Home > Uncategorized > Being a Redneck. And Doing it Wrong.

Being a Redneck. And Doing it Wrong.

If you’ll look closely, you’ll see two fellas hanging out, enjoying some time on the boat. In a parking lot. Beside the highway.
This picture was taken less than a mile from my house. A high class neighborhood, indeed.

There’s a lot of stink getting kicked up on my Facebook feed right now about the show “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.”  I know a little bit about the show, because my daughter is absolutely determined to lower her IQ by watching every piece of sensational garbage that TLC will put on the air.  But look, I don’t really see the problem with this show.  Sure, the kid is unbearably obnoxious, and has a hard lesson coming when the world knocks her down a peg, but, overall, they’re just a regular family living their lives and they’ve found a way to make some money doing it.  I’d put cameras in my house if it meant I didn’t have to carry my butt to work every day and I think you’re lying if you say you wouldn’t.  Also, I’d rather watch these folks than those crazy bitches on Dance Moms any day of the week.  I suspect my feelings about this have been somewhat skewed by the fact that I live in a part of the world where Honey Boo Boos thrive.  We are country folk.  Rednecks, if you will.  We go mud-bogging and four-wheeling and we have pig-pickings.  We say “ain’t” and “y’all” and we bless your little heart.  However, as much as I try to embrace my own redneck-ness, there are parts of being a country girl that I just can’t get a handle on.  Whether it’s something in my yankee DNA, or just a subconscious reluctance to “redneck-cognize,” there are country girl areas in which I fail, time and again.


See how confused he is? Someone just called him an athlete. To his face! via nascar.com

I don’t follow Nascar.  Not only do I not follow it, I don’t even understand it.  They’re speaking a whole different language.  For instance, something you often hear is that someone is “on the pole.”  I don’t really know what that means, but I’m pretty sure it’s not what it sounds like.  Unless Nascar is a whole lot dirtier than I ever suspected, in which case, I’m worried about all the races my parents attend.  Furthermore, I take issue with Nascar calling itself a sport.  Does it require a specific skill set?  Yes.  Are the participants talented?  Yes.  Is Tony Stewart* going to beat anyone in a marathon?  Noooooooo.  Look, writing these words requires a certain kind of skill, too, but I don’t call myself an athlete.  (Unless anyone thinks I could get away with calling myself an athlete….no? Oh.)

*I’m calling out Tony Stewart because he’s one of the only drivers I can remember, and he’s a little squishy.  Sorry, dude.


Aw, someone grew up in the country! via wellsphere.com

I wear shoes when I’m outdoors.  I am not a big believer in shoes indoors, but I’m just not going to walk around outside barefoot.  This might not sound that unusual to you, but that’s what country people do.  In fact, there is a term to describe it.  “Country feet.”  Country feet are tough and not-so-pretty and they will walk upon any surface up to and including hot asphalt on a hundred degree August day with no complaint.  The litmus test for country feet is gravel.  If you can’t walk across a gravel driveway barefoot, without making faces, then you need to carry your ass back to the city.  Anyway, I do have country feet.  I can walk across any surface barefoot.  I’m just not going to, and I’ll tell you why.  There’s wildlife outside.  There are sticks and snakes and hurty things on the ground just waiting to attack my feet.  In my childhood, I stepped on a bumblebee.  I assure you, there is nothing like having your father dig a stinger out of your foot with his pocket knife to break you of your country ways.

Field Parties

Looks like nothing could possibly go wrong! via mv.com

If you’re not familiar with the term, it is what it sounds like.  A party in a field.  I have never, ever understood what is fun about this.  Hanging out with friends, yes.  A few beverages, sure.  Freedom to spill drinks without wrecking anyone’s house, absolutely.  Exposure to the elements, bugs crawling on you and no bathrooms?  Hell to the no.  We are all civilized people, why must we party in the wild?  I know it has some benefits.  For example, you can build a bonfire.  That’s always fun and incredibly safe.  If you have one too many and can’t drive home, you can just sleep on the ground.  That’s awesome.   I’m totally sure no spiders will crawl into your mouth while you’re sleeping, so don’t worry about that.  You can have the field, I’ll take my parties in a temperature-controlled, bug-free environment, thank you very much.

Hot Dogs

No. Just…no. via sodahead.com

Hot dogs should be brown.  That’s all there is to it.  If you’re eating a red hot dog, why are you not wondering what they’re trying to cover up with all of that food coloring?  What do you have against a delicious Angus beef hot dog without nitrites and nitrates and other baddies?  I swear to you they are way better than that Jesse Jones nonsense and they won’t even turn your hot dog water pink.  And you can get coupons for them on pretty regular basis.  I’ve never seen a coupon for Jesse Jones hot dogs.  Maybe that’s because you can get a pack for about forty-two cents, but still.  Pile on your chili and slaw, but for the love of Pete, stop eating those red wieners.


Red Solo Cup…la la la…Up!…la…la…la…Party! via slate.com

I’m risking unbelievable ridicule, but I’m going to confess.  I have never actually heard the red solo cup song.  I know kind of how it goes, because someone sings it (usually Hubs, but I don’t think he’s ever heard it, either) when I pull out a red disposable cup.  It doesn’t even make sense, because I buy Hefty cups, but there you are.  I’m a 90s alternative girl living in a country music world.  I don’t know the soundtrack of this town.  I don’t know the difference between Brad Paisley and Kenny Chesney.  Darius Rucker will always just be Hootie without his Blowfish.  And as far as Faith Hill is concerned, well I’ve had just about enough of her on my Sunday Night Football.  So now you know.  When you make that country music reference, I will smile and nod.

So there you have it.  All the ways (or at least some of the ways) in which I fail to be a proper country girl.  I haven’t told you about my lack of cowboy boots or the fact that I’ve never owned a pickup truck, but I think I covered the worst of it.   Bless my heart.

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