My Redneck Road Trip

By now, the world knows (or should know) of Bossy and her fabulous road trip. How cool of an idea is that? Travel the lands and meet all your fellow bloggers, a few stalkers and a handful of perverts (because everyone on the internet is completely SANE) as you make your way down one highway to another.

Sounds like my type of fun.

But Bossy wouldn't come see me. Turns out I live too far north for her taste. Something about polar bears and igloos that deterred her.

Still, the idea is a cool one. I've had the opportunity to meet a few bloggers in person. But in the spirit that more is better, I'd love to meet all the people who I've connected with over the years.

Because let's face it, I've got no real life friends because I'm so damn busy blogging.

(Kidding. Kinda. Ya. I'm pathetic. I don't need you pointing this out to me. My kids do it all the time.

To prove to my children that their mother is capable of talking to someone other than herself, I've decided to set out, via Bossy style and go on tour. After all, if Bossy can do it, then damn it, so can I.







After devouring Bossy's blog, I started on planning my own road trip. There were a few Eastern bloggers who virtually molested me recently. It was time for revenge retaliation. This time, though, any molestation that may occur will by my own hands.

Heh.





I may not lick HBM, but I do plan on rubbing her belly.

So after a flurry of emails and a few naughty dreams, I set about planning my own version of Bossy's road trip.

Tanis does Toronto. Kinda like Debbie Does Dallas with out the pornography.

(Well, okay there may be pornography but what happens in Toronto stays in Toronto.)

First off, I needed a sponsor. One with a large bank account and charitable inclinations. Who would it be? Bossy used Saturn. Maybe they would want to sponsor a Canadian version of her road trip and lend me some wheels to travel across our vast nation.

Ya. Not so much. They were more interested in selling me a vehicle than they were in loaning me a freebie.





I would have totally looked hot in that car. Darn it.

Harumph.

Fine. Who the hell wants to drive across the country anyways? I thought to myself. I'll fly. So I contacted the local airlines and explained my idea.

After explaining to a bazillion different airline employees just what a blog was, I never got past the hysterical laughing on the other end of the line.

Damn. Finding a corporate sponsor was tougher than I thought.

So I found me a private sponsor. One who is legally obligated to fork out wads of money to make me happy. It only took the promise of unfettered sexual favours to secure airline passage.

I can live with that. I've done worse for less.

Heh.





If you look up tomorrow morning you may see me waving. And my hair will probably be standing on end like this too.

The corporate world may not recognize the Redneck Mommy and her value, but my husband surely does. Plus, as he points out, it's cheaper to keep me than to trade me in for a newer model. Wink, wink.

Tanis does Toronto became an official reality. And it starts tomorrow. At the crack of freaking dawn because my tightwad generous husband insisted I fly out on a seat sale. Which meant the early bird special. Can you say red eyes, uncombed hair and a bad attitude?

All right, so it will be just like every other morning for me. But only this time there will be witnesses trapped in a flying tin can with no escape route from my extreme bitchiness wonderful disposition. Grrreeeeaat!

I may be no Bossy, but I can pretend. After all, I'm east bound for beer, blogging buddies and good times.

Just think of the photos. I'll just have to make sure I'm the one taking the pictures and not the one being captured flashing my guns around.

Redneck Mommy is hitting the road. Well, as far as the airport. But it's bound to be a good time.





My type of airport. Thanks JellyMa for the pic.

Who knows, maybe next time, I'll come see you.

(I'll have to practise getting really bendy with the hubs first, though. Wink, wink.)

Furniture Cluster#uck

My husband and I married when we were very young. We married so young not only because we were madly in lust love with one another, but after already birthing one baby and being five months pregnant with the next, my father was polishing his shotgun and starting to use Boo's picture for target practice.

Dad has deadly aim, so we figured (in the name of safety sake and Boo's preservation) we should probably make things legal. Besides, I couldn't find a nunnery that would take a horny 20 year old with an eight month old baby and one on the way.

So we stood up before God and our friends and family and pleaded for mercy. Er, said our vows. At the end of the ceremony, before we were pronounced man and wife, I asked my dad to finally put away his loaded shotgun. He complied but only before Boo's brother and my brother wrestled it out of his hands.

True story.

Because we married so young we didn't have a proverbial pot to piss in. We were dirt poor. At the time, I was the main bread earner because, well, I looked so good in pants. Never did I imagine I would be a stay at home wife, kept in the comfort provided off the earnings of my hard working husband as I spent my days loafing and surfing for internet porn.

How far we have come.

We struggled with early parenthood, being relative children ourselves, and finding our way in this cruel hard world we live in. Along the way we developed a deep and abiding love and respect for each other. But only when I wasn't screaming at him for forgetting to put the toilet seat down.

It was a tough road to travel. Several times we teetered on the brink of losing it all and each other, yet we always muddled through and found our way back to marital bliss and financial stability. Turns out, we both hate being poor and that motivated us to make smart choices and become financially responsible.

Early on, after we almost lost our home and were staring homelessness in the face, we made a promise to one another to never spend more than a hundred dollars with out running it past the other person. Groceries and bills were the exception to this rule, but everything else had to be cleared with our partner.

Such draconian efforts literally pulled our arses from the fire. We slowly became stable with our income, paid off our debts and now we are actually solvent. It is a wonderful feeling knowing in a matter of five years we will be completely financially independent.

But we still adhere to our one hundred dollar rule. Or rather, Boo does. I occasionally slip. I mean, I'm at home, by myself most days of the month and other than parenting, what else do I have to do other than surf the net than shop? Ha , ha.

This tends to annoy Boo, but because I'm such a wonderful wife, (stop laughing) he often forgives me.

Until yesterday. When he discovered that I broke the rules and bought furniture without even telling him. I know. BAD Tanis. Bad wife. Bad. I ought to be ashamed.

Oddly enough, I'm not. Cuz my new furniture is soooo purdee. The thing is, the furniture had to be delivered because I drive a station wagon and can't fit a four-poster bed and matching dresser in the back of my car no matter how hard I try.







I figured once Boo came home from work and saw our new lovely bedroom he would be more forgiving once I waggled my eyes, patted the mattress and offered to christen our new home furnishings with him. Sex usually helps, I find, for all of you who haven't figured that out just yet. It's why I keep knee pads in the side table. I'm often asking for forgiveness.

The delivery truck was supposed to come on Wednesday but due to a mechanical problem, it was rescheduled for Thursday. I sat around my house, twiddling my thumbs and looking out the window waiting for a large truck to pull up into my drive way until it got dark.

Still no furniture. I called the store and they promised me the furniture was on the way, they were just running behind. They would be at my house no later than 8 p.m. Weird, I mean, who delivers furniture at night, but hell, as long as I'm getting my new bed, I'll be a happy girl.

The clock was ticking. It now became a race to see who came home first. My bed or my husband. My ass would be grass if my husband came home to find no bed since I had disassembled our old one and tossed it out on the deck. My visions of a romantic reunion on fancy new furniture were disappearing with every hour that past. I was starting to imagine the spanking I would receive and not the sexy type if you know what I mean.

Finally, at MIDNIGHT my furniture arrived. I live out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark and I'm a woman alone with kids sleeping in their beds. It was like a nightmare come true. Strange, creepy delivery men knocking at my door in the middle of the night. Common sense told me to send their asses home and tell them to come back when it's light out, but then common sense doesn't have a husband currently en route and unaware of the drama unfolding in his domain.

Granted, the delivery men were more interested in setting up my bed and getting the hell out of dodge than they were in raping and pillaging me, but still. I was more than mildy annoyed. The obscene amount of money I spent on this fancy furniture should at least guarantee me the safety of a daytime delivery. By men who didn't sport prison tattoos and look like they were looking for fresh meat.

So not only was I exhausted, but now I was freaked right the fack out. What the hell had I done? Furniture, no matter how lovely, is not worth this type of stress.

Thankfully, just as the men were loading the boxes into my home, my very confused husband pulled into the driveway. The man always did have exceptional timing. He was actually fairly calm, considering he just drove six hours to come home in the middle of the night to find two men alone in his bedroom with his wife.

Mind you, he did have a crow bar in his hand, so I guess that speaks volumes. By the time the four of us had set up the bed and dresser it was past TWO a.m.







We crawled into our fabulous new bed and I waggled my eyes suggestively for forgiveness and all my darling husband could say was "Rub my neck. You'll pay for this later. I'm too damn tired right now."

Such sweeter words I have never heard, I thought to myself as I yawned and proceeded to give him the neck rub of his life. It really is better to ask for forgiveness than it is to beg for permission, I thought to myself slyly as I worked at the knots in his back.

That is until he rolled over and looked at me and told me it's a good thing I bought a poster bed. I could be expected to be chained to it for the duration of his stay at home.

Sigh. The price I have to pay for my slight financial indiscretions. It could have been worse, I suppose, he could have demanded I bring out the ole knee pads.

***Side note: Is it me, or do I have a right to be fraking mad about receiving a large furniture delivery at midnight? Is this usual? I never buy furniture so the delivery time took me by surprise. And for all of you wondering, I bought the furniture through ASHLEY furniture. It's beautiful, but after only getting five hours of sleep and the stress I endured waiting for the delivery, I'm not sure I would do it again. Thank God my husband came home when he did. But should I rip a strip off some unsuspecting manager's ass? What would you do?***

I'm Letting it All Hang Out

I am a creature of habit. Heck, I'm a stalker's delight. I like to do the same things, in the same order, every day. If something throws my routine off, I tend to fold my arms over my chest and start rocking back and forth in the nearest dark corner while humming like the twit I am as though my life depends on it.

My friends, like Cowboy and his wife, know this about me and laugh. When they're not rolling their eyes. My husband has been exasperated by me on more than one occasion. My kids, well, they just chalk it up to having the bad luck to have been birthed by a crazy woman.

(Side note: Cowboy's squished eyeball is healing nicely and although I'm thankful I don't have to stare too deeply into the scarred and reddened eyeball of his, he reports he can see. Not well, but then, either can I. So thanks for all the well wishes and prayers. Feel free to toss more in his direction, maybe we can make him prettier while we're at it.)

I can't help myself. I have no excuses other than the fact that I'm bat shit crazy. Really. The psychiatrist said so.

One of my slightly nutty habits is how I get dressed and ready for the day. I have my shower, wherein I proceed to wash myself in the exact same order, towel off, lotion up, etc. By the time I've brushed my teeth I'm sweating. Good grooming is hard work. So I do what I always do. I put on my underwear (yes, I do occasionally wear them...you know, when I know the paparazzi is hanging around) and then go back to the bathroom to slap on my war paint and do my hair.

With my boobs hanging out. I know, I'm a freak. But with the added weight I've gained this past year, I actually have guns. Nice guns. And it charms me to no end to ogle them while I'm peering at myself in the mirror trying to tame the wildebeest I generally look like. Weird, I know.

It's not until I'm coiffed and looking like the supermodel I am in my mind slightly presentable that I bother getting dressed. My kids know to stay the hell away from my bathroom as I groom unless they want an eyeful of mom's titties to scar them for life.

It's generally pretty safe to do this. The hubs works out of town most days so he's not going to sneak up behind me and try and cup the girls when he's looking for a little action and I live out in the sticks. Literally. I'm surrounded by trees. And while I do have a handful of neighbours, they are so far away from my house and we are so sheltered by trees I feel safe enough to wander about in the nude. I'll even swim in the pool buck naked or garden topless. (Aren't I painting you a pretty picture?)

 
 

 

See? Sticks. Lots and lots of sticks. 

 
 

 

My closest neighbour. Boy did I give him an eyeful. 

You might say, I'm comfortable in my own body and truth be told, I want my kids to be comfortable in theirs. After all, it is the only body we get and we may as well be at peace with it, even if your boobs resemble beaver tails and flap down around your belly button.

In our long Canadian winter months, the only time I can really let loose and be free nude is after I shower. It's not like I'm going to go streaking through the snow banks while buck nekkid hollering out my pledge of allegiance to the queen.

Well, okay, I may have done that once or twice on a dare, but in my defense, there was alcohol involved and the kids were in bed.

For the most part, my naked fetish has never been a problem. Other than the time I was breast feeding and an old family friend of Boo's walked in while I was sitting on the couch with my girls hanging out spraying milk all over the place.

Then there was the time I was heavily pregnant in the summer and it was freaking hot out. I was sitting in the shade with my top off and I fell asleep in the chair. I didn't hear my brother in-law drive up our long driveway and only awoke when he slammed his truck door shut. You might say he got more than he bargained on. To this day, I'm still his favorite sister in-law.

I have learned from these delightful moments to keep a shirt nearby to toss on, if the need arises. I am a quick learner after all.

But I may have to rethink this whole privacy out in the bushes thing, now that the kids are older. This weekend, as the kids were outside trying to shove each other's faces in the mounds of snow piled near the house, I was in my bathroom happily minding my own business, hanging out (literally), getting ready for a family get together. I had my stereo blasting and I was singing along to the tunes, sounding like a cat in heat.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the neighbour's kids decided to come over and see what Fric and Frac were up to. By this time, Fric and Frac had migrated further into the bush in their attempts to kill one another and their socially challenged friend didn't see them when he trudged up our driveway. Being the social delinquent he is, he heard the music and thought there was a party going on. So he just walked in. No knocking, no yelling "Hello? Anyone home?" He just entered my private little oasis as though he owned the joint.

There I was, in my bathroom, blow-drying my hair as my eighties rock music blared on the stereo, completely oblivious to this strange child wandering through my home, looking for Fric and Frac. Once my hair was dried, I decided I could use a drink so I wandered into the kitchen. Wearing only my pretty pink panties.

 
 

 

At least I shaved my legs... 

Do you see where this is going?

Meanwhile, the intruding child wandered out of Fric and Frac's room, scratching his head wondering where in the hell everyone was. Just as he entered the kitchen from one direction, I entered it from the other.

Time stopped. Everything happened in slow motion. At the exact same time he saw my boob rings glinting in the morning sun, I saw him. We made eye contact. I screamed. He screamed and then I think he jumped so high he narrowly missed having his head lopped off by the ceiling fan.

As my face turned eight shades of red, I turned around and hi-tailed it to my bedroom to seek shelter grab my robe, while wishing the earth would swallow me whole. I muttered something about the kids being outside and he muttered something about this being his lucky day.

From my bedroom I yelled that the kids were outside and for him to go and find them. I briefly considered murdering someone, but after quickly realizing I couldn't walk around naked in the joint, I reconsidered.

The socially inept child had the good graces not to follow me into my bedroom, (although I do think he briefly considered it) and yelled out his apologies as he scrambled to put his boots back on.

I yelled back, while rocking back and forth behind my locked bedroom door not to worry about it but maybe take this as a lesson to learn how to knock. (Although, as an after thought, I wouldn't have heard the knocking over my caterwauling about Cherry Pie.)

I hurriedly got dressed and wandered out onto the deck to yell for Fric and Frac to let them know they had a guest. Turned out, the socially inept kid had already found who he was looking for.

As I turned to go back in the house and bang my head against the wall, I heard him tell Frac, "Your mom is HOT! I'm coming over more often!"

Remind me to start locking my doors.

I'll never be able to make eye contact with anyone in the neighbourhood again, because as I learned when my kids came home from school on Monday, he has told EVERYONE. Even the school bus driver and the mailman.

It's official. I'm a dumbass famous. My poor kids.