Spaghetti Westerns

Every Sunday, for more Sundays than I can recall, my parents would stuff my siblings and I into the back of their economy car and drive us over to my grandparents house for dinner.

With the smell of pot roast lingering in the air, my mom and grandma's laughter would bounce off the old linoleum floors while my grandpa and my dad hunkered down on velvet furniture in the living room, watching whatever western they could find on the television. My siblings and I would be sprawled on the carpet, with our chin in our hands, eyes glued to the screen.

I've watched every episode of Gunsmoke and Bonanza as well as every movie the Duke ever made. And then I've watched more.

Spaghetti westerns helped shape me into the person I am today. 

That sentence explains everything that is wrong with me. And everything that is right.

When I was 14 years old I painted a ceramic bust of John Wayne's head and built a shrine around it.

When I was 15 years old I asked for (and received) a giant framed poster of John Wayne's head to add to my shrine.

When I was 16 years old I secretly hoped some tall cowboy would stride into my school and call me 'little lady.' 

He did and so I married him a few years later.

And when I was 21 I tried to convince that cowboy that we should name our son Marion. Or Duke. Or Festus. Just for fun. 

It was then I learned about the invisible line between cute and creepy. Interested and obsessed. Apparently I crossed it. Or so I was told.

You dodged a bullet, Nash. Be grateful.

It's funny the things that fill your mind, the memories that come racing back, in the small hours of the night, when the world is dark and you are supposed to be sleeping.

Instead, wide awake, you alternate between trying to smother your head between two pillows and cursing the one thing keeping you awake and evoking all these memories:

The dog asleep beside your bed, snug as a bug inside his metal crate. 

My devil dog. I should have named him 'Pilgrim.'

It's not his panting or his occasional sleepy yips that keeps me awake. It's not the rhythmic huff of his giant beastie breathing or how he gets up, walks a few circles and then flops down so hard the world shakes. None of that keeps me awake. In fact, those are the things that chase away my demons and keep my nightmares at bay by reminding me I'm not alone.

No. 

It's the sound of his nails, rattling against his crate bars. 

It's the same sound of some Hollywood cowboy clanging his tin cup against the one-room jailhouse bars. 

Every night I'm trapped in a Spaghetti western.

One where there are no cute cowboys named Duke. Not a Festus in sight. There is no pot roast in the oven, no velvet furniture, no television with rabbit ears on top and the tingle of my grandmother's laugh echoes only in the memories of those who loved her. 

And still, every night, as Abbott rattles his bars, I lay awake, remembering those lazy Sunday evenings. I'm kept awake by the reruns of my life; remembering instead of sleeping.

And every morning as I pull myself from bed, exhausted and sleep deprived, I'm torn between smothering my dog with a pillow and smothering him with gratitude for reminding me of how much those spaghetti westerns mean to me.

One thing is certain, as I stumble to the kitchen to try and wake myself up with a jolt of coffee. I've got one John Wayne impression perfected:

Don't say it's a fine morning or I'll shoot ya! 

It's a hidden talent. Blame it on the Duke and my damn dog.

Nuts and Bolts

It's always interesting when I'm asked what it is I do for a living.

"I blog."

--blink blink--

"I write on the internet," I clarify.

That's when I see the invisible light bulb go off above their head. Which is when, inevitably, they ask, "Who do you write for?"

"Myself."

--blink blink--

"I have my own website," I clarify.

That's when they wrinkle their foreheads and squint their eyes. Which is when, inevitably, they ask, "Why?"

Why indeed. Why not, I always reply.

I've been asked why a lot this past week. I'm tired of the whys. I don't know, it's none of your business, because I can, because I was tired, I was pigeonholed, I was embarrassed, I outgrew it, I was left behind, change is good. All of this. None of this. 

I'm going to start telling people that 'blogging' is a fancy code word for being a dental assistant. I bet dental assistants never get asked why they do what they do where they do it. 

Or maybe they do.

Speak up dental assistants everywhere. Spread your truths here, my space is yours.

***

I'm running things a bit differently up in this space. I've added an email subscription option if having my words delivered straight to your inbox floats your boat.

There is an RSS feed to if you prefer that method of delivery. The Magical and Awesome Schmutzie fixed it so that if you were already subscribed to my RNM feed you shouldn't notice a change. I don't know. I write blogs. And read them. I don't really understand how any of this works. 

It's internet voodoo I tell ya.

Click here or click the tab that says 'Subscribe' up top under my name if either option interests you.

I'm your friendly neighbourhood voodoo priestess. Except, just like how RSS feeds, I know nothing about how voodoo works. 

***

Finally, there are some introductions I'd like to make. I'd like you all to meet my family. 

My husband:

He goes by Bruce.

My first kid:

Her name is Ken.

My second:

His name is Nash.

My third:

His name was Skjel.

My fourth:

His name is Knox.

Oh, and then there's me:

I had a little work done recently. Does it show?

Here's to the B side and keeping it real.

(ps. No more comment captcha either.  It's a bumpy ride, working out the kinks of the B side. Bear with me.)

The B Side

"Welcome Internet."

When I first typed those words seven years ago, I only wrote them because I didn't know what else to say. I didn't actually have anyone on the Internet to welcome. I just didn't know what else to write. There is something terrifying about first posts and new blogs. Everything is fresh and shiny and uncorrupted. I swear this blog even comes with that lovely new car scent. One good fart and it's ruined forever.

So I'm sitting here, in my brand new space, with the cursor blinking at me, huffing that shiny new smell, and worried sick about farting. The fear of farts is paralyzing me, so to speak.

I'm christening my new blog with a fart metaphor. 

Turns out you can take the writer out of Redneck Mommy but you can't take the redneck out of the writer. Go figure.

I like the new digs. I take no credit for them, not even a tiny little bit of credit. I asked the all powerful and creative Schmutzie from Ninjamatics to help me put down Redneck Mommy. I gave her two directives: Keep it clean and kill Big Red.

And so she did. She's magic I tell you. Thank you Elan. 

Things are a bit different around here, so feel free to poke about a bit. I'm still learning the ins and the outs of the Squarespace platform and to be honest, it feels a bit awkward. 

Rather like how I look while trying to dance. 

For those of you who aren't ready to let Redneck Mommy go, no worries, you can make your way through those archives because I've brought them along to my new space. They are here somewhere. Click that big yellow circle that says Attack of the Redneck Mommy. It's all right there. It's a little blog inside a blog. Schmutzie outdid herself. Go on; click the circle. You know you're curious. I'll wait.

Pretty nifty, no?

I'm not really sure what the future holds for me, or for this blog. Honestly, I'm freaking out more than just a little bit. If I had a dime for every time someone told me they decided to read my blog based solely on it's name or its design, well, I wouldn't have had to save any money to pay for this redesign and I'd be able to afford a jug of milk.

Tanis Miller isn't a catchy name, and heck if you spell Tanis with two n's instead of just one, and type in my url (tanismiller.com) it will take you to some hot Canadian blonde in a bikini. No word of a lie. 

I totally look that good in a bikini. In my imagination. 

(There is something about women named Tanis who have a thing for bikinis on their blog.) 

I've thoroughly gassed this new space now, haven't I?

I'm not going to post any pictures of myself in a bikini anytime soon. You're welcome and I'm sorry. I'm not really sure what I'm going to be doing in this space, except for being me.

Tanis Miller, with one n and no bikinis. And apparently, a bit of flatulence.

Welcome to my new space. Sorry about the smell.