Mike and I started dating the summer after my first year at college. He had just graduated his program and had stayed in town while deciding whether or not to continue going to school. I stayed in town because I didn’t want to go home and live with my parents for the summer.

He’d dated one of my best friends the previous year. It was a short lived relationship that ended anything but amicably; with accusations of cheating from both parties it was a messy situation to say the least. I tried my hardest to stay out of it, even though I was repeatedly sucked in by both parties. My friend moved back home for the summer and Mike and I remained in town, with a couple other friends who had hung around.

After a few months of talking and hanging out (since it was a small town, and Mike and I had some mutual friends it was hard not to spend a lot of time together) we started hanging out, alone. Our relationship began to change, without either of us really realizing what was going on at first. Once I realized that I was starting to have feelings for him, I called the friend immediately. I had to tell her what was going on, and as a good friend, I had to have her blessing before things went any further: which she obliged.

Things began to heat up, and by summer’s end we were inseparable. Sleeping every night together in a single bed of his rented house, we would talk for hours about anything and everything.

Then, one night, he dropped The Bomb on me.

Make that two.

He had accepted a job across country, and was leaving as I started my second year. Just like that, Gone. I couldn’t even put up a fight because it had all been set in motion months ago; when I was nothing more then a summer fling (which I wasn’t hurt by because that’s how he started out for me as well).

And in an instant, he would be gone. 1500 miles away. Would I ever see him again? Was this The End?

Then….

He proposed.

As I lay in that single bed, weeping, trying to accept the fact that this was The End, he asked me to marry him.

Without much thought, I said Yes. Of course I said Yes.

[Did I mention I was 19 at the time?]

Then immediately thoughts of telling my parents that I had not only gone to school for an education, but got a husband, scared the ever-living shit outta me.

Mike left for work at the end of August, and I went back to school. He was gone, across country, for nearly 5 months before he was able to come back.

We delayed our wedding for nearly five years as we both became accustomed to our lives as adults. Getting careers, earning money, finding a place to live. As I look back now, it was the best decision that we could have made after jumping into engagement after merely 4 months of dating.

[You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this, huh?]

Well, since getting married 2 and a half years ago, we haven’t been apart from each other. Prior to being married, we were both always out of town with our respected careers and would spend months of time physically separated, but since our wedding, and even Carter’s arrival, he’s never accepted an out of town job. Until now. This is the first time in 2 and a half years that I have been away from him for more then one day.

My bed was wonderfully HUGE and SO comfortable last night. I loved every second of being able to sprawl about and move without his sighs of disapproval. The dog didn’t cramp my style as she had another whole HALF of the bed for herself.

Blissful sleep last night. Utter bliss.

But, no question. I would sleep, cramped like sardines, in that single every single night with him if I had to.

Which doesn’t really pertain to me since I am hardly classy, even though I am definitely fabulous *snicker*… I’m more of the “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

I grew up in a small town, in the country, where, as a teenager, drinking is a very busy past time. The tolerance for alcohol, for most people, is still pretty high - why, with all the practice to be had. Every weekend there seemed to be a party, a stag and doe, a ball tournament (always with beer gardens) or a wedding. A reason to drink.

I too have indulged; and am (or was) able to go head to head with the best of them. When I moved away to college, friends were in awe of my ability to just keep drinking. I owed it all to small town country life.

This weekend was no exception.

My high school best friend and her high school sweetheart tied the knot; the wedding, themed “Ten Years in the Making” was just that. I remember walking the halls of our high school at sixteen with said friend and scoping out the older boys hanging out by their lockers between class. We’d always take the long route, just so we could walk past, to catch a glimpse of these boys.

The two we crushed on were three and four years older then us; basketball players (as were we) and oh! so! gorgeous! (Still are.) and when I hooked up with my hottie, I worked very hard to get him to help me get my friend and her crush together. When all was said and done between my crush and I (another sad, and long story) they were still going strong.

Now, ten years later, they’ve finally married; and I couldn’t be happier for them. I was giddy as soon as I saw her come down the aisle.

I showed them just how happy I was by drinking their bar dry at the wedding.

Okay, so slightly exaggerated.

But when they are serving BOTTLES instead of just GLASSES of wine. That’s when the trouble begins to brew.
I did the only thing I know how: took complete advantage of the situation.

Boy, did I ever.

Thankfully, my husband loves me so much. Bless his cold, black and shriveled little heart because I was a force to be reckon with after consuming a few too many bottles of wine. I was incoherent, belligerent and down right drunk.

And he did what he does best. Bosses me around.

[I love when he does that. Especially in bed.]

Once I began to stagger and slur my words, he knew it was time for us to head home; save me from embarrassing myself.

[Please, I don't think that's even possible with those friends. But, Mike, Bless that shriveled little heart again, doesn't know what we are capable of when we're back home drinking.]

Thanks to Mike, once again, I made it home in one piece; though, little dehydrated after purging all that wine and my dinner behind a friend’s house. Mike sweetly put me to bed - on the couch, still in my wedding clothes (Spanx and all - yes, I wore them again) , and placed a garbage can beside me.

And I woke up with only a mild hangover.

Thank you homemade wine.

What I learned from the weekend?

1. Yes, you can most certainly take the girl outta the country… but you ain’t never takin’ that country outta the girl.

2. I desperately miss being back home. *sniff, sniff*

3. Homemade wine is definitely fabulous. Will have to make more.

4. Mike is the best babysitter ever! when I get my drink on.

5. I love weddings.

When I was a little girl growing up in the city, one of my favourite activities to do was go for a walk in the evening and peer into the windows of other people’s homes.

Wait, that came out wrong. That sounds like I hid in the bushes like some perverted stalker and pressed my nose up against the glass while longing for a different life. I only did that once or twice that I can remember.

Now as a grown up, I like to go to other peoples homes and discover that I am not the only one who doesn’t fold the laundry and immediately put it away when it’s out of the dryer.

Who am I kidding? I love to snoop and snicker behind my hand about that pink carpeting you live with accented by the forest green walls and the dried flowers that are broken, covered in dust and stuffed in some oversized vase in the corner.

We all need to feel superior at times.

When Sam asked me to come and play at her place, I rubbed myself with glee. How often does one get the keys to the castle at another’s place? I mean, I spend so much time over at my place” I often forget not everyone lives with a 50 foot tall angry redhead.

But unlike the time I was alone at my friend’s house while he was off at work, I won’t lock myself out of this place. Or open a medicine cabinet only to have the perfume come crashing out, break against the porcelain sink and splash all over me like it did at my uncle’s house when I was 17 and in the height of my snoopiness.

As a thirty-one year old, I’m a much better busybody. I’m a surface snooper now. I just peer about, take notes on furniture, wall coverings and doilies and then go on my gleeful way.

I’d never look in Sam’s underwear drawer. Or tell you about her fetish for all things leather. Hell, I would never mention the weird swing thing hanging over her bed that looks like a torture device.

When I told my husband yesterday that I was invited to desecrate all that is holy pee on the walls, er spread my cheer over on Sam’s blog, he looked at me and just shook his head.

“What? What’s wrong with that?” I asked him in a slightly high pitched I-can’t-believe-you voice.

“Nothing. It’s just why would she ask YOU?” Clearly my husband does not respect the authority that comes along with being the Redneck Mommy.

“What kind of question is that? Because she likes me you asshat.”

Sheesh.

“Well, I’d just thought she’d get somebody different..more…”

“More what?” I interupted. I was just itching to kick his ass for the wrong answer.

However, during this entire conversation, my darling dumbass husband was building his deck. Completely oblivious to any danger signs blinking madly at him in hopes of catching him before driving through the barricade and plummeting into the depths of spousal arguments and certain fiery death.

As he’s working a screw that refuses to be screwed (much like me later on that night) he muttered, “Someone who actually knows something. A real blogger.”

“What???” I screech. “What am I, a fake blogger?”

Now he’s annoyed, but I couldn’t tell whether he was frustrated with me or the damn screw.

“Obviously not. Here hold this,” as he stuffs the drill in my hand and proceeds to walk to his shed to look for something tool-like. “I just meant somebody who wider read. Had better stats. That’s all.”

“I am widely read. I’m FEARED in the blogosphere for how widely read I am!” I yelled after him.

Silence.

“I AM!!!” I screeched. As he wanders back and takes the screw out of my hand, he is shaking his head at me.

The nerve!!

“There are nothing wrong with my stats, I’ll have you know.”

“Honey, you’re no Dooce.”

Holy shit from heaven. How does my husband know about Dooce?

“How do you know about Dooce?” I ask in a highly suspicious voice.

“Everybody knows about Dooce. I read her. I like her.” Aha! The screw went in, and he moved on to the next one.

I’m slightly winded and mystified by this turn of events. My husband reads Dooce. Behind my back. What other secrets is he keeping from me?

“Well, who’s blog do you like better? Her or mine?”

“I think you are much prettier.”

“Coward.”

“Yep. But smart coward. Now pass me that level over there, sweetie.”

There has to be some marital law that says your husband must like your blog better than the reigning queen of the blogosphere. Even if it is a lie.

When he isn’t looking, I’m going to hide his drill. That’ll teach him to mess with me.

I moved my links to a page, but had accidentally put them on a post page first, that’s why they’re showing up in the reader this morning. Sorry! I complain and complain about how slow the readers are to pick up my posts, then the first time I don’t want them to their right there waiting. Stupid readers.

So, farts. What a disenchanting topic I know, but this is where you get to see my colourful prepubescent little boy humour. Because I totally find gas funny. Totally. I can’t help but laugh/smirk/smile when someone lets one go. While growing up, my brother and I used to lie awake in out separate rooms and having competitions for who could be the loudest. We’d bust a gut laughing between each round until we were hushed by my mom’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

To this day we still find it rather hilarious when someone farts. Family gatherings we will revert back to our childish ways and indulge in a little competition after our meal, much to the dismay of my step-mom; she just doesn’t find the humour in it. My mom though, she can hold her own.

For me, public washrooms are torture. Nevermind the thought of public washrooms - that’s another post entirely.. but someone passing gas? I have to leave before I start to giggle, and probably cause complete embarrassment for the unknowing culprit.
Which reminds me of last summer, I was at a wedding; the bride’s step-mom came in the washroom jut after me and let one go. I couldn’t help but start giggling, I was completely caught off guard, and mortified! I laughed at the bride’s step-mom! Worse yet? She CAUGHT me! Peeking through the crack in the stall, she could see me laughing and commented! Oh. My. God.

Or my boss. The founder of the company. He’s nearing 80 and won’t retire; he’s one of those people that loves what he does and will work until the day he passes away. Regardless, his ability to control his bodily functions are ailing him; that man will stand right beside me at the filing cabinet and let one go; like he’s testing me or something. He can remain totally stone faced sober and I am dying inside, trying so hard to ignore the fact that he just passed gas right. beside. me. and didn’t even flinch!

Mike can’t understand the humour. He rolls his eyes at me every time. Secretly, he’s jealous. So jealous that his wife is the Queen of Gas Passing, and he’s but a mere Jester of Gas Passing. Be it burps or farts he cannot top my abilities and it kills him.

EDITED TO ADD: I was just over at Vodkarella (aka Troll Baby) and she’s got a similar post! Tis a day of farts I suppose. So, her post is REAL funny. Go read it! So, yeah I do that to my husband on purpose, snuggle right in for some spooning action and let one rip on his leg. Awesome! (Does that make me dirty!?)

I love such potty humour, can’t help it. Stop shaking your head at me!

So there you have it. A small insight into my prepubescent boy-ish humour.

I know what you’re thinking. Geez, I can’t believe I just lost a good two minutes of my life reading this.

You love it.

:::

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