I’m not a girly girl. Or at least I never used to be. I was once the very definition of a tom boy. Climbing trees and playing football in the mud was more my style.

Then suddenly I grew up, had babies and found more appropriate ways to spend my time than rolling around in the mud.

It didn’t help that my best friends happen to be the very definition of girly girls. Heck, the DragonLady can’t leave the house with out her socks matching her shirt, her necklace matching her earrings and her pedicure setting off her lipstick.

I don’t even clip my damn toenails. Heh. And the only necklaces I have are the medals I won in my track and field glory days.

My idea of being a frilly girl is wearing a shirt that nicely promotes my feminine rack. I find it helps distract people from noticing the lack of makeup and the freakishly hairy legs I have.

To this day, I still prefer playing in the dirt to having to doll up and pretend I’m a woman.

Yet slowly over the years, I’ve buried my dirty girl side a little deeper and started to embrace my inner woman. I can gussy up with the best of them and not feel so socially awkward anymore.

But I find I’m taking out the garbage less and less and passing that on to Frac and my husband. Same goes with digging flower beds or hauling wood.

It’s not so much that I’m scared I’m going to break a nail (heck, I cut them all to the quick anyways) but more that I am fundamentally lazy. Why do something that involves back breaking labour when I can get a boy to do it?

It’s just common sense, people.

Still, I worry about the example I am setting for my kids. I want my kids to know I can do anything from cleaning out a freezer of rotten meat to fixing the plugged toilet and everything that falls in between.

Which is why I was annoyed with myself. After weeks of staring at my new shiny rusty truck sitting in my driveway I realized I hadn’t gone near it since my husband tossed the keys in my lap and drove off.

That truck scared me. I was afraid of getting stuck or having oh, the axels fall out, while I was driving it.

Which as my friends pointed out, is ridiculous because just last Wednesday I got stuck in a muddy ditch with my car and managed to get unstuck all on my own. (So I may need a new transmission. Big deal.)

I was avoiding the truck. I needed to conquer my fears and stop thinking like a priss and just drive the damn thing.

So I did. Sure I kinda bunny hopped it for a few clicks until I got the feel of it, but before long Bertha and I were fast friends. My husband was right. She did run like a dream.

I got so excited about my new scary truck driving abilities that I decided to head over to the DragonLady’s place and show off my driving prowess. As she saw me bounce that rig up her bumpy drive way she told the hubs to look after the kids and than ran out to greet me.

Turns out Bertha likes to go 4×4′ing. Turns out the Dragon Lady just happens to own a large amount of land conducive to letting Bertha’s bitchiness loose.

Picture two stay at home moms war whooping and laughing as we bounced about and sprayed dirt through the fields.

Turns out, I should really be a monster truck driver. It would seem I’ve got an affinity for it. Heh.

Or at least that is what I thought until I decided to pin it through a rather wet looking bog. And sank my Bertha up to her axels.

Shit.

After getting out to push while the DragonLady pinned it, I decided we were good and stuck. Plus, I was eating mud. Literally. So we trudged back to the yard to go pick up the DragonLady’s truck. A big ole Dodge with a handy winch.

One way or another this truck was coming home with me. Even if I had to dismantle it piece by piece.

As we walked into the yard her husband saw that we were without wheels and that I looked like I had just taken a mud bath.

“Where’s the truck?” he snickered.

“Out back. It needed a rest. We thought we would bring out a buddy to keep it company,” the DragonLady evaded while climbing into her truck.

“You got her stuck, didn’t you?” Like he has never got a truck stuck before. Harumph.

“No,” the DragonLady replied very haughty like, while I did my best to wipe my glasses clean.

“I’m telling Boo,” he laughed. “Do you need a hand?” Because you know, we’re just girls.

“Thanks Cowboy, but I’ve got this covered. You just be a good boy and take care of your kidlets. I think I hear one of them screaming right now,” I may have replied snottily as I jumped into the cab.

If Boo caught wind of this my ass was grass. I would never live it down. I needed to get this truck unstuck so I could resume to more ladylike pasttimes such as knitting and ironing.

So we bounced out to where my lovely truck was sitting in the mud, looking dirty and forlorn and we hitched up the winch and let it rip.

Finally, after about 45 minutes of gentle lady like cursing and the smell of burnt rubber in the air, Bertha was freed from her muddy prison with a great sucking sound.

The DragonLady and I got out of our respective vehicles, which were now so muddy you couldn’t see what colour they were painted, and high fived each other.

“Who needs a man?” we giggled.

“Race you back to the house,” I called as I jumped into my ratty truck.

So I’m not scared of my truck anymore.

And while the men folk are slightly miffed that we played in the mud without them, they are willing to overlook the fact that for an afternoon, my girlfriend and I were decidedly unladylike.

As it turns out, there is nothing sexier than two women wrestling in the mud.

Boys.

Me, I’ve got to remember to be less ladylike more often. Because damn was that fun.

Except for the part where I cracked my head against the roof of the truck as I flew over a small hill.

Next time as I get my tomboy boots on, I’ll remember to buckle up.

***I dedicate this post to my darling Boo who turns 33 today. May you have a great birthday love. I promise to give you a good er, ride when you get home. I’m just not saying what type of ride. Wink, wink.***

I’m a shy gal. Oh, I know, I talk a good game, but when push comes to shove, I am nothing but that stringy haired, knobby kneed little girl who is afraid to be picked last for a game of kick ball at recess.

With that in mind, I was trying really hard to block out the fact that flying across the country to meet a group of bloggers, most of whom I have never met before, was kind of like a big blind date.

A blind date where you stand around looking for the man with a rose who doesn’t show up, leaving you to go home and drown your sorrows in a pint of ice cream while trying to shake the feeling that nobody wanted you on for that imaginary game of kick ball.

Ya. Can you tell I won the Miss Confidence crown somewhere along the path of growing up?

Heh.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so nervous if I hadn’t pressed snooze a million times and only had time to quickly shower and grab my bags before making the long drive to the airport.

Perhaps my confidence would have been bolstered if, while in the public restroom of the airport trying to slap on some makeup, the lady next to me stood washing her hands didn’t comment about how large the bags underneath my eyes were and how it must be hard to find a good concealer to hide them.

Be-yotch.

So I got off to a rocky start on my Redneck road trip.

I knew things were going to start looking up the moment I was in the air. I could feel it. At least that’s what I kept chanting to myself as I approached the security gates.

BEEP.

Shit. I set off the metal detector. The security officer looked at me, sighed and waved his magic wand over my body.

BEEP.

“Ma’am, please go back and walk through the detector again.”

BEEP.

“It’s my jeans. They have metal buttons on them,” I half explained, half pleaded, while trying not to sweat through my shirt. I could feel the eyes of all the annoyed passengers on me as the security dude waved his wand up and down my body again.

BEEP. BEEP.

“I’m going to have to pat you down,” he told me as he started to molest me. By this time, I had visions of being stripped searched in the bathroom and could hear the snap of the ole rubber gloves.

The security dude carefully examined my shoes and my legs and was satisfied I wasn’t packing any bombs or guns in my denim and stood up to wave the wand on my upper body.

BEEP.

Oh shit. My tits, I thought as the crowd started to get more annoyed with me.

“I have a few well placed body piercings,” I stammered as he kept waving the wand over my chest.

BEEP. BEEP.

“I’m going to have to, um, pat you down,” he apologized as he set his wand down.

Great. The most action I have had in weeks and it’s by some dude who speaks broken english and didn’t even buy me dinner first. I love my life.

Just then, the guy standing behind me waiting to clear the detectors piped up, “I’ll pat her down for you if you don’t want too!”

Titters rippled through the crowd and I turned around to shoot him a death look. Freaking pervert.

The security dude quickly patted my chest while not making eye contact and then satisfied with my er, guns, he waved me through.

Bending down to retrieve my shoes, I looked at him and asked him if it was as good for him as it was for me.

He didn’t laugh.

And so began my trip to Toronto.

After being elbowed in the ribs a dozen or more times by the dude sitting next to me on the plane, I was ready to let the good times roll.

Good times which included getting lost in the airport for 45 minutes, wandering around looking for an exit and freaking the fack out that I wouldn’t recognize Mama Tulip, who had offered to pick me up.

i just about cried with relief when suddenly she appeared in the crowded masses and saved me from going home with some scary looking man who had just offered to “show me the best Toronto had to offer.”

Aside from the pouring rain, the constant smell of cat pee (love a big city) and my jangled nerves, I was so excited to start my tour. Mama Tulip soothed me with her sexy voice and beautiful smile. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing her boobs. The thought of her kicking me out of her car and me having to live under a bridge and become a squee-gee kid kept me in line.

We found our way to Metro Mama’s home and I worried if my country bumpkin status was showing when I couldn’t stop cooing over her fabulous hip and urban home.

“Gosh dang it, we don’t have such fancy thangs out west,” I repeated in awe as I was dazzled with big city life and her beautiful home. “I can’t believe how purdee the streets are. Back home, a pile of moose poop qualifies as yard decorations.” I am sooo sophisticated. I just couldn’t seem to shut.the.hell.up.

Her husband, McHotty was probably wondering what turnip truck I fell off and how his wife managed to find me.

As the hour crept closer to the big blogger meet up, my nervous twitch became more pronounced. Tulip began to wonder if I had Turrets and Metro was worried I may make a run for the border.

Nothing like walking into a fancy bar wearing a ten dollar shirt and a pair of baggy jeans to bolster one’s self-confidence.

My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest as I made my way into our private lounge. Twenty-five sets of eyes turned to look at me just as I felt my underwear wedge up my ass.

Good times.

Thankfully, God invented beer.

Even better, God invented great bloggers. I had a blast despite being jet-lagged, over-emotional and sporting the worst wedgie I’ve ever known.

It was an amazing experience to put faces to the words I have read, and for blogs to suddenly become people . It was worth the public molestation, the rain and my nervous twitch.

These people were no longer readers or commenters or writers; they became my friends. Offline and in real life. Friends I know I will cherish always.

That alone was worth the suffering through the wedgie that wanted to floss it’s way up to my navel.

I can’t wait to do it again.

But next time, I’m going commando.

By now, the world knows (or should know) of Bossy and her fabulous road trip. How cool of an idea is that? Travel the lands and meet all your fellow bloggers, a few stalkers and a handful of perverts (because everyone on the internet is completely SANE) as you make your way down one highway to another.

Sounds like my type of fun.

But Bossy wouldn’t come see me. Turns out I live too far north for her taste. Something about polar bears and igloos that deterred her.

Still, the idea is a cool one. I’ve had the opportunity to meet a few bloggers in person. But in the spirit that more is better, I’d love to meet all the people who I’ve connected with over the years.

Because let’s face it, I’ve got no real life friends because I’m so damn busy blogging.

(Kidding. Kinda. Ya. I’m pathetic. I don’t need you pointing this out to me. My kids do it all the time.

To prove to my children that their mother is capable of talking to someone other than herself, I’ve decided to set out, via Bossy style and go on tour. After all, if Bossy can do it, then damn it, so can I.

After devouring Bossy’s blog, I started on planning my own road trip. There were a few Eastern bloggers who virtually molested me recently. It was time for revenge retaliation. This time, though, any molestation that may occur will by my own hands.

Heh.

So after a flurry of emails and a few naughty dreams, I set about planning my own version of Bossy’s road trip.

Tanis does Toronto. Kinda like Debbie Does Dallas with out the pornography.

(Well, okay there may be pornography but what happens in Toronto stays in Toronto.)

First off, I needed a sponsor. One with a large bank account and charitable inclinations. Who would it be? Bossy used Saturn. Maybe they would want to sponsor a Canadian version of her road trip and lend me some wheels to travel across our vast nation.

Ya. Not so much. They were more interested in selling me a vehicle than they were in loaning me a freebie.

Harumph.

Fine. Who the hell wants to drive across the country anyways? I thought to myself. I’ll fly. So I contacted the local airlines and explained my idea.

After explaining to a bazillion different airline employees just what a blog was, I never got past the hysterical laughing on the other end of the line.

Damn. Finding a corporate sponsor was tougher than I thought.

So I found me a private sponsor. One who is legally obligated to fork out wads of money to make me happy. It only took the promise of unfettered sexual favours to secure airline passage.

I can live with that. I’ve done worse for less.

Heh.

The corporate world may not recognize the Redneck Mommy and her value, but my husband surely does. Plus, as he points out, it’s cheaper to keep me than to trade me in for a newer model. Wink, wink.

Tanis does Toronto became an official reality. And it starts tomorrow. At the crack of freaking dawn because my tightwad generous husband insisted I fly out on a seat sale. Which meant the early bird special. Can you say red eyes, uncombed hair and a bad attitude?

All right, so it will be just like every other morning for me. But only this time there will be witnesses trapped in a flying tin can with no escape route from my extreme bitchiness wonderful disposition. Grrreeeeaat!

I may be no Bossy, but I can pretend. After all, I’m east bound for beer, blogging buddies and good times.

Just think of the photos. I’ll just have to make sure I’m the one taking the pictures and not the one being captured flashing my guns around.

Redneck Mommy is hitting the road. Well, as far as the airport. But it’s bound to be a good time.

Who knows, maybe next time, I’ll come see you.

(I’ll have to practise getting really bendy with the hubs first, though. Wink, wink.)

My husband and I married when we were very young. We married so young not only because we were madly in lust love with one another, but after already birthing one baby and being five months pregnant with the next, my father was polishing his shotgun and starting to use Boo’s picture for target practice.

Dad has deadly aim, so we figured (in the name of safety sake and Boo’s preservation) we should probably make things legal. Besides, I couldn’t find a nunnery that would take a horny 20 year old with an eight month old baby and one on the way.

So we stood up before God and our friends and family and pleaded for mercy. Er, said our vows. At the end of the ceremony, before we were pronounced man and wife, I asked my dad to finally put away his loaded shotgun. He complied but only before Boo’s brother and my brother wrestled it out of his hands.

True story.

Because we married so young we didn’t have a proverbial pot to piss in. We were dirt poor. At the time, I was the main bread earner because, well, I looked so good in pants. Never did I imagine I would be a stay at home wife, kept in the comfort provided off the earnings of my hard working husband as I spent my days loafing and surfing for internet porn.

How far we have come.

We struggled with early parenthood, being relative children ourselves, and finding our way in this cruel hard world we live in. Along the way we developed a deep and abiding love and respect for each other. But only when I wasn’t screaming at him for forgetting to put the toilet seat down.

It was a tough road to travel. Several times we teetered on the brink of losing it all and each other, yet we always muddled through and found our way back to marital bliss and financial stability. Turns out, we both hate being poor and that motivated us to make smart choices and become financially responsible.

Early on, after we almost lost our home and were staring homelessness in the face, we made a promise to one another to never spend more than a hundred dollars with out running it past the other person. Groceries and bills were the exception to this rule, but everything else had to be cleared with our partner.

Such draconian efforts literally pulled our arses from the fire. We slowly became stable with our income, paid off our debts and now we are actually solvent. It is a wonderful feeling knowing in a matter of five years we will be completely financially independent.

But we still adhere to our one hundred dollar rule. Or rather, Boo does. I occasionally slip. I mean, I’m at home, by myself most days of the month and other than parenting, what else do I have to do other than surf the net than shop? Ha , ha.

This tends to annoy Boo, but because I’m such a wonderful wife, (stop laughing) he often forgives me.

Until yesterday. When he discovered that I broke the rules and bought furniture without even telling him. I know. BAD Tanis. Bad wife. Bad. I ought to be ashamed.

Oddly enough, I’m not. Cuz my new furniture is soooo purdee. The thing is, the furniture had to be delivered because I drive a station wagon and can’t fit a four-poster bed and matching dresser in the back of my car no matter how hard I try.

I figured once Boo came home from work and saw our new lovely bedroom he would be more forgiving once I waggled my eyes, patted the mattress and offered to christen our new home furnishings with him. Sex usually helps, I find, for all of you who haven’t figured that out just yet. It’s why I keep knee pads in the side table. I’m often asking for forgiveness.

The delivery truck was supposed to come on Wednesday but due to a mechanical problem, it was rescheduled for Thursday. I sat around my house, twiddling my thumbs and looking out the window waiting for a large truck to pull up into my drive way until it got dark.

Still no furniture. I called the store and they promised me the furniture was on the way, they were just running behind. They would be at my house no later than 8 p.m. Weird, I mean, who delivers furniture at night, but hell, as long as I’m getting my new bed, I’ll be a happy girl.

The clock was ticking. It now became a race to see who came home first. My bed or my husband. My ass would be grass if my husband came home to find no bed since I had disassembled our old one and tossed it out on the deck. My visions of a romantic reunion on fancy new furniture were disappearing with every hour that past. I was starting to imagine the spanking I would receive and not the sexy type if you know what I mean.

Finally, at MIDNIGHT my furniture arrived. I live out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark and I’m a woman alone with kids sleeping in their beds. It was like a nightmare come true. Strange, creepy delivery men knocking at my door in the middle of the night. Common sense told me to send their asses home and tell them to come back when it’s light out, but then common sense doesn’t have a husband currently en route and unaware of the drama unfolding in his domain.

Granted, the delivery men were more interested in setting up my bed and getting the hell out of dodge than they were in raping and pillaging me, but still. I was more than mildy annoyed. The obscene amount of money I spent on this fancy furniture should at least guarantee me the safety of a daytime delivery. By men who didn’t sport prison tattoos and look like they were looking for fresh meat.

So not only was I exhausted, but now I was freaked right the fack out. What the hell had I done? Furniture, no matter how lovely, is not worth this type of stress.

Thankfully, just as the men were loading the boxes into my home, my very confused husband pulled into the driveway. The man always did have exceptional timing. He was actually fairly calm, considering he just drove six hours to come home in the middle of the night to find two men alone in his bedroom with his wife.

Mind you, he did have a crow bar in his hand, so I guess that speaks volumes. By the time the four of us had set up the bed and dresser it was past TWO a.m.

We crawled into our fabulous new bed and I waggled my eyes suggestively for forgiveness and all my darling husband could say was “Rub my neck. You’ll pay for this later. I’m too damn tired right now.”

Such sweeter words I have never heard, I thought to myself as I yawned and proceeded to give him the neck rub of his life. It really is better to ask for forgiveness than it is to beg for permission, I thought to myself slyly as I worked at the knots in his back.

That is until he rolled over and looked at me and told me it’s a good thing I bought a poster bed. I could be expected to be chained to it for the duration of his stay at home.

Sigh. The price I have to pay for my slight financial indiscretions. It could have been worse, I suppose, he could have demanded I bring out the ole knee pads.

***Side note: Is it me, or do I have a right to be fraking mad about receiving a large furniture delivery at midnight? Is this usual? I never buy furniture so the delivery time took me by surprise. And for all of you wondering, I bought the furniture through ASHLEY furniture. It’s beautiful, but after only getting five hours of sleep and the stress I endured waiting for the delivery, I’m not sure I would do it again. Thank God my husband came home when he did. But should I rip a strip off some unsuspecting manager’s ass? What would you do?***

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 Bean and his wife the Dragon Lady, 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 Bean’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?)

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.

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.