Day One of the 2009 Epic Redneck Vacation

It didn't start out as a redneck vacation. But we were just a few hours into it when I realized I was actually living a bit from the act of a self-proclaimed "hillbilly comedian." It was too late. The vacation theme was firmly established.

So. There we were, driving through Tennessee, when, as Tim Wilson says, I started seeing mirages and thought I was in Las Vegas. But no, it turned out I was here:

a fireworks superstore.

Not a fireworks stand, mind you. This was a place for serious shoppers.

It had air conditioning.

It had check-out lines.

There were employees with name tags.

There were shopping carts.

And the reason for the shopping carts was quickly apparent. No one walks in a fireworks superstore and says, "I just need to pick up a dozen sparklers and a couple of bottle rockets for the annual hog roast at Cousin Murvil's this weekend."

Oh, noooo. This is bulk purchasing at its finest. At the fireworks superstore, you can only buy cases of explosives that are labeled with names like, "ENOUGH SAID. (CAUTION: SETS OFF CAR ALARMS)," and "WAKE THE NEIGHBORS."

It was obvious that this was a store that catered to men, because 1) there wasn't a public bathroom in the place. I don't know what it is about men, but it's like admitting a gross character weakness for them to have to use a bathroom when they're away from home. My guys would rather ride 150 miles in bladder-bursting pain ("CAUTION: KIDNEYS MAY EXPLODE!") than use a bathroom at a store or service station. Knee-deep in poison ivy and fire ants, fine. Clean restroom at Target, definitely NOT fine.

Anyway. The other obvious sign that this was a guy store was the fine print on every single fireworks package on the shelves:

That's right. It's a warning that the enclosed fireworks "shoot flaming balls." Have you ever known a man who could resist anything that shoots flaming balls? I'd even go so far as to say any guy that isn't a fan of shooting flaming balls is probably unAmerican. He probably drives a Volvo and has a name like Pierre, or Hans. And if Pierre or Hans were to actually purchase a box of fireworks that shoot flaming balls, he would most certainly read the cautions on the back panel, unlike every American guy who thinks cautions are for lily-livered pseudo-men who use public bathrooms. And this reasoning explains why Cousin Murvil no longer has a back porch and his dog is missing an ear.

In the end, we left with a lot of fireworks, and I came away with a suggestion for the tourist industry in Tennessee: Why doesn't someone open a chain of underwear superstores? I bet you could draw a lot of mom shoppers who need boy's underwear in cases of 30 pairs.

Surely I'm not the only mother whose sons have lost their underwear while in the fast-food drive-through. That's right. Somewhere, between hearing "Grouk bub [static] first window [static] vlexd," and receiving my bag of Cholesterol Burgers with cheese, my sons' underwear disappeared. Vanished. Flew off their bodies, out the leg of their pants, and hid in the bushes by the intercom, I guess.

I've always thought that instead of coming with a choice of a toy for girls or boys, kid's meals should come with a choice of underwear or socks. "Okay, that's a 3-piece chicken meal. Would you like underpants with that?"

Oh, and one more request for the underwear mega-store owner: Please, in the name of all that is decent and holy, do not include packaging labels that say, "CAUTION: SHOOTS FLAMING BALLS."

Rodney Dangerfield and me

One month ago

TC: I think that cow is pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

(For the rurally uninformed, "palpating" involves sticking a gloved arm inside the cow's nether regions. Obviously not a task one knocks off between other household chores. "Hey, while I'm waiting for the socks to dry, I think I'll go palpate that 1200 pound cow.")

TC: Well, I still think she's pregnant.

Three weeks ago

TC: I definitely think that cow's pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

Danger Boy: She's just fat.

TC: No, I really think she's pregnant.

Two weeks ago

TC: That cow is pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

ChopTop: Mom, you think every mammal is pregnant.

Ten days ago

TC: That cow is going to have a calf soon.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

FashionBug: Will you take me shopping?

Sasquatch: What's for dinner?

One week ago

TC: Well, the cow had a calf. Looks like he was born early this morning.

Hubster (after a silence while he picks his jaw up off the floor): What?! She was pregnant?

ChopTop: You mean you were right?

Danger Boy: Huh.

FashionBug: Did anyone know she was pregnant? Wait, we're not going to eat him, are we?

Sasquatch: What's for dinner?

Today

TC: You know, I think that other cow is pregnant.

Hubster: The only way to know that is to palpate her.

__________________

Norman, born 9/1/09.

In which Skippy saves the day.

When one lives in the country, one must realize that, occasionally, one's home will be invaded by a creature that God never intended to be an indoor, domesticated pet. But then one gets used to having a husband around.

Later, one must realize that the ongoing critter invasion problem is compounded when one lives in a home with more holes, cracks, and crevices than a Happy Meal box that's been laying in a roadside ditch since Beanie Babies came with the cheeseburger. Our house's foundation is so decimated as a result of poor construction and the effects of weather, there could be a gang of homeless Amway salespeople living in there.

So we've had our share of crickets, bees, wasps, scorpions, spiders, and mice - the latter being my least favorite, and the animal most likely to get screamed to death by yours truly.

We've also been visited by skunks, coyotes, and copperheads, all of who seem to think they belong inside just as much as the husband and the mice. And these are the animals that make it necessary to have a dog to serve as an alarm system and protector.

Of course, you get what you pay for. Here's the dog we purchased at the StuffMart parking lot:

Skippy the Wonder Pug is cute and all, but I always figured the most he could do to protect us would be to eat crickets and maybe let an ant get lost in his wrinkles.
So you can imagine my surprise when Skippy actually alerted me to The Dangerous Thing that was recently lurking in our pantry.

Skippy's dining area is next to the pantry door, and he was just making a leisurely stroll over to his food bowl, probably hoping that someone had mistakenly dropped a carton of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey into it, when he spotted The Dangerous Thing peering at him with one of its monstrous eyes.

Well. To his credit, he didn't pee on the floor. No, Skippy jumped back several feet (which, in dog feet, was about 9 inches) and let loose with barking loud enough to wake the Pope or make a bear poop in the woods or whatever the analogy is. His call to action brought several of us running to the scene, with Danger Boy hoping that this would finally be the event that would call for him to discharge a real weapon upon said Dangerous Thing.

Our fear as we approached the pantry was almost palpable. And, here, my friends, is what we found:
That's right. Skippy was protecting us from a potato.

At least I can sleep soundly at night, knowing we won't be carbohydrated to death by a rogue spud.

That Y Chromosome

I just love it when I hear parents of young children say something like, "Oh, we're only going to let Johnny play with gender-neutral toys. We want him to grow up to be a peace-loving, nurturing father." Uh-huh. Good luck with that.

And I'm going to put an apron on my dog so she'll be the next Julia Child. Lord knows, we need someone around here who will cook.

The fact is, boys and girls are just different. And I don't mean in the obvious, he-needs-PeePee TeePees-and-she-doesn't way.

For instance, let's say you give a boy and a girl a plastic straw and a gum wrapper and put them each in an completely empty room for thirty minutes.

When you open the door to the girl's room, you will find that she has spent the half-hour imagining an elaborate story about having been an princess imprisoned in a tower. She will have used the straw and the gum wrapper as props - a magic wand and a precious gem, respectively. She will be eager to have you transcribe the narrative so she can send it to Grandma.

When you open the door to the boy's room, you will first notice, scattered about the room, an assortment of hardware - nails, screws, bolts - that were not in the room earlier. The boy will have no recollection of their appearance. The straw will have become a gun. The gum wrapper will be firmly lodged in the boy's right nostril. His underwear and one sock will have mysteriously disappeared. There will be one muddy footprint on the ceiling, a tuft of cat hair near the electrical outlet, and the boy's other sock will be hanging from the light fixture. The room will smell vaguely of old cheese and motor oil. He will be ravenously hungry. He will not be able to tell you a single thing he did in the last 30 minutes.

And it doesn't change as they get older.

Recently, there was a large assortment of teenage personages at my house. I don't even know if any of them were mine. I'm losing track. Because of increasingly frequent teen invasions, lately I've taken to hiding in the pantry, trying to protect the last of the Ritz crackers and Can O' Squirt Cheese.

Anyway. The girls in the crowd decided it was time for a group makeover. Specifically, facial peels. They even offered an assortment of pink grapefruit, cucumber, and chocolate scented facial products, to be applied thickly and then peeled away ten minutes later. The boys were too besotted with the girls to say no. (I love blogging. Where else can you use a word like "besotted?") Either that, or the food-like smell of the stuff lured them into assent.

Well. I'm here to tell you, teenage boys do not need illegal substances, energy drinks, coffee, or Mountain Dew to jack them up. A smear of a cucumber facial peel will turn them into human pinballs. Sports teams, take note.

At precisely 9:59:59 minutes post-application, the boys were making for the bathroom to remove their beauty products. When they emerged, they didn't look any more attractive to me, but apparently they were feeling a little testosterone deprived, because I heard one of them say, "We need to do something manly. Let's go blow something up."

There was a thundering stampede out the back door as they went to go find some fireworks. From my sentry point in the pantry, I heard some loud explosions, a cow bawling, and possibly the whispered mention of boxer shorts and a fire extinguisher.

A few minutes later, the girls were calmly removing their own facial products. The boys burst back into the house, with one proclaiming triumphantly, "Yeah! Now I smell like roasted cucumber!" I found an empty Little Debbie Oatmeal Cookie box and pulled it over my head. I didn't want to hear the rest.

So, yeah, good luck with that gender-neutral plan. Let me know how that works out for you. We can discuss it in my pantry. I'll save a seat for you near the shelf where the fruit cocktail and party peanuts used to be.

Overheard in my minivan

Danger Boy to Sasquatch:

"Hey! We have a bunch of those packing peanuts at home. Let's put them in our pants and kick each other!"

The Mad Hatter

Danger Boy has always had a fascination with putting odd things on his head. And, no, I don't think he's got a future as a milliner. I don't know anyone - other than people who live in Hollywood or under the local freeway overpass, I mean - who would sport

the funnel look

or the margarine tub look
or the wet washcloth lookor the turkey killing cone look
or, most recently, the bunch-of-balloons look.You can't blame his parents. We dressed him normally as a baby.
Okay... maybe not.

Bad cow.

Do not be deceived by the big brown eyes and the long eyelashes.

Note the shifty expression while she appears to be innocently eating grass.

This is not a good cow. This is a bad cow. This is a very bad cow. This is a cow that has earned the new name of She-Devil.

You might remember that she has a history of bovine delinquency (Houdini Cow). We really thought love and a few more strands of barbed wire would cure her of her behavioral issues, but we were wrong.

Recently, she discovered the finch feeder I had hung next to our front door. Apparently being a cow with liberal tendencies, She-Devil decided that the finch food was a federal handout to which she was entitled, and proceeded to use her forehead to throw the feeder off the hook and then gobble down every speck of seed.

But far worse was yet to come. I should have seen the bird feeder incident as a cry for help. I should have known that corn, grown in a vegetable garden for the farmer's personal consumption, is the cow version of crack cocaine. I should have seen the signs, when she started hanging around outside the fenced garden and nibbling the grass down to bare dirt, that she was setting the stage for her biggest crime to date. Scoping out the perimeter, as it were.

Alas, Sasquatch happened upon her just after she had trampled down the garden gate and eaten most of the nearly-ready-to-be-harvested corn. He chased her out, but it was too late. She was high on her cow crack. While he and Hubster were making repairs to the breached gate, she simply vaulted over them, the fence, and the tractor to polish off the rest of the corn, all the cucumbers, most of the squash, and two jalapeno pepper plants.

And here's the thing: how does one discipline an unruly, 1200 pound cow?

- You can't hit her on the rump with a rolled up newspaper. She'll kick you into the next county.

- You can't rub her nose in her misbehavior. She'll head butt you on to the roof.

- You can't shoot her. She's the source of future Junior Bacon Cheesburgers.

- You can't take her to training classes at PetSmart. She'd scare the hair off the chihuahuas.

I blame the whole thing on her first owners. They raised her from heifer-hood to be a 4H show calf. She got a diva complex early on. Once her show days were over, they put her in the pasture with the other cows, but she had (and here I am quoting her previous owner) "socialization issues." Quite simply, she didn't think she was a cow. She refused to hang with the other cows and do cow-y things like stand under a tree for 4 hours with shreds of hay hanging out of the side of her mouth. No, she was always wandering back to the house, and I think it's because she was hoping for the opportunity to make a crazed dash for the kitchen and whatever she could grab out of the refrigerator crisper drawer.

So here's my question: Does anyone know if there's a bovine version of methadone?