Next time, I’ll aim for the pickles and tuna.

I am seriously in need of a super large mug of coffee right now.

This morning I woke up on the couch (I am completely unable to sleep in my bed when John is gone) and my brain was talking to me. In blogpostese.

It was composing a blog post.

Which, you know, my brain really hasn’t done of its own volition in a long, long time. I mean, it used to do that all.the.time. So I don’t know if this is a sign that my muse is actually back this time and I’ll be posting a lot more often again, or if it’s just a sign that I really shouldn’t have gotten up at 3am and eaten that spoon full of creamy peanut butter with my eyes half open.

Does anyone else do that shit when they’re trying to lose weight?! I think something is wrong with me. Waking in the night to sabotage your own weight-loss efforts in order to damage that bitch’s self-esteem is probably not a sign of excellent mental health. Just sayin.

So, anyway, last night I totally dreamt of this guy from back when I was in school. Remember school?

And by school, I don’t mean all those losery years you spent actually working your ass off in college/grad school.

And don’t even tell me that you spent all those years partying, getting drunk and drugged off your ass and being a total whore with anyone who would hang around while you dropped trou. Because I KNOW that those years are for serious academic pursuit and the preparation for your successful adult life. Besides. I did all that other stuff in high school already.

What I mean is the grade school years. Dig in and pull up all your “Stand By Me” memories, folks. This is what I’m referring to presently.

His name is Kenneth, and I always found him to be sort of quirky and really nice. And we shared the exact same birthday, which I thought was the coolest thing since crotchless underwear. (None of your business, it was a weird 4th grade year.)*

Kenneth is literally the only person I have ever met that has the same birthday as I. And really, I always thought that was some special kind of groovy. I kind of always figured him for my super secret long-lost twin.

In addition to that being totally crazy and interesting, it means that my real dad, out there somewhere, is African American. Which really kind of makes this super pale skin and my complete lack of dancing groove a total embarrassment to the other side of my family. And for that reason, I can understand why they have kind of pretended I don’t exist this whole time. And I can forgive.

But I digress.

In my dream, Kenneth was in this convention area thingy or something (back off, it was a dream) and he was standing behind a podium when I walked by and noticed him there. Of course, I totally stopped walking to where I was currently going, and went over to talk to him (super secret twin importantness, duh).

He was set with a large audience of people who were filing in, and was about to sing the entire last chapter of some religious book in another language. No, I don’t remember what book or what language, or even why in the damn hell he would have been doing that (dream, remember?) but I do remember one thing. I was HELLA impressed. And also really bummed, because I totally had to go to this other thing, so I couldn’t attend.

I told him I had to go to a jazz concert instead.

WTFH? Who goes to a jazz concert instead of watching their super secret twin friend from grade school sing the entire last chapter of some crazy religious book in another language? That’s the kind of shit you get a super footlong hotdog and a big gulp for and you watch that with bursting excitement and pride.

But, no. Jazz concert.

And then, you know what I did? I didn’t even go to a jazz concert. I went to some random classroom where, apparently, I was the guest of honor, because they made me sit up front next to the teacher and everyone clapped. And then she made me say something about myself.

I did. It was incredibly intelligent and intensely hilarious. Everyone clapped and laughed and there was much carrying on.

But I don’t remember what I said.

Which is really pissing me off, since I’m absolutely positive it contained the key to happiness for my entire life, and if I just knew what it was, all my problems would cease to exist. Of course, my own brain is still in on the whole “sabotaging my happiness” thing, and it refuses to retrieve this information for me.

Douche.

So then, after that class thing was over, I exited the building and noticed that all sorts of hell was breaking loose over by the convention area thingy. Every manner of emergency vehicle was all over the place and the atmosphere in general was grey and ominous.

I ran over to find out what the hell was going on, and some official person told me that Kenneth had been murdered while he was singing his religious thing.

Apparently some crazy ass terrorist type person ran up and shot him, and then jumped on him until he went through the floor and into a large vat below the podium, which was full of some type of liquid that dissolved Kenneth.

Uh. Don’t even ask me. I have no idea.

So, Kenneth was dead, and he never even got to finish singing his religious-in-a-different-language-thing and I was supposed to be there for my super secret twin friend from grade school, but I wasn’t.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I woke up in the middle of the night last night (different time than the peanut butter sabotage event), and an ominous voice inside my head said, “The end of the world is not far off. You have had your time with your son. You will not see your husband again.” And then I fell asleep again.

Which is all pretty much making me lean towards the whole “don’t freaking eat a big spoonful of peanut butter in the middle of the night” thing.

I hope you are alright, Kenneth.

*No. I did not actually have any experiences with crotchless underwear as a child. I was actually not into that kind of thing at all. Studded leather was more my style.

Jack Bauer was right behind me naked, and it just fell in as I turned around, honey, I swear.

This morning, John blurted out, “Last night I dreamt that I got high.”

I was a bit amused that while I was lying next to him dreaming that we had gone on a date (because, folks, Dream-Time is the time where you do the stuff you never get to do in Real-Time, right? right.), he was dreaming about The Ganja.

“Uh, okaaaaay.”

“Well, I was somewhere, and someone was smoking pot right behind me, like, right on the other side of my back. And I was turning around, and I was taking a big breath in right as I was turning around, and I accidentally inhaled a bunch of smoke.”

I just looked at him, still mildly amused, waiting.

“And then I was walking away, and I exhaled, and a lot of smoke came out of my mouth.”

And he even acted it out, with hand gestures, to indicate a large mass of something exiting his main facial orifice.

And he grinned. It was definitely the Shit Eating type.

“So I got really high.”

Add in a little Shit Eating Laugh.

And then he just stood there, smiling this odd little smile.

“So, how do you feel about that? How did you feel about it in the dream?”

“Well, it was like, I was thinking… this is bad! But, I didn’t mean to, so it’s okay… but, um… this is bad!”

Hm. Yeah.

I wonder if I can, you know, get away with the same logic as applied to my dreams involving Kiefer Sutherland.

Nope. No damn rednecks over here. Nuh-uh.

There are people who suffer outrageous tragedy and somehow they pick themselves up and not only survive, but shine. They become an inspiration to others. They advocate, support, march on.


Live.

They live, not without pain, not without sadness, but with a beauty in the face of tragedy that says to others that they still see good in life.  That there is still occasion for happiness, and that laughter is healing.  They help other people to believe.  To Hope.

And when their long-awaited dreams are realized, those who love them cannot stand by and just let that pass without notice.

There must be rejoicing amongst all. Lifting up. Celebration!

And, because I admire and adore her, I really wanted to join this celebration, donate a little to the cause, and congratulate Tanis on this incredibly joyous and long overdue occasion. But when I read the email and post from Catherine (Her Bad Mother His Bad Redneck Aunty) and it became clear that, in order to participate, I had to talk about the ways in which I’m a “Redneck Mommy?”

Well, I got really depressed. Because there really is nothing for me to talk about along those lines! Total bummer, man.

I mean, we are just totally not rednecks over here. You know, it’s not as if I grew up in a town that was so small it had to join with another, nearby town just to have enough people to form a high-school. Or as if that high-school actually had goats in its proverbial backyard. *cough*

And it’s not as if there were corn fields right behind the house I grew up in, and my little brother and I played in an old, falling down barn, building forts out of discarded tobacco-drying sticks. I never built a fire right up against the old house we rented that was built in the 1800s and had no central air.

We so totally did not play on old stumps in our backyard and have a pile of sand there, too, that our cats absolutely did not shit in and then we played in it some more anyway.  Seriously.  Didn’t.

I never once stepped in actual cow manure while playing at a friend’s house!  We did not burn garbage in an old water well on the back of the property we lived on.  And I have no idea what it’s like to watch my mother pluck the feathers out of a freshly slaughtered chicken.

NOPE.

And my husband is totally not a redneck, either! He is like, WAY more Not A Redneck than me, even! He doesn’t play country music for a living, and he has most certainly never, ever said as a part of regular conversation, without a hint of joking intended, the words “over yonder,” or “them are.”

Or “here in a little bit” to mean, “in a little while.”

Definitely not.

He is not from Texas.  He does not refer to our dog as a “turd-hound.”  He has never danced the Two-Step or gone hunting a day in his life.

(Interjection:  If you ask him, he will tell you that dancing the Two-Step is NOT “redneck.”  It’s “country.”  Then, when you ask him what’s the difference between “redneck” and “country?” he will fidget and say, “I don’t know.”  And you will point and laugh at him, and mutter, “Sooo writing about this.”)

He has never crapped in the woods and then wiped his ass with a ROCK.  And he doesn’t speak with a drawl.  Ever.

And this? It is SO TOTALLY NOT HIM.

Photo is property of John Owens, used by permission.
Facebook is a wonderful thing. Heh.

Nuh-uh. Nope.  Totally not him wearing that bolo tie.

Also?

I do not go for days without a shower or actually like the taste of Ramen Noodles. I do not go around barefoot all the time, even in the dead of winter. I have never cut my own hair. Or peed on the side of the road. Or drank the shiznite out of some Koolaid and walked away with a Sweet-Ass Red Mustache. Or used a hoe, on a garden, and not the kind of ho you’re thinking of either, because I’ve totally used the hell of out them hos.

Never worn a “wife-beater” tank top with bra straps showing under it.

If I had to put together a cowboy outfit, I’d be screwed, because it’s not as if there are cowboy boots or hats easily accessible around here. *shakes head back and forth vehemently* And there really are no guns here. Especially not a shotgun wrapped in a damn rug because we’re too lazy to figure out a better way to store it. Oh no.

Our Christmas tree is soooo not laying down in our yard, all dried out and crusty, begging to be hauled away from the reach of disapproving eyes.

WE DO NOT STILL HAVE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ON A PORCH COLUMN BY THE FRONT DOOR.

Additionally, I never say, “ya’ll.”

My child is not, in fact, running around in nothing but a diaper, right at this very moment, banging a piece of metal he broke off of the wall-mounted toilet paper dispenser up against the living room wall. To say that was the case would be a total fabrication of the truth. Never happened.

And bah Gawd, we doan be a’ havin’ a rickety, hand-raised metal fence out tha back o’ the house tah keep tha dawg and tha youngin’ in, walk ’round half nekid in front o’ them thar open winders, and most definly doan never scratch ar hind quarters or go a’pickin’ ar noses in public!

That just ain’t decent, folks!

We are a strictly, 100% Non-Redneck Family around here.

So, I must regretfully decline taking part in this fabulous celebration for Tanis.  As I am just not able to join with the others in proper fashion, you see.

So happy for you, Tanis. My Totally Not Redneck Family and I are rejoicing for you and yours.
Heart.Bursting.
Rainbows.Unicorns.Glitter. You know.
<3