Live Life Like Crazy

***As the grand finale for Wiener's Week at Redneck's, I bring you Black Hockey Jesus. I'm always extra nice to him, just in case he has an in with the OTHER Jesus. I'm ALL about networking. Heh.***


When I started reading Attack Of The Redneck Mommy, I thought Tanis Miller was just another hilarious blogger who liked to run around naked outdoors. Generally, this is enough to hold my attention and get a blogger added to my reader. Then I figured out she has nipple rings and I was a straight up fan (Did you catch that part about being “straight up�? Pay attention. My writing has layers). Nipple rings evoke imagination about… other things. My wife used to have nipple rings. The first time I saw them, my already strong feelings for her blossomed into the love that evolved into the rock that is our marriage. I will state my moral outright: Nipple rings can change the world.

But then I kept reading and discovered that it’s been almost 3 years since her 4-year-old son died. When I learned this, Tanis took on a complexity I wanted to know more about. I wanted to know her, to drink coffee with her, and talk for hours. But then I realized this was impossible because she lives in Canada. Crossing the border into Canada freaks me out. I’m totally paranoid that I bought my used Saturn Vue from a methamphetamine addict who left a big chunk of ice hidden in some compartment I don’t know about. And then those border guards would wave their magic meth radar gun through my car and throw me in some Canadian jail made of bamboo with a dirt floor and a mangy rat would be my only companion for like 14 years. I’ll stick with email, Complex Tanis.

If you’ve ever read my blog, The Wind In Your Vagina, then you know I’m kinda creepy and obsessed with death and bones and stuff like that. You should read it. There’s a lady in Illinois who reads it every day and she really likes it. Plus my Mom thinks it’s the bomb. And people who Google shit like “ghost vagina pigeons�—they’re avid readers. Anyway, I’m totally freaked out by the inevitability of my own death. When I was 14 my buddy Chris was killed by a car and it turned me into a super broody dude who wrote kick ass poems about black stuff and nightmares. I actually asked Chris if he would let me interview him for my guest post at Attack Of The Redneck Mommy, and he happily obliged.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: So Chris, you’re dead. That’s pretty trippy. Tell us about it.
GHOST OF DEAD CHRIS: Well, being dead is a lot radder than you’d think.
BHJ: Really? That reminds me of a favorite Whitman line of mine. “To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.�
GODC: Exactly. It’s really hard to explain. But Walt Whitman was usually on the money.
BHJ: Well that sounds comforting and all but death still makes me edgy. Here’s something I wonder about a lot. Are you like, you know, still 14? Are you trapped in 1986? Do you still think Run-DMC’s Raising Hell is the roper dopest? Because you missed out on Tupac, bro. Tupac pushed that shit to the extreme.
GODC: No, I know Tupac.
BHJ: Wait. You fucking know Tupac? Like know him know him?
GODC: Yeah I know Pac. And before you ask, yes, I dig The Mountain Goats.
BHJ: But how the hell can you dig The Mountain Goats? You’ve been dead for 22 years!
GODC: It’s hard to explain. But when you die, it’s like. It’s like you know… everything.
BHJ: Dude you’re blowing my mind!
GODC: I know I know. It’s goofy. Of course dying destroys everyone who loves you. I saw how hard it was for you and Danny and my Mom. But that destruction—it’s like its own little education about dying itself. It’s hard to die. Just like it’s hard to be born. But being dead itself? It’s fucking sweet. Trust me.
BHJ: I don’t buy it. Dude you never even got any tail.
GODC (laughing): Dude. Sex is merely the tiniest little peek at death. You’re just on your knees looking through the keyhole, my man. Mortals crack me up.
BHJ: Well I’m glad you get such a kick out of my existential anxiety, Chris.
GODC: I’m sorry, man. But really, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m serious. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trashing life. You should live your life like crazy. Live your life on the edge of a knife. I’m certainly not trying to rush you toward death. There’s plenty of time to be dead.
BHJ: Word, Chris. That was dope. But listen. I’ve got one more thing. A few years ago I ordered some pancakes for breakfast and was shocked to discover that your Mom was my waitress. And even after all these years, she still had that deep soulful sadness in her eyes. It still kinda haunts me, you know? If you could, what would you tell her? What would you tell Tanis?
GODC: Wow that’s tough. I would avoid all that trite stuff about a better place and meeting again and all that. Everybody tells them that. And I think they know all that. I would want to evoke for them a kind of huge cosmic container in which everything is ultimately OK. You know? But I wouldn’t tell them that everything is OK, because it’s not. Actually, everything kinda sucks when you think about it hard enough. Man, I’m pressing up against what language can say here. I guess I’d just say:

Mom. Tanis. Everything sucks. But that’s OK.

Mice and Men

I am an independent woman. I travel by myself, I can change a flat tire, replace worn out brake pads, change the oil, plunge a broken toilet and even lay floor tile without any help from the male persuasion.

Heck, there isn't much I can't do by myself. I even take care of my own, um, personal needs thanks to a supply of fresh batteries, a thoughtful purchase and a vivid imagination.

Man, I don't need no stinkin' man.

I just like having one around to take out the trash and light the barbeque.

Yet there is one thing I can't do by myself, one thing I refuse to do by myself, for myself and wouldn't you know it, there is never a man about when I need him.

I don't do mice. Mice which have some how found their way into my inner sanctum, my pristine kindgom. Mice which are selling real estate to their mousy friends and taking up residence under my fridge and beneath my television cabinet.

All because my children haven't learned how to shut a door behind them with out me screeching at them "Where you born in a barn? I don't think so. Shut the damn door!"

So a few brave and rogue rodents are taking great delight in skittering on the kitchen floor at night when I surf the net or watch television. I swear, they stop exactly where they know I can see them, stand up on their hind legs and stick their tongues out at me because they know I'm no threat to the little fackers.

I prefer to sit on my couch and squeal like a school girl whenever I see them, because I apparently, am a pathetic loser.

Boo was home when I caught my first glimpse of the invading infesters. He didn't believe me. Until he was standing at the sink and felt a tail brush the back of his foot as a mouse scurried to safety under our fridge.

(It was like one of those moments when you know your car is making a funny sound and you whine about it for weeks and your darling husband just blows you off and dismisses you as some silly, imaginative woman who wouldn't know a knocking engine from the bass of dance tune. Until he takes your car to go buy milk and suddenly he hears the sound you've been bitching about for weeks and comes back into the house demanding why you didn't tell him your car was making funny noises.)

Not that Boo would ever do that. Noooo.

All of a sudden, the mouse problem I had been complaining about for weeks became a reality. I laughed as Boo started cussing like a sailor in heat and started ripping apart drawers looking for a mouse trap.

"We don't have any traps," I told him as he emptied out the junk drawer, while trying to tune out my victory giggles.

"Why the hell not?" he grumped as he peered under the fridge with a flash light and murmured something about a little bastard.

"Because I am not going to be sitting alone, in the quiet of the night, minding my own business and suddenly hear the snap of the mouse trap. I can't handle the thought of something innocent and small being crushed to death while I sit on my arse and twitter."

"Pansy ass." He snorted. "I'm buying some traps."

"Fine. You do that. And the poor dead mouse can sit there and rot and emanate a funky odour because I guarantee you there is not enough money in the world to entice your daughter or your son, let alone myself, to dispose of the carcass."

Boo rolled his eyes in manly disgust at how I was morphing his children into well, copycat versions of me, and said (in righteous, testosterone indignation) "Of course they'll do it. They'll do what they're told."

Ya. Cuz parenting preteens is just that easy. Excuse me while I stop and laugh my pretty little arse off.

Needless to say, the mouse traps never got bought. Because I refused to remind my great manly husband to buy them and they somehow kept forgetting to make their way on to the grocery list. Heh.

Stuart Little and Mickey Mouse continued to spread disease through out my floors. Until one day I found little presents they had thoughtfully left behind in my frying pan. The pan I use to feed my family with.

Then it was on. Don't mess with a mama bear and her cubs.

Screw mouse traps. I want the big guns. I went and brought home two kittens. Take that, you little fackers, I thought to myself as I dropped the kittens into my children's arms.

Not only did I just win Mother of the Year by bestowing each child with their own mouser, but I effectively declared war on the little shits who were spreading their Hanta virus among my pots and pans.







Boo of course, had a gasket. But since he's six hours away from home and weeks away from taking care of my pestilence problem himself, he was helpless to do anything but curse at the thought of cats in his castle.

(Must suck to have such a disobedient wife. Good thing I'm bendy.)

It wasn't long before my darling, fluffy kittens put their killer instincts to work and like two heat seeking missiles, started eradicating the enemies. How can you not love a kitten who kills? My heart swelled with love.

My mouse problem was being contained. Without traps or decaying bodies. And I get two little pussies to stroke and pet. Like I said, I don't need no stinkin' man.

Life was good. I am woman, hear me roar. Roar over the fact that I now have two cats, a litter box, two dumbass birds and a messy cage, a killer hamster, a jumping mouse named Steve and of course, my flatulent love, Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever.

So yesterday, the kids and I spent the afternoon taking care of our new brothel of love, cleaning cages and bitching about annoying pets and stupid mothers. (Well, okay, that last part was strictly me.)

I watched Nixon try to eat the kittens, the kittens try to eat the birds, the birds try to eat the hamster and mouse and I acknowledged to myself that maybe my husband was right. Maybe we didn't need any more pets in our house. Maybe I should have listened. Maybe.

In an effort to bribe my children to do some weed pulling for me, I offered to finish cleaning up their pet's cages and put everything away if they would start yanking the small forest of weeds thriving in my potatoes.

The kids jumped on this deal like a starving person on a Big Mac and scampered out the door. Apparently, when I said 'pull weeds' they heard 'go play.'

(I love my children, I love my children, I just keep reminding myself, over and over again like a mantra.)

Then last night, my mouse-shredding felines struck again. Fric squealed with delight when she noticed one of the kittens had caught another mouse. I was feeling mighty proud of myself. I may have even patted myself on the back for being so clever.

It was just about the same time I was congratulating the cat for a job well done, that Frac wandered out of his room and asked where his beloved Steve was. He noticed I hadn't put the lid on the cage properly and when he went to adjust it he discovered his mouse was missing.

Time stood still and my heart froze.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I thought to myself as I raced to go see just exactly my kitty killer was munching on. Dread flooded through me and my blood had turned to ice.

Frac beat me to the scene of the crime. He noticed his kitten happily munching on something and wandered over to see what he was chewing on, just as I yelled "FRAC NO!!!! DON'T LOOK!!!."

Too late.

Frac screamed. I screamed. I tried to grab the little mouse out of the gaping jaws of his captor but it was too late. Steve no longer had a head.

Frac looked at me with tears in his big blue eyes and said "MOM! YOU KILLED STEVE!" I tried to argue with his logic, but I felt like too much of a shit.

My Mother of the Year trophy was ripped out of my clutches by angry children and the ghost of the family mouse and I know it will be a long time before I ever see it again.

Later that night, after bribing the kids with ice cream and candy, I sent them off to bed and tried to ease my guilty conscience with a beer.

I will be forever haunted by Steve.

And there is still a facking mouse hiding under my stove.

Dammit.





R.I.P Steve. Which, unfortunately for you, meant RIPPED IN PIECES. I should be sorrier. But I'm slightly relieved there is one less rodent about, one less cage to clean. And you kinda stank.

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.