***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 want to say last week was an easy one. But that would be lying. And since I still have memories of standing in the corner with my nose pressed against the wall while trying to figure out just how my mom knew it was me who drank the peach schnapps and tried to replace it with water ate the last cookie instead of my brother, I figure I’ll just tell the truth.

I talked a good game about keeping up beat and smiling through the tears. Heck, I was determined to remember the joy of my friend’s life and not dwell on the fact I will no longer be able to stoop over and give her a big hug or tease her about the hats she liked to wear.

But standing at the cemetery, just a few rows from where I once stood and watched my son lowered into the ground was almost more than I could bear. All I could think about was the memory of what holding your dead child in your arms feels like.

After the service I wandered over to Bug’s grave with my husband holding my hand. I felt like a fraud who was wiped out with grief. I needed a moment to tell Bug I love him and how his parents and siblings miss him so. That he is never forgotten.

After bending down to wipe some dust from his name carved in the rock, I looked up from his marker. I was startled to meet the eyes of Boo’s family and our friends staring down at me. Sadness and pity and love all emanated from them.

I wasn’t ready for the onslaught of people who had trudged over to pay respects to my son. To Boo and I.

I was a wreck. So much for my tough talk. I felt like a fraud, pretending to be well adjusted when really I am just a broken hearted mother who hasn’t quite figured out how to chase the pain away. I wanted to scream at them to turn away. To give me a minute to touch his marker and pretend it was my son’s lily white skin I was caressing. I wanted to shake them all and tell them to cherish the ones they love so dearly because you never know when your tomorrows will come to an end.

Hell, I wanted to rip off my clothes and run screaming, stark raving mad as far as my feet could take me until all my pain finally disappeared.

I was completely unprepared to share my son, or the memory of him with anyone. Not even my husband.

It was a grim reminder of a day I never wanted to live, never wanted to repeat.

I pushed away and escaped the throng of well meaning family members to go sit in my car. I cried. The gasping, snotty ugly cry. Behind my puffy red eyes, my mind was wishing to have Loreen and Shalebug back for one moment to make sure they knew how much we, I, loved them.

One moment would never be enough though. Not when you love someone and lose them.

So I did what any grieving mother and friend would do.

I cowboyed up. I took a deep breath, and slapped on my sunglasses. Red puffy eyes ringed with smeared mascara is not a cute look on me.

I harnessed the love around me and decided to turn the tables on grief. Enough with the weeping. It was making me feel old. And it is starting to give me wrinkles.

Well, okay. My kids are giving me wrinkles, but I was running out of tissues and I refused to wipe my snotty nose on my sleeve. I am a classy gal , after all.

The question is, what does one do to celebrate the lives of a beloved friend/aunt/mother (and a little boy) who loved life so?

Well, if you’re a redneck like me, that means bowling and beer.

What better way to show your love for lost loved ones than slipping on a pair of diseased and dirty bowling shoes that who knows how many others before you stuffed their sweaty fungally feet in?

Boo and I gathered up the masses, comprised of cousins he hasn’t seen since before he sprouted hair around his Mr.Pickle and a few close friends and we headed to the bowling alley.

This was the first time I had met this side of Boo’s family, as they all live out of province. Great. I’m grieving, I suck at bowling and I blog about my vagina. You just know I’m bound to make a good impression on his family. Heh.

Thankfully, Boo’s family are the polar opposite to who I am. A judgmental, emotionally unstable smart ass. So I had that working in my favour.

However, did I mention Boo’s family are all professional bowlers of some sort? No? Probably because I didn’t know that myself until after the teams were made up and I watched them bowl strike after strike after strike.

Great. Now I’m not only worried about keeping my bowling shoes out of my mouth but my ball (and my mind) out of the gutter. Thankfully, Sleeman’s Honey Brown helped calm me down and channel my inner bowling freak.

Well, inner freak.

After the first game where I bowled an astonishing 44 point game and my children threatened to trade me in for the homeless woman we had passed on the street (because you know…surely she could bowl better than me) I loosened up. Nothing like making an arse out of oneself with masses of family members watching you and snickering behind your back. Literally.

I was on my best behaviour. I smiled. I joked. I hid my bad bowling temper tantrums behind the soda machines. I was determined to make a good impression.

I knew I was doomed when my darlin’ husband started handing out my business cards like condoms at the high school prom.

Oh well, love me, love thy blog I thought as I watched my ball slowly curve toward the gutter.

(Have you ever noticed when some people play video games they wave the controllers around wildly, as though they can magically command the game to go in the direction of their arms but ultimately just look like a kid having an epileptic fit? Ya, that was me as the ball headed toward the gutter. I was standing on one foot, madly waving the ball away from the gutter in hopes that my mind could control the curve of ball. Because I’m so good at mind control, you know.)

Of course, a night out with me wouldn’t be any fun unless my husband had an opportunity to yank my foot out of my mouth at least once. We both knew it was going to happen. It was just a question of when.

In my defense, it was the beer. Really. One of his very nice cousins complimented me on my tattoos. We bonded over our ink. Finally, here is a family member I could be myself with, I thought, in my beer addled brain.

(You know when you are talking to someone and it’s going really well and you get excited and in your excitement you say something that crosses the line and then the person you are trying to bond with gets a funny look on their face and wonders what the hell you are smoking, then takes a deep swig of their drink while looking for the nearest escape route?

Ya. Well, I am Queen at engineering those moments.)

His charming and tattooed cousin inquired if I had planned to get any more ink. “Absolutely,” I responded enthusiastically (and probably slightly slurred), “but only when I know Boo’s going to be out of town for a while. He doesn’t approve of me desecrating my skin.”

“What? Boo doesn’t like your tats? Has he no taste? Boo! What the hell is wrong with you,” he called out to my husband. Boo walked over and tried to give me the “Please put your beer down and close your mouth before you say something that will embarrass both of us” look.

However, my beer goggles interpreted said look as “Please continue. I’m dying to hear how your bowling shoes taste after I have to yank them out of the mouth you refuse to shut.”

Before Boo could explain he didn’t particularly like tattoos but he respected my right to plaster them all over my body, I answered for him. (Because good wives do that.)

“Well, he may not like the tatties but he sure loves my nipple rings,” I half shouted, half laughed while gesturing to my twins.

It was at that moment the stars aligned themselves and there happened to be a quiet moment in the busy bowling alley where no pins were being struck down. (What’s the facking chances of that, eh?) The entire building (hell, the city) heard me tell the world my husband likes to play with my hoops.

While his very conservative Christian family tried to pretend they weren’t staring at my chest imagining my sparkly boobs.

I beat a hasty retreat like the coward I am to ‘go to the washroom’ and left my husband to explain about how his wife shouldn’t be allowed out in public to his cousin.

But by the end of the night, I was no longer sad. (Or self conscious thanks to my Sleeman’s.) I was able to remember my son and Boo’s aunt, my friend, without succumbing to the tidal waves of grief that had threatened to drown me earlier.

I was able to laugh and smile. Which honors them more than any snot encrusted kleenex ever could.

Beer and balls. It does a body good.

Today I’m burying my friend.

Well, okay. I’m not actually burying her. It’s not like I’m going to take a shovel and start digging. Let’s face it. I’m too lazy for that, no matter how much I loved Loreen.

But I will be there to say my final goodbyes to a well-respected and beloved friend. Who also happens to be a member of my family. She was my husband’s aunt.

She was my friend.

I shall miss her.

So today I will put on my dress slacks and a pretty top and slap on a smile, no matter how sad I feel on the inside because Loreen’s life deserved as many smiles as I can muster.

And when I walk into the same cemetery that my son currently rests in, I will not think about the sadness of the day or how I will never be able to laugh with my friend again or how the last time I stood on that hallowed ground I had wished for the world to end.

I will not think of past pain or future heart break.

I will not think of lives cut short.

Instead, I will look around and see all the love that surrounds me and take comfort in the knowing that my Bug has a new friend to play with and love him while he waits for us. For me.

I will find amazement in how life goes on and how a life well lived can bring comfort and joy to those left behind.

I will honor my friend with my smiles. And maybe a lame joke or two.

Because I know she will appreciate it.

I’ll be back soon.