Keep him off the internets.

Today, on our 13th wedding anniversary, I’m doing what I so often do. I’m disobeying him.

(In my defense, I was smart enough to make sure the word ‘obey’ appeared exactly no where in our wedding vows. I am many things, but obedient isn’t one of them.)

I want the world to see the man I married and to know how absolutely proud I am that I chose him.

And I want everyone to know how ridiculously grateful I am that you have kept me.

To the man I love more than words can adequately express, happy anniversary.

I love you.

Thank you for being my Boo.

]]> http://www.theredneckmommy.com/2010/05/10/breaking-the-rules/feed/ 93 http://www.theredneckmommy.com/2010/03/16/what-a-girl-wants/ http://www.theredneckmommy.com/2010/03/16/what-a-girl-wants/#comments Tue, 16 Mar 2010 18:09:08 +0000 Redneck Mommy http://theredneckmommy.com/?p=1813 In a few months my husband and I will have been married thirteen years. What’s more amazing than the fact I have managed to keep a man legally bound to me that long is the fact we’ve been living together for fifteen, and a couple for seventeen. Which is exactly half the number of years I’ve been alive.

If you had told me Boo was my future husband when I was six years old and visiting his house with my daddy, I’d have likely kicked you in the shins. At that point in time I had no interest in the big lipped blond boy who constantly wore orange and brown striped tee shirts.

Life, she has a sense of humour in a dark and twisted way.

I have been in Boo’s life from the time we were in diapers and his partner for half of my life and yet the man still cannot figure me out.

It’s not like I’m complicated, it’s just I’m rather irrational (I swear it’s charming) and I happen to change my mind a lot.

(Like the time I told him not to bother buying me a wedding ring because I’d never wear it and then two days before our wedding ceremony I wept and whined because he actually listened to me and didn’t buy me a wedding ring. After banging his head against the wall multiple times, he scraped up every bit of cash he could beg, borrow and steal and dragged me to the jewelery store where I happily picked out a tiny diamond solitaire ring.

Two months after the ceremony, he noticed I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring. Yes, I had changed my mind and decided I was right the first time and didn’t want the ring he had busted his bottom to buy for me. Let’s just say he banged his head against the wall again.)

When I tell you I want mustard on sandwich, this is just means I want mustard on my sandwich right now. It doesn’t mean I’m signing a life time contract of wanting mustard on every single sandwich I will ever eat from now to till the end of time.

Sometimes a little Italian dressing on a sandwich is a nice life distraction, you know?

My husband, he bangs his head on a lot of walls. But the one thing I can never, ever fault him for, his the effort he puts in to keeping me happy. He’s constantly trying to keep up with my whims. He, in fact, spoils me even if he misunderstands me half the time.

We married young which means we married one another when neither had a pot to pee in. Literally. Boo came with a dowry of a butter knife, a used shower curtain and a broken telephone. I am not joking. Thank goodness for banks willing to give credit cards to young people in an effort to entrap them into a life time of debt.

Not only did we have two kids before our first wedding anniversary but we had more debt than should be legally allowed. Between the credit card that was racked up to buy things like food and diapers, we both had student loans tied around our necks. We came to the brink of bankruptcy more than once and if it weren’t for our deep sense of lust and devotion, I’m sure we’d have divorced due to financial misfortune more than once.

Somehow, through time and a lot of hard work (on Boo’s part, I’m the lazy one in this union) we made careful choices to slowly chip away at our debt until where we are today. Not much further ahead but just a few years shy of being mortgage free and the cars we drive are ours and not the bank’s.

Years of surviving on boxed mac and cheese and bruised bananas are slowly fading into the past.

But those lean years, when we had to pick which utility bill to pay each month because we didn’t have enough to pay them all and still feed our family, have permanently scarred us. So much so, that my husband feels it’s his duty to make amends and provide for me everything he couldn’t when we younger.

He’s sweet, if not a wee misguided. I’ll keep him though.

The past few years, despite being married to me half his life and observing my tastes and preferences, he keeps surprising me with bling.

A lot of bling.

I’m not exactly a bling-y type of gal. If the tattoos don’t advertise that, surely the nipple rings would. You’d think.

The problem with the bling he buys, well, it’s expensive. Sure it’s pretty, but not only will I not wear it, but if I do, I’m likely to either bash it into pieces as I garden or scrub toilets or I’m likely to lose it.

Evidence of Boo’s thoughtfulness over the course of the years and my inability to respect anything sparkly:

A Christmas gift he carefully purchased after tucking away money for almost a year. My tennis bracelet.Which I loved so much I refused to take off until the diamonds started to fall out of it. Whoops. I may or may not have broken the clasp on it too.

This lovely gift was bestowed to me after I wrote the Journey series, chronicling the loss of our foster-to-adopt child. Boo wanted to ease my fractured heart with sparkles. The necklace and earring set was aptly named, “The Journey.”

Boo surprised me with this ring on our tenth wedding anniversary. It had been a tough year after losing our Bug and he wanted to turn my frown upside down.

As one diamond after another disappears into the ether surrounding my home it becomes increasingly obvious I am entirely not mature enough to be entrusted with shiny objects.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate both the thought and expense that went into these shiny purchases from a man who clearly loves me. I really do. I just wish I was a woman who wanted such trinkets and who treasured them more instead of taking them off, walking away and then wondering where they went.

Because I am an irrational woman, I’m going to blame my husband for this. Clearly every lost diamond is his fault. If he had been paying attention to who I am over the last half of his life he’d have known better.

I am the girl who loses bling.

(De Nile ain’t just a river, people.)

Maybe it’s because bling just isn’t my thing. I’m a blingless type of girl. I don’t generally wear any jewelery, not even a watch. When I’m trying to impress someone I may or may not be motivated to stick a silver hoop into my ear and call it fashion.

I’m the type of gal who cuts her nails to the quick, only paints her toenails once a year and then lets the paint chip off  naturally as the nails grow out and prefers tattoo ink to hair dye. I own four pairs of shoes, two of which are shit-kickers and there are two skirts in my closet: one for funerals and one for weddings.

I am, in fact, the most non-blingy type of girl a gal can be. Always have been, likely always will be. Which is why I feel physical pain when my husband hands me small packages.

He’s clearly forgotten who he’s legally bound to. Either that or he’s wishing he married someone more sophisticated.

*scratches arm pit and resumes writing*

So, in an effort to save my darling husband from carelessly tossing more money into the wind and bringing home jewelery that will either get lost or spend an eternity collecting dust in the back of a drawer, I cleverly decided to start showing him my idea of a good time jewelery purchase.

After explaining to him that a small cost output in jewelry purchases would lead to a much larger cost savings and general satisfaction on both parties end, he rolled his eyes and walked away agreed.

Yet when my purchase arrived in a shiny black box, Boo was clearly curious to see what it was that would float my boat, save him money and perhaps earn him future blow job rights.

From the look on his face it was all too evident his imagination had never been stretched as far as it was in that moment.

Because my idea of a good piece of jewelry happens to include the word roadkill.

Oh, they tickle as they dangle against my neck.

Such pretty claws you have, my dear…

I told you I wasn’t into bling. I prefer things stuffed and mounted. It’s nature’s way of recycling.

Sadly, it became all too obvious after watching my husband recoil in terror and then laugh until he cried, that I haven’t been paying attention to him the past 17 years either.

Because if I thought I could convince the man I love that buying items from a taxidermist to decorate myself with is a good idea, I am more delusional than he is in his efforts to step-ford wife me.

Turns out, you can’t class a girl up unless she wants to be polished.

Just like you can’t force a man to buy his wife roadkill for their anniversary.

]]> http://www.theredneckmommy.com/2010/03/16/what-a-girl-wants/feed/ 73 http://www.theredneckmommy.com/2009/05/11/how-do-i-love-thee-let-me-count-the-ways/ http://www.theredneckmommy.com/2009/05/11/how-do-i-love-thee-let-me-count-the-ways/#comments Mon, 11 May 2009 17:30:39 +0000 Redneck Mommy http://theredneckmommy.com/?p=1001 Yesterday was my husband and my 12th wedding anniversary.

Twelve years ago yesterday afternoon, I stood beside Boo and promised to love him forever.

I did not, however, promise to obey him. Why start out the marriage with a blatant lie? The only thing I obey is traffic laws and that’s iffy at best.

It’s hard to believe the two of us have managed to kill celebrate twelve successful years of married life. Especially when one takes into account I couldn’t stand the man when he was six year old, wearing a brown and orange horizontal striped shirt and begging to take me out for a horse back ride.

Harder still to believe I haven’t killed him yet. Especially since I’ve been known to hurl hammers at his head from time to time. The man has quick reflexes.

This morning, the first morning of our thirteenth year of marriage, I am rather dazzled by the fact the same man has loved me for all of this time. Still loves me and still can make me laugh like no other and make my heart thump in my chest.

I am a lucky gal, yo.

So for today, for just this once, I’m breaking my husband’s rule of not plastering his face on the internet and letting you into our lives together as the Redneck Marital Unit.

I told you, I never was any good at the whole ‘obeying’ thing.

(14 weeks pregnant with Frac. I am KLASSEE.)

I love you for knocking me up with back to back pregnancies. Every woman should know the joys of trying to breastfeed a four month old baby while fighting off morning sickness. Since I have no recollection of ever getting romantic with you after our daughter’s birth I’m totally blaming you for our son’s conception. You may deny it to this day still, but I totally believe you had sex with me while I was sleeping. I would never be dumb enough to get pregnant that quickly. 

Really.

Boo with Bug at the hospital.

I love you for the way you are with our children. The way you chase them around the house while making monster sounds or how you give them whisker rubs until they beg for mercy. I love you for the way you teach them to be independent adults, even if that means making them stand outside in the pouring rain with you as they each change a tire and it’s brake pads. I love you for all the nights you held our crying babies in the crook of your arm and rocked them until they fell asleep so that I wouldn’t loose my mind. I love you for the way you supported and fought with me to expand our family and bring Jumby home.

I especially love the way I just have to threaten to call you and suddenly our children morph from three horned devil children into obedient little angels.

You should know that no matter how many times you tell me you are just resting your eyes, I know you are napping on the job. The snoring gives it away. Sorry dude.

I love you for always having my back and not being scared to beat anyone who looks sideways at me.

Even if that means sitting on them and tickling them until they pee.

You are my pitbull, baby. I like it when you show me your teeth. Rawr.

I love you for all the spiders you have squished and snakes you have held. Because this just means I don’t have to have anything to do with them other than grab my camera.

I am a pansy and you like me that way.

I love you for always busting your butt to make sure things get done around here. Even if that means redoing them twice because I didn’t like how it turned out the first time. Even if it means that I distract you just as you are swinging a rubber mallet and end up completely shattering your middle finger. 

I still feel bad about that. But in my defense, you really should watch what you are doing when swinging tools around.

I love that when I have a problem that I can’t (or more accurately: won’t) fix you always man up and take care of things for me. Even if that means having to crawl underneath our deck to remove a very large wasps nest because I am scared of being stung. 

It warms the cockles of my heart to know you will willingly take a stinger for me. 

I love you for your willingness to chase wildlife around our yard just to get a photo for my blog. You didn’t grumble (much) when a family of geese honked under our bedroom window one Sunday morning and interrupted our marital mattress dancing session. You didn’t even grumble (much) when I pushed you out of bed and tossed you the camera and made you scramble into some pants so that I could get a picture of the goslings to show the kids.

Your willingness to delay personal gratification for your wife’s whims makes me want to get bendy with you.

I love you for all the times you have taken over kitchen duty so I wouldn’t have to. 

And I love you even more for never slapping my hand as I sneak a fresh slice of meat before dinner is served and lecture me about ruining my dinner. Or at least I would if you would stop that shit.

I love you for thinking I’m beautiful even when I look like this. Or when I’m wearing grubby jeans and digging in the garden. And I thank you for all the times you have overlooked my hairy legs.

Nothing says true love like offering to braid your wife’s leg hairs for her.

I love you for loving me even when I drink orange juice straight out of the carton or whipped cream from the can. 

I will love you even more if you would stop putting empty milk jugs back into the fridge though.

Just sayin’.

I love you for putting up with all my twattiness, craziness, quirks and foibles for the past twelve years of marriage and even more time before that. I love you for the strength you have given our family and the love you continually shower us all with.

I love you for always coming back home with a smile, a bag of dirty laundry and a waggle in your eyebrows.

But the reason I really, really love you:

You are a very talented man.

Wink, wink.

Thanks for marrying me. I’m a very lucky lady.

(Waggles eyebrows.)

Dear husband,

While I love you deeply and deeper with every breath I draw (for reasons that just don’t include your weekly ability to pad my pockets and line our bank account or the fact you have a rock hard ass that every woman should be able to ogle just once in their life for the sheer eye-orgy it provides) I need to tell you something.

Something you may not want to hear.

But first I need you to know that you are a fantastic husband. You work your tail off to support your family, you chase our kids around and make them squeal with laughter and you have been known to do the dishes or vacuum without me ever asking you to.

I couldn’t ask for a better life partner to snuggle up to at night. You even let me stick my icy cold feet in between your deliciously warm legs to heat up my toes and you never complain. That right there is a demonstration of love. True love.

So when you come home after being gone for weeks at a time and want nothing more than to pour yourself a stiff drink, sit on your couch, watch your wide screen t.v, and have your children rub your feet as your wife whispers sweet promises of action yet to come, I don’t begrudge you.

In fact, I’ll even get you a refill on that drink while making sure to show off my cleavage in front of you as I bend over to get the ice cubes out of the freezer.

I’m not above using my chesticles to show you how much I love you.

And when you come in to the bedroom after being gone for weeks and weeks and ask me to rub the knots out of your shoulders, I willingly oblige. Because I know how hard you work for us.

I may even use that back rub as the starting point to rub other things, if you know what I mean. (Waggles eyebrows suggestively.)

Which brings me to the meat of the matter.

Your meat.

Specifically, what happens to your man meat when you are drinking and I am not.

In other words, whiskey dick. Defined as what happens to a penis when a man consumes large amounts of liquor and is unable to ejaculate in a time effective and/or romantic manner.

Boo, nobody questions your ability as a lover. One look at my goofy grin and people know right away that I’m a happily satisfied woman.

So there is no need to prove you can out beat the Energizer Bunny. Sex is not an endurance sport. I’m getting older. I spend my day chasing children and small dogs. I’m tired. Sex to me means get in, get off and get out.

I realize I poured you that last drink, but I swear if I had known it would vault you into the Olympic trials for love making, I would have switched you to soda and slapped on that slinky outfit you like a whole lot sooner.

You may not know this but when I say “Are you finished yet?” with a slightly annoyed tone to my voice it’s because I’ve well, come and gone and am ready for sleep.

“Are you close yet?” is not code for “Please keep pounding away at my sensitive nether regions until it feels like raw hamburger and eventually goes numb.”

Nor does it mean, “A little longer and I’ll be right there for Orgasm number 9.”

No. It means “hurry the hell up you nimrod and do what you need to do because if this goes on much longer I’m going to rip off your dick and stick it down your throat while I go soak in a tub of hot water.”

I am not a porn star. While I am extremely bendy and have been known to go above and beyond the call of duty to bring a sparkle to your eye, chances are I’m not going to have multiple orgasms just because you are pounding away at me like a jackhammer.

I know you know this already. I realize your common sense is being held hostage by Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels and your penis is merely a pawn in the war whiskey wages on your libido.

But don’t be a dick and think that whiskey dick of yours is something to be worshipped upon.

Consider this a public message for when you come home next.

Whiskey dick won’t get you to the promised land. That I promise you.

But it will get you a trip to the bathroom with a tube sock and some lotion while I slumber on peacefully.

So next time either get me good and hammered with you, love or just stick to root beer.

It’ll be much easier for both of us.

Sincerely,

Your loving wife.

I can also make pie from scratch, any type of jam and a salsa that will burn the taste buds right off your tongue while your eyes water with gratitude. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. One look at Boo’s expanding waistline demonstrates this truth.

I can operate a sewing machine without stitching my fingers to the fabric, wield a chainsaw with out lopping off a limb and change the brake pads of a vehicle without worrying about my tires falling off. On top off all this, I still have all of my own teeth.

I am practically the perfect wife. There isn’t much I can’t do. (Disclaimer: That said, there is a lot I REFUSE to do. Like taking out the trash or picking up puppy poop. Just for the record.)

However, for all my stellar qualities, I may have one or two small, insignificant design flaws. My very own Achilles heel if you will.

But rather than focus on my flaws I like to celebrate them. So what if I’m an accident-prone klutz with all the grace of a three-legged blind elephant? Well that just makes me unique!

And if I can’t remember where I put the car keys or my passport, it just means I’m using my brain for other more important things such as memorizing the elements of the periodic table and studying the works of Goethe and Plato.

(Or, um, more likely reading pop culture web sites and composing odes as to why the world would be better off with less Spencer Pratt on television.)

So what if I’m a little absent-minded. I’m sure Einstein had his moments as well. Just because I have been known to forget to diaper a child who has no bowel control or I have lost my 23rd bankcard doesn’t make me a lesser person. It just makes me soul crushingly annoying and maddening to live with interesting.

I keep reminding my husband that despite my many various flaws, I am a catch. He could do much worse. I mean, there are far hairier woman in the world than I am. Right?

Boo, however, remains unmoved by this argument when he has to chop the lock off of our rural post box because I’ve lost yet another set of keys to gain access to our mail. Or when I’ve forgotten to pay his cell phone bill despite numerous and repeated pleasant reminders to do so.

He gets a little testy when I tell him I need another driver’s license because I lost my wallet after placing it on my lap in the car, getting out of the vehicle and having it fall unnoticed on the ground only to mysteriously disappear upon my return to said vehicle.

He no longer chuckles when he finds the cordless phone beside the milk inside our refrigerator and he certainly isn’t amused when I misplace my spectacles and wander around in a blind panic, hysterical and unseeing because I can’t remember where I took them off.

Which is why I’m not telling him I forgot the kids eye examination appointment last month. I’ll never hear the end of it.

You see Boo has a mind like a steel trap. He never forgets anything, has almost perfect recall of events and actually uses his original bankcard until the magnetic strip wears off and the bank needs to send him a new one. (That’s just showing off in my opinion.)

The man even remembers to put the toilet seat down for crying out loud. Talk about annoyingly thoughtful.

It’s like Commander Data married a bubble-headed blonde. Except Boo is less waxy green than Data ever was.

So the other night when Boo was tearing the house apart, I wasn’t really concerned. I figured he was looking for the remote, which I must have invariably misplaced. For the umpteenth time. Except I noticed the remote was right where it was supposed to be. Curious, I watched Boo storm about and mutter under his breath for a few minutes before asking just what the hell he was doing.

“Boo? Just what the hell are you doing?” I asked as the couch cushions went flying. 

“I’m looking for something,” he snarled before stomping off to the laundry room.

“I figured that much out, dough head. I meant, just what have I lost this time that you need?” Like duh.

No answer, but I could hear the dinging of the dryer door being flung open and suddenly clothes were sailing out and landing on the kitchen floor. Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe he was looking for that shiny gold man-thong I bought him as a stocking stuffer once upon a time.

“Can I help you look?” I managed to say this with only a trace of a smirk in my voice.

“No.” 

“Well, can you at least tell me what you are looking for? Maybe I know where it is.” Because while I can’t remember the p.i.n. number to my bankcard but you know, I will always remember where I hide the batteries for my <s>battery operated buddy</s> flashlights.

Boo looked up from sifting through the pockets of pants he was emptying and I could tell he was weighing whether or not to confide in me. Realizing I’m like a bitch with a bone, he gave in and quietly muttered something.

“What? I didn’t understand you. Speak up. Remember? I’m half-deaf.”

Boo sighed like a teenage girl trying to explain the cool factor of the Jonas Brothers to her decidedly unhip parents and very quickly repeated, “Ilostmyweddingring.”

Holy shit batman! My husband lost something! Trying to hide my gleeful smirk, I told him I didn’t hear him. Again. In reality, I totally heard him and was just enjoying the irony of the turn of events.

“I. LOST. MY. WEDDING. RING.” With that he sheepishly avoided eye contact and wished the ground would swallow him whole, I’m sure. 

 My husband never takes off his ring. He’d rather chop off his finger. He says a wedding ring is chick-bait. Truth is, he just knows I’d rip off his limbs and beat him with them if he ever dared removing it.

I couldn’t say anything. It’s hard to speak when you are doubled over laughing. When I finally caught my breath, I asked him when the last time he remembered seeing it.

“I took it off when I was changing the tractor’s oil. I remember putting it in my pocket and now I can’t find it.” 

He looked up at me and caught me smiling.

“Shut up, Tanis. It isn’t funny.” Poor sport.

“I can’t help it. It is kinda funny. You never lose anything! And you are insufferably conceited when I manage to misplace something. I’m just reveling in the moment. Give me a second and I’ll revert to back to my sympathetic self in a second.”

Rolling his eyes he wandered to the bathroom to eye the sink’s drain. I, of course, followed him while mocking him the entire time. I’m helpful like that.

“You know Boo, of all the things I’ve lost, I’ve never lost anything as important as our wedding rings. I mean, that’s big. You don’t just lose a wedding ring.”

I could tell he was getting a little annoyed with me. Too bad. This was my moment and I wasn’t going to let him suck the fun out of it for me.

“A wedding ring is so much worse to lose than a car key or a debit card. It’s even worse than losing an entire purse!”

“You know what this makes you, don’t you Boo? A LOSER. Get it?” I gloated.

“Shut up Tanis.”

“Does this mean I have to buy you another? I think you should have to pony up for the replacement ring. Why should I have to cough up the dough to buy you another ring when you were so irresponsible as to lose it in the first place?” Never mind the fact that Boo has more than once coughed up the funds for lost glasses, books, keys, licenses, remotes, shoes…etc.

I could see my words were wearing on him like nails on a chalkboard. Good. Heh.

“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“Why yes, I am. I feel like I’m finally on the moral high ground over here and I’m taking the time to plant my flag and sing to the heavens.” I was crowing. Just a little. But it felt soooo good.

He may have rolled his eyes. I couldn’t tell because the tears of laughter were blurring my vision.

“Moral high ground! I don’t freaking think so, Ms. I’ll-lose-anything-if-it’s-not-chained-around-your-neck. You aren’t exactly in a place to judge me. Or have you forgotten that you just lost your automatic car start remote with all your keys on it less than a week ago?”

Picky, picky.

“Oh please. We had two sets. And a set of car keys and a clicker isn’t even on the same playing field as losing a wedding ring. The symbol of our love. The bond of eternity worn on a finger.” I waggled my fingers at him and let loose with my piece de resistance, “I have never lost MY wedding rings. I am no LOSER in that department.”

Picking up a pillow from our bed, he whipped it at my head. 

“That’s because you never wear the damn things!” he countered as he continued to hunt.

Damn. I hate when dude has a point. 

Just then Boo opened my jewellery drawer and spied his golden wedding band.

“AHA! I knew I couldn’t have lost it!” he grinned as he slipped it back on.

Turning to me he smiled. “Guess I have never lost my wedding ring either. And since I don’t lose anything, ever, I’ll just take that flag of yours and replace it with my own on that there patch of moral high ground you were standing on.”

Just as he was passing by me to go resume his life as the man who never loses anything, he stopped and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Loser,” he whispered and then giggled his way to the kitchen.

Damn it. I may just have the hide the darn thing when he is not looking so I can get back on that moral high ground I was enjoying so much.

After all, all is fair in love and war. And this loser needs all the help she can get.