I’m walking around with my head up my arse these days. It’s quite a visual. Really. I told you I was bendy. It doesn’t just extend to the bedroom. Heh.

My season of grief is once again upon me and I’m struggling to find my joy. 

There is always one thing that helps shine the light through the dark clouds of my sky though. 

(No, not antidepressants, booze or even sex. Although the combination of all three does make for some wicked fun. Heh.)

I’m talking about being able to randomly give away a prize and make somebody’s day. That is the best balm I can think of to soothe the ravage beast of grief that likes to rear it’s ugly head and make me miserable.

So I’m having another give-away. I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for me. To make myself feel better. I’m such a selfish bitch that way. Heh.

All you have to do to enter my lovely contest is drop me a line in my comments. Tell me a joke people, make me laugh. Crude, rude or clean. Punny or funny. I’ll even accept one liners and lame knock knock jokes. 

Don’t know a joke? Contest is still open to you because I’m that kinda girl. Easy. Snicker. I’ll take compliments in lieu. Apparently, I’m vain and pathetically needy as well as easy.

Contest is open until midnight, mountain standard time, Sunday Oct 19, 2008. After which time I’ll randomly draw a winner. Or arbitrarily choose a winner based on the best damn joke and who made me smile longest. I make no promises people. 

Remember? My head is up said arse.

Whatever the circumstances, someone is walking away a winner.

And that brings me joy.

Which is the whole point of this post.

***Oh, and if you are looking for a real post of mine go here. I’d appreciate it. I guest posted for Avitable and he doesn’t think I’ll be able to muster up more than 20 commenters on my post. Cuz I’m a redneck. And a mother. Help me out. Think of the joy it’ll bring me to prove him wrong. Heh.***

I don’t get political on my blog very often. For good reason. Not because I’m not interested in politics or I don’t have an opinion, but because I live in mortal fear of community uprisal and waking up to find a bunch of pissed off rednecks standing outside my door, chanting ‘Down with Tanis’, while angrily brandishing pitchforks and baseball bats in my direction.

I am a bleeding heart liberal, socialist-loving gal who hides her shrine to Barack Obama underneath an old poster of Alex P. Keaton. 

My husband, my family and 98 percent of the surrounding community would have me flogged painfully if I shoved my political views down their gullets every chance I got. As it is, they barely tolerate me within the midst of their misguided Conservative-supportive ways.

I do what I can to corrupt their little blackened hearts and try to ensure my children embrace my unicorn-loving ways and prevent any future kitten killing on their behalves.

I strive hard to set a good example for my children in hopes that they actually tear their eyes away from the computer screen or the television long enough to notice. Sometimes that example includes doing things I really don’t want to do, such as manning a voting booth for a federal election that seems redundant, has no new political policies to vote for, no real candidate to love.

 

 (Note to self: Please start looking to move into a part of the country that doesn’t bleed Conservative blue.)

However, I love Canada regardless of our yawn-inducing politics, and so yesterday I donned my civic hat and sat down at our community voting poll to help the public exercise their right to freely vote for the candidate of their choice.

Even if that candidate is a blue-blooded knob. 

Ahem.

I didn’t expect a thank-you or a group hug from the hordes of people who trickled filed in, but I also didn’t expect to be treated like I was Medusa with a head full of hissing snakes. I keep forgetting what my purple highlighted hair, visible tattoos and piercings mean to the average voter in a small farming community.

I mean, when I look in the mirror I just see myself staring back. Someone fairly easy-going. Someone fairly likable even.

What my beloved community of hillbillies saw was an outsider sent from Satan himself, to corrupt their Ann Coulter-devoted ways with my nose ring and sassy attitude. I was a visual reminder that they were killing kittens left, right and center. I was the white angel of conscience sitting on their shoulder that for one second they couldn’t swat away.

I’ve never had more fun in my life. Heh.

“Hey, you know there is a hunk of metal hanging from your nose, right?” said one not so original voter to me as I handed him his ballot. The first dozen or so times I heard this, I just grinned and nodded, or better yet, acted shocked like I didn’t know how such a thing could happen to such a good girl like myself.

But the day was getting long and nothing if not repetitive, so I let loose the big cannons. “Ya, it matches the hunk of metal hanging from each of my nipples too. Did you know the Green party sponsors body piercings because it is easier to attach their signage to my body with magnets than it is with string?”

The man looked at me and hissed, like I just threw holy water on a vampire. I swear.

“Oh dear,” one lady puzzled to me, “there seems to be something in your hair. Something purple,” she tsked to me as she stood before me waiting to cast her vote. “I know a great hairdresser who could fix that for you, lickety split,” she offered.

“Why thank you ma’am. I was thinking about changing it. Growing up a bit more,” I said solemnly. “I want to show the world my true colours. I was thinking of going orange and green to show my NDP support,” I grinned as I flipped my hair about.

She grabbed her ballot and made the sign of the cross while she walked to the voting booth.

No where in the books did Elections Canada say I wasn’t allowed to have fun while I was working. Heh.

Eventually my civic-duty came to an end once the ballot box was empty and the carnage was witnessed votes were counted.

Regardless of the results, I voted. And my kids saw me doing something more for my country than just bitching about the process and hurling insults at my husband the television when a candidate annoyed me.

I want my kids to know that I am passionate with the belief that the crayon box of the world has more than enough room in it for more than just shades of blue.

More importantly, I want to excite them to pick up their own crayon and get set to paint the world with the colours of their own political beliefs.

Even if that colour happens to be blue. (Crossing myself and tossing salt over my left shoulder.)

***Oh ya, and if you like that bikini pic of me, go and see this one. I’m trying to soften up my husband so he won’t divorce me. Wink.***

Thanks again Will for your tireless work on my behalf. Canada and the internet thanks you.

When I married Boo, I made sure that no where in our vows were the words “obey.” Why set myself up for failure?

I’m just not the type of girl who does very well at obeying. I’m not obedient. If that was a marital requirement of Boo’s, he’d be better off getting a dog.

I’m no man’s bitch. I’m an independent bitch.

That said, I try very hard to respect my husband’s wishes, even when I don’t agree with them. The man supports my arse and keeps me in Cheetos and boxed wine as I sit on my duff all day and surf the internet. I know better than to bite the hand that feeds me.

I like being a kept woman, and I love my sugar-daddy. 

Yet there are times when my husband lays down the law, puts his foot down and absolutely refuses to consider a request I’ve made. It happens so infrequently that I always blink with surprise when he revolts. The last time he refused a request of mine was a few years ago and it may have involved public intoxication and the possibility of bailing my ass out of the clink.

He is wise beyond his years.

However, this time, he had his head up his butt. He was being unreasonable. Stubborn for the sake of being difficult. Digging his heels in and ignoring the wishes and wants of every member of his family for his own personal motives.

I did the only thing I could think of. I over-rode his decision; blatantly disregarded his dictatorial commands and did what I wanted to for the sake of our family.

I brought home a new puppy.

Boo was pissed.

Meet Thatcher, Nixon’s running mate.

My children are over the moon and Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, EVER, is still smiling. Of course, it helps that the new dog will be half his size, is dumber than a stump and has female parts. The perfect doggy girlfriend for my sweet Nixon.

My motives were completely selfish pure. Nixon looked lonely, my birdies had kicked the bucket and I am still waiting for an adoption to happen that is beginning to look as though it may be a pipe dream. My heart was over-flowing with love and I needed someone to slather that love all over.

Nixon may have been a tad over-excited.

A puppy was the perfect solution.

Not according to my husband. Who, for days has refused to acknowledge my sweet little mongrel’s existence. He even threatened divorce and at one point thundered that it was him or the dog. He quickly backed down when I tossed a suitcase at his feet and told him to start packing.

Like me, she is no man’s bitch.

In a moment of quiet, after I just finished buttering him up (read: gave him a treat, wink, wink,) I asked Boo what the big deal with another puppy was. Why he was so resistant to the sweet intoxication of puppy kisses and big brown eyes?

“I don’t need another damn dog in my bed. One ass-licker is more than enough.”

Thatcher, Boo’s butt-licker in training.

Well, if that’s all he was worried about, problem solved. My new little pup can just sleep with the kids.

Once he realized there would be no other farting, snoring, shedding little fur monsters fighting with him for the chance to sleep next to me, he calmed down. Enough that I even caught him petting my new pup and talking cute little puppy talk as he scratched her belly.

(Who’s da sweetest liddle puppy wog in da whole wide world? Thatcher, dat’s wight my widdle pwe-shush…)

Oh my sugar-daddy likes to talk tough. But when push comes to shove, he’s all bark and no bite.

That said, I’m gonna take this as a hint that now isn’t the time to artfully slip him the ole pinky finger in the throes of passion. If you know what I mean.

Wink, wink.

How do you not love a dog who sleeps on your shoulder?