Freaky Friday

Before my husband left for work this week, he asked if I wanted to join him as he ran some last minute errands. We like to squeeze in as much time together as possible because we never know how long he is going to be absent.

Traditionally our dates include dinner and a movie to be followed up with a rousing argument about why one of us has the worst taste in movies, ever. It's our 'been together almost 22 years' version of foreplay. 

However, if my husband wanted to get romantic at the local farm equipment supply store, I wasn't going to argue. The farm equipment supply store is my crack. I don't know why. I'm a city girl. But there is something about troughs and tractor parts that get me hot and bothered. 

So much so, that upon leaving that store, when my husband asked, "When was the last time you were lubed?" I answered him.

Only to notice he didn't respond in the manner in which I had thought he would.

Because he was too busy staring at me, mouth agape, with a horrified look on his face.

"What is the matter with you, woman? I meant, WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU HAD YOUR VEHICLE'S OIL CHANGED?"

Oh.

In my defense, you married me dude. The fault is clearly yours.

So my oil was changed, in the most literal sense and my husband wouldn't look me in the eyes. Every time I started to speak to him, he'd just shake his head and mutter under his breath.

Some oil changes are more fun than others.

Luckily, I had the video of the yelling goats to amuse me. 

(Also, if you thread the sound into your vehicle's stereo system like I did, you can entertain the entire lube shop. Much to your husband's chagrin.)

I'm now good for another 5000 kilometers before I need any sort of lubing. 

Oh, the bad jokes just keep writing themselves.

***

Earlier this week I stumbled on some forgotten videos I had posted, (basically my entire YouTube channel) and as I watched them, I was stunned to notice just two years ago I was taller than Nash. Who is currently 6 foot one inch. Or at least he was the last time he was measured.

The difference two years makes. And still, he hasn't learned to smile for his mother.

I had forgotten there was a time when I didn't have to look up while talking to my kid. Weird.

Upon this epiphany, I've decided to try something new over here on the B-side. Every Friday, or until I forget or get bored, I'm going to highlight some of the best moments I've captured over on Instagram. (I am not a good photographer and I am worse at Instagram. THIS IS SUCH A TREAT FOR Y'ALL!)

Mostly because my kids are 15 and 16 and my daughter will only be with us for one more year before she leaves for college. Nash has two years before I drop him off at some random dorm room.

This parenting gig? It's fleeting.

Also, puppies don't stay puppies for long.

LOOK AT ALL THE WISDOM I AM POURING FORTH. 

God. I'm a mommy blogger with out a mom blog. I CANT QUIT.

I need an intervention.

In the meantime, look at these photos.

STOP JUDGING ME.

***

This boy? Looks EXACTLY like the boy I was dating at 16. It's totally weird.

Abbott. I swear he's still a puppy.

The size of a 16 week old paw. STILL A PUPPY.

He knows his mother is a dork. And he loves her for it.

Knox's first photobomb. I'm so proud he's inherited my dorkiness.

Have a great weekend everyone. May your inner dork shine through.

Nuts and Bolts

It's always interesting when I'm asked what it is I do for a living.

"I blog."

--blink blink--

"I write on the internet," I clarify.

That's when I see the invisible light bulb go off above their head. Which is when, inevitably, they ask, "Who do you write for?"

"Myself."

--blink blink--

"I have my own website," I clarify.

That's when they wrinkle their foreheads and squint their eyes. Which is when, inevitably, they ask, "Why?"

Why indeed. Why not, I always reply.

I've been asked why a lot this past week. I'm tired of the whys. I don't know, it's none of your business, because I can, because I was tired, I was pigeonholed, I was embarrassed, I outgrew it, I was left behind, change is good. All of this. None of this. 

I'm going to start telling people that 'blogging' is a fancy code word for being a dental assistant. I bet dental assistants never get asked why they do what they do where they do it. 

Or maybe they do.

Speak up dental assistants everywhere. Spread your truths here, my space is yours.

***

I'm running things a bit differently up in this space. I've added an email subscription option if having my words delivered straight to your inbox floats your boat.

There is an RSS feed to if you prefer that method of delivery. The Magical and Awesome Schmutzie fixed it so that if you were already subscribed to my RNM feed you shouldn't notice a change. I don't know. I write blogs. And read them. I don't really understand how any of this works. 

It's internet voodoo I tell ya.

Click here or click the tab that says 'Subscribe' up top under my name if either option interests you.

I'm your friendly neighbourhood voodoo priestess. Except, just like how RSS feeds, I know nothing about how voodoo works. 

***

Finally, there are some introductions I'd like to make. I'd like you all to meet my family. 

My husband:

He goes by Bruce.

My first kid:

Her name is Ken.

My second:

His name is Nash.

My third:

His name was Skjel.

My fourth:

His name is Knox.

Oh, and then there's me:

I had a little work done recently. Does it show?

Here's to the B side and keeping it real.

(ps. No more comment captcha either.  It's a bumpy ride, working out the kinks of the B side. Bear with me.)

The B Side

"Welcome Internet."

When I first typed those words seven years ago, I only wrote them because I didn't know what else to say. I didn't actually have anyone on the Internet to welcome. I just didn't know what else to write. There is something terrifying about first posts and new blogs. Everything is fresh and shiny and uncorrupted. I swear this blog even comes with that lovely new car scent. One good fart and it's ruined forever.

So I'm sitting here, in my brand new space, with the cursor blinking at me, huffing that shiny new smell, and worried sick about farting. The fear of farts is paralyzing me, so to speak.

I'm christening my new blog with a fart metaphor. 

Turns out you can take the writer out of Redneck Mommy but you can't take the redneck out of the writer. Go figure.

I like the new digs. I take no credit for them, not even a tiny little bit of credit. I asked the all powerful and creative Schmutzie from Ninjamatics to help me put down Redneck Mommy. I gave her two directives: Keep it clean and kill Big Red.

And so she did. She's magic I tell you. Thank you Elan. 

Things are a bit different around here, so feel free to poke about a bit. I'm still learning the ins and the outs of the Squarespace platform and to be honest, it feels a bit awkward. 

Rather like how I look while trying to dance. 

For those of you who aren't ready to let Redneck Mommy go, no worries, you can make your way through those archives because I've brought them along to my new space. They are here somewhere. Click that big yellow circle that says Attack of the Redneck Mommy. It's all right there. It's a little blog inside a blog. Schmutzie outdid herself. Go on; click the circle. You know you're curious. I'll wait.

Pretty nifty, no?

I'm not really sure what the future holds for me, or for this blog. Honestly, I'm freaking out more than just a little bit. If I had a dime for every time someone told me they decided to read my blog based solely on it's name or its design, well, I wouldn't have had to save any money to pay for this redesign and I'd be able to afford a jug of milk.

Tanis Miller isn't a catchy name, and heck if you spell Tanis with two n's instead of just one, and type in my url (tanismiller.com) it will take you to some hot Canadian blonde in a bikini. No word of a lie. 

I totally look that good in a bikini. In my imagination. 

(There is something about women named Tanis who have a thing for bikinis on their blog.) 

I've thoroughly gassed this new space now, haven't I?

I'm not going to post any pictures of myself in a bikini anytime soon. You're welcome and I'm sorry. I'm not really sure what I'm going to be doing in this space, except for being me.

Tanis Miller, with one n and no bikinis. And apparently, a bit of flatulence.

Welcome to my new space. Sorry about the smell.