The Redneck Riveria

We love Destin, rednecks and all!

Has it really been two months? My life is so exciting who can keep track of time! I'd tell you what I've been working on but then I'd have to kill you. Or maybe just maim you. So we took a jaunt down to Destin, Florida, also apparently known as the "Redneck Riveria." Well, you know what people? Rednecks are smarter than you might imagine because the beach down there is awesome. Who knew! And there was no gong outside of our room or crustacean creatures on the attack which was a bonus.

I realize that not all southerners are rednecks and not all rednecks are southerners but for our purposes here today, where I have no desire to write a lengthy dissertation on the topic, let's use them interchangeably, shall we? Also, I'm going to talk in generalities here. I'm prone to do that. I'm a simple sort. If you don't like it, move along then or post a nasty comment down yonder. I can take it.

Here's the thing about Southern women: they come to the pool and beach in full-blown makeup. Like they are going to a wedding. Perhaps even a royal wedding. Where I come from, that's called "trying too hard." Also, the makeup doesn't seem to drip off their faces when immersed in water like my mascara from the night before does. Which means (I suppose) that they actually make the effort to buy water-proof makeup of every variety. Is there even such a thing as waterproof eye shadow? Apparently yes!

And who are these gorgeous, made up faces impressing*? Apparently not their beer-bellied, good old-boy husbands who sit nearby guzzling drinks all day with their buddies while the women folk tend to the young-uns. The whole scene struck me as kind of sexist, and believe you me I'm not the "I am woman hear me roar" kind of gal. But I can tell you if my husband thought he was just gonna sit ass on vacation consuming boat drinks while I took care of the twins solo looking like I just hit the cosmetics counter at Saks, HE'D HAVE ANOTHER THING COMING. Like D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Just like Tammy Wynette sang it. (I think she sang it.)

I wanted to lead a revolt right there at the Hilton Sandestin Beach Resort and Spa. "Women folk!" I would howl through a microphone I stole from the Mississippi Pharmacists Association hosting their annual convention. "Put down your children! Bring them to the hill-billy you created them with and repeat after me: 'THEY ARE YOUR KIDS TOO, DICKHEAD!'

I pictured some subsequent bra burning at a beach bonfire (or perhaps tankini top burning) followed by a march throughout the Florida Panhandle as we repeat the mantra "THEY ARE YOUR KIDS TOO DICKHEAD!" (Catchy, no?)

I'd be hailed as the Gloria Steinem of the Redneck Riveria minus a stint as an undercover Playboy Bunny. Alas, I did nothing but sit by, bare-faced save for the mascara streaking down my face and slightly in awe of the balls these men had while barking at my husband when he wasn't following orders to my liking. Perhaps as I was imagining my overthrowing of the redneck family dynamics my husband was plotting his own coup -- of northern, sarcastic, nagging wives.

Okay, so now after insulting anyone south of the Mason Dixon line, Puerto Rico and perhaps a few other people, let's move on.

So the girls start preschool in the fall. I'm not sure if Vegas is into this sort of thing, but I'd be willing to bet on the over-under of how long it takes them to be kicked out. Two days? The poor luckless sod who is to be their teacher is probably blissfully unaware, enjoying her summer having no clue what is to come in less than three short months.  Bahaahahaha! It would be almost funny if they weren't my kids... And it will be even less funny when they do get kicked out and the nearly three hours I thought I would have to myself each day is ripped away and replaced with lollipop-demanding, flower-print wearing monsters.

Moxley has worn the same "flower pants" every single solitary day -- without exception, no exaggeration --since late March. They are from Target retailing at $4.50. At least she has the decency to have cheap taste. I just ordered three more pairs as to join the two we already own, now somewhat worse for the wear.  Observe, they ARE kinda groovy:

My problem is not so much she wears the same thing every day as the fact I have to do laundry every day. Because you've never seen a more pissed-off pint-sized bitch than a Moxley whose flower pants are soiled. I have been known to go months without doing laundry so I'm slightly bitter that her pants disorder is messing with my no-laundry stance. Of course, and this probably goes without saying, I draw the line at doing grownup laundry. ("I can't FOLD laundry well so it doesn't make sense for me to DO laundry," I told me husband soon after holy matrimony and eight years later he still seems to be going for it.)

Moxley will remove the flower pants only for bed for which she must wear her blue button down "cozy Minnie Mouse jammies" (I am desperately trying to order more but Disney seems out of them; bite me Walt) and for soccer:

She has what will certainly manifest into full-blow OCD in a few years and the "flower pants problem" as I call it will seem like a harmless walk in the park, albeit a walk that requires an ample amount of Tide and undesirable domestic housework on my part.

I have other things to discuss including my problem with grown women who pump their elbows in a downward direction while exclaiming, "Yesssss!" in an enthusiastic manner but that will have to wait. I have some flower pants to wash.

*Has nobody told Southern gals you can stop being presentable about two years into marriage or whenever children enter the equation, whichever comes first? I shudder to think what goes on in a Southern bedroom? These poor women might still think they have to partake in a "marital" obligation of some sort!