Redneck Mommy Does New York

Why did the redneck cross the New York City road?

She saw a Tim Hortons on the other side. True story. Yay for traveling across the continent and into another country just to eat Timbits!

New York was awesome. Which I hadn't really expected. As much as I love to travel, I never honestly wanted to go see New York. The sheer size of the city and the volume of it scared my small city, country bumpkin heart and I would have been happy living out my days never having set foot in the Big Apple.

I'd have missed out. I had a blast.

It helps that I went prepared, thanks to all of y'all. I had proper walking shoes, I was armed with interesting places to go visit and I had an extraordinary travel partner.



What I didn't have was a personal air-conditioner on wheels following me around as I tramped about the city. Holy heck, New York City in the summer is hot. As in hawt. Like boob sweat, ear sweat and every other extremely unsexy sweat imaginable. The heat bounced off all the concrete and my poor Canadian winter loving body just about melted like Frosty the Snowman.

A little boob sweat should never stop a good tourist though and so we walked.

And walked.

And walked some more.

The view from the Empire State Building

Times Square and me. Along with thousands of other snap-happy slightly lost tourists.

Times Square rather disappointed me. Although I did enjoy me some Naked Cowboy shaking his thang in front of me. However, I kept wanting to throw a blanket around him and tell him he's bringing shame to real cowboys everywhere. I mean, please. A straw cowboy hat? Invest in a Stetson and take some pride in your panhandling.

My kids wouldn't let me post the picture of me copping a feel of Liberty's boob. They're fuddy duddies.

My friend and I found the first of the fake Lady Liberty statues dotted around the tourist areas and in a moment of silliness we posed for pictures. Just as my buddy was snapping my picture a clearly concerned homeless man ventured up to us and whispered, "You do know that's not the real Statue of Liberty, right?"

And they say New Yorkers are unfriendly. Please. That bearded dude totally earned a dollar with that tip.

Waiting for a ferry to see the Real Statue of Liberty, thanks to my new tour guide director.

Since I had absolutely no reason to be in New York other than to enjoy myself, my girlfriend and I happily strapped on our tourist hats and toured. We hit all the big tourist attractions, and a lot of the smaller ones. We rode the subway, which smelled very similar to what I imagine a sewer pipe would. In fact, I'm pretty sure if someone urinated in the corner of one of the subway stations that may actually have made it cleaner.

We spent more time wandering off the beaten path, getting hopeless lost and enjoying every minute of it.

It occurred to us half way through our little adventure that the only animals we had seen in our travels was the odd dog on a leash. Right about then is when a pigeon pooped on us, I spilled my drink down my dress and a squirrel started to stalk us. City wildlife makes me twitch and walk around looking like I peed myself.

Crazy eyes. I swear it wanted to jump on my face and rip off my nose.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or the chick on her back.

After stumbling upon a little art gallery, I found the souvenir I wanted to take home with me. Never mind it cost almost as much as my car. However, when I sent a picture of the little statue to my husband he immediately called back and yelled, "Are you on crack? What is wrong with you?"

I bet if I had sent him a picture of the Bloggess's big metal chicken statue he'd have been all over that and have asked if I could get two so he could plant one on each side of the driveway to pretend they were his personal gargoyles.

There may be a reason the two of us have never invested in any real art.

This is why cell phones and cameras shouldn't be allowed near slightly inebriated people. Dorkiness ensues.

There was food, (oh my god, the food. Amazing.) There may have been some wine. And perhaps a mojito. Or three. But in my defense, we had just spent two hours getting hopelessly lost while wandering about looking for an interesting place to eat. What we found in two hours was a steady stream of Irish Bar and Grills. It was as though all the restaurants in the greater Manhattan area had been transported to the moon and replaced with Irish pubs and maybe the occasional questionable looking noodle house.

I was about to give up on ever sitting down in a non-pub type restaurant when a NYPD officer took pity on us and pointed us in the direction we wanted to be. After asking if he could join us after his shift. It was too bad he was like 12, and I'm like, married with four kids and old. Otherwise, I'd have totally accepted his offer.

Sexxay. 

So I can officially cross visiting New York off my bucket list, even if it was never really on it. And the best souvenir I brought home with me? The 7 blisters I managed to accumulate on my feet, even after wearing sneakers and old lady walking sandals.

Thank goodness for the Walgreens across the street. Sorry about cleaning out your blister Band-Aid supply. You may want to restock for the next tourist who isn't really prepared for the concrete jungle.

*A big thanks to Isabel, Neil, Barry, James and Jason for going out of their way to take two little tourists under their wings and make our trip memorable. Also, you were missed D.*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer Camp Grown Up Style

When Fric and Frac each turned 7 respectively, their father and I packed up their belongings and tossed them out of the house. Or shipped them to summer camp. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. They've been attending one summer camp or another ever since.

Our summers have always been fairly lazy, due to budget restraints, that large invisible piano tied to my arse and the fact I truly believe children need the freedom to run naked through the woods chasing their imaginary friends. I like to keep our summers low key.

Most of our past summers have been spent lounging around our pool, jumping on our trampoline, and being sprayed randomly with the garden hose. Ice cream cones and weed pulling, they both equal a summer well spent.

This summer has somehow morphed into an unruly beast and not just because it's been raining almost every day since summer finally began. Somehow or another, I've managed to become a slave to the smalls' schedules. I ordered a lazy summer from the catalog and instead was shipped one jammed with an itinerary that even the most organized and energetic mother would fear.

It would seem now that my children are entering the hallowed halls of high school they want to up their game. My feral little beasties inherited my competitive streak and want to dominate the courts come this fall in every sport known to mankind. After much haggling and begging (along with a few tears, some eye-rolling and the almighty "You just don't understand what it is like to be a kid!") my children have coerced their father and me into signing them up for not one but two sports camps each this summer.

Add to that, the lovely prestigious art camp my daughter was invited to attend and just had to go to otherwise her world would implode and the colours of her life would fade to dull shades of grey (her words, not mine) and a plethora of therapy appointments for the Jumbster and it would appear I'm about to spend the bulk of my summer getting intimate with the interior of my car as I drive my smalls everywhere.

My husband, bless his cotton socks, thinks this is fabulous. But only because he doesn't know how much anything cost and won't be home to ferry any of the kids to and from their camps.

I've already vowed 'never again!' and will book mark this post to read next year as a reminder of how I once lost my ever-loving mind.

As I was explaining (read: whining) to a girlfriend about my poor parental choices for our summer activities this year, my friend looked at me and shook her head in commiseration.

"You need a break," she said. "Too bad there aren't summer camps for grown ups."

And that, my friends, is when the proverbial light bulb glowed above my head and when inspiration hit.

Think Thelma and Louise. Only minus the criminal activities, the cool car or the cliff-diving deaths. And no young Brad Pitt. Okay, so it's nothing like Thelma and Louise. Whatever. I'm totally Thelma.

I'm packing my things, grabbing my friend and going on my very first ever girl friend bonding trip. No children, no conferences, no itinerary. Just two small town hosers in big city New York.

I totally want a Statue of Liberty hat as a souvenir. I'll wear it home on the plane.

I've never been to New York before and I'm a bit nervous actually. With all the traveling I've done this year alone and in the past, I thought I'd become a bit of a travel pro. I've got the tourist schtick down pat. But there is something intimidating and awe-inspiring about a concrete jungle.

I suddenly understand why my kids get so nervous before starting their summer camps far away. It's exciting. And a wee bit scary. Only my summer camp won't involve any arts and crafts, spontaneous musical medleys or sneaking out past curfew to make goo-goo eyes at the cute boys across the lake. (That happens right? I've never been to a summer camp and I only know what Disney's Camp Rock tells me.)

While I'm hoping to see a few of these, I'm more hoping to stay out of one of these.

So wish me luck. And if you've been to New York before, let me know what I should do and what I should avoid. Also, there won't be any actual romance at my kids' summer camps right? Because now I'm totally freaking out and worrying about some strange kids sticking their tongues into my preshus babies mouths and dying a little at the thought.

I Have An Angry Beaver Problem

My husband and I have been landowners for over a decade now. We purchased our little piece of Albertan paradise and we've tilled the soil, pulled some trees and built us a home.

We're modern day pioneers, Boo and I, except for the small fact the bank owns our soul, we never actually participated in the construction of our home and I try to avoid as much manual labour as possible. In fact, I make a really lousy pioneer woman, although I look kinda cute in an apron.

By cute, I mean freakish. Details.

Our yard is our paradise, if paradise is defined by 20 acres of forest, un-mowed lawn and a garden filled with a lovely assortment of weeds. I couldn't ever imagine living anywhere else, somewhere tame. I like my property rough and wild. Just like I like my ... er, never mind. Family blog and all that.

Over the years, we've had a variety of wild life run-ins, and we've learned to live with dogs that bark at everything that moves outside our windows. There is a lot of wildlife that lives outside our windows. Especially that one damn squirrel that literally dances on our living room windowsill just to taunt and torture our dogs.

We've had bear in the yard, cougar, and once, an jailbird wild boar with scary-arse tusks who was on the lam from the law (or the farmer who owned his arse). We've got deer and a herd of moose hanging out in my trees pooping on my lawn. There is a den of red tailed fox living at the end of our driveway, picking off our kittens one by one.

Then there are the birds, the skunks, the porcupines, rabbits and coyotes that all wander around the joint only to wander out again.

Animals, I have them. It's like I live in a damn zoo, really. And that's not even counting the teenagers inside the house that like to rattle their cages and make me twitch.

But there has been one animal that has never caused me any grief. It's never pooped on my lawn, nibbled on my garden's bounty, sprayed my dogs, ate my kittens or tore open my trash.

This animal has been the perfect neighbour, silent in its proud majestic nobleness.

It is the mighty beaver, Canada's national animal and my imaginary spirit guide. (That is, if I had a spirit guide.)

On the back edge of our property, our forest stops and the water begins. What was once a tiny lake is now just a giant pond, filled with goose poop and cattails. For the first time in years, we've our very own beaver dam.

For the most part, we've always been able to cohabitate peacefully with our wild life neighbours. I expected nothing different when I learned the beaver had set up camp in our muddy waters. After all, the beaver are a peaceful creature and surely they would know how I worship them.

Oh, my pretty. Doesn't everyone love a good beaver?

My husband was less than certain the beaver would make friendly neighbours. Personally, I believe it's because he's carrying the guilt of many years of blowing up beaver dams in his heart. He has no real respect for the buck toothed kings of Nature and secretly, I'm sure he fears these wild animals and the retribution they seek on behalf of their deceased ancestors my husband has blown to smithereens.

Boo insists I need medication and informs me it is because the proud beaver have built their dam dangerously close to the pump we have down there to suck up the pond and water my garden and my flower beds. Something about the noise of the motor combined with the fact we are stealing their water would anger the mighty beaver.

"Carry a stick down with you when you go down to start the pump," he warned our children, thereby instilling a fear of beaver into our kids.

"Ignore him. You never have to fear a beaver. They are a peaceful loving creature," I argued against my wildly prejudicial husband.

My children have all but refused to go down and start the pump. Turns out the image of an angry beaver out weighs the image of a loving docile beaver. Damn you Boo.

So it's been delegated my job to go start up the pump,  make peace with the beavs, and then wrangle our hose to water my weeds.

I wandered down to the swamp, with out a stick (because I am a brave beaver lover) and marveled at the majesty of the dam my flat tailed friends had so beautifully constructed. I swatted mosquitoes and hummed softly to myself as I bent over to start our water pump.

And that's when I made eye contact with my proud and noble friend.

I do believe it hissed at me.

I backed away slowly as the pump started up with a furious roar and kept track of my new friend out of the corner of my eye.

And the little shit charged me. For the record, the beaver moves a hell of a lot faster than those nature shows would lead you to believe.

I hotfooted it out the area, laughing while a beaver scampered behind me, smacking his (her? how can you tell?) tail loudly behind me as it gave chase.

Never underestimate the power of an angry beaver.

Once I made it up to the house, I was sweaty, out of breath from laughing and slightly annoyed with my new neighbours. After years of paying homage to my beautiful friend and this is how it treats its number one fan? I was indignant. And grateful my legs were longer than his.

My kids saw me run into the house like my arse was on fire and immediately asked what was wrong. Laughing I told them, somewhat sheepishly, that their father had been correct and instead of having peaceful new pets we literally inherited a clan of rabid beavers.

"Didn't you carry a stick like Dad said to?"

"No. Stick schmick. I don't need no stinking stick for protection. The beaver is no match for me," I declared like the arse I am.

Fric eyeballed me in my ratty shorts and dirty tee, sweaty, out of breath, with scratches on my legs and twigs in my hair and raised her eyebrow.

"What?" I asked, while surveying my image in the mirror hanging in our front entrance.

"You know, you shouldn't taunt the wild life Mom. It's not nice."

"Excuse me? I did no such thing. There was no taunting. I went down, quiet as a mouse, started my pump to get my water and the greedy beaver decided he didn't want to share the natural resources your father and I rightfully purchased!"

"Really Mom? Really? Have you looked at your legs? The poor beaver probably caught one look at your unshaven stumps and thought to himself 'Wow, look at those furry trees. They'd make a mighty fine addition to my home.'"

I looked down and realized exactly how hairy my unshaven legs were.

"Whatever. That beaver was just blinded by my beauty and felt threatened."

"Ya sure Mom," my kid dryly replied as she rolled her eyes. "That or it really couldn't see the forest for the trees."

The next day I found a new razor on my bathroom counter with a note attached: Do it for the Beaver. It's Be Kind to the Wild Life Week.

Damn beavers. They always ruin everything.