I am a redneck woman…

I am, no seriously, really, the redneck chick.

Now, I had denied it for years, swore up and down that I was not a redneck, regardless of the fact that I live in the middle of nowhere, own handguns, target shoot, and love country music. (sidenote, yet with all that my politics are very liberal, I am an enigma)

Back to my story though. One Sunday night, a couple weeks ago, I had Big and Rich blaring on the stereo, and I was in the kitchen with my husband, Tony. The kids were playing on the deck, running their Dale Earnhardt Jr* matchbox cars around the table out there.

I had a bottle of Down Home Punch by Jack Daniels in my hand, barefeet, a white wifebeater tanktop and black shorts on, I was straddling the two types of flooring in the kitchen as we are remodeling and have half old scary falling apart linoleum and half wood flooring in.

As I turned to holler at the boys to behave, Tony caught my eye, giggling his ass off.

“You are a redneck.”

“The hell I am, bite me.” (boy, I am not making a case for myself there, am I?)

He pointed at the stove. “Ahem.”

I had pinto beans on the stove, bubbling away, a ham bone in the middle of the pot. The smell of biscuits wafting out of the oven and the above drink, outfit, flooring, and music combination was too powerful of an evidence to deny it.

I laughed, shrugged my shoulders and proceeded to stir the beans. He piped up, from his giggling, “There is only one thing missing.”

And, I knew, before he could get it out, what he meant. I did not have a wailing child in a diaper on my hip. Before he could get the thought, entirely out, Charlie came in, whimpering a bit, “I hurt my toooooeeee.” I picked him up, and without a second thought, kissed him on the forehead and slid him to rest on my hip.

What can you do? I figure, I might as well embrace it. There are worse things to be, like a good old boy. And, if you do not know the difference between a redneck and a good old boy, well, that is a story for another day.

*I did not buy these for the boys, their Dad did.

I mean who would buy Dale Earnhardt Jr cars when there are Denny Hamlin ones out there?