It was a rainy spring afternoon and I was beside myself with excitement.

I took extra care in my appearance, squeezing into a ridiculously tight green corduroy skirt and shrugging into a matching oversized green sweater. I fluffed my spiral perm until my hair resembled a glorious poofy triangle and lined my eyes with bright aqua green eye-liner I borrowed from one of my girlfriends.

I was twelve years old and about to attend my very first spring dance in the darkened gymnasium inside my junior high school.

To the adults around me, I probably resembled a ridiculous raccoon wearing a bad leprechaun costume, but in my mind I was half-woman, beautiful and ready to slow dance with the first sweaty palmed boy who asked me.

Sadly, I spent most of my time standing next to the gym wall watching all the other sweaty teens sway to the music. Sometimes I danced in a big circle of friends as the boys raced around the gym trying to snap the bras of all the blossoming girls around them.

I didn’t have a bra to snap so most boys ignored me. I was still flat chested and pretending it didn’t matter while secretly praying to God every night to grace me with a rack Dolly Parton would envy.

I never got that coveted rack, but I did get my slow dance with a smelly, awkward boy.

His name was Jeff and I had known him since grade four. He played hockey. He went on to play in the NHL. (If only I could see into the future…I’d have played my cards better. Heh.)

I was standing by the exit, trying to look cool and ignore the scent of desperation and body odour I oozed like pheromones from an elephant in heat, when suddenly Jeff appeared in front of me and asked if I wanted to dance and pulled me out onto the dance floor.

I don’t remember what song was playing, but I remember the flashing lights from the d.j and the heat radiating from his sweaty skin underneath his thin tee shirt.

I remember placing my hands on his shoulders and wondering if I had sweat stains in my pits and praying he wouldn’t notice if I did.

I remember the weight of his hands placed on my waist and wondering if he would accidentally touch my bum.

I remember wondering if I could convince myself to like this boy, whom up until that moment, I had no interest in at all. I was pathetic and desperate and wanting a boyfriend. Any boy with a pulse and testicles would do as long as he didn’t have a pizza face.

(Thank heavens for high standards.)

We swayed to the music and suddenly one slow dance became two. I was in teen heaven. I was in the arms of a boy who wasn’t too geeky (even if he wasn’t one of the cool kids) and he wasn’t trying to stuff me into a locker.

Next thing I knew, a couple of kids approached us with a stop watch and a dangerous glint in their eyes. Jeff nodded to them and before I knew it, he was kissing me.

Or, rather, he was slobbering all over me. Saliva was every where and he tasted like pepperoni pizza. My heart was racing like a dog chasing after a rabbit and I couldn’t decide if I was thrilled or repulsed. I didn’t get a chance. Before I knew it he was pushing his thick nasty tongue in my mouth and trying to eat my tonsils.

Just when I thought I was going to faint from lack of air, he released me from his vacuum-like kiss and wiped his slobbery mouth with his hairy arm.

My lips were chapped and cut from being ground mercilessly into his braces and I had saliva all over my very red face.

I couldn’t look him in the eyes, as I was half mortified, half repulsed by what I had just participated in. Still, I wondered if I could like him enough to let him be my boyfriend.

It was hard to think while my lips throbbed and the taste of pepperoni pizza lingered on my tongue.

The circle of kids who stood around watching us trying to gnaw one another’s faces off, clapped and announced we went at it like two hungry puffer fish for twenty-three seconds. Jeff smiled and I blushed and the crowd moved on to target the next awkward couple who danced in front of their path.

Jeff and I finished our dance and then my girlfriends rushed to my side and into the girls bathroom, while peppering a million questions at me.

“What was it like?”

“Did he stick his tongue in your mouth?”

“Do you like him?”

“Is he your boyfriend now?”

Jeff later asked me out, but I couldn’t get past the feeling of his metal mouth grating my soft lips like cheese in a grater so I said no.

And I have never eaten pepperoni pizza since.

Thus was my initiation into the world of teen romance, spring dances and french kissing.

Looking back, it was a time I wish I could block out. Almost as much as I wish I could block out the memory of losing my virginity. But that’s a story for another day.

Flashbacks of wet chins, thumping music and the taste of pepperoni all flooded back the moment my darling children stood before me with hound dog looks on their impish faces, pleading for me to allow them to attend their very first spring dance.

I immediately said no and my daughter yelled that “I am so unfaaaaiiir!” and then huffed into her room to cry a river of broken tweeny-hearted tears.

My son just shook his head, half relieved not to half to attend and half disappointed that he wasn’t going to get the chance to snap some chick’s bra.

How could they be at this age already, I marveled? Just yesterday, it seemed, I was potty training and washing out sippy cups. I wasn’t ready to relinquish this part of their childhood and face the reality that my children are chaffing at the bit to grow up.

My husband pointed out the fact the dance was for 10-13 year olds at the local community hall and would be well chaperoned by teachers and parents.

He reminded me that he had some of his best childhood memories at those dark, sweaty functions in the very same hall and he didn’t grow up to be some over-sexed horn dog who knocked up the first chick who would have sex with him.

That’s when I pointed out, YES YOU DID, YOU ASSHAT!

“Ya, well, not at age eleven. And it worked out in the end, didn’t it? Loosen up woman and let them have a little fun. Besides, it’s a night free of listening to them bicker over video games,” he urged.

That’s when I hung up on him and vowed to find a good divorce lawyer. It’s easy enough for him to give permission, I thought to myself, he’s not here to actually see the aftermath. Bugger.

But listening to my daughter pout through her dinner and mope around the house while my son acted all put upon and hound-doggish, was more than my mommy heart could take.

I snapped like a dried twig and caved to their wishes.

Suddenly it was rainbows and moonbeams under my roof as my children rushed around to get ready for their big night.

Me, I was still trying to swallow the pepperoni vomit that threatened to spew out.

My babies are growing up and I am powerless to stop it. I am simply not ready to know that my daughter is swaying in the dark with some sweaty palmed punk while my son runs around trying to find a victim to slobber all over.

My head just exploded into a million pieces and splattered my computer screen as I typed that sentence.

So I did what any good mommy would do. I sucked it up and took a million photos. I inspected the premises, talked with the chaperones and publicly humiliated my children by threatening every little boy and girl I came across to keep their mitts off my children.

I stalked the parking lot, giving the stink-eye to all the preteen demons who made eye contact with me until the dance chaperones found a willing father to lift me up and forcibly stuff me into my vehicle.

Apparently, I was freaking out all the kiddies.

Still, as I drove away, while the chaperones blocked the door to make sure I didn’t change my mind and charge back into the building, I felt a twinge of pride. My kids are growing up. Just like they should be. Even with me as their mother. Doing everything in my power to screw them up.

Later that evening, I picked up my children. They were red faced, sweating and smiling so hard I feared their faces may crack. I noticed my daughter was now sporting lipstick and eyeliner.

Flash back to my own tween heaven. Good times.

Fric and Frac chattered happily about the dance and who danced with who and I smiled grimly and kept my mouth tightly shut, just happy to note there was no visible signs of road rash on either of their faces or dried saliva.

Halfway home, Frac piped up and asked why I was so quiet. Was I upset they went to the dance?

“Oh, I’m not upset at all. I’m thrilled you all had a great time,” I honestly answered. I was. I really was. My babies are growing up and I’m dealing with it.

(Picture me later that night with a bottle of red, dealing with it.)

“I’m just making mental notes about all the kids you danced with so that I can terrorize them the next time I see them,” I cackled like a crazy woman.

“MOOOOOM!” they cried in unison.

“Hey, it’s all part of growing up. You get to go to spring dances and have fun, and I get to stay at home and polish up Daddy’s shot gun.” I smiled at them.

“It’s a win-win for everyone.”

Heh.

***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.

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.***