Pass the Puns, Please

Happy Sunday, dear internet. It has been a long week, so a groaner is much needed and well deserved. Like a fine wine, this one may need to breathe a bit, to be fully appreciated! Enjoy!


These two blokes are lost in the Sahara desert. They're desperate for water, but just as they think they're about to die, they chance upon a village where market day is in full swing.

They go to the first stall they see and ask if they can buy some water. "No," replies the Bedouin stall owner, "I only sell fruit. Try the next stall."

So off they go to the next stall and again they ask for water. "Sorry," says the merchant, "But I only sell custard." Custard? one of the blokes says to the other, "What kind of place is this?"

By now desperate, they go to the next stall, only to be told, "Sorry, but I only sell jelly." Hearing this, one of the blokes turns to the other and says, "This is a trifle bazaar."

The Hairless Pussy

There are certain things I have decided not to blog about. Boundaries I have set to help maintain my privacy and ensure that you, dear internet, do not think I am the world's biggest bozo. Things like the fact I bought a brand new digital camera about a month ago, and have yet to hook it up to my precious computer, because, well, I don't know how. And if I ask my darling hubs, he'll laugh his ass off all the way to the silly shack. I have decided not to blog about the general state of affairs between me and my mommy. Too damn depressing. Or the fact that my hub's family is just about as screwed up as my own. Isn't every family fvcked beyond redemption anyhow? I try not to blog about the overwhelming lack of support my family has showered upon my husband, kids and I since our angelboy flew away. It's hard to see through the tears and type at the same time.

I try not to blog bad things about my kids. Things like the fact both my kids resemble Bucky the Beaver and are going to cost me more in orthodontia equipment than my mortgage did. It's not their fault they have crooked teeth. Some might point out, that it is mine and my hubs. I try not to complain about the staggering amount of rotted apples and bananas my son tends to hide in his closet. The kid doesn't like fruit. But he can be highly creative when it comes to making it disappear. I try to see the bright side of this problem. I try not blog about my daughter's irritating habit of cutting papers into a billion tiny pieces and then scattering them around her room like confetti. Always a party when you're nine, right?

I try hard not to complain about my brilliant and beautiful husband. Because, let's face it, he reads this blog. And he works his ass off every day so that I can bitch about my neighbors. And the only thing he ever asks for is, well, more like offers everday, is his peckercillin. Really, what more could I ask for?

But when I found this cartoon, I could hold off no longer. You see dear internet, for the past two months I have been busting my ass working at a local greenhouse. The owner is a friend of mine who believes in plant therapy. She thinks if I get my arse off the couch, and stop staring at the computer screen, my grief will diminish. And she was sort of right. My grief hasn't diminished, but my ability to cope has increased. And I have lost ten pounds and gained girly biceps along the way. So it is all good, right?

Wrong. I have discovered my love of flowers in no way overpowers my hatred of manual labour. But why blog about it? Doesn't everyone hate their jobs? And at the end of May, I no longer am employed. I will be free to lounge in my pool and pluck my weeds. So I have deferred from blogging about my job.

But this cartoon, makes it impossible to say no. I MUST blog. You see, the greenhouse is ruled by several four legged creatures. A dog who is deaf, hates kids and tries to bite the wind. But he is cute, he likes me and he eats my apple cores, so I'll leave Winston alone. Then there are the cats. Mr. Burns and Smithers, who are a little fat, and do nothing but purr all day. We also have Maverick who has an affinity for mousing and then leaving the carcasses where I continually crunch them. Lovely but normal.

But then there is the cat from hell, aptly named Hobbes. This cat stalks me, terrorizes me and plays mind games with me. He sits on the flowers I am trying to transplant and he thinks my arms are meat bones for him to chew on. I have so many cuts, and scratches from that damn cat that when I see him on the driveway I wish I was in my car so I could mow him down. Hobbes had matted, long orange fur which he would perpetually choke up in a nice hair ball and deposit it where I could see it.

Not anymore, dear internet. The damned pussy tat was shaved. And a funnier site I have never seen. Now everytime I dodge his swiping paws or jump to avoid being bitten, I just laugh and walk away. Hard to be mad at a hairless kitty. And it really pisses him off.

Hee hee. Revenge is sweet Hobbes. Next time, you'll think twice about who you sink your little claws into.

***I can't wait to see how many perverts visit my blog when they Google hairless pussy. Sorry to disappoint you dudes, but perhaps you should get your mind out of the gutter. ***

Hillbilly Wars - For the Record

Last night we had an unexpected visitor. The hillbilly's new puppy came over and decided to check us out. I find this ironic as Mrs. Hillbilly used to screech at me like a flesh-eating banshee whenever my golden retriever used to wander over to visit them. As I was petting their giant, slobbering, stupid Rottweiler puppy named Wolfgang, it occurred to me that perhaps I haven't given the hillbilly's next door fair representation on my blog. There are people out there who may believe I live next door to ape-like critters.

I do. But that is besides the point. They have feelings too. Even when they are demanding I pick up the garbage their dog scattered and dragged home. Or when Mr. Hillbilly is peeing on my feet. Or when their son whips into my drive way and punches my 58 year old father for not signalling when my dad turned into my driveway. (I shit you not. But in fairness to the kid, he was stoned. It is hard to see straight with all that mojo flowing through your system.)

I'm sure Mrs. Hillbilly had feelings when she told me I diluted the gene pool with my youngest son. I mean, who wouldn't be upset to find out the new neighbor choose to breed and brought home, gasp, a disabled baby. Property values plummet all the time, I'm sure, due to the handicapped.

And I absolutely believe that Missy Hillbilly, who at fourteen, had crushing feelings when she drove her ATV up and down our road while yelling obscenities and the occasional death threat to Fric and Frac. When my husband caught her doing it, she explained that the, then 6 and 7 year old, kiddies were very annoying on the school bus, what with them wanting her to play video games with them. She was overwhelmed. We all know how two little kids who want to be nice to you can kill your social life. Nothing kills the "Badass Bitch" look one tries valiantly to cultivate easier than being nice to people under four feet tall.

So you see dear internet, I haven't been all that fair to my hillbilly neighbors next door. I haven't taken into consideration their frustration with having rednecks for neighbors. I haven't provided balance along with my insight. So I apologize, dear internet. And I am here to set the record straight.

The hillbilly neighbors have feelings, too.

My Apologies

I just wanted you all to know that I have resisted as long as possible. I gave it a valiant effort. I fought the good fight. I waged a battle, but lost the war. That's right, dear internet, I'm giving up the ghost. Kicking the cat. (All other analogies have just fled my mind, presumably in order to protect your sensitive eyes.)

I am turning on shudder, word verification. I tried my best to resist, but in the end, it was just too much. Those anonymous bastards are just too insidious. So far I have been offered scholarships, loans, mortgages and degrees on line. My personal favorite though, was from a dear guy named Yurity who offered to tell me the location of free porn on line. How thoughtful. And let's face it, it's been a lonely week; if I thought I could blog and personally massage myself without somehow harming myself or my precious computer, I probably would. However, seeing how I forgot to stand in line when they were passing out the coordination and ambidextrous talents when I was little, I had to pass on his charitable offer.

So don't hate me because I am asking you all to type and then retype the freaky little letters Blogger puts forth to protect us bloggy folk from unwanted spammers like Yurity. I'm doing it for you too. Because if any more of those dastardly porn offers float my way, there is no telling who is going to get hurt. Me - or my husband. Who will want to know why his wife suddenly finds blogging so stimulating.

Monday Morning Massacre

Guess what I did yesterday? No, it wasn't blog, read my favorite blogs or even go near my precious computer. It wasn't bonding with my children, shopping for clothes or even cleaning my house. No, instead, picture me going to open up my deep freeze to pull out a package of grade A Alberta beef for supper later that night, only to realize, hmm, that's a funny smell. And what is that, is that, oh no, it is, a pool of blood at the bottom of my freezer. Oh oh. That's right, dear internet. My deep freeze was in the deep thaw. And I was in deep shit.

After slamming the lid down, like any good wife would do, I started yelling for my hubs. After all, I wasn't going wading in a puddle of melted blood, animal carcasses and bags of unfrozen vegetables and fruit without him. It smelled like the interior of a butcher shop and looked like someone had been massacred inside my freezer. Call me crazy, but this is one of those events that definitely falls into the category "For better of for worse." After dragging his sorry butt from bed, he then proceeded to not only pick the underwear from his ass, but tell me, and I quote: "It's a puzzle." No shit Sherlock, but who the hell is going to clean the fvcking puzzle up, because it certainly wasn't going to be me.

Turns out, it was me. Surprise! After my husband deduced the freezer wasn't broken, merely unplugged, he figured out it must have been the guys who cleaned my furnace and my ducts. Four days ago. While getting my ducts cleaned sounds kinky, (and the guy did have the most beautiful blue eyes) just thinking of the surprise he left for me takes the fun out of the kink. Bastard.

But no one can say he didn't screw me over. And let's face it, for a Monday, it was the most action anyone in this house got.


Update: The furnace dude, with the pretty blue eyes, came back and handed a fairly large check over to me, to cover the costs of replacing the spoilage. My rat bastard husband, however, never lifted a finger to help me clean out the deep freeze. I am currently plotting my revenge. But until I come up with a satisfactorily devious plan, you can bet your sweet bucks that he is not getting any!

Pass the Puns, Please

Good morning blogosphere. After my hair-raising week, (sorry Lance, I couldn't resist) I believe a real groaner is needed. With out any further ado, enjoy!

A man is dining in a fancy restaurant and there is a gorgeous redhead sitting at the next table. He has been checking her out since he sat down, but lacks the nerve to talk with her. Suddenly, she sneezes and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket towards the man. He reflexively reaches out, grabs it out of the air, and hands it back. "Oh my, I am so sorry," the woman says as she pops her eye back in place. "Let me buy your dinner to make it up to you, " she says.

They enjoy a wonderful dinner together, and afterwards they go to the theater followed by drinks. They talk, they laugh, she shares her deepest dreams and he shares his. She listens. After paying for everything, she asks him if he would like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast. They had a wonderful, wonderful time. The next morning, she cooks a gourmet meal with all the trimmings. The guy is amazed! ! Everything had been SO incredible!!!

"You know," he said, "you are the perfect woman. Are you this nice to every guy you meet?"

"No," she replied, "You just happened to catch my eye."

Shocked!

Some of you may have noticed that I have been posting somewhat infrequently over this past week. For all three of you, I thank you. My brother-in-law went and got himself electrocuted and well, the fur has been flying since. Don't worry, the doctors believe he will be fine, but after four days of hand-holding and helping with the neices and nephew, I am officially exhausted.

It is also very hard for me not to try and make fun of dear ole brother-in-law. How often does something like this fall into a person's lap? It is taking every ounce of self-control I have, not to post the cartoon I found on the net. But I am trying to treat this incident with the gravity it deserves. He did almost die after all. But oh, the jokes, they are flying through my mind at lightening speed. And they do say that humor is the best medicine. So this would be something like shock therapy right? (Sorry, I just couldn't resist.)

I am off to have a nap now, and since our family crisis has passed, I promise I will return to my regular posting schedule. If anyone cares...

Peek-a-poo!

When I was nineteen, I went out for lunch with my neighbor and her two children. I really liked this woman, I thought she hung the moon. She was a hip mom, she listened to cool music, drove a convertible, and dressed like a fox. She was the antithesis to my mother and the very image of the type of mother I hoped to oneday be. That was, until she finished off the half eaten, drooled-into-mush remains of a hamburger her two year old couldn't finish. I remember looking at her in horror, and her laughing at me. She told me when you are a mother, your kid's drool won't bother you. I didn't believe her then, but three kids and buckets of spit later, I do now.

I get that with mothering comes wiping green snotty goobers with kleenexes (or if it's an emergency, using your sleeve.) I even can eat the salivated mushy remains of their dinner (but let's face it, I am never that hungry that I feel the need to.) I don't flinch when a kid takes a swig of my drink and I watch as the backwash floats into my cup. You can sneeze on me, pee on me, even puke on me, and I understand this is what it means to be a mother.

I know that when there is a mutant turd in the tub, the job falls to me to clean it up. When a sliver needs extraction, a blister needs bursting, a wound needs washing, I know this is what a mom does.

I understand all this, I even invite it. I love being a mom. But I would just like to know, is why, oh why, can I not pee in peace? Is it too much to ask to be able to wipe my arse in private? Why must you ask me a question just as I am sitting on the throne? Did you not notice I was in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet? Is the closed door really code for "throw the door wide open and barge in to ask if you can have yet another cookie?"

I signed on for a lot of things when I gave birth, but I must have missed the chapter on this.

They really Love each other

With the end of April rapidly approaching, I can no longer take my ostrich approach to getting my taxes done. It is time to get my head out of the sand and dig in to the mess I call my financial papers. Generally, I am a keener, the first in line to get my taxes done, the first to brag about getting a refund back. This year, however, the thought of sifting through all the papers and receipts is almost too much to bear. I fear any reminder of the child I lost could set back all the progress my hubs and I have made. But the tax man waits for no one, grieving mothers included. So I did what any responsible citizen would do, I grabbed a bottle of the good stuff and a box of kleenex, and attempted to tackle the mountain of paper which I had heaped in my closet and ignored since October.

Now normally, I am hyper-organized. Much like Monica on Friends, I like everything in it's place. But things quickly got out of hand after the funeral. Instead of bills and receipts being filed away in their appropriate folders, they were stacked on top of condolence cards, homework, junk mail and basically any other piece of paper that found it's way into my home in the last six months.

A bottle of vino, and a few tissues later, I had it all stacked and sorted. And it wasn't near as painful as I thought it would be. (That could be attributed to either my iron-like fortitude, or the fact that I was downing a fifty dollar bottle of wine. Who knows.) In the end, I was left with all of my tax related papers, a stack of well wishes and one or two reminders why I chose to have children in the first place.

Amongst various poetic ditties and Picasso-like art pieces, I discovered my son's ode to his sister. Perhaps I should worry. But I think, unless the eggs start disappearing, we will survive.

Making his Dreams come true

As it was my husband's birthday yesterday, he got to choose where we dined for his celebratory dinner. With a little whining, and prodding, wouldn't you know, he picked my favorite restaurant. It's a nice little place; great Cajun cuisine. It was a win-win for everyone involved, because I got to eat my favorite food and my hubs got to ogle the girls who work at the Hooters across the street. See how everyone walked away happy?

After our dinner, the hubs decided he wanted to take me shopping. I know, shocking, a man who likes to shop. You see, dear internet, my hubs is a wily fox. After downing numerous beer and ogling the chickies from Hooters, he was getting himself in the mood. I did promise after all, that Mr. Pickle may be able to play. My hubs was intent on making that promise a reality.

So a stroll through the local mall ensued. Where my husband would proceed to drag me into every swimsuit shop and lingerie boutique he could find. We have a pool and I haven't bought myself a suit in over four years. Apparently, my man is tired of looking at the demure, blue flowered one piece I currently own. I discovered he would much rather prefer to see me in a pink string bikini, where my arse can sag and my flabby white thighs can wiggle like jello. And A-cups. Of course they are meant to be shoved under flimsy pieces of fabric with no support. Nothing like rolling up the ole beaver tails...

But as it was my hubs birthday and this is what he wanted to do, I played along and modeled the suits he would choose for me. Imagine me struggling to squeeze into these numbers under the fluorescent lights only to come out to twirl around for my darling. Apparently, my sniggering and sarcastic remarks, along with my white socks which I refused to remove, made it hard for him to get in the mood. Poor baby.

In the end, I walked away with two new suits, a lovely red gingham number and the pink string bikini which will never see the light of day. But when my hubs was wandering, I managed to sneak in something special for him. His very own Speedo. And it is sparkly. Silver and black. He hasn't seen it yet, but I imagine Mr. Pickle will fit snug as a bug in it.

The day he insists I wear that silly string bikini will be the day I haul out his new Speedo. It will either kill his wet dreams, or we will be the tragic couple on the beach, with both our bellies hanging loose and our pasty white skin advertising our Redneck ways. I warn you now: Cover your eyes!

Ode to Boo

Thirty one years ago today, my mother-in-law huffed and puffed her youngest son into existence. That's right, dear internet, it's my husband's birthday.

In honor of such a holiday, I am dedicating this post to Boo, my man. When you were six and you wore that horrible brown and orange striped shirt and insisted I sit on the horse with you, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that I wanted to sit with your older, cuter brother. You just made me hold on tight.

When you were 15 and you hammered my last nail into the post that I asked you not to, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that I hurled said hammer at you with the intent of killing you. You merely ducked.

When you were 17 and my mother asked you to be my date for my prom, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that I refused to dance with you and barely talked to you all evening. You smiled anyway.

When you were 18 and the officer wanted to know if the lady in the backseat, without her shirt on, was alright, you loved me. It didn't matter to you that the big ole' man had a Billy club to your chest and a flashlight in your face. You learned to pick a more remote spot for our make out sessions.

When you were 21 and you walked down the aisle to say "I do", you loved me. It didn't matter that you were marrying in to the most dysfunctional family you ever met. You were happy to become the zoo keeper.

When you were 30 and I told you our son died, you loved me. It didn't matter that our world shattered in the beat of a heart, you held my hand and wiped my eyes. You soldiered on for me, and our kids.

I don't know what the next 31 years will bring, and to be honest, I don't care. Because as long as I have you by my side, kicking and screaming, I can handle anything. I love you Boo. Always have. It just took me a few years to know it.

Happy Birthday big guy. If you play your cards right, Mr. Pickle might be allowed to come out and play.

Pass the Puns, Please

Easter morning has arrived. For my family this means putting your shoes on and squishing the egg you forgot you shoved in there; turning on the dryer only to later discover melted chocolate all over everything along with bits of foil and of course, funky colored hands from dipping the egg into the dye, dropping it and having to fish it out with your fingers. And let's not forget for the next few weeks, finding and picking up that damned Easter grass from the baskets. Ahh, Easter, how I love it!

As it is a holiday, consider this your easter treat from your friendly, neighborhood Redneck mommy. A groaner for you, with a side of cheese...

The family of tomatoes
A family of three tomatoes were walking downtown one day when the little baby tomato started lagging behind. The big father tomato walks back to the baby tomato, stomps on her, squashing her into a red paste, and says, "Ketchup!"

Happy Easter everyone!

Just Drown me in the Gravy, Please

With the big Easter celebration looming tomorrow, I am bracing myself against my family's habit of bringing up old memories and beating them to death like a dusty rug. Family dinners consist of turkey, ham and apple pie served with a side of smart remarks.

Is it my fault I have Spock shaped ears? And when I say this, I am being polite. My husband tells everyone I am part elven. My ears are so pointy that when I brought my daughter to the plastic surgeon to have her ears pinned back (they stuck out so much we almost lost her a few times when the wind picked up) the doctor offered to correct mine. My brother still insists on calling me Spock. I use to try to discourage this behavior by kneeing him in the groin, but as he is now freakishly tall, I can't reach that high.

Another favorite dinner torture topic will surely be the fact that I am the only blond in a sea of brunettes. Of course, I now pay good money to look like Jessica and Brittany, but as a younger, prettier version of myself, I was the only toe head around. Why my siblings find this amusing is beyond me. No, I am not the mailman's kid. The fact that I am (sadly) a spitting image of my grandfather should be clue enough. However, no one can accuse my family of brilliancy.

So while my brother and sister are trying to annoy me about my appearance, my husband is bound to jump on this bandwagon. Because to him, there is no such thing as the sanctity of marriage. He'll remind everyone, while sporting a big shit-eating grin about my freaky toes. Not only are they long, but they are so hairy I have them waxed. His flexible wife has monkey feet. All I need is a tail to make his fantasy complete.

Then of course, my father will chime in. He will go into great detail the time when I was 16 and decided to get myself an older boyfriend. Don't panic, dear internet, he was only 19. He was beautiful. Daddy was worried about my virtue one night (because apparently sitting on the front steps in front of a very large window with your parents watching every move you make will lead to amorous rounds of sex.) Dad decided to chase my beautiful beau off (literally) by calling him names and threatening to kill him. All while chasing him down the block wearing nothing but his tighty-whiteys. My dad, not my boyfriend. It was a proud moment. And I never heard from that beautiful chicken shit again.

Somewhere between pass the peas and the inevitable fight over the last bun, my mother will have to bring up the fact that I looked like the elephant girl for over a month when I walked behind a horse and startled it. I don't remember anything, but my mother likes to drag out pictures of my bruised and broken face to amuse the company.

My kids, being the traitors they are, will inevitably contribute their two cents. Nothing like sporting with Mommy's pride. They will likely bring up the fact that their mother has a name that should never be spoken. Not just a bad choice for a girl, but a hideous moniker that need never be uttered. This name is so bad that when I was 18 I tried to have it changed. The family uproar was so great I backed down, only after extracting promises from every family member never to speak this name again. My children however, like to shout it from the roof tops. I should have never given birth.

The entire time I am the family's whipping post, I will be calling them names in Japanese. And I know more than my share of wicked ones. Thank you Akiko. All the while, I will be slinging back the red wine. Because isn't that how everyone survives family celebrations?

My thanks to Her Bad Mother for tagging me to dig in to the dark recesses of my past and tell the blogosphere about six wildly uninteresting facts about myself. And yes, I do realize I posted seven. In for a penny, in for a pound. I'm off to brush up on my Japanese.

Hillbilly Wars - Gone to the Dogs

When I first met my hillbilly neighbors, they seemed normal. Keep in mind, normal is relative. Most people would find my version of normal a tad alarming. Mr. Hillbilly neighbor has er, orthodontic problems to be polite. But scary teeth aren't strange as my father hasn't sat in a dentist chair in over 30 years and I don't think he knows what a toothbrush is. Mrs. Hillbilly neighbor likes to parade around in a tube top and cut off jeans. I believe she likes to pretend she is the Canadian version of Daisy Duke. If you can ignore the sagging, the bagging and the wildly frizzy, blonde-from-a-box hair, and squint just right, perhaps there is a resemblance.

But after spending my life with people my husband insists should be banjo-picking at all times, a little halitosis and a delusional personality won't scare me off. (Sort of reminds me of family.) In hindsight, perhaps it should have. Then I met the Hillbilly dog. Now, if ever a there was a dog born with two sticks shy of a full stack, this dog would be it. But it's a dog, and it's not my dog, so what's not to love, right dear internet?

In retrospect, the hillbilly wars all began with the hillbilly dog. Perhaps there would be love between us rednecks and them hillbillies if not for their dog. (And perhaps my hair will return to it's natural blonde state and I will grow five inches by tomorrow. Doubtful.) It all began when we brought home our angelboy from the hospital. As any baby will do, he filled his britches. Over and over again. We bundled up his soiled diapers and placed them in the garbage, where twice a week, my hubs would cart our waste to the local landfill station.

After three or four weeks of diaper duty, we noticed the hillbilly dog was getting into our garbage. He figured out how to pop open the garbage shed's door and rifle through our litter. Not a big deal, just a pain in our ass, so being the good neighbors we are, we didn't complain, we just fixed the door. A few days later, the hillbillies phoned us and asked if we had a baby. When we said yes they demanded we come over to their yard and clean up the diapers the doggie dragged home and deposited on their front lawn. Apparently, said dog had a poop fetish. (Funny, after weeks of picking up garbage that was scattered by the that damned dog, we never noticed the diapers were missing.) Sadly, we had to turn down their offer to come to their house and clean up the mess their dog made with our diapers.

Needless to say, the neighbors were annoyed by our charitable donations and my once friendly, orthodontically challenged and delusional neighbors turned into a pair of frosty hillbillies. The proverbial shit started to fly. And five years later, our relationship has gone to the dogs. Perhaps I need another baby so that I may make peace offerings.

**There is more on the Hillbilly dog, involving dead chickens and a pool, but in an effort to avoid an epic post, it will have to wait for another installment of the Hillbilly Wars.**

My dirty laundry

I hate laundry. Which is somewhat ironic since I am a clothes-horse. But buying and wearing clothes are distinctly different than washing, folding and putting away said clothes. It is a burden I mostly shoulder alone. Sometimes, if I am extremely lucky, my hubs will place his soiled linen at the foot of the bed, instead of kicking it under the bed.

I am trying to train my kiddies. They know to put their clothes in the laundry basket; not to put balled-up socks in the washer and to empty their pockets. (We had a disastrous incident involving bubble gum, rocks and a dead frog - all in the same load.) If I bribe them right, (translation, threaten to hang them by their toenails and withhold nourishment) they will even help put away laundry and fold the endless stream of mismatched socks, all the while muttering curse words under their breath.

All of this help does little to stem my hatred for laundry. But as the Mom, the job falls to me. So, I spend the better part of a day sorting, washing, folding, stacking and swearing as my piles slowly diminish. Yesterday, I noticed my son only had 2 pairs of undies in the wash. I haven't done laundry in over a week. He has bathed every night. WTF??? And let me tell you, these undies had some serious stainage on the back side.

Does this mean, in nine days and after nine baths, my darling son put the same dirty undies on his freshly washed body? And what's with the stains? Does he have a gastrointestinal problem I need to be aware of? Or does he have an aversion to tee-pee? Is this a boy thing no one tells you about?

I am going to choose to believe he prefers going commando and this is not a reflection on my parenting skills.

A picture's worth a 1000 words

As a parent, I have struggled many times to find the right words to answer the endless barrage of questions my kiddies ask. When they asked why the sky was blue, I struggled. When they asked why one had a penis and the other a vagina, I struggled. When they asked how the car worked, I struggled. I wanted to find the right words to help their budding brains understand the world around them. But alas, I wasn't the most accurate resource for them to look to. After all, being peppered with a million "why's" a day can lead to insanity. So in a moment of weakness (one of many, I confess) I told them the sky was blue because that was the only crayon left in the box; I told them I made one with a penis and one with a vagina so I could tell them apart and, like the clueless female I am, I told them to go ask their father how a car works.

Holidays are trickier. Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth fairy have all been a pain in my ass. As a Christian, I don't like the idea of feeding them fairy tales to explain the holidays. (And yes, losing a tooth around here is a considered a holiday.) But as a mom, and a girl who grew up with the jolly red fat man, the big bunny and the flying fairy, it was important for me not to deny my kids these experiences. Let them choose what they want to believe instead of forcing my opinions down their throats.

So I had to get creative. When they asked me if Santa was real, I avoided the question like the bubonic plague. I used diversion tactics. "Is Santa real? Let's see? Oh, look at these candy canes. Don't they look good. Would you like one?" And then I would stuff them full of sugar. You see, dear internet, everyone wins.

But they are aging now. And they are growing more clever. And I am getting more arthritic and creaky so it is hard to slip into their rooms in the dead of the night to pretend to be the tooth fairy. Last time I tried to put money under my son's pillow he woke up in a panic and thought I was trying to smother him. It was fairly traumatic for all parties involved.

But I believe I may have found the perfect solution to the Easter bunny dilemma. When they ask if the Easter bunny is real, and where did he come from, (because let's face it, we all know they are going to) I am just going to show them this picture. Because pictures don't lie. And neither does their mom.

Just Desserts

Having survived the plague, death looks from my wimpy husband, 17 hours trapped in a small room with my labouring sister and my overbearing mother, I was feeling rather invincible. Drunk with lack of sleep and the euphoria of finally being able to leave hell (also known as the hospital) I was giddy with excitement to rejoin my family. My real family that is. My hubs, who loves me no matter how crusty my nose is, my kids who think I walk on water and my cat, who to be quite honest, couldn't give a flying fig about me. Let's not forget about my imaginary puppy, while not born yet, does exist inside some poor mommy dog's tummy and is eagerly waiting to join our family. My imaginary puppy loves me too.

In my haste to return to my haven of love, I may have stepped on my vehicle's accelerator with a beautifully pedicured lead foot. I may have missed the carefully posted signage which indicates the speed one is allowed to travel at while on a certain road. I may have noticed flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. I may have pulled over and handed my license and registration to a very young and extremely handsome officer. I may have tried batting my eyes and pushing up my girls. I may have been woefully ignored. I may have received a fine of $172 bucks for my trouble. I may be in deep shit when I tell my husband.

I, also, may have learned something important: Do not speed when you haven't showered or changed your underwear in over 24 hours. Because no matter how cute you think you are, you can never pull it off. Just ask the officer who is laughing his ass off remembering the Redneck mommy trying to flirt her pathetic self out of a speeding ticket. I swear he added $25 bucks on to my fine just to reward my efforts.

Thank God for Babies

I, Redneck Mommy, am now the proud aunty to my first raven haired nephew.

It wasn't an easy birth and to be honest, being back in a hospital did nothing to ease the grief I am feeling for my son. But how does a person not melt when they look into the eyes of a newborn infant, so full of promise and joy?

So while I may not be able to poke fun at my pregnant sister anymore, I will be able to find other gems of amusement as she fumbles through the trials of first time parenting, much like I did ten years ago.

But tonight, I'll cut her some slack and tell her how much I love her and my newly named Dr. Suess nephew. Yes, dear internet, we now have a Fric and a Ric. And I am trying to be cool about it.

Right now, I am too damn tired and proud to care.

Wrestling with his demon

In a moment of true marital support, my hubs has taken pity on my snotty-state and decided to help around the house. Last night, he brought home supper, helped with the dishes and bathed the kids. All the while running to meet my needs, every time I opened my mouth to whine "Boo, can you...." He did all of this and with a smile on his handsome face too. How lucky am I?

I'll answer my own question. Pretty lucky. Let's face it, my husband may have gotten the short end of the marital stick last night. It's not like I'm at my hottest, what with the crusty boogers, red nose, and whiney attitude. And while we are talking appearances, I should mention the nasty nursing scrubs I was wearing, my hair hadn't been combed in two days and I wasn't wearing a bra. Amazing how far south two little A's can point. Not such a pretty picture, right dear internet?

Besides my beast-like appearance, my hubs kept slathering on the affection, like the well-trained husband he is. And this morning he proved what a darling he is when he got up to get the kids off to school, all while I lay in bed and whined some more.

I should have figured his patience was running thin when I pointed out the orange juice didn't have any pulp and I specifically asked for pulp. His jaw muscle started to twitch and his left eye started to water. The straw that broke the camel's back was when I sent back the toast my hubs had so kindly prepared for me. Not because I wasn't hungry, but because it was too brown at the edges. (I'll admit to being a cow about this, but who wants to eat burnt toast?)

After scraping my toast, he slammed down my plate and informed me he had somewhere to be. With a quick kiss to the top of my head, he scurried off like the rat he is. Leaving me to drag my ass off the couch to get my own water. Bastard. But as he left I swear I heard him muttering unkind words about me.

So if you see the crazy man on the park bench, muttering about killing his snotty-nosed wife, think back to this post. You might be seeing my husband. Who I have systematically driven crazy with my pathetic, sick, wifey demands.

Germ warfare

This week's edition of the Hillbilly Wars has been postponed. I know, dear internet, you are heart broken. Because, really, how can your life continue without knowing the antics of my hillbilly neighbor's dog? I apologize to anyone (and let's face it, there aren't many) who actually care.

But as it turns out, I am fighting the plague. And the plague seems to be winning. My darling daughter, who has been fighting a strep infection for the better part of three months, has infected me. Remind me again, why I chose to breed? Now, now, don't be alarmed. I still love her mucous spreading, germ loving ways. I just wish she had gifted them on someone else, like say, her abnormally resilient father.

The Hillbilly Wars will return to it's regulary scheduled time next week for any who are interested. That is, if I survive the whining and sniffling of the following few days. Because, I'll admit I am the world's biggest baby when I am sick and I may be handing my husband a motive for murder with all of my germy wimpiness.

I plan on spending the next few hours maneuvering around my nose. Nobody tells you how to blow it when there is a big metal earring for which snot can crust on to when you are sick. Apparently, I may not have thought this nose thing through. Hmmm...

Dashing the dreams...

As a parent, I believe it is my duty to put my kid's well being ahead of my own, at all times. And I try to do this every day. I like to believe I am not screwing my kiddies up beyond a therapist's reach. On that note, last night my parenting skills took a decided turn to in the direction of "what the hell was I thinking?" In a moment of lapsed parental judgment, I decided to allow the kids to watch King Kong with me last night. Because I am the world's biggest baby, and watching a monster movie with dinosaurs, alone in the dark, would make me cry.

But my senses did not entirely flee me. I exacted promises from Fric and Frac that no matter how hairy things got, they would not have nightmares. Because at ages eight and nine, they can control their sleeping selves. My kids are no dummies. They readily agreed. Why not? They knew I was breaking a parental law my hubs and I had agreed upon. No violent, scary, age-inappropriate viewing material ever. Unless of course, hubs is at work and I really want to see a violent, scary, age-inappropriate movie. (To make myself look better in this post, I will point out that the hubs believes Harry Potter is too scary for my kids, although they have both read the books.)

It was a proud moment for me. My kids held my hand and cuddled me close during the more intense moments of the movie. (Dinosaurs terrify me.) And when the movie was over they toddled off to bed, to enjoy a blissful sleep, unfettered by visions of hairy apes and large-fanged dinosaurs.

I, however, didn't sleep a wink. And when the hubs crawled into bed I was positive it was Kong trying to snatch me away.

Consequently, I look and feel absolutely wonderful this morning. And my darling husband informed me that maybe I have learned a valuable lesson.

Perhaps I have. Next time, after viewing an inappropriate movie, I'll crawl in bed with my kiddies so they can chase away my boogie man. 'Cuz my husband won't do it for me.

Raising Boobs

Watching my sister gestate her future spawn, has put me in a contemplative mood as of late. It is no secret that I love my kids. With an all consuming, I'd-do-any-thing-even-die-for-you, type of love. But I lost sight of this feeling a few months back when I was eye deep in grief. Don't get me wrong dear internet, I knew I loved my remaining kids, I just couldn't feel anything but pain. But life creeps on, with or without all your babies. And joy is slowly starting to edge it's way back into my life. Laughter feels great, not just hollow anymore. Blogging has helped. This blog in fact, has helped me remember my life's joy. My other blog has helped me cope with my pain. If there was a way to blend the two, I'd do it. But I am happy with the status quo.

So it was with great delight when I spied,lurked happened upon my daughter in her bedroom this morning. Fric is nine going on 30. Beautiful long blond hair, and legs as skinny as a new born colt. Poor thing. If she's anything like me, she won't hit puberty until 15. Which means she'll be the girl boys refer to as their "Carpenter's dream." Flat as a board and never been nailed. (God willing!) While her dad and I are happy, no - make that thrilled, to be raising a slow developer, Fric is beginning to feel the peer pressure of the young.

It must be tough to be surrounded by girls who already wear bra's and know what pantyliners are for, at age NINE! So Fric is desperate to encourage her own "growth." She is convinced she can help make this happen if she eats a lot of processed cheese and talks nicely to God. Which is what I found her doing this morning in front of her mirror. Pretending to be Pam Anderson and pleading with God to bestow breasts upon her.

I am so glad I grew up. I am going to sit back and enjoy my children's romp through puberty, or in my daughter's case, pseudo-puberty. But I won't be her kill-joy. Because who wants to know that their mother was every boy's Carpenter's Dream until aged 17?

**Sorry pic is so small, Blogger won't let me post it bigger. **

Serendipity

Sunday afternoon, the Gods of Serendipity smiled down upon me. Some things you just cannot dream up. Allow me to explain. It was just days ago I told you, dear internet, about my Hillbilly neighbor's pissing power and our puddy-tat problem. A problem we have not had since that fateful summer. But I must have tempted fate by letting you in on the inner workings of rural redneck living. Imagine my surprise when a familiar red, battered pickup truck weaved his way up my drive way yesterday afternoon.

Evidently, my hillbilly neighbors have been hearing a lot of crashing noises from within my trees. Very loud, alarming, crashing noises. And their dog is acting weird. This apparently means I have yet another cougar visiting me. No visible sightings, no tracks, yet Hillbilly neighbor is convinced a large, hairy cat is out there, ready to pounce on me and my kiddies.

Now, don't be alarmed, dear internet. I am taking this intel with a grain of salt. Or, in my neighbor's case, a puff of the ole whacky-tabacky smoke. What cougar do you know, crashes around in the bush, like say, the pair of moose who nest in my trees? Now I don't work for Natural Geographic or anything, but don't cougars prowl? Creep? Act all stealth like? And as for their dog behaving strangely, I can only assume he is reacting to all the redneck crack smoke the poor thing inhales on a daily basis. But to be safe, I'll have my gun-totting hubby go a-hunting for pussy tracks. Not that kind of kitty, perverts.

And for those of you who wondered, I wore my galoshes this time, when I went out to greet my small penis'ed, hillbilly neighbor.

Pass the Puns, Please

Once again, I serve to you a Sunday morning ditty. And I warn you, dear internet, this one's a groaner...

A lady awoke one morning and discovered her dog was not moving. She called her vet who asked her to bring the dog in. After a brief examination, the vet pronounced the dog dead.

"Are you sure?", the distraught woman asked. "He was a great family pet. Isn't there anything else you can do?"

The vet paused for a moment and said, "There is one more thing we can do." He left the room for a moment and came back carrying a large cage with a cat in it. The vet opened the cage door and the cat walked over to the dog. The cat sniffed the dog from head to toe and walked back to the cage.

"Well, that confirms it." the vet announced. "Your dog is dead."

Satisfied that the vet had done everything he possibly could, the woman sighed, "How much do I owe you?"

"That will be $330." the vet replied.

"I don't believe it!!!", screamed the woman. "What did you do that cost $330!?

"Well", the vet replied, "it's $30 for the office visit and $300 for the cat scan."

Ruffled Feathers

I like to think I am aging gracefully. The truth of the matter, like most woman, I am kicking and screaming the whole way. I spend my time and money trying to find new ways to fool mother nature. Some (like hair dye) are successful, others (hot pants) are not quite as helpful.

In an effort to look sophisticated and scholarly, I recently purchased a new pair of eyeglasses. I usually wear contacts, but I am becoming increasingly lazy as of late. I seem to be spending inordinate amounts of time picking my nose.

I proudly wore them last night for the first time. I was giddy with excitement, waiting for the hubs to see me and be bowled over by my new found sexiness. However, fantasy is always better than reality.

Me: "Well Boo, do you like my new glasses?" (All the while thinking I shouldn't have had to ask.)

Hubs: "The important thing is do you like your new glasses?"

Me (also known as the Redneck Fool): "That's not what I asked. Don't avoid the question. Say something, I promise I won't get mad." (Also known as a wife blatantly lying.)

Hubs: "Mom always told me if I have nothing nice to say to keep my mouth shut. I am choosing to heed her wisdom."

Let's just say my dear hubs is still picking feathers out of his teeth from the pillow I crammed in his mouth. And yes, I do like my glasses, thank you very much. Even if he doesn't.