Who Are You People?

Welcome, please grab an imaginary donut, they’re a day old but who can turn down rainbow sprinkles? You might be wondering who in the heck all these people are, so allow me to introduce myself,

I’m Unwashed. If I’m being formal, which I never am, I’m The Great Unwashed. My hobbies include barking and chasing after the neighbours’ dog, kicking banks and threatening to slap people with my giant, pretend fish tail. (Please click on the bolded words to access these stories in their full, shameful glory.) I grew up in the loathed, throbbing metropolis, then decided to throw caution, and everything else I was familiar with, to the wind to move to the middle of nowhere with my hubby. I love my new home, most of the time, except for when my husband asks me to herd and brand cattle. This would probably be a more enjoyable activity if everyone around me didn’t remind me how easy rounding up livestock is while I struggle to stay on the back of a horse. Aside from the time I saved a cat’s penis, I’m not much for bravery, hence why firing a gun was terrifying. This blog is about life experiences viewed through my own quirky lens.

Tex is my husband. He’s an engineer, rancher, farm boy who has a passion for metals, guns and the wilderness. He loves me, most of the time, except for when I break into the gun cabinet in search of delicious snacks, then he’s infuriated because gun safety apparently goes hand in hand with firearm ownership. Sometimes Tex has weird requests like the night he asked me to stab him but the majority of the time he’s a wonderful, supportive spouse.

Tex and I created a child. Or if we’re being honest, Tex replicated himself right down to the hat.

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Sometimes I can’t even tell them apart.

My son looks like a small carbon copy of his dad. The only feature of mine Mini-Tex had was my curly hair, but then Tex cut them off because people kept mistaking our son for a girl. So now I live with two identical cowboys, a smaller version and a larger version.

While I live in the middle of nowhere, my closest friend Sula lives in the bush with no electricity or running water. When she’s not out scouring the tundra for birds in the name of research, she enjoys scaling hunting wild goats  with her mountain man boyfriend. Sometimes we get to hang out together, but often our only interaction are the love letters I send to her which make my family nervous that the two of us are going to run off into the sunset together. It’s a possibility I haven’t ruled out yet.

My long suffering mother is often featured in this blog. I’d feel badly for making fun of her so frequently if she didn’t explicitly instruct me to do so. Allright, she might not word it exactly like that, but saying to a writer, immediately after you’ve committed a regrettable or humourous act, “Oh no, you’re going to blog about this” is about as good as penning the post yourself. When my mother isn’t inspiring me to write, she enjoys bench pressing the neighbour’s sedan, taking children to strip shows, and converting unassuming middle class homes into zoos.

 

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