Big Love

I like to keep a clean house. Keep in mind my version of a 'clean house' is a loose definition. Very loose. This means that on the weekends I put my slaves kids to work to clean the bathrooms, their rooms, dust the furniture and vacuum while I sit on my computer and blog.

Heh heh.

The problem with my housekeepers is well, they suck. But for the rate they get paid (vast quantities of dried cereal and the odd piece of fresh fruit) I really can't complain.

So I bite my tongue, tell them they did a half decent job and then take to redoing the mess they made while they are at school. I don't want to discourage them by telling them cleaning means more than just moving the piles of dirt from one location to another.

On Monday, I rolled up my sleeves and got down to the dirty business of housework. I wouldn't want my husband to know how we actually live in a pigsty while he's gone. He's coming home in a few days. Which means I have to clean like a madwoman before his arrival in order to keep up with this facade so he won't utter words like 'get a job' or 'earn your keep, woman.'

Which was exactly what I was doing on Monday instead of sitting here tethered to my computer, surfing the net and reading the antics of my beloved fellow bloggers.

You can imagine just how much cleaning I actually got accomplished when I sat down to take a five minute break to check my email and found a lovely note from a good pal of mine, MotherBumper informing me I had won a BLOGGIE.





Screen cap courtesy of MotherBumper.

My laundry is still not done. Oh well. Frac likes going commando anyways.

I was more than a little excited. And grateful. And thrilled. I immediately had to tell my husband who likes to think my blogging is nothing more than escape from my dreary existence as an over-educated, bored, stay at home mom who is stuck in the pits of grieving hell and is too damn lazy to get off her arse and try and put her God given talents to good use. By good use I mean income earning ways.

But the bastard love of my life wasn't answering his phone. Must be because he was um, working. So I decided to send him an email because surely he would get that message before remembering to check his voicemail.





Neener, neener Boo! Now you'll never pry my away from my computer screen! BWHAHAHA!

He of course, was thrilled for me. In a 'how much money did you win?' type of way.

Um, none. But the accolades is what counts. And the thrill of victory. The mere knowledge that enough people thought of this little ole blog and voted for me is more than enough to compensate and thrill me to the core.

I'm easy like that.

I imagined how fabulous it would be to tell my kids while wearing a fancy gown, but when I tried on my prom dress from my teenage years I was more than a little horrified to discover my boobs have outgrown it. In an obscene way.

So I had to scrap that idea.

But I couldn't wait for the kids to get home to share the news with them. I needed something tangible in my hand to drive the point (that they're mother is the computer geek they feared) home for them.

So I searched the house high and low and decided on one of my son's sports trophies. Perfect. Now I had a prop to use when I made them listen to my Oscar worthy acceptance speech.





I'd like to thank the academy....





I may have tried feeling up my fake award. I'm dirty like that.




Just know that I'd kiss each and every one of you who voted for me if I didn't think I wouldn't get slapped with a restraining order and land in the clink.



No, as much as I love good bling, I'd still rather have a shitty ass to change. Hear that adoption peeps?

I may have sat my children down and used my new found Bloggie as an example of what a person can do if they believe in themselves and post pictures of their breasts on the internet.

My son just wanted me to put his damn trophy down before I accidentally broke it in my fit of excitement.

I may have gone overboard with my shiny gold statue representing all the bloggy love I was feeling for everyone who voted for me.





I may have jumped on the couch a la Tom Cruise style, shouting how much I love you all.

I had to get down when my daughter threatened to lock me in my room for jumping on the furniture. House rules and all.

I do want to set a responsible example for good behaviour for my offspring. I take that to mean racing around the house with my fake trophy while shouting out the names of every damn blogger I could think of. That and holding my son's trophy high above my head while he jumped and tried to retrieve it from his freakishly long-armed mother's grasp, all the while making asking him,

"Who's your momma now?"

The height of my maturity astounds even me.





Note my daughter rolling her eyes at me in the background. She was beyond thrilled for me. Heh.

Eventually, I calmed down. It was no easy feat. But the kids threatened to hide my mommy juice on me if I didn't start to behave and that's a threat I have to take seriously.

But just know, that all of your support and love have helped this momma remember how to laugh and tease her kids. Because it wasn't too long ago I was wondering if I'd ever be able to see the sunlight again through my clouds of despair.

I really couldn't have done it without all of you.





Thank you from the bottom of my twisted little heart.

After my son finally grabbed his trophy and went to hide under his bed, I had to take to loving on my dog, Nixon, to help me celebrate.





I soon learned what dog breath really is. Ewwww.

I'm so filled with bloggie love right now. I even love the fact they've listed my blog as 'Attack of the Redneck Monkey'.

They must have seen my monkey toes and how my legs look before I shave them annually.

It's an easy mistake to make.

Heh. Heh.

The Leaning Tower of Politics

Growing up, my parents stressed the importance of voting and exercising your civic duty upon my impressionable mind. They made a big deal of elections and when I finally turned 18 and could cast my first ballot, they drove me to the voting station and proudly watched as I marked my very first X.

I don't remember who I voted for but I remember thinking that it was my very first adult responsibility and I was proud of myself for participating in our democratic elections.

My party lost. But that didn't matter to me; all that mattered was the fact I voted. My voice was heard. It may have helped if I hadn't voted for the Marijuana party, but hey, I was 18.

After my parents had voted I remember asking them whom they had voted for. They refused to tell me because they didn't want to influence my ideologies and they wanted me to make my own informed decision without any influence from them.

It didn't matter how much I wheedled and needled them, they weren't going to spill the beans. To this day, I still have no idea who they support but I'm fairly confident it isn't the dope smokers. Just a hunch.

I'm now a bit of an election hound. I love politics. Not enough to consider tossing my hat into the ring, but enough to soak up every bit of election trivia I can get my mitts on and suck it up like a sponge. I only wish Canadian politics was half as feisty as those Yankee elections.

But we Canucks are a quieter breed. We're still a dirty people; we just tend to keep it in the bedroom and out of the elections. Sooo boring. Mind you, after taking a look at our past and current leaders, I can only offer a prayer of thanks. I really don't want to be imagining any of them getting busy on a blue dress. Ew.

Unlike my parents, there is much screaming and yelling civil debate about politics in our home. Boo has a wildly different political ideology than I do. If it were up to him, the world would all be doing a stiff legged march with a pert salute, as all bowed to his iron will. If it were left to me, well, let's just say we'd all be seeing rainbows and unicorns and having a good time. Wink, wink.





Boo likes to say it's animal control. I like to say he has no soul.


Because Boo and I have such vast political leanings, it has never troubled me to talk politics in front of our children. As we shout at each other politely discuss one party's platform versus another, our children get to hear both sides of the spectrum and form their own opinions.

I can't help it if they grow up and choose my ideology because they love me more I am more articulate with my thoughts and better prepared to debate. Heh heh.

Recently, the beautiful and bountiful province of Alberta underwent the electoral process to elect the government. I kept waiting for things to heat up like the American primaries that I avidly follow and drool over, but it was nothing but a snooze fest. Yawn.

Still, it goes against every fiber of my being to be apathetic and I mustered up the bare minimum of interest. Come election day, I picked my kids up at lunchtime and hauled them off to the polling station with me. I think it is important that they see the democratic process in action.

I mean, all those middle-aged women volunteering to man the polls is truly exciting. Are they going to knit or will they be reading a book? Will it be a romance smut novel or a bloodthirsty mystery? Talk about the height of excitement.

After staring at a row of rural maps and trying to figure out just where the fack I live and what polling station to vote at, I gathered the troops up and marched over to cast my ballot. Fric and Frac were excited to be included in the process. Read: I promised to buy them an icecream if they didn't act like Satan's Spawn for fifteen minutes and didn't induce any heart palpitations in the elderly.

As I went to mark my X in the candidate of choice, I briefly explained to the kids who each person was and what their party stood for. Of course, I remained neutral and diplomatic. I would never try and shove my own personal leftist spin down their throats. Heh, heh. They were about as interested in my highly educational speech as they are in putting their laundry away. Still, they kept their mouths shut and pretended like I wasn't sucking their brain matter out their noses with a straw.

The lure of icecream at lunch hour on a school day is a powerful incentive.

I had to threaten them to be quiet about my left leanings inside the polling station as I was surrounded by a pack of gun-toting Conservatives who would think nothing of tarring and feathering me before burning me on the altar of their Ann Coulter loving ways.

I'm blonde. I'm not stupid.

As I drove them back to school, they happily licked and slurped their cones as I droned on and on about why it is so important to vote in an election. Even if the election is as terminally boring as this one was.

"People died defending our freedom and right to choose our leaders," I said.

Slurp, slurp.

"You can't complain if you don't vote," I continued.

Lick, lick.

"The world will come to a screeching halt if I ever discover either of you were too damned lazy to get off your skinny little arses and cast a ballot. Hot pokers in the belly button will be nothing next to the wrath of your politically crazy mother if she ever finds out you morphed into an apathetic, mindless twit who doesn't have the sense God gave a gopher. Got that?" I promised.

They momentarily looked up from their cones and gave me the "Holy Shit! Our mother is Bat Shat crazy!" look and then promised to always vote as they resumed their ministrations at hand.

As I was shoving them out of my car to send them back to the land of teeny boppers and mean girls, Frac turned around and asked me whom I voted for.







"It doesn't matter who I voted for Frac. It just matters that I voted," I emphasized. "Now get to class."

"Come on Frac, let's go." Fric tugged at her brother. I felt a moment of parental pride as I watched the two of them trudge off together. They're growing up so fast.

Then I heard Fric turn to her brother and tell him, "She voted for the same party she always does. The losers. Just check to see who came in last place and you'll know who Mom voted for."

Damn. She's smart, I thought as started rolling up the window.

"When I grow up, I'm voting like Dad. He only votes for the winners," Fric told her brother. My jaw dropped as I watched them high five one another and giggle as they walked through the school doors.

Apparently, my work is NOT done here. I must get better at either selling my ideology to them or resign myself to the fact I am raising not one, but two Alex P. Keatons.

Heaven help me.





I must work harder to avoid this. The unicorns need me.

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.