What Is It With Rednecks and Sitting Up High?

The other day I called my mother laughing so hard that she could hardly understand me.  My neighbors were sitting in folding lawn chairs in the bed of their pick-up.  Yes, the chairs were up in the back of the truck.  He was drinking a beer and she was smoking a cigarette.  They had a radio playing.   I don’t understand their need for elevation but they looked to be having quite the time.

 

In turn, my mother said she could relate to the wonder that I was beholding as she and my stepfather had their own elevated redneck story.  They recently took a trip to the Delta to purchase a new piece of equipment that my stepfather needed/wanted.  Now, if you’ve never been to the Mississippi Delta, it’s flat.   Flat doesn’t do it justice.  Jenny McKay’s chest was flat in junior high.   The Delta is empty looking to me, being that I’m from the hillier country of the central part of the state.  This large expanse of flat and very fertile land is excellent for farming.  You can see for miles and miles because there are no hills or trees to block your view.   

 

As my stepfather is looking at the equipment for sale, my mother notices a commotion down the road.  It was too far to really tell what was going on but there was a fair amount of excited yelling, “wooo-hooos” and “Yee Haws” coming from that direction.   The salesman tried to distract the customers and dismissed the hullabaloo as “just some crack-heads.  They do it all the time.” 

 

When they left with their purchase, my mother convinces my stepfather to drive past so that she could see what was going on.  (Southerner= Nosey!)  These young men had bolted swiveling office chairs to the roof of their mobile home.  They were sitting up there spinning and yelling and having a right good time!

 

This amused my mother but now she just had to know the rest of the story.  Mother has my stepfather turn around and go back so that she can ask the salesman about this bizarre sight.  The salesman tells them that three brothers live in that trailer.  The one brother sells crack and while he’s “cooking” his merchandise, he sends the other two brothers up to play “lookout.”  The brothers figured that with the elevation that they could better spy any coming law enforcement.  However, most of the time, they get too distracted with the swiveling and don’t do very much looking.

OW!

Today was the colposcopy. Like every gynecological exam, I feared it. There is nothing remotely enjoyable about scooting down to the edge of the table so that someone can sit there with their face inches from your hoohah. To say that a pap smear is unenjoyable is to say that the colp was uncomfortable. Everything was bigger today. The speculum was bigger. The light was bigger. The swab was bigger.

 

What is it about that light? I think the light scares me most of all. The most private regions of your anatomy under an FBI interrogation lamp is enough to make me squeamish.

After the procedure, the doctor asked me if my husband smoked. Yes. Is your husband here? Yes. Please go get him. The doctor proceeds to tell Monkey Butt that his smoking is a danger to my health. It turns out to be not the usual second-hand smoke warning. It turns out that every time we have sex; Monkey Butt is killing me softly. Nicotine loaded semen is miracle-gro for cancerous cells. So, Monkey Butt was ordered to cease his smoking habit by a gynecologist. That’s one to tell the boys about, honey!

 

 

 

R2D2 Mediation

So, who do you call at midnight squalling when your husband texts you, after disappearing for 6 hours, to say that he was still being “controlled” by his first wife? Your mother who will say “I told you that you shouldn’t marry him” or your father who will not understand why he won’t still be a sorry SOB at 7am. Your best friend from college will listen but she never met him. Besides, her last date was ten years ago and she sure as heck will not understand the intricacies of marrying a divorced father of three. Your more recent friends are not the type of person that you let see you weak.

So…. You blog it.

Monkey Butt left at six o’clock tonight to go to the grocery store for dog food for his little preshus. He texts me a little bit between 6:30-7:00 making plans for us and the kids. Then he stops… and there’s a little period of, oh, about 4 hours in there where he fell off of the face of the earth. We had a fuss earlier and I left to sit in the parking lot around the corner for about half an hour so I figured turnabout was fair play for a little while. Then I started getting a little worried. My calls go to voice mail. My texts go unanswered. I do laundry. I chat on-line with my fake friends. Finally, I call defeat and go to bed.

At 11:15, I get a text asking “Can you forgive me?” For what? Did you scratch my car? Did you smoke pot? Did you forget my Sprite? “For letting her control me, I have really disrespected you.”

OH.SHIT.

I really hate texting important conversations. You ask a question. You sit and wait. You experience Olympic Gold Medal gastronomic gymnastics. You get a reply.

So far, this is all I have received. Apparently, when we met, things were fine. When the kids started coming to my house for his visitations, which was after we got married by the way, things headed south. (Oh, and for these past six hours, he went to the grocery store and picked up the food for his little dog too, wandered around and looked, and then DROVE ACROSS THE STATE. He needed to think. Gas is $3.55 a gallon and he drove over 5 hours because he needed to think? He can’t think in a parking lot like I have to do? Oh, but he wants to fuss because I bought a $20 pair of shoes to wear to a funeral Saturday…

 

Dreaming of Mayberry

I miss Mayberry. I’m occasionally reminded of how much I enjoyed growing up in a small town. Today I had my gasoline pumped for me by a man named Owen. Owen has pumped gas at Little Gas Island, which is conveniently located on the corner across from the Big Gas Island, for as long as I can remember. I was hugged, pinched, and kissed by two dozen or so little old blue haired ladies who told me repeatedly how proud they were of me. One whispered in my ear, “You got out of here.”

I love this place. I hate this place. I saw a sign today that said it all. “I love living in a small town. While there’s not much to see, we make up for it with all there is to hear.” I’m sure that if I moved back that I would enjoy it for a month and then I would remember all the people, I mean reasons, that I ran out of there the moment I had a diploma in hand nine years ago.

It just seemed so peaceful. No hustle, no bustle, everyone just going about their business. Now, I know that appearances can be very deceiving and the gossip mills were working overtime when I waltzed into the funeral home but it just seemed like home. I guess it always will be. We tend to glaze over the bad and exaggerate the good when we dream of home.

I Have Created A Monster

When we were dating, Monkey Butt did a lot of bragging (or whining, depends on how you look at it) about the amount of duties he had taken on during his first marriage. There was lots of talk about what a horrid housekeeper his first wife was and how poor poor Monkey Butt had to do all the housework by himself.  Perhaps he really was that neglected or perhaps I fell for what my little brother calls the “wounded bird” routine.  Whichever, I made my mind up that this time around he would not have to do all that he did before.  I would spoil my husband outrageously to prove what a superior wife I was in comparison to his previous speciman.

Boy, did I screw up!

Now, the fool thinks that he doesn’t have to lift a finger.  He will watch the trash overflow into the floor.  He will wear a dirty pair of pants rather than wash a load.  He will con the kids into doing the yardwork.

Stupid Stupid me…. I didn’t realize that I was overloading myself for the rest of eternity, not to mention the fact that I am no Martha Stewart.  I get so frustrated over the lack of respect and assistance that I get from him. 

Maybe the neighbor guy was right… You can’t make a whore a housewife.

And Your Little Dog too….

I hate that dog. She was supposed to be my Christmas present but really she’s just another something that Monkey Butt wanted and disguised as a gift to me.

The man that claims that he doesn’t know how to show affection will spend hours cuddling and playing with that dog. He baby-talks her and giggles like a school girl over her antics. He bathes her and brushes her and brags on “what a pretty a girl she is.” It makes me nauseous.

He will call home from work to see that she was left inside because the evil stepmother sometimes leaves her in the backyard for the day. He prepares her meals with care and sometimes heats it for her.

If I ask him to assist with household chores, he doesn’t know how to do anything. However, he runs her bowls through the dishwasher.

He won’t help with his children unless I throw an absolute fit, but cares for that dog with tenderness.

How pathetic am I that I am jealous of a terrier?

 

 

 

Yours v. Mine, There is No Ours

I worked hard to put myself in a position to be able to do well for my future children.  And now I’m told that if my future children have one single perk above what their half-siblings have that I’m a bad person and am being cruel to my step-children. 

 

Tiffany Twisted and I have extreme differences in taste, morals, educational values, EVERYTHING.  So because she doesn’t do certain things with her kids, I can’t either with my own?

 

Case in point, the Sassy Brat’s grades are poor.  That’s what really got me to thinking about this.  At dinner this weekend, I asked the Sassy Brat how her grades were.   She laughed while telling me that she had failed both of her Friday tests.  When I asked why she failed, she shrugged and said she lost her vocabulary words and math was dumb.  While I disliked math in school also and can totally agree that some math can be dumb, I work at a CPA firm and being able to add is a rather important skill in this profession.  I can see where it’s important to her future.  It is a life skill that she needs whether she realizes it now or not.

 

What stopped the presses for me was “I lost my vocabulary words” as an excuse for failing a test.  Why didn’t Tiffany Twisted know that the words in question were lost?  Why didn’t anyone try to get a copy of the words to study?  Was there not a teacher or classmate that could be contacted?

 

I do not understand the Laissez-faire attitude towards education.  This is important!! This is the foundation of the child’s future!

 

So if I emphasize education and good grades, am I giving my children an advantage that my stepchildren are not privy to and therefore harming them?  I refuse to not do for my children just because Tiffany Twisted doesn’t do the same for her own. 

 

Seeing as how Monkey Butt refuses to discuss anything, ANYTHING, with me anymore, I foresee myself making all decisions regarding my children without him.  My children will not be failures.  Although I am terrified that I will turn my children into “I told you so” experiments. 

 

I can encourage the kids on the weekends.  I try to make every activity a learning activity.  In the grocery store, I make Bubba tell me how many days are in a week.  Ok, well if there are 7 days in a week and you don’t go to school on 2 then how many Lean Cuisines do I need for my lunch?  When Monkey Butt traveled the majority of the month at his old job, I took out maps and showed the kids where he was at, how far that was from our home in Podunk.  I try to teach them that education is important.  Are my little impromptu lessons going to be effective when they are not encouraged at  homework time?  Wouldn’t asking to come sit at Tiffany Twisted’s kitchen table to help with homework be considered overstepping some boundary somewhere?

 

Irreconcilable Differences

Monkey Butt has a theory that once you utter the word “divorce” it becomes inevitable.  Once that little inkling of doubt seeps into your mind; it will spread to your heart.  I don’t know about inevitable but I know it doesn’t go away easy. 

 

There are so many things that I wish that I had known or thought about in depth before I got married.   I’m not saying that the outcome might differ but I wish that I could have discussed some things with him while I still had his attention.  Those long conversations about everything under the sun ceased once “I do” was said.  Now questions are answered in grunts and “I don’t know.”

 

Everything changed once we got married.  I mentioned that we no longer talk like we used to but also we no longer spend time together like we used to.  I’ve tried to explain to him that I don’t think the wedding is the cut off for quality time together.  He grunts.

 

For one, I didn’t realize how little a part of his life I would be.  Tiffany Twisted and the kids have staked claim on at least 75% on the territory.  While I knew that I wouldn’t have sole ownership, I didn’t realize that the majority interests were already taken. 

 

I also didn’t realize that my every move would be compared to Tiffany Twisted.  I didn’t realize that I would be so helpless when it came to the children.  I didn’t realize that my hands would be tied on so much.  I didn’t realize that her actions could possibly affect how I raise my future children.

 

I didn’t realize that Monkey Butt’s record would keep me from being eligible to be a foster parent or adopting if I am unable to conceive. 

 

Hindsight being 20/20 and all that.

Tiffany Twisted

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she
got the Mercedes Benz
She got a lot of pretty, pretty
boys, that she calls friends

And now you know where HER alias came from.

Roxie’s Baby

Roxie the terrier has a baby.  This small stuffed Snoopy is HERS.  She doesn’t have to share it.  Everyone knows that it is hers and hers alone and doesn’t bother it. 

While Roxie loves her baby and totes her baby around in her mouth, her favorite activity is to chew it.  Sometimes, she lays in the floor and distractedly gnaws at it.  Sometimes, she ferociously attacks it.  Securing it in her paws, she just bites at it.  Or she’ll get a good grip on it and shake her head in hopes of subduing her prey. 

Sometimes, I feel this is an analogy for what I do to Monkey Butt.  He’s mine; and, while I love him, I’m shaking him to death.