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Redneck With A Side Of Yuppy Please

Every once in a while, if you’ve been reading my blog long enough, you will have seen me refer to myself as a redneck.  Or to my daughter as a the redneck baby.  Well,  I thought I’d clarify that a little bit.  We aren’t the type of rednecks you see on TV on CMT’s “My Big Redneck Wedding,” i.e.. “toothless wonders,” but I can certainly appreciate many of the ideas that go into their sometimes elaborate themes.  Mud and very large trucks and finding multiple ways to incorporate both into the usual boring wedding routine being the number one thing I admire.  Who wouldn’t want to jump on an old bed mattress and be hauled around by a big fat truck by a rusty chain through a mud bog in your finest weddin’ gear?  Sadly enough… I vote for the mud!  Every time I see this show I think back to my first wedding. (Not to my current husband…we went to Vegas baby!) We had the whole fu fu wedding thing and sometimes I ponder “if there had been more mud involved in that whole fiasco would we have stayed married longer then a year”.   Then I look at my current husband (I love to say it that way… better stay on your toes hubby! I love you but I also love mud!) And think there was no way I could have stayed married to someone who agreed with his mommy that I should have a floor length bouquet of flowers that did nothing but make me sneeze. All right, my ex wasn’t that bad.  He just wasn’t right for me.

I’m the kind of girl who needs a little mud in her life.  That’s why I love “my current husband” so much.  He brings me mud with a side of bagels.  Rough around the collar with a hint of yuppy.   He doesn’t care if once a year I decide that the coolest thing on earth would be to jump on the hood of a truck and go whooping and a hollerin’ all the way to the creek.  Not really worrying about my safety. Only praying I don’t spill my beer or that the driver of the truck doesn’t decide to “see” a ‘coon and do a break stand…thus forcing me to spill my beer.  He doesn’t mind if once a year I decide that sticking a Budweiser bottle sticker to my daughters sippy is the coolest idea on earth.  And once a year he doesn’t mind all the other elaborate things I do to make myself and our family just a little bit more “dirt in the skirt”.  Basically, we are weekend rednecks. I guess that would be the better way to put it.  And coming up, one week from now, is the time that all of us weekend rednecks, and many who think baths should only be taken on Sunday before church (unless jumping in the creek counts), come out of the woodworks.   In one week we will be heading to Camp Ben.  We will be gathering with our American and confederate flag swimwear, our koozies that proudly state things like “Your village called. Their idiot is missing.”  And we will prepare to spend the week rehashing old stories about years of camping gone past.  Stories about losing our dignity along with our shirts, shorts, and many cherries is just one of the things we celebrate each year.

We are Camp Ben’ers!  Where we bring everything we need to survive in the Texas heat for a week and cap it off with ways to keep our beer cold and our briskets colder till its time to cook em’.  In our case we even have carpet for our camp site. But that’s only because after a hard night playing dominos, and drinking something “homemade” out of our buddies unmarked very old and odd looking bottle that probably should be illegal, its nice to waddle out of your tents or campers onto indoor outdoor carpet having the opportunity to avoid stubbing our unpolished toes on the rocks.  Camp Ben is where, instead of bringing a touch of redneck into our yuppy lifestyles, we bring a touch of class to the average redneck by having a refrigerator standing proudly in the middle of camp ready to keep our beer cold.

We are Camp Ben’ers!  And we are about to converge!  Bring on the bubba!!!!

That is all.

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