How I Narrowly Escaped the Clink

***Long post but true story. I have the cuff marks to prove it. Wink, wink.***

It's never been a life long goal of mine to see the inside of a prison cell. Call me crazy but I enjoy my freedom. I like to know that if I bend over to pick up a bar of soap I dropped while showering I'm not inviting others to sexually molest me.

Unless of course it's my husband in the shower with me. Hell, all I need to do is breathe in his direction and he's ready for action.

So when I almost found myself on the inside of the clink last Friday, mere hours before my Redneck roadtrip, I was more than a little worried.

Hell, I was darn near hysterical. Prison orange is not a complimentary colour against my skin tone.

As I watched the friendly neighbourhood R.C.M.P. officer take the complaint, the events leading up to this moment raced before my eyes leading me to wonder what I could have done differently to avoid my future jailbird status.

Except, there really wasn't much I would change. Except maybe I would have worn my purple shirt. And a push up bra.

I have mentioned before that my daughter Fric has had issues with being bullied at school. She is much like I was at her age, studious, gangly and eager to please. All of which ultimately lands her ass on a silver platter for the mean girl bullies of her school to munch on.







There is a vast difference between her and me being bullied. Back then I would go home crying about some girl persecuting me and my parents would tell me to suck it up. Back then there were no metal detectors and surveillance systems in schools. Back then kids didn't bring weapons in their lunch kits and blindly shoot people like targets in a video game.

Back then I also had to walk seven miles to school, up hill both directions, in a raging blizzard with no shoes on, as well.

Still, times have obviously changed and bullying is not an issue just to be shoved on the back burner and ignored.

This was an issue that was not going to resolve itself, no matter how hard my daughter and I wished it. It was beginning to affect her soul, her grades, her very well being.

If your eleven year old daughter is unhappy, then trust me, the whole damn family is unhappy. Even the dog.

Boys are easier. They simply beat each other until someone cries uncle and then they move on. But the psychological terrorization of a few female pubescent teeny boppers is harder to deal with. Especially when it's leveled at your most beloved daughter.

Annoyed and frustrated and more than a tad pissed off, I took the bull by the horns when I was at a school function. I decided to confront the parent of the mean girl responsible for making my daughter feel like a pile of dung. Except I had no idea who she was or what she looked like.

I thought about walking through the gym and hollering "Hey, Mean Girl's Mom. Come get a piece of me."

But I'm a pansy. I have brittle bones. So I just wandered around looking for a woman who looked like she was getting a beaver wax. You know, twisted up face and kinda tense. That's how I pictured this woman.

I didn't have to look long or very hard. Her mother found me.

A great hulking brunette who towered over me and was spewing venom from her lips and steam from her ears.

Before I could even open my mouth to introduce myself she called me a tramp (based on my baggy jeans, over-sized sweater and ponytail) and obviously my daughter didn't fall far from the tree.

Now I'm used to people drawing assumptions about my personality because of the colour of my hair or the size of my waist. I'm used to people looking at my tattoos and nose ring and thinking I'm some punk rocker wanna be who is the scourge of society. I'm even used to being judged as an inadequate mom because I'm so young and my kids are so, well, old.

But I'm not used to my eleven-year-old daughter being called a whore. Especially from the woman who gave birth to the devil child who delights in abusing my child and has never even met me before.

You might say my hackles rose.

And when you back me into a corner, I don't bark.

I bite.

It is a long and sordid story and one I am not particularly proud of. Luckily for me, I had the forethought (must have been the flashing neon sign blinking 'Danger...Crazy Woman Up Ahead' to ask my in-laws to stay close and witness my conversation.

Suffice it to say in the span of ten minutes, I was bullied in the lobby of the school my children attend, tag teamed by the parents of the mean girl.

I was accused of (in no particular order):

-being a tramp.
-abusing my children.
-needing therapy.
-my children needed therapy.
-of not knowing just what my daughter and my reputations were.
-if I knew said reputations I would never show my face in public.
-of my daughter being the bully.
-informed my daughter is the most annoying and irritating child in the entire school.

and my personal favorite:

-it's no surprise my son died after having me for a parent.

Good times.

During this entire tirade, my hands remained on my hips as I looked up at the jolly giants glaring down on me (damn you genetics for not allowing me to grow past 5'8...and wouldn't you know it was the one day I chose not to wear heels out in public?) and I tried to be civil. I never raised my voice or volleyed any of my own vicious accusations.







It's not to say I didn't want to, but I was in a public place. And these people were making more than enough of a spectacle, I didn't need to add any fuel to this inferno. Besides, I'll bite back later. And I'll leave teeth marks.

Thankfully, none of the children involved witnessed this degrading altercation.

After calling me brainless she and her husband stormed out of the school and left me shaking like a leaf in the hallway while trying to pick my in-laws jaws up from the floor.

I'm gonna guess the child who bullies my kid learned said behaviour from certain family members. Just a hunch.

It was when I had finally gathered my family around me and was leaving the school when I noticed the jolly giants talking to the R.C.M.P.

They were filing a complaint against ME. On the grounds that I physically threatened their child.

Must have been my heavy breathing and tugging at my nose ring. So threatening.

This is when I saw my future as the newest bitch in cell block C.

Turns out they spun quite the tale regarding the incident that had just occurred. Hell, I'm a real battle-weary bad ass according to them. Must be my tattoos. I intimidated them with my butterfly. Heh.

Thankfully, the R.C.M.P. had a heads up on the situation (before the jolly giants filed the complaint) from a respected member of the community who just happens to respect me. (Reminder to always be nice to strangers. You never know when they are going to bail your ass out of a legal jam.)

The R.C.M.P were in fact, more concerned with the slanderous venom my new friends just spewed and the fact that this woman was AN EMPLOYEE AT THE SCHOOL. A teacher's aid.

What the fack? This woman works with my kids? To hell with that. Now I AM pissed. Before I was mildly annoyed, aggravated and a little insulted. Now I'm seeing red.

After speaking with the friendly (and cute) cop, he told me I could press charges if I liked. I didn't like. That wouldn't resolve the underlying issue: their daughter is bullying my child.

On Monday, I met with the principal of the school along with a personal army of cute R.C.M.P. officers as my body guards.

(It's good to have cute boys with guns be on your side.)

You know the meeting is off to a bad start when the man you are meeting with confuses you for a new student looking to register. Sigh.

But the meeting was productive. I felt good about the outcome. No, I didn't demand her head on a platter. Although I could have. I did demand a policy review about privacy issues and employees and I know for a matter of fact this woman is getting her ass spanked. But I don't want to think about that.

I want to think about how I held myself together while my ass was being chewed. I want to think about the example I set for my kids, for my community. I didn't sink to this woman's (and her husband's) level. I didn't back down from my bullies. And while I certainly don't relish confrontation, I would do it all again if it means protecting my children.







Things are looking up for Frac now. And the little mean girl is no longer a mean girl in my eyes. Just a kid who is confused and taught to behave a certain way. She's a good egg. She just has her own issues to deal with. And now, because of this brouhaha, they are being dealt with. Hopefully, she will stay the hell away from my daughter.

Maybe one day they may even become friends.

Maybe one day I will sprout a third boob. Don't laugh. It's possible.

I want my kids to know that I will always have their backs. But I want them to know that there is a way to deal with a crappy situation with grace and dignity. Even when you're being called a murdering, child abusing whore along the way.

The world isn't always a pretty place. Nor is it perfect or safe. There will always be unpleasant situations and circumstances to face and overcome. Even when you are a grown up and you hear the sweet rattle of handcuffs near your ears.

There will always be people who can't be trusted, and people who can't be nice.

But there will always be two people who love you no matter what the pain you face may be.

Your father and me.

I will always have your backs, kids. No matter how high the shit gets piled on me, I will always come out smelling like a rose because I have you both.

But when you get old enough to buy booze, you better be prepared to pop for a bottle or two of expensive red.

I've earned it.

The Truck Got Stuck

I'm not a girly girl. Or at least I never used to be. I was once the very definition of a tom boy. Climbing trees and playing football in the mud was more my style.

Then suddenly I grew up, had babies and found more appropriate ways to spend my time than rolling around in the mud.

It didn't help that my best friends happen to be the very definition of girly girls. Heck, my best friend can't leave the house with out her socks matching her shirt, her necklace matching her earrings and her pedicure setting off her lipstick.

I don't even clip my damn toenails. Heh. And the only necklaces I have are the medals I won in my track and field glory days.

My idea of being a frilly girl is wearing a shirt that nicely promotes my feminine rack. I find it helps distract people from noticing the lack of makeup and the freakishly hairy legs I have.

To this day, I still prefer playing in the dirt to having to doll up and pretend I'm a woman.

Yet slowly over the years, I've buried my dirty girl side a little deeper and started to embrace my inner woman. I can gussy up with the best of them and not feel so socially awkward anymore.

But I find I'm taking out the garbage less and less and passing that on to Frac and my husband. Same goes with digging flower beds or hauling wood.

It's not so much that I'm scared I'm going to break a nail (heck, I cut them all to the quick anyways) but more that I am fundamentally lazy. Why do something that involves back breaking labour when I can get a boy to do it?

It's just common sense, people.

Still, I worry about the example I am setting for my kids. I want my kids to know I can do anything from cleaning out a freezer of rotten meat to fixing the plugged toilet and everything that falls in between.

Which is why I was annoyed with myself. After weeks of staring at my new shiny rusty truck sitting in my driveway I realized I hadn't gone near it since my husband tossed the keys in my lap and drove off.

That truck scared me. I was afraid of getting stuck or having oh, the axels fall out, while I was driving it.

Which as my friends pointed out, is ridiculous because just last Wednesday I got stuck in a muddy ditch with my car and managed to get unstuck all on my own. (So I may need a new transmission. Big deal.)

I was avoiding the truck. I needed to conquer my fears and stop thinking like a priss and just drive the damn thing.

So I did. Sure I kinda bunny hopped it for a few clicks until I got the feel of it, but before long Bertha and I were fast friends. My husband was right. She did run like a dream.

I got so excited about my new scary truck driving abilities that I decided to head over to my best friend's place and show off my driving prowess. As she saw me bounce that rig up her bumpy drive way she told the hubs to look after the kids and than ran out to greet me.

Turns out Bertha likes to go 4x4'ing. Turns out my best friend just happens to own a large amount of land conducive to letting Bertha's bitchiness loose.

Picture two stay at home moms war whooping and laughing as we bounced about and sprayed dirt through the fields.

Turns out, I should really be a monster truck driver. It would seem I've got an affinity for it. Heh.

Or at least that is what I thought until I decided to pin it through a rather wet looking bog. And sank my Bertha up to her axels.

Shit.

 
 

 

Only my truck was in deeper than this. Gotta love Alberta in the spring. 

After getting out to push while my best friend pinned it, I decided we were good and stuck. Plus, I was eating mud. Literally. So we trudged back to the yard to go pick up her truck. A big ole Dodge with a handy winch.

One way or another this truck was coming home with me. Even if I had to dismantle it piece by piece.

As we walked into the yard her husband saw that we were without wheels and that I looked like I had just taken a mud bath.

"Where's the truck?" he snickered.

"Out back. It needed a rest. We thought we would bring out a buddy to keep it company," tmy best friend evaded while climbing into her truck.

"You got her stuck, didn't you?" Like he has never got a truck stuck before. Harumph.

"No," my best friend replied very haughty like, while I did my best to wipe my glasses clean.

"I'm telling Boo," he laughed. "Do you need a hand?" Because you know, we're just girls.

"Thanks Cowboy, but I've got this covered. You just be a good boy and take care of your kidlets. I think I hear one of them screaming right now," I may have replied snottily as I jumped into the cab.

If Boo caught wind of this my ass was grass. I would never live it down. I needed to get this truck unstuck so I could resume to more ladylike pasttimes such as knitting and ironing.

So we bounced out to where my lovely truck was sitting in the mud, looking dirty and forlorn and we hitched up the winch and let it rip.

Finally, after about 45 minutes of gentle lady like cursing and the smell of burnt rubber in the air, Bertha was freed from her muddy prison with a great sucking sound.

My best friend and I got out of our respective vehicles, which were now so muddy you couldn't see what colour they were painted, and high fived each other.

 
 

 

It took over twenty dollars at the car wash to get my truck half clean. Heh. 

"Who needs a man?" we giggled.

"Race you back to the house," I called as I jumped into my ratty truck.

So I'm not scared of my truck anymore.

And while the men folk are slightly miffed that we played in the mud without them, they are willing to overlook the fact that for an afternoon, my girlfriend and I were decidedly unladylike.

As it turns out, there is nothing sexier than two women wrestling in the mud.

Boys.

Me, I've got to remember to be less ladylike more often. Because damn was that fun.

Except for the part where I cracked my head against the roof of the truck as I flew over a small hill.

Next time as I get my tomboy boots on, I'll remember to buckle up.



For all of you who wonder how how we hicks spend our time. This was filmed not far from where I live. 

***I dedicate this post to my darling Boo who turns 33 today. May you have a great birthday love. I promise to give you a good er, ride when you get home. I'm just not saying what type of ride. Wink, wink.***

Tanis Tours Toronto

I'm a shy gal. Oh, I know, I talk a good game, but when push comes to shove, I am nothing but that stringy haired, knobby kneed little girl who is afraid to be picked last for a game of kick ball at recess.

With that in mind, I was trying really hard to block out the fact that flying across the country to meet a group of bloggers, most of whom I have never met before, was kind of like a big blind date.

A blind date where you stand around looking for the man with a rose who doesn't show up, leaving you to go home and drown your sorrows in a pint of ice cream while trying to shake the feeling that nobody wanted you on for that imaginary game of kick ball.

Ya. Can you tell I won the Miss Confidence crown somewhere along the path of growing up?

Heh.

Perhaps I wouldn't have been so nervous if I hadn't pressed snooze a million times and only had time to quickly shower and grab my bags before making the long drive to the airport.

Perhaps my confidence would have been bolstered if, while in the public restroom of the airport trying to slap on some makeup, the lady next to me stood washing her hands didn't comment about how large the bags underneath my eyes were and how it must be hard to find a good concealer to hide them.

Be-yotch.

So I got off to a rocky start on my Redneck road trip.

I knew things were going to start looking up the moment I was in the air. I could feel it. At least that's what I kept chanting to myself as I approached the security gates.

BEEP.

Shit. I set off the metal detector. The security officer looked at me, sighed and waved his magic wand over my body.

BEEP.

"Ma'am, please go back and walk through the detector again."

BEEP.

"It's my jeans. They have metal buttons on them," I half explained, half pleaded, while trying not to sweat through my shirt. I could feel the eyes of all the annoyed passengers on me as the security dude waved his wand up and down my body again.

BEEP. BEEP.

"I'm going to have to pat you down," he told me as he started to molest me. By this time, I had visions of being stripped searched in the bathroom and could hear the snap of the ole rubber gloves.

The security dude carefully examined my shoes and my legs and was satisfied I wasn't packing any bombs or guns in my denim and stood up to wave the wand on my upper body.

BEEP.

Oh shit. My tits, I thought as the crowd started to get more annoyed with me.

"I have a few well placed body piercings," I stammered as he kept waving the wand over my chest.

BEEP. BEEP.

"I'm going to have to, um, pat you down," he apologized as he set his wand down.

Great. The most action I have had in weeks and it's by some dude who speaks broken english and didn't even buy me dinner first. I love my life.

Just then, the guy standing behind me waiting to clear the detectors piped up, "I'll pat her down for you if you don't want too!"

Titters rippled through the crowd and I turned around to shoot him a death look. Freaking pervert.

The security dude quickly patted my chest while not making eye contact and then satisfied with my er, guns, he waved me through.

Bending down to retrieve my shoes, I looked at him and asked him if it was as good for him as it was for me.

He didn't laugh.

And so began my trip to Toronto.

After being elbowed in the ribs a dozen or more times by the dude sitting next to me on the plane, I was ready to let the good times roll.

Good times which included getting lost in the airport for 45 minutes, wandering around looking for an exit and freaking the fack out that I wouldn't recognize Mama Tulip, who had offered to pick me up.

i just about cried with relief when suddenly she appeared in the crowded masses and saved me from going home with some scary looking man who had just offered to "show me the best Toronto had to offer."

Aside from the pouring rain, the constant smell of cat pee (love a big city) and my jangled nerves, I was so excited to start my tour. Mama Tulip soothed me with her sexy voice and beautiful smile. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing her boobs. The thought of her kicking me out of her car and me having to live under a bridge and become a squee-gee kid kept me in line.





My first view of the CN tower. It reminded me of a penis.

We found our way to Metro Mama's home and I worried if my country bumpkin status was showing when I couldn't stop cooing over her fabulous hip and urban home.

"Gosh dang it, we don't have such fancy thangs out west," I repeated in awe as I was dazzled with big city life and her beautiful home. "I can't believe how purdee the streets are. Back home, a pile of moose poop qualifies as yard decorations." I am sooo sophisticated. I just couldn't seem to shut.the.hell.up.

Her husband, McHotty was probably wondering what turnip truck I fell off and how his wife managed to find me.

As the hour crept closer to the big blogger meet up, my nervous twitch became more pronounced. Tulip began to wonder if I had Turrets and Metro was worried I may make a run for the border.

Nothing like walking into a fancy bar wearing a ten dollar shirt and a pair of baggy jeans to bolster one's self-confidence.





Bumper always knows just how to make a girl feel welcome. Heh.

My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest as I made my way into our private lounge. Twenty-five sets of eyes turned to look at me just as I felt my underwear wedge up my ass.

Good times.

Thankfully, God invented beer.





And thank God for HBM's boob's. Nothing like a good rack to make me feel welcome.

Even better, God invented great bloggers. I had a blast despite being jet-lagged, over-emotional and sporting the worst wedgie I've ever known.

It was an amazing experience to put faces to the words I have read, and for blogs to suddenly become people . It was worth the public molestation, the rain and my nervous twitch.

These people were no longer readers or commenters or writers; they became my friends. Offline and in real life. Friends I know I will cherish always.

That alone was worth the suffering through the wedgie that wanted to floss it's way up to my navel.

I can't wait to do it again.

But next time, I'm going commando.