I've Got a New Zip Code

What are you still doing here??

I've moved.

Come see my new digs.

theredneckmommy.com

You'll like them, I promise.

ANNOUNCEMENT

I have an announcement to make.

This will be my last post on blogger.

Not bloggING, but on BLOGGER.

I've moved.

Why? Because the voices in my head told me too.

And my kick ass web designer busted his ass to make it possible.

So hurry up and come on over.

The first person to leave a comment wins a million dollars. (In Monopoly money of course.) Or I'll send you naked pictures.

Not of me, perverts. Some chick's photos I'll have scammed off the net.

theredneckmommy.com

Hurry up!!!


theredneckmommy.com

Pass The Puns, Please

It took me thirty minutes to get connected to Blogger this morning. Either my antiquated dial-up connection is overloaded, or my brain is still fuzzed by the large amount of tequila consumed Friday night in a rebellious I-am-more-than-a-mom-I-am-woman-hear-me-roar moment.

Oh, I roared. And now I whimper. Still. 36 hours later.

Was it worth it? Hell yes. I was able to see a whole different side of my closest cousin, and she is some wicked fun. Heavy emphasis on wicked.

To celebrate my first EVER tequila shooter (sad, it only took me 31 years to discover that particular pleasure), I proudly offer you this gourmet fromage.

Enjoy it with a dash of salt and be sure to suck on a lemon after. It will help to choke it down...


An enterprising journalist decided to get the scoop of the day by photographing the fearsome phantom that lived in the spooky old mansion house at the edge of town.

When he entered the house, armed with only his camera, the ghost descended upon him, moaning and wailing and clanking chains.

"I mean no harm; I just want your photograph," the journalist said bravely.

Pleased at this chance to make headlines, the ghost posed for a number of shots, and the happy journalist rushed back to his darkroom and began developing the photos.

Unfortunately, they turned out to be so underexposed that nothing could be seen in them.

He was distraught, and went to a local pub to drown his sorrows. Meeting his friends there, they asked what was wrong. Not wanting to tell the whole story, he simply explained with a single sentence: ......

"The spirit was willing, but the flash was weak."

The Awful Truth

Watching my children navigate the hallways of school has brought me back to my own days of algebra and bra snapping. (Or in my case, lack of bra snapping.) I love watching them suffer through the math tests and science quizzes. Er, I mean, nothing pleases me more as a mother than watching my children adeptly handle all that their teachers require of them. Yes, that's better. He he. There is one major difference between my children and me as a school-aged child. They are decidedly cool, where I was the definition of geek. I was a runt; small and slow to hit puberty, and when I did, I was stuck in the ugly duckling phase while everyone else had already morphed into beautiful swans. I was always out of sync with my peers. I marched to the rhythm of my own invisible drum. Sadly, my drum banged at a different beat than all the others.

My kids, however, rock. And I proudly proclaim this. I have no shame. I beam with pride. Somehow, I managed to give birth to two of the cool kids. They're smart, beautiful and hip. They've escaped (for now) the geek gene that runs unfettered in their blood line.

And when the day comes, (as I fear it may) when they falter and transform into the nerds their parents were, I will be there to prop them up and cheer them on. But until that day (or rather if that day) comes along, I will just marvel at how swan-like they are. And wonder why I never could manage it while stuck in the pit of hell known as public school.

How I longed to be able to stand up to my classmates and tell them they had it wrong, I wasn't a geek, that I was really a rocking gal stuck in some lame pimpled, flat chested body. Just because I didn't have hooters or the skill to rim my eyes with the coolest shades of teal green did not mean that I didn't have a cool streak.

Alas, my voice went unheard. For fear of being shoved into the nearest open locker. But now, as a grown up, the only zits I have are on my back which nobody sees. And I can fake boobs with the best of them, thanks in part to chicken cutletty things and Victoria Secret. Now I will be heard. Even if it's only by my dog. I no longer fear being shoved into a locker.

When Mama Tulip and Mrs. Chicky asked for volunteers to be interviewed, I waved my hand, bounced up and down and cried "Pick me! Pick me!" Cuz dammit, you all need to know the coolness that is me.

Feel free to click away at any time.

Would you ever leave Alberta for another province, or are you gonna live there forever n' ever?

Mama Tulip, two years ago I would have answered that I was free to roll where ever the wind blows me. But now with my Bug planted in the ground I feel connected to my Alberta soil more than ever. I just couldn't bear to leave my boy behind permanently. So I would leave the land of prosperity for a short time, but my chains would always yank me back.

If you could live anywhere else in the world - excluding that God
forsaken place you're living in now - where would that be and why?

Well, Mrs. Chicky, presuming I could exhume my poor Bug (and that thought creeps me out to no end) to take him with us, I'd pick Costa Rica. I have a thing for toucans. And warm temperatures.

Name a song that takes you back to your childhood.

That, Tulip, is easy. My folks were country folks and always had the radio on the farm station. I hear Dolly sing this and I think of my childhood kitchen and the sound of my mom's sewing machine rumbling with the radio on in the background.

I'm sorry, from now on you can only eat one food item for the rest of your life. But you get to pick what type of food that will be. What will you pick?

Mrs. Chicky, that's a tough one. But I'd have to say pizza. I love my cheesy goodness. Oh, how I love my cheesy goodness. (And being stuck out in the middle of no where means I never get to eat my cheesy goodness until it's a congealed and rubbery mess....Shudder.)

Name a staple in your wardrobe.

Well, Mama T, I would love to say underwear, but alas, I'm not wearing any. (Was that an over share?) I'm going to go with my love of sweaters. I love a soft, pretty sweater that fits just right and keeps me warm. Because I really hate being cold. Especially black sweaters. V-neck, turtle neck, angora and cashmere. I love them all.

As a kid what did you want to be when you grew up?

Easy. In fifth grade I loudly proclaimed my wish to be a long haul truck driver like my Grandfather. When the fits of laughter subsided and my teacher finished chastising me about the importance of setting loftier goals and not wasting the gift of my brain, I awkwardly changed my mind and told them I was just joking, I really wanted to be a brain surgeon. My teacher nodded and patted me on the head and told me what a smarter choice that was.

I still think being a truck driver would be cool. And I still think that teacher is an ass.

Which piercing was more painful -- your nipples or your nose?

Tulip, I gotta tell you...hands down the nose. But the nipples bruised a beautiful shade of blue. That look rocked. Blue nips with silver hoops. I should have taken pics.


***Please note above graphic is not in any way, shape or form the opinion of author of this blog. Nor is it a personal preference in the boudoir or at least one that I am choosing to comment on. If my husband sees this post and decides to get some funny ideas, may I direct you to the nearest Hot Asian Chick.***

Finish this sentence - "Girls with tattoos ____________."

...have rocks for brains. That's what my father kept telling me, anyways, Mrs. Chicky. Personally, I think girls with tats get more action. We're a tad wilder in the bedroom. Everybody knows that....

What's your middle name? Is there a story behind that name?

Now, Tulip, that is foul play. I don't tell anyone my middle name. (Except Sillychick whom I have threatened with death to keep it on the downlow.) I will share that it is a family name,and it starts with E and ends with E.

(And Boo, if you ever want to get me naked again, you will keep your mouth shut and your fingers away from that keyboard.)


Having read that, aren't you all just a little surprised I was ever stuffed in a locker? I mean, seriously, am I cool or what?

If anyone is brave (or dumb) enough to want to be interviewed by me, just ask nicely in the comments. Make sure I have your email. This way my husband can't say I never used that degree in journalism. You'd be doing me a favour.

Wink, wink.

Danger

***Updated Below***

Generally, when my darling hubs is out of town, our only communication tends to be the brief phone calls that occur when I wake up in the morning and when he wakes up in the late afternoon. Our conversations tend to consist of "How did you sleep?", "The kids are driving me batshit crazy!!!", "Did you see that hot Asian chick again today?", "How much did you spend on supper? You think we're made of money????" and my personal favorite, "Do you miss me?"

(Of course I miss you, darling. What between cleaning up dog shit, chasing after your kids and the tracks they like to make when ever they come through the door, trying to decide what to feed those children so they don't wilt away and ruin our chances at adopting a new one, keeping your family informed about your whereabouts, and generally just living the life of a single mother, I have nothing but time on my hands to jones for you, your smelly feet and the untold amounts of laundry that seem to follow you whenever you land on my door step.)

Yes, our phone calls are nothing, if not romantic. But the current job the hubs is busting his arse on, has a perk. (Besides the hot Asian chick he gets to ogle every day.)

He has Internet access.

While I like to tease him to stay off the porn sites, I know that he is much too tired to engage in that type of debauchery. Instead, before he crawls into bed to dream of the hot Asian chick his beautiful wife, he checks his email and reads my blog.

Understand, this is a big deal. My husband is not a reader. When he is home he likes to sit on the sofa next to the computer and have me narrate my posts when I've finished them. I read them aloud and wait for the typical eye-rolling that accompanies once I've finished.

(See what you taught your daughter Boo? She got that lovely trick from YOU.)

He has even taking to posting responses to some of my posts. So if you see a Boo in the comments, (you'll know it's him by his grammatical and spelling errors), say hello. He's watching you.

The other morning, just after I stumbled out of bed and pried my children out of their warm soft beds with a jarring "GOOD MORNING!!!" (uttered in a loud, annoying sing song voice) while flicking on their overhead lights, but before my morning cup of java, my husband called.

"I just read your post, love."

Yawn and stretch. "Good morning to you too, Boo. Which post would that be?"

"The one where you speak so eloquently about your vagina."

"You mean the one where I mention how it was torn and tattered by your lovely children -" Hurry up you two! You're gonna miss the bus, and if you think I'm driving you, you've got noodles for brains! "- That one? The one where I mention my monstrous hemorrhoid?"

"Ya, that one."

"You liked that, did you? I was particularly pleased with it myself."

"Um, no," he said dryly. "It was a little descriptive."

"Which part? The part about my vagina or the part about my hemorrhoid?" Now I'm confused and somewhat irritated and desperately needing my caffeine fix. Meanwhile, the children are arguing over how many scoops of sugar to dump over their cornflakes and my right eye has developed a sudden twitch.

"Both. It was a little graphic, don't you think?"

"Are you kidding me? Don't you remember what my vagina and ass-end looked like after I squeezed those suckers out? I thought I understated the truth!"

"You do realize my aunt and uncle read this blog!?"

"No, I didn't. Are you asking me to censor myself so you'll feel more comfortable when you read my work?" Un-freaking-believable! Of all the mornings for my damn coffee maker to take it's sweet ass time percolating my fix.

"Well, I don't want you to censor yourself, just maybe, not write so graphically. Or descriptively. Or mention your vagina, your boobs, or any part of your body that needs to be covered while out in public."

"Wait a second, are we talking about the uncle who asks if you need a pussy poultice whenever you get a boo boo?"

The kids are now arguing over who gets the last raspberry yogurt tube, Nixon the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. keeps jumping up on my leg, begging for attention and my fu*%king coffee still isn't ready.

"Yeah. Him."

"I'm going to pretend we didn't just have this conversation and you aren't going to mention censorship around me, ever again, before 8 am. Deal?" My tone is more than a little annoyed, and my children were almost blinded by the DANGER!!! sign flashing above my head.

My husband must have seen the light, so he quickly changed the subject.

"So do ya miss me?"





***My darling husband is mortified and flattered all at once that you all have taken the time to drop him a line in the comments. Try not to be too nice to him though. His head will swell up like some helium balloon and his ego is already monstrous.

Oh, and hello to his aunt and uncle if they're reading this. I love you!***

End of an Era

Boo, the kids and myself tend to be somewhat of a low-tech family. Sure, we have digital gadgets. I couldn't live without my iMac and all of the toys that go with it, and I was finally brow-beaten into trading my old camera for a spanky new digital model. But on the whole, we are decidedly low tech. And we revel in our archaic ways. In fact, we thrive marching to the beat of our batteries-aren't-required drum.

We like board games. Nothing beats sitting around a table with a chess game between you and the cold, steely eyes of your competitor. Memories of hours spent with friends and siblings playing games like Connect Four and Life, echo in our minds, reminding of us of the warm and fuzzies of our lost youth. The marathon sessions of Monopoly, while snacking on orange juice and pistachios (and volunteering to be the banker so as to pilfer an extra $500 bill when no one was watching), provided us with endless hours of quality bonding time with one another.

Those were good times. It's not to say we didn't spend time in front of the television, hooked up to the newly purchased Atari system and trying to outwit the clever Donkey Kong. But board games always wooed us back with promises of laughter, camaraderie and merriment.

Boo and I never out grew our love of old fashioned entertainment. Board games have held their sway over us and carried into adult hood. Just add liquor and presto! Instant adult entertainment. Ever try playing Twister while tossing back vodka shooters? It's the one game where you can "accidentally" latch on to a lady's boob or a man's posterior and get away with it. In fact, the more schnockered you are, the funner it gets. Try getting away with a boob graze or a butt clutch while playing video games and see what awaits you. You will have the authorities called in a heart beat.

As parents clinging to their past, we have tried to pass along our love of good wholesome family cheating values and invested a sizeable chunk of change in a variety of games. We started out with Candyland and Perfection, then Snakes and Ladders and then eventually moved up to more serious pursuits of Risk.

It's not to say we keep our kids in a cave and deprive them of all high-tech wonders. When my brother, Stretch, discovered we as parents had shied away from a video entertainment system, he stepped in to become the benefactor of my children's game system. He didn't want his niece and nephew to grow up with out knowing the pleasures of staring endlessly at a television screen while rapidly and repeatedly pressing buttons with their thumbs.

But the seeds had already been planted in my childrens minds, our indoctrination was successful. (That's not to say they haven't lost hours of their lives while toiling away to conquer the latest Zelda game.) Our kids love board games too.

So last night, after dinner, we broke out the ole Scrabble board. And as the eldest, and thus the most responsible, I kept the letter bag close at hand, to ensure no cheating occurred. Fric and Frac are extremely competitive and will go to great lengths to try and beat the pants off the other.

I sat there and marvelled at how these bright and beautiful children of mine can sit and intelligently play a game with me. It was only yesterday it seemed, that they were teething and learning how to totter about. I realized how swiftly time passes and how blessed I was to have these sweet souls call me mom. It won't be long before they totter off into the real world, leaving me with memories of their youth and a dusty game board.

I also realized my time for cheating unnoticed is swiftly coming to an end. Like sands through an hour glass, my absolute reign as board game Queen is coming to an end. Unless I better my slight of hand tricks, I may actually have to start playing by the rules.

Those kids are smart and have eyes like a hawk.

They take after their father. Dammit. I can't cheat with him either.

Pass the Puns, Please

Part of parenting involves giving of one's time, energy and knowledge. I don't generally have a problem with this except for when it comes to math homework. Then I scurry off into a dark corner (usually my pantry, where I keep my booze) and wait until they figure it out for themselves. I don't want my children to discover how incredibly useless I am when it comes to basic math skills. They'll figure it out for themselves soon enough. Why rush it?

Today's lesson in parenting will not involve any math. It will, however, involve chocolate chips, sugar and cracking some eggs. My kids want to learn to bake cookies and who am I to stand in the way of their dreams? I plan on sitting at the counter, supervising in a very serious manner and licking out the bowl. Because cookie dough is very serious business.

Somebody could get hurt if they tried to get between me and that raw sugary goodness.

Of course, while my children toil away to serve me with warm, fresh, gooey cookies, I will be letting my inner freak out, to groove to the beats that soothe my soul. Go ahead, laugh at me. I'll be stuffing my face with heavenly confection and jerking about like a chicken having epileptic fits. But I will be enjoying myself while doing it.

I'll leave you this cheesy goodness as my gift to you. Since I can't won't share my cookie batter with you, I will at least offer you this stinky fromage. I'm thoughtful like that. Enjoy!


In my neck of the woods there are many businesses that are home to cats. One particular bar in our neighbourhood has a very well groomed resident cat who is quite friendly. In fact, the owner has a rule that no customer may order a drink without having the kitty sit in his lap and groom herself for a while.

He wants to be sure that all his customers can hold their licker.

Hee hee.