The Bee's Knees

A long time ago, there was a stringy blonde haired little girl who had big dreams to conquer the world. The spelling world that is. You see, there was a school spelling bee and this little girl, who may or may not have grown up to be a redneck mommy, desperately wanted to win this contest. In her mind, winning this contest was all that stood between her and greatness.

This little girl with stringy hair and knobby knees studied hard to prepare for her future victory. To others it may have seemed she was prancing around singing into her hair brush while listening to Micheal Jackson's Billy Jean when she should have been reading a dictionary, but that was only to the untrained eye. The reality was the soft dulcet tones of the Pop King's songs helped soothe the spelling savage beast raging inside of the little girl, roaring to be released from within.

Finally, the day of competition arrived. Children were gathered from all corners of the school to stand on the stage in the gym and spell their way to victory. The little girl, wearing a striped orange and brown corduroy jumper (thanks Mom. Wouldn't it have been easier to paste a 'kick me' sign on my back?) was confident in her ability to conquer the competition and secretly crowed a little inside everytime a child fell victim to a misspelled word.

Round after round, the number of children grew smaller until there was only five small children standing on that stage, each desperate to win, each pinning their self-worth on correctly speaking a series of letters to spell a word they barely knew the meaning of. Then it was the little girl's turn at the microphone. She walked up confident in her future status as the school's best speller. She heard the word and beamed widely when she realized it was a word she easily knew.



Taking a deep breath she slowly and surely said the letters which would bring her one step closer to victory. Moments stretched for what seemed an eternity as she waited for the signal from the judges to resume her place back on stage. Instead, she heard the buzzer. The dreaded sound of defeat, identifying losers for all the school to mock. What? How could it be, she thought to herself. She knew that word. She knew she spelled it correctly. There had to be a mistake, she thought.

"I'm sorry Tanis, the correct spelling is Capital I-n-d-i-a-n. You forgot to capitalize the first letter. Please get off the stage and join the rest of the losers who can't spell worth beans over in the far corner of the gym we like to call 'loserdom'. And please remember to tie your dunce cap on tightly for the picture we want to take so we can mock you forever in the future."

(Oh, ok, I'm sure the teacher didn't use those exact words but you'll never prove they didn't either.)

With one small mistake the little girl's dream of ruling the world with her spelling prowess died a flaming public death. Never again did she participate in another spelling bee, but never again did she ever misspell the word Indian.

I had pushed this particularly painful episode of childhood failure far from my mind. It was eventually buried under bigger and more spectacular failures that inevitably followed.

Then I had a daughter. One who is strikingly similar to her momma in all aspects, including her blood-thirsty need to spell correctly.  One who has for the past three years, dredged up this painful memory in her own quest to dominate her school and rub her momma's the world's nose in her spelling supremacy. A daughter who has forced me to acknowledge time and time again, that not only can I NOT spell correctly, but I am indeed a raging dumbass.

No longer do words like schottische, muishond, Beetewk or canaille strike terror in my heart. Mostly because I have accepted the fact I am, indeed, a spelling dumbass. Who needs to spell when one mostly communicates in 140 characters via text or twitter?

The little girl who couldn't spell Indian correctly is all grown up and no longer dreaming of winning a spelling bee. Now she dreams of watching her child win the big bee. Because those that can't, procreate, yo.

This year, after years of studying (or rather, having her kids cram words down my throat whether I like it or not) is the year it all comes together. Fric is on her way to making her momma's dreams come true with her triumphant victory at the school's spelling bee last week.

That's right Internet, my daughter, the one who sprung from my loins, crafted from my DNA, took the title as her school's best speller. Cue the harps and stand back because rainbows are about to shoot out from my back end.

It was a dream come true for the little girl with stringy hair and knobby knees, who once stood on a stage in a striped orange and brown corduroy jumper with letters of victory flashing in her eyes.

Suddenly, I understand how Walter Gretzky must feel.

His Stanley Cup is my Scripps Spelling bee. Look out world. I'm, er, Fric is one step closer to total spelling domination. Next up, regionals, then CanWest and then the Big Bee.

Good luck baby girl. No matter how far you go, you already shot past the moon in my eyes.  I promise to help you however I can.

Just don't ask me to spell.

Suck It

With the dawn of the new year, comes new hopes and fresh aspirations.

What it shouldn't come with is your dog sneaking onto your bed only eight hours into the new year and giving birth to a new litter of puppies while you are in the kitchen flipping pancakes for a slew of house guests and their toddler children.

Especially when you didn't even know the damned dog was pregnant in the first place.

Can we say, Surprise! Happy New Year! You're a puppy Grandma AGAIN!!!! Or as my husband said, "For F*ck sakes woman, I don't know who I want to shoot more, you for having that damned dog in the first place or the horny bitch who can't keep her legs closed."

It was a merry moment let me tell you.

So um, ya. I have puppies. Again. And I burned yet another bedspread. Again. Apparently it is my mission in life to ensure the survival of the bedding industry in Alberta. While supplying half breed mutts to the local community. I am my very own cottage industry. There ought to be an award for that somewhere.

I know, I know. I can hear Bob Barker yelling at me as I type this. Spay your damn animal woman. What can I say? I meant to. Good intentions and all. We had an appointment scheduled in late November to get the job done, but Jumby got sick, the truck died and my water line froze all on the same day. I forgot all about taking Deira the Dog Breeder to the vet to get her tubes tied. Which, apparently, was fortuitous for the passel of pups taking up residence unbeknownst to us all.

There ought to be a law. If dogs are going to get pregnant and breed, they should tell you. By gaining weight, or growing big boobs or flashing a neon sign on their foreheads. Something, for crying out loud to let one know they need to hide the good bedding and wrap their mattress in plastic to prevent it from the future assault of puppy schmega about to soak into it.

The upside is, I get to redecorate my bedroom. Again.

The downside is, I have two boys and a girl that I really didn't want or need. And a pissy husband who keeps threatening to toss me and my dogs into a plastic bag and drop the lot of us off somewhere alongside a dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

He should just be grateful the dog didn't give birth ON HIM. While sleeping. Ahem.

I keep telling him I was just providing some morning entertainment for the children who were running around like banshees through our house on New Years morning. No one can say I am not a thoughtful host. Not only do I serve fresh pancakes and bacon but I provide life lessons on the nature of birth to the fresh eyes of four year olds when they come to stay at my house.

Future houseguests, take heed. If you don't want your innocent children learning about the joys of life and the tragedies of death (side story: hours later I had the four year old flush his first fish when my aquarium suffered a casualty,) they ought to plan to stay ELSEWHERE.

In this house, there are no boundaries, no stories swept under the rug away from the prying eyes of children. It's like a Nature show gone wild under my roof. Take heed.

Eventually the shock of Deira's delivery wore off, the sheets were stripped (and burned) and the entire puppy family safely relocated away from my mattress and into a kennel. Life could get back to the state of normal dysfunction we are happily acclimated to.

Or so I thought.

A few mornings later, my daughter came rushing into the kitchen were I was making myself a cup of tea and her father was enthralled in his latest computer game and announced there was something wrong with Deira.

"Deira doesn't look so good Mom!"

"Honey, she just had babies. No new mother looks good after squeezing life from her lower half. It's a fact of life," I explained.

"No Mom," she rolled her eyes. "I don't mean that. I mean a couple of her boobs are really big and angry looking and the puppies aren't suckling off them. It looks really painful," she said as she folded her arms over her own chest.

"Let's go take a look," I said, more curious than anything.

Low and behold, it seemed my daughter was correct. Two of Deira's titties were swelled up like little water balloons. "Ew. That can't be good," I murmured as I gently poked at the dog. Deira looked up at me with a sad look and then started licking her boobs. "Um, Boo, can you come and take a look at the dog?" I called him.

Boo was less than interested in poking at his bitch's tits however and with a cursory exam announced she was in the beginning stages of mastitis. Or whatever the doggy version of that is.

"Great. Her boobs are infected??? What do I do? Should I take her to the vet?"

"Probably. But I'm not doing it. Stupid dog." And then he wandered back to his computer to let his women folk worry about the doggy boobs.

Hours later, it was confirmed. Deira had broken boobs, an antibiotic prescription and instructions to be milked if the puppies wouldn't feed off the engorged teets.

Turns out, the puppies were less than interested in suckling off mammaries bigger than they are. Which led to a dilemma.

Who was going to milk the damn dog?

"I think you should do it, Boo. You're the farmer. You milked cows all of your life. You like boobs. You're a man. It should naturally fall to you," I encouraged him while we all stood around the dog kennel as Deira looked at us as though to say, "I don't care who empties these milk sacs, just hurry up and do it!!!"

Boo looked at me like I grew a third head and barked out a laugh. "You are out of your damn mind woman. I didn't want the dog, you wouldn't let me get rid of her, I'm certainly not MILKING her."

"Okay fine, you big baby. Let's let Frac do it. He can learn the fine art of milking animals in the comfort of his own home," I stated while looking at Frac.

"Um, you're crazy Mom. I'm not touching a dog's boobs. That's just icky. You can't make me," he flatly stated while siding up closer to his father in a show of manly solidarity.

"Sheesh. Fine. Don't say I never gave you permission to fondle boobs though. You had your chance kiddo."

"Gross Mom."

"You say that now kid. Wait a few years and remember this conversation." I bent down to scratch Deira on her swollen tummy as her puppies snuggled together in a soft black pile. "Well Fric, I guess it's up to you. Time for you to shine and show these menfolk what you are made of my darling. After all, you always say you want to be a healer."

"Ya, a healer to PEOPLE Mom," Fric squawked. "I'm not touching those! She's YOUR DOG. YOU DO IT."

"What???MEEE? I can't do it. No way. NO!! Boo you do it!!"

"NOPE. You are on your own darlin'. Have fun with that." Then they all walked out of the room leaving the dog with broken boobs staring up at me and willing me to grow a set of nuts.

"I can't believe you are all abandoning me!! I'm the matriarch of this damn family. Without me, you'd all be LOOOOST!!!" I whined after them.

They ignored me. Ingrates.

I stood there in front of the kennel for a few moments, debating the necessity of draining those boobs and considering not doing it when suddenly I remembered how it felt when I was nursing and my boobs felt like they were going to explode. Damn maternal instincts. Sighing, I reached down to grab the dog and as I sat on the bed to position her for the distasteful chore ahead of me, I looked at her and said, "If you bite me, I will bite back."



And then I squeezed.

Nothing came out and Deira squirmed. So I squeezed and tugged some more. After a few seconds I was rewarded with one precious drop of doggy milk. Ewww, I shuddered as I squeezed some more.

After a few minutes, of me pulling at my dog's boobs while muttering to myself about how my life totally ROCKED, I started to get the hang of it. I must have been a dairy farmer in a past life. My fingers? They are nimble.

Progress was being made, although Deira didn't always want to cooperate and her boobs started to soften and shrink slightly. I was starting to feel a little smug about myself when I noticed her fur was all wet with expressed milk.

"HAHAHA. I'm doing it!!! And it's not that bad! And you thought I couldn't do it!!! I SHOWED YOU ALL!" I called out to my family who were all hiding far away from me.

"That's right Deira. Who needs them when we've got each other," I cooed at her as I continued to milk her like ole Bessie in the barn.

Curiosity eventually caught up with my family and they crept into the door of the bedroom to watch the matriarch of their family take care of business in a way that could only be called artful. "Oh ya you big babies. Whose your momma now?" I crowed like the cocky bitch I am.

Just then, as I tugged and squeezed one of the teets a stream of milk sprayed right into my face covering my glasses and another shot straight into my open cocky mouth.

"OH GROSS. I just ate dog milk. EWWW!" I cried as wiped my tongue on my shirt sleeve and my family doubled over laughing.

"It's NOT FUNNY!!"

"No Tanis, you're wrong. It's hilarious," Boo chuckled as they all backed slowly away from the door in case a stream of wayward milk flew towards them.

As another stream of milk hit me in the face all I could think as I heard my family laughing at me, was F*ck my life, my dog's a bitch.

*edit: Deira is now fine. Bitch. And I apparently, have a new talent to add to my resume.*

Spreading Christmas Cheer

Christmas is the season of joy.

As the tattoo on my arm says, 'One Joy Scatters A Hundred Griefs'. I'm all about the joy. Specifically spreading it. Like preschoolers sharing their germy little kisses, I'm here to share the Christmas joy.

Or I was. Until I realized it's Christmas eve and I still haven't finished knitting my mother's present. Nor have I finished the Christmas baking, folded the last of the laundry or wrapped the last minute gifts my husband keeps purchasing. Someone needs to take that man's bank card away from him. Ahem.

Not to mention, I woke up to find I must have stepped in a pile of reindeer crap when I wasn't looking because Santa delivered my gift early: the plague.

Nothing like pissing off a posse of festive elves and waking up with a raging head cold the day before Christmas. Merry Christmas me!

Still, I couldn't let this Christmas pass without taking an opportunity to thank you all for your support and merriment you have bestowed upon me through out the year.



So thank you.

And to show you my appreciation, I'm reposting previous Christmas performances for you holiday enjoyment.

It's all about the re-gifting around here. (Don't judge me, I'm dying from the plague.)

Merry Christmas from me and mine to you and yours.

Love,

Redneck.