The Devil Made Me Do it

I love my husband's family. Stop laughing, it's true. I feel very blessed to be included in such a wonderful family. They have and continue to be a large part of my support system, through the death of my son and with Boo being gone most days of the month.

That said, I often wonder what planet these people come from. It stems from the entirely different upbringing and values his parents raised their family with than what I grew up accustomed to.

His dad worked on the family farm and at his daily job for the gas company and was home every night for dinner, to ride herd on his family; never missing a birthday or a holiday. My dad worked out of town in the oil patch and would be gone so long that when he finally came home sporting a full beard, I would wonder who the hell was this dude sitting at the kitchen table in his underwear having a cigarette.

His mom taught Sunday school and sang church hymns as she baked fresh bread and cooked three square meals a day, while chasing chickens and feeding cows and generally being a little Molly Homemaker. My mom worked in an office everyday, putting on business suits and heels and was so exhausted by the day's end the only thing she was singing was the blues.

Our childhoods were vastly different. I wouldn't say his childhood was better than mine, or vice versa, just really different. He was a country kid from a Christian family and I was a city kid with working parents. Boo never had the joys of being able to walk to the park or the store after school, and I never had the joy of hauling my arse out of bed to go do farm chores before I was allowed to eat my breakfast.

I would pay big money to see my mom wearing an apron chasing a chicken around the yard to kill it for supper.

If I tried to emulate my mother in law, I think my children and my husband would fall over dead from shock if I slapped on an apron and started belting out hymns while baking cookies. I'm no Martha Stewart.

Because of these vast differences in our upbringings, I often find myself feeling a little out of place with his family. I'm not exactly the wife they had in mind for their baby Boo. Not that I'm a bad wife. I'm just not exactly a good one.

Still, they welcome me with open arms and overlook the fact that I've got more holes in my body than any of them, I don't know the words to Amazing Grace and they try to see past my skin which is starting to look like a canvass a three year attacked with finger paints when Mommy wasn't looking.

They've adopted me as one of their own. For which I'm grateful.

Yet when I discovered there was going to be a large family gathering this weekend to celebrate the 90th birthday of the family matriarch, I panicked. Boo wasn't going to be home to apologize for whatever blunder I was about to commit and I felt like I was marching off to the gallows, awaiting my fate.

Silly, really, as this family is full of kind and loving people. Even if they thought I was a nut job who should be locked into a rubber room, they would never let that show. They're too nice for that. I could walk around wearing hooker boots and a leather bustier, with my hair in a mohawk, and talking about conspiracy theories while food fell out of my mouth and they would just nod and tell me 'that's interesting dear. Would you like a napkin?'

It's just I haven't been to a gathering of this magnitude since the day I buried my son two years ago. The last time I saw many of these faces, they were crumpled with tears or sporting looks of pity on them as they tried to console my husband and I. I wasn't sure I was up to facing the crowd with out my husband's broad shoulders to hide behind.

I didn't want to answer the dreaded "How are you doing?" question that inevitably comes up when someone remembers that yes, I'm the mother to a ghost. I wasn't sure I was mentally strong enough to pull off a family function without turning into a puddle of self-pity and tears.

Turns out, like always, I was worried for nothing. Because I like to do that. You know. Fret and sweat and get all up tight over nothing. It's part of my charm.

I tried to take special care with my appearance. I gussied up and made sure all of my bits were covered appropriately. I didn't want the guest of honor to keel over from shock because her grandson's wife looked like a two bit hooker looking for a john. (I'm thoughtful like that.)

I tried to watch my manners and make sure my children didn't act like wild little animals that were ready to chew off the legs of anyone who came near them.

I sat with my legs primly closed, and my back ramrod straight. I smiled and made small talk with the hordes of family that descended upon us and tried not to show how nervous I was. It may have felt like they were all circling in for the kill, ready to pounce at my jugular, but really they were just wanting a chance to catch up with our lives.

I think.

I thought I did pretty good.

I got cocky. I started feeling confident. Until an aunt came up to me and stuck up a conversation. She prattled on about writing, and how she had just submitted a novel to a Christian publishing house. Then she informed me that she heard I was writing.

"What are you writing?" She inquired as she eyed my tattoos.

"Um, nothing serious. Just a little here and there," I evaded, while telling myself to behave.

"Where could I find some of your work?" she asked, genuinely interested by the fact there was another writer in the family.

And with that, I stared at her and shit my pants blinked. Crap.

"Um, I publish online sometimes. Not very often," I hurried to add. She lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Really! That's fabulous." She smiled and patted my leg. And then it came. The question I feared worse than a plague of locusts. "What do you write about?" I could feel the battle of good and evil wage within me.

I took a well timed sip of my coffee and wondered do I dare tell this highly religious, mother of four, prim and proper, rather uptight, well respected woman that I spend my time writing about nipple rings and blow jobs, composing odes to bath tubs filled with shit and dead animals and how I spend most of my time hiding in the pantry drinking wine instead of parenting my children.

Common sense was screaming at me to shut my mouth and lie. Tell her you write about your feelings, the angel on my shoulder implored. The little red devil begged me to tell her about the post I wrote about waxing my beaver.

I was torn. But not for long.

"Well, I occasionally talk about my angel boy and how we've struggled with his passing," I started. She nodded and told me how fantastic that was.

"But most of the time I like to write about wearing nipple tassels and knee pads for Boo. You know, crotchless panties and the such." And then I excused myself to get the hell out of Dodge get a cup of coffee without making eye contact. As soon as I said it I wished I could take it back. It sounded good in my head. Why Lawd, why did you make me with out an impulse control button, I wondered.

She didn't try and strike up conversation again after that. I wonder why.

This is why I like to have Boo with me for these types of gatherings. He generally keeps the devil in me muzzled.

Later that night, feeling like an arse, I told my husband what I had done and how good it felt to be bad at the time yet how I was now suffering with remorse. He consoled me and told me not to worry about it.

"She's cool. She probably thought you were joking. Don't worry about it. You have a bigger problem," he warned me.

Oh great. Because it's not enough that I basically made myself look like a sex feigned twit. I need more things to freak out over. "What? What more?" I whined.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he continued.

"I know..."

"You've got crotchless panties and I've NEVER seen them!" he noted.

Ya. I guess that is a bigger problem than placing both feet in my mouth at the same time. Thanks for the perspective honey. I needed it.

Worms out of the Woodwork

Did you know that if one ventures outside in -40 degree temperatures wearing nothing but a fuzzy bathrobe gaping wide open and a pair of slippers that rival Bossy's in cuteness, one can expect one's boobs to send sharp shooting pains to her brain as the metal hoops piercing said boobs freeze and burn her tender skin, meanwhile all exposed leg and nostril hair will instantly shrivel up and fall off?





Not made to wear out in knee-deep snowdrifts...while not wearing pants.

No? Me neither. Oh, the things I've learned during this brutal cold snap that has the kids and myself seeking shelter in our igloo house while Mother Nature messes with us.

That was the last time I rescued my dog from forming into a puppy popsicle as he peed outside and his paws froze to the deck. I'm now currently working on potty training the little bugger so as to save both of our hides from freezer burn.

Meanwhile, it's a good thing I still have those size five diapers.

So I do what I can to entertain myself. Generally at my children's expense. Nothing like freaking them out for a little amusement. The look (of terror) in my son's eye when I came at him with a rusty needle and a potato telling him I wanted to give him matching boob rings as a mother/son bonding moment was worth the three days of listening to him and his sister argue over which video game to play.

Don't worry internets, I wasn't serious. I was only teasing. Really. I was trying to pierce Fric's nose but she chickened out too. Pansy ass kids of mine. Wait till their older. Then they'll be BEGGING me to take a needle and a potato to their hides.

Since the kids have taken to hiding under their beds whenever they hear my footsteps and the dog refuses to crawl out from under the sofa, I've taken to my computer for all sources of amusement and entertainment.

Have I mentioned how much I love YouTube?

Between video surfing and blog reading, I have been endlessly checking my email accounts for any type of human contact that doesn't look at me and scream "No Mommy! NO!" whenever I look at it.

Being nominated for a Bloggie has not only brought increased traffic and curious looky-loo's to the land of Redneck, but it has also filled my inbox.

Letters such as the following:

Redneck Mommy,

I recently came across your blog when I was checking out the nominees for the Bloggie awards. I have read months of your archives and while I would like to say I found you amusing and interesting it was more like I was compelled the same way one is compelled to gawk at a horrific traffic accident.

How you can find amusement and entertainment in animal cruelty and suffering is beyond me. You should not be allowed to own pets. Nor should you be allowed to be a parent. There is a reason why you have not been approved for adoption. You are lucky the authorities are not removing your children from your custody, as it is obvious your parenting style is to mock and abuse them for your own entertainment. I fear for the adults they will eventually turn into because of your lifestyle choices.

You should seek help before it is too late for your children and for yourself.

I will not be voting for you for a Bloggie. I will pray for you, your children and your pets though.

June from Ontario.


I would have responded to June from Ontario and thanked her for her kind words and thoughtful prayers, but I have a sneaking suspicion that her email addy 'iwillpray4usinner@saviour.com' is not her real address.

But June, if you are reading this I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate the time you spent on reading my archives and then subsequently emailing me your thoughts. I will take your suggest under advisement but most likely I will just mock and ridicule you.

Dear Tanis,

I think u is real funny. I like it when u post picures of yer boobs. I voted for ya. I wish u woudn't talk so much about yer husband or yer kids so much tho. I'm really glad you posted your name. It's purdy.

Yer biggest fan,

Bob from the U.S.


Thanks Bob. I'll take this as a friendly reminder as to why I don't post our last names or location on the interweb. But I appreciate the time you took from your porn surfing to email little ol' me. My heart just swells with gratitude. Even if I did develop a nervous twitch after reading this.

To T,

I read you all the time. You are really pretty. But why are your posts so long? I think your really funny and I voted for you in the Bloggies. But I think you would have a broader audience is you weren't so wordy. I read your posts at work and sometimes it is difficult to finish them because my boss wants me to do something.

Oh, and could you ask your husband if he could give me a raise? And don't tell him I asked. Or that I think you're pretty.

Thanks. Keep up the great work and good luck.

Regards,

Jody


I think I may have to kick my husband's ass for telling everyone about my website at work. But Jody, my posts are wordy because I have too much damn time on my hands, I don't have enough kids to occupy me and I have a fondness for run-on sentences.

In the future, I'll try to keep my words to a minimum.

Have I mentioned how much I love the internet? Cuz really, I do.

Nothing like a bit of fanmail from judgmental crusaders, perverts and crazies the public to make the hours fly as I'm trapped in my house with my children and can't escape.

It is gratifying to know people are touched by my blog and would take time from their precious lives to send me some sort of feedback.

I just didn't need to know they were touching themselves while they were doing it.

Good Times At the Grocery Store

***It's National Delurking Day today. So come out, come out where ever you are. Don't be shy. I won't bite. Unless you ask me to...***

If there is one thing I hate more than cooking, giving head and stepping in dog shit, it would be grocery shopping. I can't think of a worse form of torture for a Tuesday morning than having to wander the aisles of some vast Super-Discount-Vapid-Employees-Cheap-Produce store to squeeze tomatoes.

I have been known to let my children go hungry rather than forage for food at the local supermarket.

I think it all has to do with the time I was four and I ran away from my mother in a seemingly large grocery store and ran up and down the aisles, like the smart ass kid I was until I realized I couldn't find her and suddenly had a panic attack to beat a panic attack and sat down in the middle of the aisle, wailing "Mommmmmmeeeee!"

She never came.

Apparently, she heard my cries, took one look at my snotty nose and scrunched up face and decided it would be of some benefit to me to wait until she finished up in the bakery department before retrieving me.

Meanwhile, store employees formed a circle around me, poking me with broom handles while hissing.

Really. That's what I remember.

Since that day I loathe the grocery shopping experience. There is something about Walmart and the mega stores which suck out all the life blood and vibrancy of shoppers and turn them into irritating, mindless, vacant-eyed ghouls who continually ram their carts into the back of my heels.

Fackers.

My best friend knows this about me. She has seen my empty pantry and witnessed my children foraging for berries when I've been too lazy struck with fear to face my grocery store demons. And because she cares about my family and the well being of my very cute and charming children, she has taken it upon herself to pick me up every week and hustle my sorry ass to the nearest grocery store.

Picture her stuffing me into her minivan with the sharp end of windshield scraper thingy while I'm cussing and screaming at her. Happens every Tuesday. With her three very young children in the back, staring at me wide eyed and agog and wondering what the hell they did to deserve being saddled with a batshit crazy aunt.

After a particularly noxious shopping experience where I was stuck pushing the cart holding her decidedly gassy and stinky two year old, I decided to take my joy where I could find it in the vast wasteland of consumerism. Have some fun with my very uptight and rigid friend. In other words, torment her like the constant farting of her daughter was tormenting my sensitive olfactory nerve.

As we steered our carts holding precious food supplies and small children (all of her kids are under the age of four) we split up and took different check out aisles. Her on one side, her farting child and me on the other. As luck would have it (because the Grocery Store Gods facking hate me) I was stuck in the line not moving. While her child happily tooted away and kept smacking me in my boob.

I figured I could do one of two things: Feel sorry for myself for my lousy line picking skills or have a little fun at my prim and proper friend's expense, who was already at the check out kiosk on the other side of the stand.

Guess which road I took? Hint, it wouldn't be considered the high road.

Grabbing a box of Durex condoms, (God love Walmart for all the crap they bombard you with in the check out aisle) I stood on my tippy toes, waving the box and in my OUTSIDE voice sweetly yelled called "Hey D, they've got those extra small condoms you were looking for, you know the RIBBED ones for your pleasure, over here. You want a box?"

The ladies in front of me didn't think I was so funny. They must know my mom. But the men behind us, in both lines, tittered and watched my friend for her reaction.

She was mortified and red and couldn't muster an answer except to shoot me the ole "Fuck off and Die" look, (which I'm rather impervious to.) She looked at the man standing behind her in line and then looked at me and shook her head.

Never one to leave things alone, I called out, "Did you get a price check on that KY jelly...you know the kind that heats up? I want to know if that super big bottle you bought is cheaper than the regular size bottle?"

Meanwhile, my line has slowly crept up so I'm opposite her now, with only the cashier between us to protect me from her reaching over and wringing my neck.

Again my friend looks at the man behind her in line (who was now leering openly) and then shot me a look. To her credit, she muttered a comeback. Not a good one, but then she's not accustomed to some lunatic screeching out her (fictional) private business in the middle of a packed Walmart where she now has about thirty people wondering just how small her husband's penis really is and what kind of proclivities does one need to use a super sized bottle of heat lube.

As she ushered past me, still stuck in line waiting to be rung out, she hissed something about killing me and then she beat a hasty retreat.

The only thing keeping her from dumping my embarrassing ass and peeling out of the parking lot with out me was I was now holding her flatulent daughter as hostage in my cart. Heh, heh.

Vowing to make it up to her and spring for coffee, (cuz I'm thoughtful like that) I paid for my groceries and started shoving her daughter's two year old arms into her coat, when the creepy dude who stood behind my friend approached me.

Handing me his business card, he said to me, "Anytime either...or both...of you ladies would like to go out, you just give me a call, sweets." Then he doffed his greasy ball cap and sauntered off.

I stood there dumbfounded for a moment and a little queered out and then looked at the card he stuffed in my hand.

G-Spot Welding, it read, with the tag line, "Cuz we're just that good." On the back he had scribbled, 'I'm always up to use some lube with a pretty lady. I'll even provide my own.'

That'll teach me. Next time I'll keep my mouth shut.

Or stick to teasing her about tampons.






***Say hello. You know you want to. Unless your the dude from G-Spot Welding. Then don't bother. I already have your number.***