With my 34th birthday looming on the horizon, my husband and I have taken to discussing redoing our last will and testament. Because nothing says Happy Birthday Tanis quite like staring death in the face and discussing your mortality and dividing your personal assets amongst people who are likely going to be doing a happy dance on me when I’m six feet under.

But as responsible parents (shut up, we ARE), adjustments have to be made since we have increased our family and added Jumby into the fold. Fric and Frac are going to have to survive on one third of our pittance of pennies instead of the half share they currently inherit. We are equal opportunity penny sharers, Boo and I.

Last night, as my brain was slowly leaking out of my nose via a steady trickle of snot, I sat on the couch with a pile of used tissues littering the floor around me, a mug of tea quickly going cold, a glass of water, and every type of over the counter pharmaceuticals guaranteed to get you high instead of fighting off the plague running rampant in your body and I had an epiphany.

(There’s a marketing strategy untapped. Tylenol Cold Medication: Reducing your snot factor while conjuring up personal revelations!)

As I slowly lay dying from the latest virus my children lovingly bestowed upon me while drawing up a list of personal assets and wishes I want to gift upon loved ones as I dance in the heavens above and rot six feet below, I realized a huge part of my life wasn’t being addressed as I parceled out my jewelery and bank notes.

I have an entire existence online that would fade away into nothingness upon my demise and all my cyber goodness would wilt and wither as though I never existed.

Then I took another drag of decongestant, popped another cough drop and stuffed more kleenex up my nose to staunch the snot.

As the world swirled around me (literally) and the gremlins fought germ warfare with my immune system, I decided it would be a fantastic idea to write up an entirely different type of will. A cyber will.

Ah. The best ideas are brought about by Sudafed overdoses.

(This may also be why my husband insists on locking our medicine cabinet. Too bad suckah! I know where you keep the key.)

So, it is with a runny nose, hair that hasn’t seen a comb in a few days and a decidedly sickly odour emanating from my pores that I bring to you, The Last Cyber Will and Testament of Tanis the Redneck Mommy.*

(If my children ever read this site-GET OFF IT NOW!!!-I want you to know your daddy never wore my intimate apparel. But I can’t say the same for Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog.)

Upon my untimely passing from both the real world and the cyber world, I hereby bestow the keys to my blog to the lovely and talented Mr. Lady. I may as well. She already has my password and routinely comes into the guts of this place to clean up the messes I like to make when I try and make things prettier.  And since most people can’t tell us apart, she may as well just take over the archives and spam folder and use my blog as she sees fit. However, if I find out you are using my blog to do product placement and review or to indoctrinate readers into right wing Christian Conservatism, I’m totally coming back from the dead and hiding behind your shower curtain when you least expect it.

I happily hand over my Facebook account and all the poking going on over there to Jason Mayo. I know, I know. This seems random and odd. But he’s a relatively new blogger whom I really dig. And since my facebook account contains the links to hundreds of fantastic writers he could mine this information and use it to become world famous and dominate the entire blogosphere. Or just use it to play Lexulous like I do. Or stalk my sister. She needs a little action in her life to spice things up.

I bequeath my Linked In account to, um, *scratches head*. Does anyone use Linked In? I mean, I have an account but I can’t figure out why. Screw it. Anyone want my Linked In account contact my attorney. First come, first serve.

For my most precious possession, my cartoon stash on my hard drive, I hereby pass it onto Shawn. I figure anyone who spends his free time composing essays on feminism and deconstructing toddlerhood needs a life chuckle. Or at the very least a distraction from all the big words rattling around in his head.

It is with great happiness I give all my really good porn links to Neil Kramer. I consider this my contribution to getting him laid. Even if it’s only self serve action. An orgasm is never something to shun. You’re welcome Neil. Don’t say I never did anything for you.

For my friend, Adam Avitable, I would like you to have the file marked ‘Vanity’ buried in my documents. In it, you’ll find the digital negatives for all the naughty photos I ever took for Boo. Since he already has the hard copies, I figure he won’t mind sharing the cyber copies with you. Or maybe he will. But I’m dead so really, that’s your problem. Did I mention my husband is bigger than you? And his fists are the size of hams? Anyways, happy viewing friend. I know you don’t really have a hankering to look at pictures of a chubby blonde with tattoos, but maybe you could make a calendar with them and sell them to recoup all the money you spent on postage for the parcels you lovingly sent to me over the years:

My mailman will always remember you fondly.

As for my Twitter account, I bequeath it to my friend Anissa Mayhew. Your tweets constantly amuse me and really, the world needs to know how spectacular your rack is. Feel free to use my twitter following to spread the word wonder.

For my MotherBumper, Kate, I’d like you to have my collection of iTunes. I know you don’t really dig the magic of Dolly Parton and you can’t stand Nickelback, but I don’t play video games and really, the thought of you prancing around in your underwear while Billy Ray Cyrus sings about wanting his mullet back is an image too priceless for me to resist. You’re welcome.

*Come on. You all know you need a little mullet in your life. Click it. I double dog dare you.*

And lastly, to my darling Catherine, I give you my fan mail. I know, I know. You don’t need to my fan mail, you have your own and it outnumbers mine.  Actually, I’m too lazy to sort through my inbox so you can just take all four damn email accounts I have. Feel free to empty the spam folders while you are in there.  But with my email accounts you will find all the letters I have ever written to my friends, my haters and my supporters. You will find a small treasure trove of insight and drivel. Oh all right. Fine. You caught me. I gave away all my good stuff already and I didn’t want you to feel left out. You want my LinkedIn account?? No? Well,  I’m sure if you ask really nice, Bumper will let you listen to some Nickelback and Shawn will share some cartoons with you.

And to everyone else who knew me online, in real life or virtual reality, you will always carry a little bit of me around with you in your heart. Mostly, because my words are insidious, like the germs currently infesting my body.

Now I have to go and hide my computer. I promised my husband I wouldn’t blog while doped up on cold meds. Something about me being wildly inappropriate and accidentally sending topless photos to his boss’s email account instead of his.

He’s such a fuddy duddy sometimes.

*This will is in no way legally binding and will be enforced only through the whimsy of my husband, who will likely be too busy interviewing for Wife 2.o to actually follow through with bestowing my gifts to their rightful heirs. Take it up with him. I’ll be dead. What do I care?

To Whom it May Concern,

Dear valued customers,

Yo! Mama!

Dear Readers,

Please excuse Tanis’s absence from her lame blog, Attack of the Redneck Mommy. She is currently being held hostage by a variety of obnoxious viruses feeling under the weather.

While she would very much like to stretch her creative muscles (as those are the only muscles she seems to exercise these days…I mean, have you seen what’s going on in her thigh area? Cottage cheese jello rolls. I want to kick her ass for doing this to me.) her body has revolted and the only energy she can spare must be conserved to reach for the extra soft two-ply tissues she likes to shove up her nose to catch errant snot drips.

I am sure Tanis will be well enough to return to her regularly scheduled posting routine once she ingests enough orange juice and chicken broth to drown out the germs and sleeps long enough to be confused for a newborn baby.

In the meantime, have no worries, gentle readers, I am doing everything in my power to remind the dumbass Tanis all of this could have been prevented if she ate something other than ketchup chips and drank something other than caffeinated beverages while remembering to wash her damn hands. You’d think as the mother of four, she’d remember what germy little cretins her children are.

Your patience and understanding in this unscheduled delay is greatly appreciated.

Signed,

The Management

As a parent, there are certain conversations we strive to avoid. Every parent has their boundaries, their invisible line drawn in the proverbial sand box.

There are few topics that I try to avoid like the plague. Sex is not one of them. In fact, I may have over stepped my children’s boundaries of comfort one time too many so that now when anything sex-related is brought up, my children stick their fingers in their ears and run to their bedrooms screaming about not wanting to know.

I think it was the diagram of an angry vagina with teeth I drew for them to explain the process of childbirth that did it, but really, who can be sure?

I have always been fairly open and honest with my kids about anything they ask about. I figure it’s my job as their parent to screw them up more than any kid on a playground could.

But there has always been one topic of conversation I have avoided and try to fob off to the other parental unit as often as possible.

Homework.

It’s not the discussion of homework that is a problem, or the nagging it often takes to have them tear themselves away from video games or the trampoline to get them to do it. I am an expert at threatening to with hold toilet paper and food until they finish their after school assignments.

My fear and dread generally occurs when they need help with their homework. One too many dioramas and essay questions on what mommy does for a living has tended to make my heart rate pick up, beads of sweat fall between my breasts and cause my left eye to twitch.

If homework was strictly for the children it was assigned to, I’d have no problem discussing assignments with them. But since it often turns into a parental assignment where I sit beside my children so they can bear witness to just how faulty my basic comprehension skills really are, I’m really rather loath to demonstrate to my kids how much smarter than me they are. That’s just a recipe for trouble. I’m barely hanging on to the parental reigns of control as it is. Every inch they gain on me, the harder it is for me to tug these ponies into compliance.

If I knew that my days of homework weren’t finished when I finally graduated from my years of schooling, I may never have procreated. Worried about teenage pregnancies? Invite a couple of parents dealing with a child’s science project experiment to the school to give the horny little buggers a real education in what it will mean if you get knocked up in the back seat of daddy’s car. That homework assignment you’ve been bitching about to all your friends and are losing sleep over? Guess what kiddos? You think it’s tough now? Wait another ten years when you have to do it all over again with your kids looking on, mocking you while struggling to remember subject matter that is less than fresh.

It’s a sure fire way to guarantee the sex stops and teen pregnancy rates plummet.

If I hated homework when I was in school, I hate it even more now that it is my kid’s assignments being brought home. My hatred only gets worse with every grade they enter. As the assignments become more rigorous and scholastic my own feelings of ineptitude rise accordingly. It’s an evil ying and yang.

A couple of days ago, I had to drive into town to pick Frac up from a friend’s house. As he settled into the back seat and pulled the seat belt over his shoulder, I casually asked if he remembered everything, such as his book bag and lunch kit.

“Yep,” Frac muttered as he zipped open his backpack and pulled out a big binder.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked because I a.) have rocks for brains and b.) try to pretend to show interest in what is going on in his life.

“I have a couple of questions of homework to do. Figure I’ll do them now so I can play when I get home.”

Nodding my head, I made a wondered where that industrious work ethic hides whenever his bedroom needs cleaning or the dishes need to be done, but I wisely kept silent. No sense poking the bear.

“I’m having some problems with this assignment, Mom.”

“That’s nice honey,” I state as I reach over to turn the volume to the radio up. Maybe if the music is so loud he won’t ask for help.

“It’s algebra.” He is now burning holes into the back of my head, willing for me to offer up some parental encouragement and offers of help.

Keep dreaming bucko. I’m onto you. This is why God invented calculators and teachers. I refuse to make eye contact through the rear view mirror and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.

“I could really use a little help,” Frac hints not so subtly. “I just can’t seem to understand what it is I’m doing.”

Hmm. That sentence neatly sums up my parental motto. I smile to myself.

Frac, being no dummy, can sense I am uncomfortable. It’s like he can smell the fear. Like a hyena smells a the blood on a wounded antelope, he totally hones in for the kill.

“Will you help me with my math when we get home?” I could see the evil innocent look on his face. Damn him for being cute. I’m sure it would be easier to say no to your kids if they were ugly.

Sighing heavily, I fortify myself and simply announce, “No.”

“No?” Frac repeats with disbelief. “But you’re my MOM. You are supposed to help me with my homework.”

“Ask your father.”

“He’s AT WORK,” he explains exasperatedly.

“Sucks for you.”

“Moooom!” It’s as though he figures if he draws out the syllables it’s a magical spell to change my mind and guilt me into submission. Wrong sucker! I’ve lived through the terrible twos. I’m impervious to the whine you’re pouring.

Bravely, I make eye contact with him through the mirror as I ask him, “Do you have a teacher?”

“Ya. I’ve got lots of them.”

“Good. Go ask one of them. That’s what they are paid to do. Teach you. Unlike me, who’s only responsibility is chauffering you back and forth, occasionally tossing dry cereal at your feet and making sure you stay out of prison.” Guilt creeps up and sits on my shoulder, yanking at my ear lobes but I refuse to pay any attention to it.

“It’s just a few questions. I just need you to look at the text book for a second and explain the concept to me again.”

“No.” What I don’t tell him is likely I won’t understand the concept. I never understood algebra while I was forced to take it. Fifteen years of an algebra free life was not likely to help my grasp at all.

“I don’t want you to actually DO the questions for me,” he explained. Because, why yes, I have done their homework for them before. Proof my children are smarter than me.

“I said NO.” By now I’m actually shaking. Dear Lord, make the homework talk cease and desist. Doesn’t the kid want to know what a blow job is? I could totally handle that conversation.

“Fine,” he snaps as he slams his binder shut and starts shoving it back into his backpack.

“Good to know we’ve come to an understanding,” I quip just before I start singing along to the radio.

“Uh huh. Just so you know, when I’m taking your order at McDonalds and asking if you want fries with that, it will be all your fault. If I end up working at a fast food joint because you wouldn’t help me with my homework you are going to feel awfully bad about it.”

I look into the mirror and see my son’s annoyed blue eyes staring back at me.

“Just make sure you put extra ice in my drink. You know how much I like that.” And then I smile my most loving maternal smile to him.

Frac sighs loudly and shakes his head as he breaks eye contact and looks out the window.

“I really need to work on the guilt thing. It doesn’t seem to work for me the way it works for you.”

With that I burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry Frac. You’ll have lots of time to hone that skill when you are all grown up and flipping burgers.”

And this is how I keep winning all those mother of the year awards. Without having to do any damn homework.