Why did the redneck cross the New York City road?

She saw a Tim Hortons on the other side. True story. Yay for traveling across the continent and into another country just to eat Timbits!

New York was awesome. Which I hadn’t really expected. As much as I love to travel, I never honestly wanted to go see New York. The sheer size of the city and the volume of it scared my small city, country bumpkin heart and I would have been happy living out my days never having set foot in the Big Apple.

I’d have missed out. I had a blast.

It helps that I went prepared, thanks to all of y’all. I had proper walking shoes, I was armed with interesting places to go visit and I had an extraordinary travel partner.

What I didn’t have was a personal air-conditioner on wheels following me around as I tramped about the city. Holy heck, New York City in the summer is hot. As in hawt. Like boob sweat, ear sweat and every other extremely unsexy sweat imaginable. The heat bounced off all the concrete and my poor Canadian winter loving body just about melted like Frosty the Snowman.

A little boob sweat should never stop a good tourist though and so we walked.

And walked.

And walked some more.

The view from the Empire State Building

Times Square and me. Along with thousands of other snap-happy slightly lost tourists.

Times Square rather disappointed me. Although I did enjoy me some Naked Cowboy shaking his thang in front of me. However, I kept wanting to throw a blanket around him and tell him he’s bringing shame to real cowboys everywhere. I mean, please. A straw cowboy hat? Invest in a Stetson and take some pride in your panhandling.

My kids wouldn’t let me post the picture of me copping a feel of Liberty’s boob. They’re fuddy duddies.

My friend and I found the first of the fake Lady Liberty statues dotted around the tourist areas and in a moment of silliness we posed for pictures. Just as my buddy was snapping my picture a clearly concerned homeless man ventured up to us and whispered, “You do know that’s not the real Statue of Liberty, right?”

And they say New Yorkers are unfriendly. Please. That bearded dude totally earned a dollar with that tip.

Waiting for a ferry to see the Real Statue of Liberty, thanks to my new tour guide director.

Since I had absolutely no reason to be in New York other than to enjoy myself, my girlfriend and I happily strapped on our tourist hats and toured. We hit all the big tourist attractions, and a lot of the smaller ones. We rode the subway, which smelled very similar to what I imagine a sewer pipe would. In fact, I’m pretty sure if someone urinated in the corner of one of the subway stations that may actually have made it cleaner.

We spent more time wandering off the beaten path, getting hopeless lost and enjoying every minute of it.

It occurred to us half way through our little adventure that the only animals we had seen in our travels was the odd dog on a leash. Right about then is when a pigeon pooped on us, I spilled my drink down my dress and a squirrel started to stalk us. City wildlife makes me twitch and walk around looking like I peed myself.

Crazy eyes. I swear it wanted to jump on my face and rip off my nose.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or the chick on her back.

After stumbling upon a little art gallery, I found the souvenir I wanted to take home with me. Never mind it cost almost as much as my car. However, when I sent a picture of the little statue to my husband he immediately called back and yelled, “Are you on crack? What is wrong with you?”

I bet if I had sent him a picture of the Bloggess’s big metal chicken statue he’d have been all over that and have asked if I could get two so he could plant one on each side of the driveway to pretend they were his personal gargoyles.

There may be a reason the two of us have never invested in any real art.

This is why cell phones and cameras shouldn’t be allowed near slightly inebriated people. Dorkiness ensues.

There was food, (oh my god, the food. Amazing.) There may have been some wine. And perhaps a mojito. Or three. But in my defense, we had just spent two hours getting hopelessly lost while wandering about looking for an interesting place to eat. What we found in two hours was a steady stream of Irish Bar and Grills. It was as though all the restaurants in the greater Manhattan area had been transported to the moon and replaced with Irish pubs and maybe the occasional questionable looking noodle house.

I was about to give up on ever sitting down in a non-pub type restaurant when a NYPD officer took pity on us and pointed us in the direction we wanted to be. After asking if he could join us after his shift. It was too bad he was like 12, and I’m like, married with four kids and old. Otherwise, I’d have totally accepted his offer.

Sexxay. 

So I can officially cross visiting New York off my bucket list, even if it was never really on it. And the best souvenir I brought home with me? The 7 blisters I managed to accumulate on my feet, even after wearing sneakers and old lady walking sandals.

Thank goodness for the Walgreens across the street. Sorry about cleaning out your blister Band-Aid supply. You may want to restock for the next tourist who isn’t really prepared for the concrete jungle.

*A big thanks to Isabel, Neil, Barry, James and Jason for going out of their way to take two little tourists under their wings and make our trip memorable. Also, you were missed D.*

I have just discovered no one has taken our trash to our local garbage transfer station in weeks, possibly months and no matter how many stars you wish upon, trash bags will not grow legs and march itself to the dump.

The trash will, however, get ripped open and spread itself around your yard in what can only be called as Redneck chic.

Guess what I’m going to be doing today?

Hint: It involves wearing rubber gloves, swearing at cats, dogs, wildlife and husbands all while carrying a new garbage bag.

So while I’m outside picking up trash, I thought I’d share a few of my favourite memories from our trip. Because y’all haven’t heard enough about it as it is.

I’m such a giver.

Capela dos Ossos

In Evora, Portugal, stands the Church of St. Francis and next to it you will find the Chapel of Bones. It’s a small chapel, built with the remains of over 5000 humans. Or so they say. I personally didn’t count. That would have seemed weird. Weirder than posing with my daughter in front of a wall of human heads while saying Cheese! for the camera.

This room brings a whole other layer of meaning to the phrase Dead Heads.

Camel riding: It’s harder than it looks.

Taking the ferry to Africa to spend some time in Morocco was one of the highlights of the trip for me. I didn’t get enough time to explore the treasures of Morocco, instead only getting a small taste of what life in Tetouan is like. I fell in love with Morocco and its culture and I will be back to see it again in leisure at some point in my life. It’s on my bucket list.

My daughter’s highlight of the trip was when I decided to be a traditional tourist and climb atop a camel. And them promptly almost fall off.

Because camel riding is hard when one has rods in her spine.

SMARTEST MOVE EVER. The screams of my neurosurgeon are ringing in my ears.

But. I rode a freaking camel. And then it spit on me. Awesome.

The interior of one of the restaurants we dined in while in Tetouan. Also the inspiration to my living room makeover when I decide to stop dragging my feet and try to redecorate around my giant oversized, over-stuffed Godzilla-poop coloured sectional couch I stupidly agreed to let my husband purchase.

Ahem.

La Alhambra. Also known as a buffet of eye candy.

Granada, Spain was my favourite Spanish city. I don’t know why. Every where we went was lovely but there was magic in the air in Granada. Perhaps it was spending the day inside La Alhambra. Perhaps it was getting stuck in a public washroom and having to impersonate a spider monkey to find my way out of it. While wearing a skirt. Whatever it was, Granada, you are the awesome.

Granada: The place where Fric officially had enough of me sticking a camera in her face every other second of the day.

Tasting my very first and very last anchovy.

It turns out it doesn’t matter what continent I am on, I will never develop a taste for fresh olives or anchovies. Especially when they aren’t adorning a pizza.

Also fun? Drinking European beer while playing pictionary with a Spanish bartender because neither of you speaks a lick of the other’s language.

Valencia Coliseum, the place where blood is spilled.

One afternoon Fric and I had the opportunity to tour the Coliseum in Valencia and learn more about bull fighting. It was here I learned my daughter is a blood thirsty matador in training and I am more squeamish than I gave myself credit for. The coolest part of our time in the Coliseum was having the opportunity to watch the bull fighters train for their sport.

Those are boys who really know all about poking the bull and getting the horn.

Wait. That didn’t come out quite right…

I love a good walrus.

Here’s a random Tanis fact for you all: When I was in grade five I had to write a school report on an aquatic creature of my choice. I chose the beluga whale. It was inside the aquarium in Valencia that I finally got to see my very first, in person, live beluga whale. It was a very cool personal moment for me and my inner ten year old self. I may have been hopping up and down with excitement, even if I told others around me it was because I had to pee.

Also? A dork at aged ten will likely remain a dork at aged 35.

There may be a wee parking problem on the streets of Barcelona.

It was in Barcelona that I had the pleasure of taking my daughter on her very first subway ride. It was here that she announced to everyone on our subway car that she really enjoyed twirling around a pole.

I have never felt prouder as a mother.

Silence is golden. Especially when you are traveling with a 14 year old who likes to talk.

I love you kid, no matter what continent we are on.

So far on this travel adventure with my daughter I have learned several things:

American teens are JUST as irritating as the Canadian kind. And by irritating I mean completely sweet. Ya. That’s what I mean. (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.)

Any teenaged girl, regardless of origin and nationality, will lose any and all capacity for reason upon walking into a cafeteria filled with teenaged European football players still in uniform.

Tour guides named Alberrrrrrrrrto make me smile.

Family politics will follow you across the planet and you will find yourself flipping off your brother-in-law on occasion and wondering what the penalty would be for smothering him with a travel pillow.

14 year old cousins will find a way to squabble no matter the country they are in. But just when you think you are about to lose your mind and your patience with them, you will find the two of them laughing and splashing together in the Atlantic ocean like they hadn’t just tried to rip each others faces off hours earlier.

A church made out of the remains of thousands of human skeletons is only slightly less creepy than one might think yet slightly mustier than one would suppose.

When home alone with his sons, Boo will rise to the challenge by not only replacing Frac’s entire wardrobe but by also shearing his youngest son’s hair so the Jumbster no longer resembles a shaggy homeless child. Well done Boo.

I have also learned how precious free wifi is, how irritating blogging on an iPhone is and how important it is to pack a travel hair dryer or you will spend a lot of time walking around in Europe looking like a stringy haired rat.

Awesome.

Picture above taken at Ponta da Piedade, Portugal.

*I take no responsibility for any spelling or grammatical errors. Damn you Autocorrect. Damn youuuuu.*

This is me at age 13. The same age my daughter will be in thirty five days. Holy cannoli. In just over a month my daughter will be a full fledged teenager.

Hold me.

When I was 13 years old, I was fairly certain I didn’t yet have life by the tail but I was also equally certain that one day soon I would. Just as soon as I grew five more inches and my boobs filled out.

This is me, twenty years later at age 33. Today. This very moment. Well, okay, probably not by the time you read this, but you get the point.

As you can see, my boobs filled out. But I never did grow those five inches. I did manage to shoot up an extra two inches but sadly, I never did make the coveted supermodel height I was aspiring to.

I don’t know if I have life by the tail, but I’m still equally certain that one day I will. Even if the only thing I have by the tail is a few dogs, a puppy and more cats than I can shake a stick at.

When I was 13 I didn’t have a clear idea of where I’d be when I grew up but I knew one thing for certain. I was never having children.

There are days when I kick myself for not remembering my 13 year old self more often.

Ahem.

At age 13, there was one thing in life that was sweeter than ice cream. That sweetness was slumber parties. I never had many sleep overs at my own home, always preferring to escape my siblings and my parents by crashing on the floor at friends homes.

There just didn’t seem to be anything better than eating someone else’s food, sleeping under someone else’s roof and watching television on someone else’s television.

I only wish my children felt the same way.

No, instead my darling little imps prefer to herd the neighbourhood children into my yard, my house, my life and destroy the sanctity of peace I like to cultivate.

And because I am that mom, I seem powerless to stop them.

Somehow I’ve morphed into a pushover for puberty parties hosted at my house.

I feel it’s my duty to warn all of you and remind myself what I obviously knew as a 13 year old child: Sleep overs are evil. Unless they’re done at some other schmuck’s house.

Sure your children are cute. They fill your heart with love every time they slather their slimy little kisses on your cheek or wrap their dirty little arms around your neck and whisper how much they love and adore you.

But then they grow up and meet other people’s not so cute children and they befriend them.

That’s when the trouble starts. Because it is then they start insisting on batting their big baby blue eyes at you and begging you to let their friends come over and in a moment of stupidity weakness you cave.

Those cute children you’ve been raising? They are not so cute when they are surrounded by other people’s children. No, they morph into like-minded monsters, preying on your sanity like a pack of hyenas preys on a lone antelope.

Sure they try and butter you up by announcing to their friends that you are the best mom in the world. Sure their friends (upon seeing a breach in your defence) are quick to pat you on the back and whisper words of how you are the coolest mom in the neighbourhood.

It’s all a PLOY people.

A ploy to drive you to distraction so you will cave. These pubescent children have smelled blood and like vampires, will glamour you into believing what they say is the truth; all so you will drive to the grocery store and spend a small fortune on food that isn’t fit for human consumption.

While they are cramming fists full of chips and cheetos and swigging down gallons of orange pop they will say cute things to amuse you. Don’t listen. Don’t get charmed into thinking these people, children of other peoples, are good.

They’re harbingers of evil.

Soon it will be dark and like the creatures of the night they will rise just as you are yawning and dreaming of pillows and down comforters. They will bring your children over to the dark side as you helplessly watch your children transform before your very eyes.

Filled with empty calories and the adrenalin of happiness they will bounce off your walls, your furniture, your sanity until you find yourself pleading with them for a single moment of silence.

You will do the unthinkable and agree to let them watch inappropriate movies all in a desperate bid to get them to quiet down and sit still. Every parenting skill you have accumulated and stock piled will be thrown aside as you attempt to conquer these savages you once recognized as flesh of your flesh.

Then, when you think the situation is firmly in hand and under control, you will turn your back on the pack, say your good nights and retire to the peaceful sanctity of your room to await for slumber to erase the pain of the night and for dawn to return and restore your parental powers once again.

You’ll be lulled asleep by the soft murmurs of their whispers, content with the knowledge that once again you put your children’s happiness before your own and created yet another childhood memory to their collection.

That’s what they want.

They wait for that very moment. And once they are assured you have drifted off to the land of Nod, they will pounce.

You will be woken up to the shrill sounds of squeals and laughter as these creatures of darkness run around your lawn at two in the morning playing a rousing game of tag. You will be forced to rise from the warmth of your own bed and shrug into a cold robe and stand on a cold damp deck and bellow at them to get their arses back into bed before someone gets hurt.

They will file in with angelic faces and their false apologies and your heart will feel pangs of guilt for harshing their buzz but they will once more settle in for the night so that you can  return to your now chilly bed and pray for peace once more.

And just as you nod off you will awake to the sounds of splashing and whispered laughter and the quiet worried hushes of a preteen child you thought you knew so well as she announces, “Shhh. You’ll wake up Mom!”

No good ever comes from that sentence.

Once again you will find yourself out in the dark of the night, on a dew filled deck, only this time sleep has taken with it your sanity and your good sense and you will find yourself telling the children swimming out in the pool at three am to knock it off and pipe down.

You are no longer concerned about safety. You no longer care if their growing bodies get the rest they need to stay strong and healthy.

These imps of pop culture and sugar have sapped your strength and you will find yourself grudgingly climbing back into bed for the third time that night only to find yourself wide awake as you listen to the splashing and laughter and cries of “Marco!” “Polo!”

Suddenly quiet will fall  and you will breathe a sigh of relief as you falsly convince yourself the unending energy of these creatures has finally tapped out.

It’s about then, that very moment, you will hear the snickers as these children you no longer recognize stand beneath your bedroom window and make ghost sounds to try to scare you.

“Whooooo. I am a verrrry scarrrrry ghoooost out toooo geet your sooooouul.”

Giggle.

“Booooooo.”

Giggle.

This will continue until you are forced to threaten to beat them senseless with  a pillow if they don’t leave you alone and let you sleep.

At this point, they are so out of control they can’t even help themselves from the evil that is within them.

Eventually sleep will claim you, although it will be fitful and worrisome. You will be plagued by nightmares of waking up to find your child standing above you holding an axe as their friends chant softly “Do it, do it, do it” behind them.

Finally dawn will break and you will rise with optimism fresh in your heart. You survived, you think. Just a few more hours and soon your house will be yours once more.

It’s then that these children go in for the kill, reaching for your soft underbelly of weakness and drive the knife of preteen power deep within you.

You will wake to find they will have robbed your pantry, emptied your cupboards and left them barren. And as they gleefully consume the last remains of all your food you will stand in front of the refrigerator and weep silently as you try to pour yourself a glass of juice only to find they have drained the jug down to the last drop and put the empty container back in the fridge.

You’ll hear soft whimpers of surrender coming from your lips as you give up and hand over any semblance of dignity and sanity to the pack of pubescent people standing around you.

Tell yourself this is the price you must pay for once being a 13 year old who tormented parents around the neighbourhood.

Remember this people:

Packs of preteens should be avoided at all costs.

Sleep overs are EVIL.

Unless they are at someone else’s house.

Words to live by.

Consider yourself duly warned.

I obviously knew this as a 13 year old child. Which is why I seldom inflicted this torture on my own parents. Because I was a good child.

Apparently the apples have fallen far from this tree and my children just aren’t as smart as I was when I was their age.

Dammit.

As a child, I was the definition of geek a highly competitive little girl. Perhaps it was because I suffered from middle child syndrome, over shadowed by my big brother Stretch’s fantastic farting skills or my little sister, Mouse’s wholesome demeanor or perhaps it was because I didn’t have much else going for me other than the knobby knees, flat chest and stringy blonde hair. I had to do something to stand out and be seen in my family.

Everything I did I turned into a competition. Whether it was just washing the dishes, doing my homework or participating in sports, I was out to kill it and do it the very best.

My mother often tried to remind me that it wasn’t possible for me to be the very best in everything I did.

Horse shit, I’d think to myself as I rolled my eyes at her and strenghtened my resolve to be the world’s greatest citizen ever.

Sadly, my mother apparently knew what she was talking about (oh how it still hurts to admit that) and time ended up bruising my ego over and over again as I learned the harsh reality of the world: There is always someone more talented in the world than you are.

(Except when it comes to talking about dead kids and dildos and the ability to put ones feet behind their ears and walk across the kitchen floor using only their arse cheeks. I still rock that one like no one’s betch. Heh.)

I soon grew up and having swallowed my pride more times than a person can count, was delighted to realize that while I may have failed at being the best at everything, I could concentrate my laser beam like talents on honing the next generation into being a better version of myself.

I mean, as a parent, is there anything better than molding your child into the person you wanted to be but failed at miserably, therefore be able to capture and RELIVE your glory days through the accomplishments of your child?

I think not.

If ever there was a reason to breed this would be it, I thought to myself as I tossed caution to the wind and convinced my husband that contraception was for sissies.

(Okay, maybe I didn’t think that at the exact moment of conception. I may have been too busy moaning and telling him to hurry up. Ahem.)

Still, ten months later I birthed Tanis 2.o. A daughter destined to be the best mini-me EVAH.

*Rubs hands with glee.*

With the luck of some mighty fine genetics and years of constant indoctrination, my daughter has quite literally not fallen far from this tree. She is, like her mother, a pitbull of determination and the consumate competitor.

Praise the lawd for screwing up the first born. Can we say Type A personality anyone?

Fric loves competition. She (and this is where I bust out my mad maternal pride skills and brag her up as though she will be soley responsible for world peace, global gay rights and the cure for cancer,) is at the top of her class scholastically and one of the best athletes of her generation, er class of thirty kids.

In other words, she is just like me.

*Holds hand up for the high fives that are sure to follow.*

However, unlike myself at that age, Fric has something I never did. (Besides actual talent. Heh.) She has a mother who is has too much time on her hands and can thereby make sure she is at every basketball, volleyball and soccer game cheering her on to higher success.

Loosely translated: I pretend I’m her and drive her crazy while shaking my pompoms and acting like a possessed woman.

I had the opportunity to attend young Fric’s first junior high track competition recently. Even better, I was elevated from the spectator’s bench when one of the volunteers neglected to show up and the organizers needed someone to step up and grab a stop watch.

(Picture me jumping up and down, waving my hand while shouting, “Pick MEEEE!”)

The day was fantastic, the weather perfect and my mind filled with long lost memories of my own track and field glory days. Visions of medals and ribbons danced through my mind as I held the coveted stop watch and puffed my chest with the power of one who timed the winner of all the field races.

Then, with little pomp and circumstance, it was my daughter’s turn to chase her tail in circles all over the field. While she lined up quietly at the start line, concentrating on the task before her, I stood beside her with pride shooting out of every pore for I was sure, like me, my child would rock this 1500 meter race.

“Mom, stop, you are embarrassing me,” she whined when I shouted “TEAM FRIC!!!” as the other runners lined up and waited for the gun to crack.

“Tough nuts, sugar bear, MOMMY LOVES YOU,” I heckled as a group of thirteen year old boys sniggered behind my back.

Then it was business time, and hush fell over the runners and spectators, everyone braced for the starter pistol to shoot it’s blank.

And with  a loud crack, they were off and my thumb eagerly pressed the start button to time what was sure to be my daughter’s victory.

It was a 400 meter race track which meant almost four rotations for the runners. My daughter was in third position as they rounded the first lap.

“Smile for the camera honey,” I cheered as she huffed and puffed past me, concentrating on both ignoring her mother and putting one foot in front of the other.

She smiled and then rolled her eyes at me as I looked at the stop watch in my hands and yelled at her as she passed, “HURRY UP KIDDO! CLOCK’S A-RACING.”

As the other girls raced around the track, I cheered them on, each by name, offering encouragement and snapping pictures of their red faces as they passed me. I am nothing if not an equal opportunity cheerer.

One of the the boys behind me, waiting for his race to start after the girls were done, whispered to his friend, “Sheesh. That lady is LOUD.”

(Oh, you little runt. Your turn is a coming, I thought to myself as I yelled even louder.)

Before I knew it, Fric was finishing up her second lap and she was now in second place and holding steady. Grabbing my camera I yelled, “Smile for your MOMMA!”

She didn’t smile.

In fact, she kinda snarled as she went past.

I attributed it to her losing steam. I mean, it couldn’t have anything to do with me shouting, “HURRY UP HONEY! TAKE HER! WHAT IS THERE A PIANO TIED TO YOUR ARSE???”

(I’m available for motivational speaking anytime, anywhere. Just email your requests.)

As she rounded the far corner on her third lap I glanced at the stop watch that was bouncing around my neck.

“Come on HURRICANE! YOU CAN DO THIS. SMILE FOR THE CAMERA!!!”

I am nothing if not supportive.

As she huffed and puffed past me, her face getting redder with every lap, my vision blurred and for a moment I relived every track meet I ever raced in. I no longer saw Fric, but the fragile competitive little blonde I once was.

“SMILE FOR MOMMY!” I cried as I tried to get an action shot to put in her scrap book.

“Shut UP MOM!” she hissed at me, out of breath.

“Go FRIC! GO! YOU CAN RUN FASTER THAN THIS! JUST PRETEND THERE IS AN ARMY OF ANGRY ZOMBIES ON YOUR HEELS,” I yelled as she passed me.

She gave me the stink eye.

“GO FRIC GO!” I cried loudly as my daughter sprung into high gear and went for the kill.

I all but exploded with glee as she over took the lead rounding the final corner of the track and charged toward the finish line.

“GO DOODLEBUG GOOOO! THAT’S MY BABY! FASTER FASTER! DON’T MAKE ME CHASE YOU UP TO THE FINISH LINE! PUT SOME PEP IN THAT STEP! DON’T SLOW DOWN! GO! GO! YOU’RE ALMOST DONE!!!!”

With the stop watch in hand I watched as my daughter crossed the finish line first and ran straight into next week’s regional competition.

“You did it!” I jumped with joy as I ran to record the winning time, abandoning my post, not caring about any of the other competitors who were still running their little preteen legs off.

“I’m so proud of you honey pie!” I said as I patted her on her sweaty back and leaned down to kiss the top of her sweat soaked hair.

She slowly looked up at me, shielding her hand from the bright summer sun.

“I kinda hate you right now.”

“Ah honey. Those are words every mother loves to hear when her daughter is the WINNER,” I smiled down and ignored the boys totally laughing at Fric and me.

“You are never coming to another track meet again.”

“Face it Fric, I’m the wind beneath your wings. I inspired you,” I laughed.

She may or may not have muttered ‘Bite me,’ under her breath.

“I can’t wait till next week. I’m gonna lead you to victory. I’m gonna be the cattle prod that you never knew you needed. I’m gonna-”

She interrupted and said, “I’m getting some water. Don’t follow me. I don’t know you.” And she stalked off with her friends while totally bragging about how awesome her mother was.

“Stick with me kid,” I yelled. “I’ll have you in the Olympics before you know it,” I called after her.

Funny, she acted like she couldn’t hear me.

That’s okay though.

I’m totally planning on buying a bull horn for next weeks meet.

This reliving my youth bit is da bomb.