I once (foolishly) believed that as my children got older, parenting would become easier.

I once also believed I would grow up looking like I belonged on the cover of a Victoria Secret’s catalogue and thought butterflies were a glorified public transportation system for fairies.

It’s no surprise (to anyone but me) that I have been known to be wrong every now and then.

Somehow in my head, I figured that once the kids were potty trained, could speak, and learned to read and write, my life as a mom would be a figurative cake walk. I assumed my demon offspring would always eat their vegetables, brush their teeth and do their homework with little prompting from me.

Because they are older. That’s what big kids do, right?

BWHAHAHAAHAHA! Foolish girl.

Somehow, I forgot to figure into the equation something about the apple not falling far from the tree and realizing these are my children I was dreaming about.

I can hear my mother’s maniacal cackles in my head as the curse of “I hope one day you have children exactly like YOU!” springs to fruition.

Damn.

Turns out parenting isn’t really harder, it’s just different. Instead of worry about potty training, I worry whether they’ve flushed the toilet, changed their underwear and remembered their toothbrushes aren’t just colorful plastic decorations in the the bathroom for them to gaze upon.

I still have to force feed them brussel sprouts, bribe them with candy and politely request beg them to pick up their toys.

Nope, parenting hasn’t gotten any easier.

I don’t know why I had hoped that as they grow they would start worshipping the ground I walk on and revere my every spoken word. Chalk it up to delusional fantasies and the moonshine I brew out in the back shed.

Still, there are times when I wish they would take me seriously and listen to the wisdom I am trying to cram down their throats impart. Sometimes I really do know best.

Like when I tell my daughter that no matter how hard she tries, her baby fine hair will never look like Jessica Simpson’s and if she spends any more time trying to fix it to look like the Chicken of the Sea Queen, she will miss the bus.

Guess what? She missed the bus. And she still sported a head full of stringy fly-away hair.

My darling lovelies don’t listen to a damn word I say. My husband blames this charming characteristic on my habit of sarcasm and wit. He says I screw with them so often they never know what to believe.

He could be right.

Still, what fun would a mom have if she can’t make sport with her minions? Heh.

This past week, the tables turned on my husband and for once, my children (or specifically my son) completely disregarded his expertise and advice.

I am still trying to contain my glee.

While sorting through the mountain of laundry whilst cheerily whistling and singing a peppy tune cussing like a sailor in heat, I noticed my lovely son had only deposited one pair of undies in more than ten days worth of dirty laundry.

Checking and rechecking the piles, I tried to block out the mental image of the fungus growing around my son’s man bits and wondering how the hell to approach such a sensitive topic such as bottom drawer hygiene with a pubescent boy who refuses to even tell me if he needs toothpaste.

Fack it, I thought. I’m not paid enough to deal with this bomb. I chickened out and called my husband Boo. Let him deal with it. It’s the least he can do since I take care of everything else.

Boo was as sensitive and tactful as I had hoped he would be, once I handed the phone over to my son to speak with his father. I could hear the bellowing echo through the phone lines half way across the house.

Good job Boo. Scare the poor kid into changing his shorts. Just so he can crap into them from fear. Thanks for the help. Arsehole.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I overheard my son’s pitiful excuse for his lazy hygienic ways. Apparently, he’s not wearing the right type of underwear. All the cool kids wear boxers and my poor son has been consigned to loserdom by wearing tighty-whiteys.

Tighty-whiteys with cartoon characters on them, no less. Oh, for shame. It seems my son has been towel-whipped and teased in the locker room a time or two for his Spidey shorts and now has taken it upon himself to just go commando.

Ugh.

My son wants to wear boxers like all the other boys. But instead of telling me this he has just been making skid marks in his pants. Man I love being a mom.

Handing the phone over to me with a puppy dog look on his face, Frac went to go pull on some gonch while I was left to talk with his father about the pleasantries of raising children. At this point, raising monkeys has to be easier, I teased Boo.

“I’ll just buy him some boxers and be done with it,” I cheerfully (and stupidly) told my man.

Wrong thing to say to the man who loves his shiny gold bikini briefs. (How’s that for a mental image of my man?)

“NO. Boxer’s ride up when you play sports. He’ll get a wedgie and pinch his nuts. Boxer’s aren’t practical at his age. I explained this to him and he’ll just have to deal with it.” Boo was adamant.

Not sporting a wiener myself, I didn’t really see the big deal. “How ’bout a compromise? After all, I bought Fric a bunch of bra’s that she doesn’t need because of self-esteem issues. I’ll just buy the boy a few pair of boxers and tell him to wear them on days he doesn’t have gym or soccer.”

“Doesn’t matter. He plays at recess and at home. His package will get bit. Best stick with the briefs if you want grandbabies,” Boo commanded.

Since I’m always one to listen to my husband, I did what any good mother and wife would do. I went out and bought a couple pairs of new undies for my boy with the explicit instructions not to wear them if he is going to play sports.

You would have thought I hung the moon. It was official. I was the world’s greatest mom and definitely Frac’s favorite parent.

(Neener, neener Boo!)

And with that, ended the great underwear debate. Or so I thought.

Until my son played his usual Tuesday game of soccer.

I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t really running that hard or that fast and he was kinda standing around. He was a decidedly poor mid-fielder, making very little contribution to his struggling team.

No matter how loud I kept yelling for him to “MOVE IT!” “DEFENSE!” “GO TO THE OUTSIDE!” “COVER YOUR MAN!” my son kinda just waddled around the field.

Getting more frustrated I yelled a bit louder. And with more frequency. Because ten year old boys totally dig when their momma’s do that.

Frac, getting tired of trying to tune me out while not really move about on the field, finally had enough and stopped to face me and yell, “STOP PESTERING ME MOM!”

I, of course, am the picture of maturity and retorted, “I WOULD IF YOU WOULD STOP ACTING LIKE YOU HAD A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE!”

Just then I noticed what he was doing.

He was digging his underwear out of his ass crack where it kept riding up when ever he ran.

Just like his dad said it would.

Heh.

For the rest of the game, Frac spent more time digging buried treasure out of his nether regions than he did chasing the ball. He’s such a great soccer player.

Riding back home that night, I looked at Frac in the rear view mirror and asked him if perhaps his dad was right about boxer shorts.

“Maybe,” he mumbled while trying to pretend I was invisible.

“Well, I guess you learned something tonight, right?” I said, thinking this was the opportune time to drive home the fact that sometimes parents really do know what they are yapping about.

“Ya, I guess,” he grumbled.

Feeling like pushing my luck the point home, I asked, “And what is it you learned?”

“Next time, I’m calling Justin and riding with him. His mom isn’t near as loud or annoying as you are out on the field.”

Well, at least something was learned that night.

Sigh.

Earlier this year I was asked if I would read a yet-to-be released book for a good friend of mine in the publishing business. This meant turning off my lap top and actually turning real pages instead of just scrolling down with my thumb. Weird. I almost felt like a pioneer woman.

Heh.

It didn’t take me long to get over that feeling as I was quickly enthralled by the true life story of what happens when a woman moves to a new country, complete with new customs and a new language.

It’s a long held fantasy of mine to one day uproot my family and live happily ever after somewhere tropical and warm and far, far away. Preferably somewhere where the food is great, the people are friendly and there are no such things as conservative politics.

I’d also appreciate if this mystical place was rampant with fairy tale creatures so I can finally realize my dream of owning a Unicorn ranch where I’d hire leprechauns to do my laundry and cook for my family as I taught my children how to ride the silvery mystical beasts.

So far, I’m still looking.

Still, this book, (although sadly devoid of any unicorns,) was one I easily understood as the author told her real life story of love, family and blogging. How the universe collided when her blog was discovered.

Boy, do I understand that feeling. (Understatement of the year.)

Heh.

It’s a special treat for me to be able to have Catherine herself, guest post over here a la Redneck. She may not call herself a Redneck what with her French sophistication, but she is still my type of gal.

This autumn I’ll celebrate the anniversary of thirteen years in Paris. ‘That almost makes you a real Parisienne,’ said a French friend of mine the other day, raising an eyebrow.

I suppose it almost does. I’m one of those annoying old-timers who say ‘Beaubourg’ instead of The Pompidou Centre. I know where to stand on almost every métro station in the capital so that I’ll be correctly aligned with the exit when I reach my destination. My knowledge of Parisian public toilets is encyclopaedic, a by-product of being pregnant in Paris. (I’m particularly fond of the underground conveniences on place de la Madeleine with their old-fashioned shoe-shining throne.) I gave birth (in French) in a Parisian hospital.

What I’m not, however, une française. I’m sometimes mistaken for a native in conversation, but language is only ever the tip of the iceberg. I haven’t the faintest idea how to knot a Hermès scarf nonchalantly around my neck, for example. And I’m hopeless at fashioning an elegant chignon out of thin air with only a pencil to anchor it in place. I don’t consider an espresso and three cigarettes a square meal, and one square of chocolate – even 70% cocoa – is never enough.

One day I was sitting outside one of my favourite neighbourhood cafés with my four-year-old daughter, Tadpole, when another cultural difference became apparent. In between sips of my beer I was busy fishing various random objects out of the depths of my handbag for Tadpole to draw around. When my boyfriend (of two weeks) arrived, she was tracing around a tiny pot of Vaseline that I’d purchased in an English supermarket, which she then proceeded to transform into a sun, complete with wiggly sunbeams and a smiling face.

‘You carry Vaseline in your handbag?’ said the boyfriend, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

‘Mhm,’ I replied, reddening slightly. ‘It’s, um, for my lips. They’re always chapped…’

‘In France,’ said my boyfriend, ‘there’s only one thing people use Vaseline for.’

He smiled a sly smile. A smile that left me in no doubt a conversation about other potential uses of petroleum jelly lay in my not too distant future.

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.

I’ve been getting quite a few emails asking to know what is happening on the adoption front. I have have been reticent to publicly address this as I have worried it may impact any chance of bringing home a child.

After all, the adoption peeps, they know about Redneck. While my case workers have been surprisingly cool about it (even when I’ve made the dumbass move of openly mocking the process thereby shooting myself in the foot) I worry that the case worker(s) to any future child we are interested in calling our own may not be so happy to read my public rants about this process.

It’s been a difficult balance in trying to maintain the integrity and honesty of my own personal feelings and what I want to say on this site while trying to protect any future chances of having a new child lovingly drool on my shoulder and call me Mom.

So I’ve tried to play it quiet, and safe. Having had to pluck my bloodied foot out of my mouth more than once, I’ve learned my lesson.

The truth is, there is not much going on in the adoption front and yet a whole bunch of stuff that I’m dying to share with you all, but it will have to wait at least a few more weeks. But I swear, as soon as I can legally get away with it, I’ll be shouting the news from my virtual rooftop with a bull horn.

What I can tell you, is about six weeks ago, Boo and myself, along with the kids, put in an official request to adopt a little boy who is seven and has some severe disabilities. After much family discussion, we decided we could easily love this little boy as if I had squeezed him from my own loins. It wasn’t a very difficult decision to tell the truth. This boy is beautiful and in dire need of a forever family. We all believe he would be a great addition to our family and we really believe we are the family this child needs.

However. Because there is always a however when you are dealing with a government bureaucracy. This special little boy happens to be in limbo. Meaning he is with out a case worker of his own at the moment to review any adoption requests. So our paperwork is sitting on someone’s desk, waiting to be reviewed and our plea to adopt him silently waits to be reviewed to see if his case worker feels we are a good match with this boy.

I’m taking it all in stride, because I firmly believe if this boy is meant for us, he will come to us. If it doesn’t work out, read: his case worker decides against us for some reason, then it wasn’t meant to be. And there could be a variety of reasons his case worker could chose NOT to place him with us. Until we hear some news, I am just exercising my patience muscles and trying not to tear my hair out with worry and anticipation.

All of this waiting is made easier because there are other wonderful things going on as I type this; things that make me smile and will surely bring a sliver of sunshine to your lives when I’m finally able to announce the details.

Until then, hang on to your undies and practice flexing your patience muscles. We can do it together. It’s not fun, but hey, misery really does love company, no?

A blogging daddy whom I adore and must publicly urge you all to wander over and say hello to if you haven’t already (cuz he’s really cute and says he’s got Ryan Reynold abs…heh) asked me a question that hasn’t been asked on this blog before, but is one my husband and I ask ourselves all the time.

Backpacking Dad wants “to know what you fear most about successfully adopting a child.”

If my husband were to answer this I believe he would tell you that he fears a reprise of Bug’s demise. Shale’s death took so much out of us and hurts us still so very deeply that none of us ever want to go through that again.

Yet, none of us choose to be shackled with ‘what if’s’ and fear of the worst. So we plunge ahead with our quest to bring home another medically fragile child, knowing the worse case scenario is always a possibility and we are opening ourselves up to the worst type of pain.

But the flip side to that coin is we are also bringing with that fear, the best and most wonderful type of joy and love into all of our lives. It is a sweeter and more pure love than any other type of love Boo and I have ever experienced.

Even if it is a thousand times more heartbreaking and frustrating and painful. To us, the trade off is worth it.

However, since this is my blog, I have a different answer than that of my husbands. What I fear the most in successfully adopting a new little person is not in losing this child. I tend to worry more about my extended family, my friends and my community not bonding with our new child.

I worry that because this child will look different, act different, be different that maybe our friends and family won’t be able to open themselves up to loving this child as they would have if we had given birth to him or her.

The damage of Bug’s sudden death was and is far reaching. It wasn’t only our family who was devastated by his loss. So many of our community of loved ones put so much love and energy and effort into our Shale’s life that his death hurt them deeply and lastingly.

I worry my friends and family won’t be able to see past Bug’s demise and get to know the beautiful light of our new child in fear of feeling the same horrible hurt all over again if the past should repeat itself.

However, that is mostly an irrational fear of mine since I have the greatest family, extended family, friends and community a person could ever wish for. The people in my life have some of the biggest and greatest hearts I have ever known, which is why it has been so easy to want to adopt such a special child to begin with.

Because I know they will be surrounded with love.

I also tend to worry if my children’s hair isn’t combed or what people will think if I show up to soccer practice drinking from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, so I try not to let my worries run my life.

Heh.

A reader named Sara asked if “I ever wonder where you would be in life now if Bug hadn’t died?”

Every damn day.

The pain I feel two and a half years after his passing still takes my breath away and pricks tears in my eyes. There isn’t a moment I don’t think about him and wonder what he would be doing if he were still with us. Would he approve of getting a new sibling? Would we already have adopted by now? Would the adoption process have been easier if we hadn’t had to jump through hoops of fire because we buried one child?

I wonder who Fric and Frac would have grown to be if they hadn’t had to face the cyclone of grief that tried to swallow them whole. Who would they be if they didn’t have to wrestle with an almost five year old ghost every time they walk past his picture or start to think about him in the quiet of the night.

I wonder if I will still remember his scent and the rough pads on his fingers from constantly having them in his mouth when I’m a frail old woman. I wonder if his memory will still mean as much to then as it does now or if time will soften the grief that still rages inside of me.

I wonder if I will be able to ever hold a blonde little boy with wavy hair and not think of my son and wish for a single second that it was my son I was holding in my arms.

I wonder if he were alive if he would still give sweet high fives to anyone who would ask and if he’d allow me to snuggle with him on the couch and breathe in his scent while nibbling on the soft spot in the crook of his neck.

I wonder if he’d still be walking or if his height and weight would confine his poor broken feet to a wheel chair. Would he be able to communicate with us beyond shaking his head no or hitting out in frustration?

Would I ever have discovered blogging and would it mean as much to me as it does now?

There isn’t a moment I don’t wonder about what life would have been like if my son was still alive and I wonder if the moment will ever come when peace truly settles in my soul.

The one thing I don’t wonder is, if given the opportunity, would I do it all over again with Bug even if it meant repeating the same fateful night and reliving this nightmare of pain and tears all over again?

Absolutely.

Because the love he gave all of us was worth every tear I’ll cry in my lifetime. Every laugh he giggled and every hug he squeezed is more than enough fuel to last myself, my husband and my children for the rest of our lives.

His short life inspired us and his memory continues to grace us with love and gratitude.

We are so very blessed.

And we can’t wait for a new little duffer to join our family and feel the blessings with us.

Think back to the days when you were sitting in English class watching the clock slowly tick the minutes off before the bell rang and released you from the hell of sitting on a hard plastic chair or in a wooden desk too small for your gangly frame, you know the one…your knees would keep bumping the bottom of the desk only to brush up against the wads of dried bubble gum stuck on the underside which would gross you out and reinforce your hatred for school and stupid bubble gum chewers.

Just as you were about to dash out of class and escape the hallowed halls of tortured pubescent teenaged souls for the weekend your teacher would announce how you had a ten page essay due the following Monday on a novel you hated and said paper was going to be worth 25 percent of your grade.

Remember that feeling?

Remember banging your head against the kitchen table just wishing for death to take you. Or the magic essay fairy to suddenly drop out of the sky and help you deconstruct War And Peace in an articulate and intelligent way.

Oh those were good times. Heh.

I’m sitting here reading all the questions wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. How the hell do I tie all of my answers into a witty and articulate post?

Then I remembered, I’m not in English class anymore, this isn’t worth the e-paper it’s printed on and I can find my magic fairy whenever I hide in the pantry and pour her out of a bottle of nice red.

Heh.

To hell with witty and articulate. I’m just gonna answer as many questions as I can before my fingers get tired or my dog threatens to poop on the floor.

I’ll start with Renee’s question “Where is the woman with our answers??????”

Simply put, I was stuck in a ditch for most of yesterday. In what was supposed to be a simple trip to town to pick up some pain meds, a bottle of coke and a head of lettuce, turned out to be a trial of public humiliation, patience and utter mortification.

Oh ya. Good times. See, it’s raining here. Pouring. Which is great. This means I don’t have to wrestle with the 600 meter firehose my husband has set up for me from our dug out to water my garden. (The damn thing is a pain in my ass and I almost always end up showering myself with dirty water from the pond while trying to water the raspberries.)

Anyways, since the heavens opened up, the roads are muddy. I live out in the middle of nowhere where all the roads are gravel. There is a stretch of road that is particularly poor as the jackasses who run my county are in the process of widening it.

Driving this patch of road reminds me of the times when my dad used to spread a sheet of plastic out on the lawn, turn on the sprinkler and squirt dish soap on it so we could slip and slide in merriment on a hot summer day.

I managed to slip and slide my car into a gently sloped ditch, landing not twelve inches from the edge of a very steep slough. I wasn’t very merry about it.

Oh, and a special thank you to all the asshats who didn’t stop to see if I was alright and to all of those who did stop but then tell me they’d like to help but they didn’t want to get muddy. Thanks. There is a special place in my blackened heart where I will forever cherish you all.

So I spent a good part of the day trying to undig my car from a bog hole while waiting for my Saviour, also known as Cowboy Bean to pull my sorry ass and the carcass of my car onto the road where I could slip and slide back home.

Once Cowboy stopped laughing and helped me, I spent the remainder of the day on the phone trying to get a quote on replacing my damaged bumper and a new set of tires. Preferably ones that aren’t bald.

Then I drank a bottle of red, curled up on the couch and stabbed hot pokers in my eye when I realized the only thing on television was American Idol.

Gooooood times.

J from Ireland wants to know “are you this funny in real life, do all your friends piss themselves laughing at your stories?”

Well, Cowboy Bean sure did as he stood there scratching his head wondering how on earth I managed to find myself almost swimming to the shoreline yesterday. I distinctly recall hearing a belly laugh and a few colorful words about women drivers.

While I’m no stand-up comedian, I do have a knack at well-placed one liners and have been known to bring on the giggles every now and then.

But as my best friend so delightfully puts it, most of my loved ones spend more time laughing at me than with me.

Lisa wants to know “if the bullying has stopped at your daughters school?”

Yes. Kinda. How’s that for articulate? I had a big meeting with the principal (again) and I pop into Fric’s class once or twice a week just to do a mommy spot check, but so far things have kinda died down.

However, grade seven will soon begin and I predict future flare ups. Kinda like fighting with hemorrhoids. You never know when they’ll pop up but you know they’ll never really go away.

Menapausalmama wants to know if I “ever velcro the spawn to the wall in their bedrooms, lock the door, then go outside, drink some wine and listen to them scream?”

Er, no. Heh. But thanks for the idea. Snicker. However, I have been known to kick them outsides on their lilly white backsides, toss their shoes out after them along with a bottle of water and then lock the door. This way they are forced to play outside and I’m forced to sit and blog in peace.

I only like to do this when it’s nice out though. The authorities don’t like it when I do this if the weather is inclement.

Colleen would like to know “what your hubby does for a living that keeps him away from home for days at a time.”

Boo is a man of many talents. Trust me. Wink, wink. He grew up a farm boy and graduated into a full-fledged multi-ticketed tradesman. He currently works up in the oilsands as a foreman for some big oil company. If he were answering this, he’d tell you he is a saving the world one paycheck at a time.

Since it’s me, and I’m much more honest than he is, I’ll tell you he generally stands around bossing his monkeys around while drinking coffee and playing solitaire on the computer and harassing me with dirty text messages. He gets paid handsomely for this too.

Bri asks “how many tattoos/piercings you are currently sporting and if there are any you are still dreaming of getting when husband is out of town?”

Well Bri, counting the nose ring, two in each ear, my princess sparkle boobs and one strategically more southern, ahem, I have eight piercings. More than enough. Although, I do like the idea of an eyebrow piercing, my husband has threatened divorce if I ‘desecrate my face’ with more holes.

Since I’m a kept woman, and a lazy one to boot, I’ll defer to his wishes. On the piercing issue. My ink, however, is a different story. I currently only have three on my body but I’m FOR SURE getting two more. One is still in the planning stage and the other I’m just waiting for the right moment.

I’m planning on getting “BOO’S BITCH” tattooed on my left ass cheek. Cuz how romantic would that be?

Heh.

The lovely Mac N’ Cheese wants to know “the secret to maintaining a hot and heavy sex life with a man you have been with since your teen years?”

Well darling, I do believe the tatties and the piercings help. So do the dirty text messages. And booze. Lots of booze. Wink, wink.

I mean, of course it’s easy to be hot and horny for the love of my life. He’s completes me.

Snort.

The reality is our sex life is far from hot and heavy since he’s gone most of the time. BUT by the time he gets home we are both so happy to see the other that we have forgotten about our ability to annoy one another thus making it much easier to get our frisk on. Heh.

Lastly, Dirkey wants to know “if Fric and Frac know about the web site.”

Why yes they do. They like to tell their friends their mother is an internet porn star though, instead of a blogger.

A better question would be, do I allow them to read it? Over my dead body. Or at least until I’m no longer able to sit on them and hold them down with my body weight. Until then, they won’t read it.

But they really aren’t overly interested in what I have to say. Neither of them think my blogging is important. After all, I’m not exactly blathering on about Guitar Hero or Harry Potter, so why would anything I say be of any interest to them?

Thanks for all the questions. There are a few questions I plan on answering in depth, but for today, this will have to suffice. My dog needs to go potty.

I’ll be back tomorrow (barring any more unforeseen vehicular accidents) with more answers. Meanwhile, if you haven’t voted in my online poll about my template, go click a button. It’s fun. I promise.