Someone's In the Doghouse...I just Can't Decide Who

I'm having a problem now that my darling hubs is back home where he belongs. I am suffering from terrible fits of anxiety and occasional bouts of jealousy. I am worried my darling has forsaken me. My darling Nixon, that is. Little traitor. I spend four weeks wiping up his pee, picking up his poop, refilling his water bowl and scratching his belly, all for him to trade me in for a larger, hairier, human.

Granted, the hubs is not to keen on the furball. But I'm beginning to think his gruff aloofness towards the pooch is all a rouse. I would swear on my dear angel boy's soul that I heard the distinct murmuring of "Good boy," and "Who's your Daddy?" last night when I left the living room.

And I find it peculiar that the man who, for years, refused to get up in the morning, no matter how many times the alarm clock rang or how many jabs in the ribs he endured, is now the first one up out of bed. He claims it is because he doesn't want to have to clean up puppy poop, but I'm starting to think otherwise. Perhaps it is because he enjoys little Nixon's exuberant greetings after a long night in the kennel.

What really worries me is this morning, my hubs was sitting on the bed when I noticed him patting it, and telling me to come on and hurry up.

Stupid me, here I thought the hubs wanted a quicky, to get the blood pumping. Not entirely averse to the idea, I respond.

Turns out he was talking to my dog, trying to get him to jump on the bed.

Apparently a quick round of tug-o-war is more stimulating than a roll in the sheets with his willing wife.

Like I said. I'm suffering from terrible fits of anxiety and occasional bouts of jealousy...

It's Good to Have him Home

My darling Boo has made his way home. He has left the small town hoes behind, and abandoned his buddies at the titty bar to rejoin his precious family. After travelling a long, dusty highway for half a day, he stumbled through our front door, threw his bags of dirty laundry on the floor, and wearily made his way into bed. Where he waited for the fun to begin.

I do believe he is still waiting.

Because, really, dear internet, what is more romantic than having a stinky, unshaven, horny man dump his weeks of dirty laundry at your feet (and which he expects you to immediately wash) then fall into bed, unshowered, while scratching his nuts and farting into your clean girly sheets? Really, I am getting a little hot for the hubs as I type this.

Upon Boo's return home, I discovered a new rivalry has developed in my house. Between my dog and my man. It has blossomed into a battle of manly wills. A tug of war over my affection. The problem is they both want to sit with me on the couch. With out being slobbered on, chewed on, licked, or (from Nixon's point of view) removed from the couch all together. I take that back. Boo would love it if I slobbered on, chewed on, or licked any part of him. He just isn't so fond of my pooch doing the same.

Apparently, my darling hubs has some issues with my puppy parenting. Like the fact that Nixon believes he belongs on the couch. Like the fact that Nixon has developed a taste for french fries and mint chocolate chip icecream. Like the fact that Nixon refuses to have his ass tickled by grass so, therefore poops inside the house. Boo thinks Nixon is treated too much like my baby instead of my dog. Nixon thinks my hubs has had a stick shoved up a crevasse and needs it removed. (Oh, wait, that may be me..)

I have reminded him that if he never left me to my own devices to chase the almighty dollar, and perhaps offered up some puppy training guidance, maybe my baby wouldn't believe he really is presidential and would shit outside like a normal dog.

And then I continued to shop for hats for Nixon, (look out Wonderbaby) while holding up an infant diaper, sized one. You should have seen my darling hub's face when I casually mentioned the diaper would perfectly fit Nixon's doggy bottom.

Welcome back, Boo.

I've missed toying with you.

My Romantic Fantasies...Biting me On the Ass

As a young girl growing up in the sticks, spending my time watching cartoon reruns of Hercules and pretending I was Helena, I had several romantic fantasies. Some of those fantasies vanished into the night air with the steady hiss of reality escaping my balloon of romantic delusions. A small number of those fantasies actually became reality.

I met and married my handsome, if not somewhat dunderheaded, Prince Charming. I had a beautiful, handcrafted, off-white wedding gown. (Let's ignore the fact that it was an empire-waisted gown, the likes of which my mother had to let the sides out the day before the wedding due to my ever-expanding belly.)

I had a beautiful wedding, with my eight-month old daughter as my flower girl. She sat in a wagon and gummed the plastic flowers to death. (She'd have given Wonderbaby a run for her money in the market of bald-headed, cute baby girls who sport stylish hats.)

I had three lovely attendants, who I was kind to, and allowed them to pick the style and colour of their dresses. (Admittedly, my maid-of-honour was nine months preggers and could chew the tops off of pop bottles by then, so cranky was she. I was a tad frightened of her.) They chose a lovely dusky blue. Not the colour I would have chose, but it looked smart on all three ladies.

But I digress. Back to my romantic dreams. One of those would be to see my daughter walk down the aisle in a sea of white gauze and be whisked off into the sunset by her own Mr. McDreamy. Only, of course, after she graduates from med school and solves the whole world peace problem. I am half way there. After all, I have a daughter, and she is fairly bright. (It could happen, dear internet.)

Another romantic fantasy of mine would be to stand up for my sister when she found her Mr. Right. Well, since that is as likely as me sprouting another big toe (not because my sis is a troll, but because she has sworn off all men and bought herself a new pet; one of those vibrating rabbits everyone keeps talking about) I have had to face reality and kiss another delusion goodbye.

That is, until one of my best girlfriends stepped in, and saved the day. She has asked me to be her bridesmaid for her very special day.

I now understand there is a special place in hell for such requests.

Besides the fact that I am now saddled with an expensive dress I will never, ever, wear again, in a colour which leaves me looking like a half-dead corpse found in an old marsh out on the edge of city limits; I have the honour of standing next to the bride and the maid-of-honour. Both of whom, are stunning. Both of whom, wear makeup like academy-award winning makeup artists. Both of whom actually have breasts and can manage to fill out their dresses without those gel-filled chicken cutlet thingies that make me itch.

Both of whom actually look good in their dresses.

I am going to look like a pre-pubescent tween playing grownup in her mommy's makeup while wearing her big sister's prom dress. I can hear my self-esteem slowly leaking away. The icing to this sad, chicken-cutletted cake, is it will all be immortalized for me to remember forever, with the wedding photos. I can't wait to see the one where I whip out my flask to drown my misery, only to have my boobs cutlets fall out of my bra, and land at my feet.

Yes, that will be me. The one with her hand down her bra the entire night. While slurring her words.

Good times dear internet. Good times.

It is On!!! (But not with me, Darling Hubs)

It is a big day in my neck of the woods. Today is the day history could be made. I admit, I know nothing about hockey and only care due to my husband's tender foot ministrations. But how could I not get excited when one of the greatest sport stories is about to unfold before our very eyes? A heroes' tales born from bleak adversity? After the tragedy of Roloson's crushing break in Game 1 and the team shoving their heads up their arses in Game 2, is not the final prize all the more sweet? I thank God for delivering to us, all Oiler fans and hockey fans together, the makings of real valour, shining in possibility, a glory forever unwon in the world where the Oilers swept or near-swept the series? Tonight, the Oil take on the Hurricanes one final time. It is a monumental moment. GO OILERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh dear, I just read what I wrote, and I would like to know who snatched my personality and replaced it with that of an emotionally invested sports freak?? I blame this on the hubs. If he were home instead of at the peelers work, I wouldn't be sucked into watching our national pastime. No, instead, I would be enjoying my foot massage and whining that he loves Craig MacTavish more than he loves me.

Tonight is such a big deal that little league sports have been cancelled in the area. Instead of watching the rugrats chase a ball around the field or stand and pull their jersey's over their heads, parents have opted not to shove their kids out of any moving vehicles, and squeal their tires while they burn rubber to the nearest telly. There would have been a sea of unattended youngsters running loose on the field, with nary an adult in sight.

Probably safer just to cancel all soccer games tonight.

After having a lovely father's day conversation with the hubs last night, I enquired where he planned on watching the big game. He casually let it slip that he will be going to Nick's because every time he goes to Nash's the Oilers take a beating. I asked who Nick and Nash were and he responded by telling me that Nick and Nash are places not people. Apparently, Nick's is a sports bar with crappy wings and watered-down beer, while Nash's is a tacky little watering hole that specializes in bringing in small town strippers during the games intermissions. Like the dumbass he is, he thought to give Nash's a try first.

He said the beer was great, the screen was huge and you couldn't beat the wings. Then he casually replied that the titties gave him nightmares and perhaps I should come down there, because I could make great money.

WTF?? Did my darling husband just suggest that I peel off my clothes for a bunch of horny losers to toss coins at me while they eagerly await the return of the game?

Yes, dear internet, he did. He claims he was jesting, and it is a compliment.

I claim he just killed any chances of getting lucky upon his return and he might as well go to Nash's tonight. They might be the only titties he gets to see for a while.

Pass the Puns, Please

Happy Father's Day dear internet!

Since the hubs is out of town, working his nicely-shaped tuckus off, it is just me and the kids. We are off to go break bread with Grampa and celebrate our redneck ways.

Before I go, I have some fine cheese to pass along. Enjoy, and don't forget, like Cheez-Whiz, it likes to be spread!


A lady was filling her tank at a gas station, smoking a cigarette, even though all the signs say not to. The fumes that came out of the gas tank ignited, severely burning her hands. But it also lit up her arm, too! Instead of rolling on the ground to put it out, she panicked. She took off running down the street.

A police car was at the intersection where it happened and he tried to stop her to put out her arm, but she just kept running and screaming. All the officer could think of doing was to shoot her. This took everyone by surprise. The officer ran over to her and put the fire out, then called for an ambulance.

When questioned about his course of action to stop her, the officer said, "My only thought was to stop her. After all, she was waving a fire-arm."


***I never said I was fond of Cheez-Whiz!***

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

When I grew up I didn't want to be a doctor. Or a lawyer. Or a teacher. No, no, when I was growing up, I had the dream of becoming the internet's greatest porn momma in the whole world. People would rush to their computers and eagerly type in Redneck mommy and then sigh with relieved ecstasy at the sight of my naked body glowing blue on their screen.

No, wait, that was last night's dream.

Because I am a sucker for a pretty please, and because I wanted to put my ass out there for public ridicule, I present to you my newly inked backside.

So please, for the sake of my very fragile ego, please overlook the stretch marks and dimples. Because in my mind I am flawless. Please pretend you don't see the strip of skin that accidentally got tanned while I was bent over in the garden. Focus on the tattoo, and ignore my hairy ass.

And Boo, just know that I love you. Because if you were home with me, instead of making kissy eyes with your small town hoes, I never would have had to post my arse on the net for the world to ridicule.


****P.S. If any of you have any suggestions about how to remove the tape marks on my back with out taking a layer of dermis off, I'd really love to hear them.****

Looking for a Ticket to Bikerville

Before your very eyes dear internet, I am morphing into a crazy pierced, inked redneck. My husband is bemoaning the fact that my virginal skin has been vandalized. I know he cried into his beer last night when I told him I went and got my tattoo. He told me I am mutating from this pious, uptight lady to this scary, pierced and tattooed chicky. He wonders what's next. Perhaps a chain collar or motorcycle lessons?

I told him with that attitude I was gonna pierce both my nipples, and ride topless down the street where all the Hell's Angel boys like to play.

He shut up pretty quick. He's learning that I tend to do as I say.

(How scary is that image? My saggy beavertails flapping in the wind...Even I'm grossed out.)

But in the end, it wasn't as bad as I had feared. The scariest part was how my artist looked. (I now understand my husband's apprehension. But until I dye my hair blue and have enough metal in my face to melt into several bullets, I think he's safe.) The actual tattooing alternated between warm scratches and "Fuck, fuck, fuck" (all said in my head of course. I didn't want to appear pansy-like.)

I am now sporting a beautiful cross on my lower back, to memorialize my Bug. It is blue and green and purple with some coral pink in the banner. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of it before she bandaged it up.

My thoughts? Holy Fuck! That thing is huge! Boo is gonna kill me! But look how pretty!

It wasn't until I walked out of the parlour that I realized something.

I never checked the spelling of my son's name.

What's the chances she spelt Skjel right?

A Tat for a Tit

I am trying valiantly hard to cheer for the hubs team. I don't want to jump off their bandwagon, but I can tell you I won't be broken hearted if they lose tonight. Why? Let me tell you. Hockey night with the hubs used to mean beer, foot rubs and then some other type of rubbing (wink, wink.) Since the hubs has gone off to chase the almighty dollar, the only foot rub I am getting now are the ones were the puppy is trying to chew off my toes. Not romantic and painful as hell. No, hockey night now means my hubs trots off to the local pub with his buddies and flirts with the small town hoes there. A new family tradition for us. Go Oil Go!

But as they say, when the cat's away, the mice will play. And so, what is good for the goose is good for the gander. So today I am off to play. No, I'm not going to bat my eyes at anyone. I'll be the dutiful wife and mother and watch the game with my kids, waiting for Boo to phone to tell me who grabbed his ass this time. I'm going to do something much painful to him and I.

I'm heading to the tattoo parlour. And getting myself a kick ass tattoo. Because I can, I will and you can't stop me Boo! (Okay, that last part might have been a tad childish.) And since my hubs believes there is nothing more beautiful and perfect than a woman's body (even one sporting saggy A cups, a dimpled backside, skin streaked with stretch marks and let's not forget the roll around the middle) getting a tattoo would defile this beauty.

Bring on the defiling. Cause I have already paid and I'm not backing out.

If the hubs doesn't come home soon, I may have to get another piercing. Something to think about while I'm there....

Yes, I do know How Pathetic I Really Am

Have you ever done something and then been pleasantly surprised by the outcome? Have you ever wanted to pat yourself on the back and tell the world what a superstar you are? No? Oh, well, I do. And as this is my blog, this is me patting myself on the back. Pat, pat.

You see, dear internet, I have figured out the whole technology thing. I guess I could have given myself more credit as I did set up the computer all by my big girl self. But who am I kidding. It's a Mac. I pulled it out of the box and plugged it in. Even a monkey could do that. But yesterday, I tackled the big one. The intimidating task. The daunting job. I connected my new digital camera to my computer.

**Applause** Thank you, thank you very much. I'm blushing. Really, I am overwhelmed by your kind words. (Hint, hint!)

And now, when the hubs calls to beg me to send him dirty photos of me doing naughty things wholesome pictures of our family, I will be able to oblige. Of course, I won't, but it is always fun to hear him beg.

Let the shutterfest begin. I'm off to be a click happy momma. That is, once I clean up the dog pee.

We all know who rules my roost...

A Man's Game

Go Oilers Go! As the dutiful hockey wife I am, I had to take this opportunity to cheer for my hub's team. After all, without the Oil, many a foot rub I would have missed. Now that I have done my blogging duty, I can get back to my regularly scheduled post...Just kidding Hubs, you know I support your team and that my life revolves around them. And why yes, I will be watching the game tonight, even if you aren't home. Absolutely. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I may, however, talk on the phone a wee bit during the game, but my full attention will be on that little black puck thingy. I promise.

If the hubs believes that, well, I wonder what else I can snow him into. For those of you who are worried that he may read this and take offense, I assure you, that once he sees the pic of his Bug in uniform, and reads my promise to watch the game, his eyes will go no further. His sense of pride and duty will be satisfied and he will turn his eyes to more pressing matters. Like the small town hoes that like to bat their eyes at him and beguile him with their pretty hockey talk. It won't matter to them about the wedding band around his finger, or the fact that he never makes eye contact. No, those wenches will keep on trying to capture his attention, taking his aloofness as a challenge to try harder.

Am I worried? Nah. Let's face it. If any one was going to cheat in this relationship, we all know it would be me. But thankfully, stretch marks and a desire to retain a first husband have killed any interest in fooling about. And the hubs feels the same way. He is just flattered that someone (other than me) thinks he's cute. And as this is his first real foray from home, his first adventure without a woman at his side, I give him free reign. I'll allow him to enjoy those country hoes, whose idea of fashion is a plaid shirt tied in a knot and hair teased up to high heaven.

Because he and I both know who he's coming home to. And I've already seen him naked. And really, once I got over the laughing part, it's all kind of worked out.

Just kidding Boo. Really. I'd never laugh at Mr. Pickle. At least not in front of you.

Pass the Puns, Please

Some days a person just has to be grateful that Sunday has rolled around. Today is that day for me. I plan on hiding from the inlaws, the phone and my dog for as long as possible today. I'm going to ignore the dust bunnies, the dirty socks and the sink of dishes calling my name. It's going to be nothing but a good book, a glass of wine and perhaps some cheese. And since I am feeling particularly generous, I shall share with you, dear internet, my fromage.

Enjoy!

The Cleveland Symphony was performing Beethoven's Ninth. In the piece, there's a long passage - about 20 minutes - during which the bass violinists have nothing to do. Rather than sit around that whole time looking stupid, some bassists decided to sneak offstage and go to the tavern next door for a quick one.

After slamming several beers in quick succession (as bass violinists are prone to do) one of them looked at his watch.

"Hey! We need to get back!"

"No need to panic," said a fellow bassist. "I thought we might need some extra time, so I tied the last few pages of the conductor's score together with string. It'll take him a few minutes to get it untangled."

A few moments later, they staggered back to the concert hall and took their places in the orchestra. About this time, a member of the audience noticed the conductor seemed a bit edgy and said as much to her companion.

"Well, of course," said her companion. "Don't you see? It's the bottom of the Ninth, the score is tied, and the bassists are loaded."

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

Sometimes when it rains it pours. While my husband is away, golfing working, he has left me to deal with a sick child, numerous soccer parents and now, the rash from hell. Yes, the money is good, but really, can I put a price on my sanity? Why yes, yes I can. The good news is the added income has allowed me to invest heavily in Aveeno products. Who says I can't find the silver lining to this cloud?

But the rain keeps on pouring, even out of silver lined clouds. A very good family friend has recently passed away and it breaks my heart to write about it. So I won't. But funerals are not my strong suit and I am not certain I will be able to handle this one well. Too many memories, too many emotions.

Added to that, my lovely darling daughter is experiencing complications with her recovery and so I am off to hand hold and play nice with the nurses again at our lovely hospital.

So forgive me dear internet, if my posts are sporadic and infrequent these next few days. It appears life does not always stop for blogging.

But as I slather on my oatmeal, swaddle up my daughter and find a suitable outfit for a funeral, I will be hard at work, looking for my sense of humor. Because I am beginning to think my husband took it with him.

He better bring it back.

Red Rash of Rage

One of the hazards of life happens to be mysterious rashes. You know the kind; the ones that are red pin pricks, small little goosebumps that slowly spread up and down your appendages; bringing with it the burning itch that is designed to slowly drive you out of your mind while you lay there, a broken, clawed, bleeding spirit, just wishing for the itch to stop.

Welcome to my world.

I'm not allergic to anything. Except those fuzzy yellow and black caterpillars and those don't count because I only reacted to them after spending the afternoon petting them and allowing their poisonous feet to touch my skin. Stupid yes, but I was eight. And those fuzzy catepillars were darned cute.

My rash is so bad that yesterday I took the day off of work to go and sit in our local yokel doctor's office. Normally I would avoid small town medicine like an itchy rash, but I decided to give this gentleman a try. He is a young doctor, fairly new to practice and he seems half-intelligent. He's not like the other aging pill-pusher's our town has, more eager to get on the golf course than interested in listening to your complaints about mysterious red bumps.

Upon my arrival I was immediately ushered in to an examination room. Where I sat and scratched until the young doctor made his appearance. He was intelligent, articulate and more importantly, sympathetic. He listened, he looked, he pondered.

My diagnosis: I have a rash. My treatment: don't scratch.

I drove 30 odd kilometers, found a babysitter for my recovering daughter and my untrained puppy, and missed work for that pearl of wisdom.

I love small town medicine. Meanwhile, I'm scratching my ass off and hunting for calamine lotion.

A Blessing Beyond the Vomit

All is well that ends well. Fric is back at home, moaning and groaning with the best of them. My little drama queen will recover to one day prance around to the beat of Shania and imitate her idol, Ms. Britney. Around here, we like to set the bar high. Of course, her father missed all the action. He missed her freak out when she had her I.V. inserted. He missed her freak out right before the anesthetic kicked in and she bucked like a wild thing. He missed her subsequent awakening and the vomiting that followed. He missed the tears, the whining and the complaining. (Okay, that last part was all me, but he still missed it.)

There were a few memorable moments. Like when my daughter was in the O.R and I wandered up to the old folk's section to engage in a debate on local politics. I almost didn't make it out of that wing alive. Who knew that a bunch of aging blue blood conservatives still had that much energy to rant and rave about the demons who call themselves Liberals. Apparently, me and my nose ring are entirely responsible to the down fall of civilized society.

Then there was the moment in the recovery room, when my disoriented daughter told the nurse to go to hell after being asked if she was feeling alright. And then proceeded to vomit on the poor nurse. It was a proud moment for me. All of a sudden, my sweet child was replaced with puke-spewing devil the likes of which belonged up on the big screen. I kept waiting for her head to turn all the way around...Sadly, I was disappointed.

And of course, there was the reunion with all the doctors and nurses who knew the Bug, and didn't know he had died. Quite the conversation killer, when asked how Shalebug was doing only to be told he passed away in October. I didn't know who to feel more sorry for, them or me.

But in the end, it wasn't so bad. This time, I came out with what I brought in; my daughter. Because no one knows better than I do that there are and will be parents who will walk that same lonely walk out of the hospital that I had to do.

Suddenly, one head-spinning, vomit spewing, foul mouthed demon-daughter became the blessing she is. Puke and all.

Good times

Just a quick post to let you all know that I will be missing in action for the next couple of days. My daughter Fric, is going in for surgery this afternoon. No, no, nothing serious. She'll be back imitating dear Britney before long. But as I will be confined to hospital purgatory for the next few days I will not be able to post in.

As yummy as hospital food is, and as friendly as the pediatric staff are, it always sucks to be in the hospital. I may have to find new and creative ways to pass the time. There is always the old standby; flirting with the cute residents, but let's face it, those doctors are starting to look like Doogie Howser to me. I could show off my prowess with a wheelchair, but with my luck I'd get arrested for vandalism when I crash into the side of the hall and mark the walls with my skid marks.

When I get really bored I guess I will just have to stand in the glass-sided elevator and play with my nose ring. Let's see how many people I can really gross out...