managed a movie theatre for five years.
19. I hate popcorn.
20. I don't like movie theatres.
22. My brother is in a death metal band, with some small (make that miniscule) success.
23. I am a Christian.
24. I have 12 nieces and nephews.
25. Only one of them has brown hair.
26. I love them all as if they were my own children.
27. It is my goal to become their favorite auntie.
28. I am scared of big, little and medium sized dogs.
29. I love dogs.
30. I have the world's greatest dog named Nixon. A Boston Terrier who poops where he pleases.
31. I have a cat named Fanny. She rocks. She beats Nixon up on a daily basis. Nixon loves her.
32. I once ran into a Canada Goose. I cried for days.
33. I was with my husband when we hit a cow. Yes, cow. I still haven't recovered.
34. He ignored me while I cried in the car, terrified, so that he could yell at the dying cow. I'm still pissed.
35. When I was 11, I was kicked in the face by a horse.
36. I looked like the elephant girl for more than a month.
37. My best friend told me they were going to have to cut my head off.
38. I believed her.
39. We are no longer best friends.
40. My oldest child is my daughter with beautiful blonde hair.
41. I named her after a song in a movie.
42. My middle child is my son who is trying to grow his hair out, because his brother had long hair.
43. Except he doesn't have the same type of hair, thus he looks like a cross between a q-tip and a dandelion puff.
44. My youngest son had hair like his father. Beautiful, wavy blonde hair.
45. I gave him my mother's maiden name for his first name.
46. No one could pronounce it because of the spelling.
47. My youngest son was born disabled.
48. It shocked the shit out of me and my hubby.
49. I am and always will be an advocate for parents with kids who have disabilities.
50. The hubs and I are eagerly awaiting the adoption of a child with disabilities.
51. I scare the crap out of doctors.
52. Therapists love me.
53. My youngest son died Oct. 21, 2005.
54. I will never recover.
55. I lost a piece of myself the night he suddenly died.
56. He was a healthy disabled boy.
57. Or so I thought until I read his autopsy report.
58. I have another blog to be sad on.
59. http://missingmybug.blogspot.com
60. I am healing, and it feels good.
61. My husband is the best man I know.
62. I love taking pictures...even bad ones.
63. I can draw.
64. I can sew. Don't like to though.
65. I love crocheting. I am an old granny at heart.
66. I love growing things. Kids, plants, flowers.
67. I work in a greenhouse for three months a year.
68. I am deathly scared of dragonflies.
69. I have several best friends. Lovely ladies and a gorgeous guy.
70. One of them lives in a far away land.
71. I miss her.
72. I am going to get another tattoo. One day. When my husband leaves me long enough so it will heal before he returns.
73. I didn't have sex until I was 19.
74. I was drunk.
75. I was an honor student geek athlete.
76. With no boobs.
77. I have boobs now.
78. Gotta love Victoria Secret.
79. I am going on a tropical vacation next winter for our 10 year anniversary.
80. I dream of Italy.
81. I once got so many parking tickets I had to go to traffic school.
82. I am a cry baby.
83. I find this whole 100 thing extremely narcissitic.
84. We have three channels of television to choose from.
85. I'm too cheap to pay for satellite and we live too far out for cable access.
86. I love rice pudding.
87. I make a mean pie.
88. I make my own jam from fruit I grow.
89. I make my own salsa.
90. I have entirely too much time on my hands.
91. I hate cooking.
92. I plan on never cooking a turkey.
93. Why bother, when other people do it so well?
94. I love where I live.
95. I have pierced several body parts, including but not limited to my nose and ears.
96. My bedroom is purple.
97. Sounds disgusting, but really, it isn't.
98. I always wanted a black walled bedroom.
99. I grew out of that.
100. My children (dead and alive) are my happiness.

Look out Dr. Suess, here we come

Last night, my extremely round, pregnant little sister phoned to whine to me. You see, she just figured out she was going to become a mommy and it is freaking her out. (It's a good thing too, seeing how she's set to burst on or around April 5.) The thought of being responsible for another life is a little overwhelming for a young woman. No more boozing, dancing the night away, Sex-In-The-City lifestyle.

My heart broke for her. Yeah right. For the last ten years I have either been gestating, lactating or chasing a child. Where was her support? Oh, that's right dear internet. It was somewhere in the bottom of a martini glass, clutched by a sweaty hand while gyrating out on a dance floor.

But, I am not heartless. I am not fickle. I will stand by my soon-to-be-square, future soccer-mom sister.

That was until she told me the name of her child, if the child happens to be a boy.

Ric Kayden. My eight year old son's name is Fric Aiden. See the problem here?

That's right dear internet. My sister insists on turning us into the Dr. Suess family on the block.

My honey says it will be easier to remember when the Alzheimer's sets in. Always the supportive one.

*all names have been changed to pacify my husband*

The Booger monster lives here

This would be me last night chasing around my children with used kleenexes. I ask you, dear internet, what is the fun of having an eight and nine year old if you can't torment them?

My honey laments how are these kids going to grow up into mature, fully functional adults when they have a booger monster for a mother?

My daughter turned it around on me, picked her nose, and then chased me with a big, juicy booger.

Maybe my hubs has a point.

Have I got a cure for you!

My hubs believes I sometimes forget the world does not revolve around me. I know! Shocking! What is even more unbelieveable is he has the balls to say this to a cranky, p.m.s'ing, haven't-had-my-first-cup-of-java, snotty nosed woman. First thing in the morning.

You see, dear internet, this morning it is all about me. Isn't that the unwritten rule, no, the right of all festering nosed, hormonal woman who spend the majority of their lives picking up someone else's dirty socks and on their knees wiping up other people's splash?

But my husband insists I am being a whiner. Get over it, he says as he strips off his clothes to go to bed. (The same clothes I will be forced to pick up if I ever want to see the color of my floor.)

He says he has something that will make me feel better. (I instantly perk up, thinking he has been a good man, buying me drugs and all - fool that I am!)

He waggles his eyebrows, reaches down south and says:

"Peckercillin anyone?"

Alberta Advantage

As I have mentioned before, dear internet, my honey left his stable, well-paying job to chase after the Alberta dream. To work out in the oilfield. This is known to fellow Canadians as the Alberta Advantage.

I am seeing things a bit differently, however. Sure, the money he is making is ridiculous. At this rate I should be mortgage-free in no time, but I never see him. He works six days a week, 10 hour shifts, and add to that two hours of travel time a day. And then he comes home, annoys me and then goes to bed. Only to be waken by a small tornado. (Also known as our kiddies coming home from school.)

It's been two and half weeks. Let me draw you a picture. I am 30. I am woman. My husband, well he is very cute. And I have been sleeping alone for what now seems like forever. And when ever he is home and awake, small children are lurking.

I am thinking this is the dark side to the Alberta Advantage. 'Cause I am feeling distinctly disadvantaged.

Business men

I hate reality t.v. Really I do. Any and all. So ask me why last night, I sat there (like I was glued) and watched this last night. Sad. Here I am, all alone, my honey busting his tail to support us all, and my kiddies fast asleep dreaming about sugar plums and I am watching the Donald once more make an ass of himself. My life is too good to be true.


What gets me is Brent. For those of you who are smarter than me and avoid this show like the plague it is, let me enlighten you. Brent is their wannabe Canadian. Even though he lives in the U.S. Out of all the people who are Canucks who live in the U.S. they pick this guy to represent our businessmen.

I would just like to say that I see fat, frumpy men jumping about, waving their fingers, while wearing bath robes, on every street corner. It is how our dollar got so strong.

A plea for help

My honey's family gathered in my home yesterday for a kiddy party. It was good. Great even. Do you know when it was good, even great? When all 18 of them said goodbye. I know, I know, dear internet. Sounds harsh, right?

You see, I suffer from an inferiority complex with these people. His mom and dad raised a very nice, very beautiful family. There are no ugly (or mean) people in this family. A little daunting when you consider my family tree. (A little insight here: My honey hums the theme song from the movie "The Deliverance" each and every time we have a family gathering. He claims there are members of my family who should just be banjo-picking at all times. And I don't necessarily disagree. But I like to think that while my family may not be the cutest, we are the most colorful.)

I digress. His clan came over. So I had a total of 12 kiddies under the age of 10, one with special needs, four who were aged three and under and one who is ridiculously sick. Have I mentioned I live in a very small house? But for the most part, it went well. No bleeding, nothing broken and only a few soul shattering screams.

What get's me though, dear internet, is when a one of the precious little darlings takes to ignoring your "No's," acts petulantly if they are not the centre of everyone's world at all times, and in general, spoils the event for everyone. And said little darling's mother acts like nothing is wrong. (I should mention the little darling is one of the many over the age of five.)

This is something I struggle with. As does my honey. Do we tell his family member their child is obnoxious and needs to be taken down a peg or two? Or do we just silently slink off to the pantry and down shots of liquor and then pop a breath mint? This child is out of control. And so is my urge to choke said child.

Any advice dear internet?

Priceless

In the spirit of full disclosure I am posting our family portrait:




It's a thing of beauty if I say so myself. And I do. While it may not look like much to you, dearest internet, to me it represents at least an hour of whining, begging and a few sniffles. Trying to have Frac partake in anything even resembling a craft is like trying to pull a tooth from an annoyed crocodile. So this is what he came up with, and I love him all the more for it. Even if his artistic abilities will never lead to supporting me in the lifestyle which I want.

Fric, however, is the artist in the family. And she knows it. She has destroyed small forests for the amount of paper dedicated to bettering her craft. I should have shares in Crayola. I would be a very wealthy woman already. Trying to stop Fric from crafting, would be tantamount to killing her spirit. So we keep her well stocked in artistic supplies. She draws beautiful portraits (in mass quantaties) and I have high hopes that I may, oneday, ride her coattails to fame, fortune, and well, a mortgage-free property.

This is her most recent portrait of me:




The resemblance is uncanny.

It's war - and I'm not winning

I have a new mantra: I love my kids, I love my kids. You see, today was a testament to my patience, my self-esteem and my sanity (which is slowly leaking out my ears.) Let me explain.

I believe my children are conspiring against me. Like a diabolical television episode, they have hatched a plan to drive me to an early grave. Or, perhaps, just out of the house.

It all started late this afternoon. After busting my hump cleaning up after my tribe, well, I stunk. So I hopped into the shower and began my grooming rituals. After emerging, fresh like a newly grown spring tulip, I went to my bedroom to dress myself. Where Frac was playing video games. Now we are a pretty open family. Nudity is not a big deal. And while I don't flaunt myself, I am not going to hide either. Afterall, this is my bedroom. I proceeded to get dressed. No big deal. Underwear, check. Pants, check. And as I bend over to pull on my socks, my son looks up and innocently asks "Are your boobs supposed to be long and hangy like that?"

Now tell me, internet, what would any self-loving momma do?

Well, I don't know so I'll tell you what I did. I threw my towel over his head, told him a woman's body is beautiful no matter what form it takes, and said "Don't you have any homework to do?"

I promise you dear internet, never again will my son see my naked, sagging, danglers ever again. Effectively killed my whole-open-with-nudity-attitude in one fell swoop I tell you!

But it gets worse.

Fric gets in on the action.

She needs help with her homework after supper. So I pull up a stool, right next to her. I am helping; feeling ridiculously grateful that I still remember grade four math. When I look up from checking her homework I realize that she is staring at me. Intently. So I ask her, "What, do I have a booger?" as I check my nose.

"No, silly!" she responds. And then she giggles. I'm curious now, so (stupid me) I prod.

"What? Tell me," I whine.

"Well," Fric replies, "I was just wondering if, when I grow old like you, will I have stripes on my forehead too?"

I primly inform her that those were frown lines, not stripes, and they were hard won. And then I told her to never forget the sunscreen.

So do you understand dear internet? They have declared war on my self-esteem. What's a saggy titted, striped mother to do?

Reasons I love him

Ever have one of those days? When you know, from the moment you step out of bed, that things are not going to go your way?

Welcome to my world. I opened my eyes to find the world as I knew it had been replaced by a winter wonderland. Breathtaking, much needed moisture. And a pain in my ass. Because I am now snowed in. Not that I had plans to go anywhere, but still, there is always the possibility someone could offer a fabulous invitation. (Yes, I know I am dreaming, but allow me my fantasies.)

The floor was freaking cold. I had a shitty sleep. Coffee would make it better, right? Except I forgot to buy some. Empty tin. Cuss words abound. I thought my world was going to end. My lovely and talented nine yr old gently (and irritatingly) reminded me I was acting like a two year old.

The day got better when my lovely better half not only shoveled my car out of the endless abyss of snow, but ran and got me coffee. And flavored creamer. Not an easy feat when you live 20 mins from the nearest store. And the snow plows hadn't got out of bed yet.

He then proceeded to read all my favorite blogs with me before going to bed.

I knew there was a reason I loved him.