Tara and Audrey were having a conversation the other evening, and you would have thought my wife was speaking a foreign language, so alien was her speech to my daughter.
She was recounting her day, and talking about how she got into a kerfuffle with one of her coworkers. When Audrey heard that, her brow furrowed.
“You got into a what?!” she asked.
“A kerfuffle. It’s like a spat.”
“What’s a spat?”
“A dust-up,” I added helpfully. This was no help.
“It’s okay,” Tara continued. “Everything is hunky-dory now.”
At this point she looked at both of us with an expression that belied a mixture of amusement and confusion. “You sure do talk funny,” she declared.
“Hey!” I replied, immediately on the defensive. “I don’t talk funny. Tara, on the other hand…”
But I’ve gone into her funny speech before, so I won’t dredge that up again.
“Some of the kids at school said you’re a redneck!” Audrey went on. Tara had taken her to an after school function last week, and had apparently made an impression with some of the students. “Don’t worry, I told them you’re…wait a second…are you a redneck?!”
“Yup,” my redneck wife said. “Or at least, I used to be.”
‘Tis true. I’ve talked about how Tara and I met through blogging. We first started reading each other way back in 2002. At the time, she was a total redneck. A huntin’, wood choppin’, stock car drivin’ woman who called a creek a crick. She got married the first time wearing a cowboy hat, for crying out loud. While the “crick” thing hasn’t changed, everything else has. Which is probably for the better. I don’t know if we’d have gotten along so well back then. Besides, where would we have stored all the moonshine with such limited pantry space?
Audrey seemed stunned by this revelation, but quickly regained her composure. I explained that Tara now has episodes of Project Runway filling up space on the DVR and enjoys raw oysters, so those redneck days are long past. My daughter looked relieved.
After a full week of moving, hauling, unpacking, hanging, sorting, and storing, we are getting close to being fully moved in. Thank goodness. It feels like we’ve been surrounded by clutter for months. To a couple of organizational freaks like us, that’s akin to nails on a chalkboard. In other words, well nigh unbearable. (Good thing Audrey isn’t around to hear that expression). All this week I’ve spent my lunch hour working on both the apartment and the townhouse, motivated by the dinner invitation I extended to my parents for Saturday. It seemed foolish at the time – would we really be able to sort through mounds of stuff by then?! – but sure enough, we came. We saw. And we conquered. I’m so looking forward to a relaxing weekend for a change!
And now, by request, here are a few pics of the new apartment. Please excuse the mess. We’re not quite done yet. You’re welcome, Momma Tracy!