I'm not sure why I chose this title... Because the more I think about it, the more I realize I actually kinda failed at being a redneck. See, you'd think being a redneck would be pretty simple since it doesn't involve money, fashion sense, basic hygiene or a firm grasp of the English language (or any other language for that matter) - perhaps these things were my downfall. I have come to the realization that it takes equal part skill and bad genetics to be a successful redneck and I am evidently seriously lacking in both.
The weather this weekend in da 'Burgh was immensely torrid and, because I a. don't have cooling system that is centrally located which distributes sweet relief throughout my entire home and b. didn't have a swimsuit that would be appropriate for a genteel young lady such as myself to wear in public, Awesome Boyfriend and I were stuck brainstorming ways to cool ourselves off in the midst of the Worst Heatwave EVER. Since I have children and quite frequently make use of their toys and gadgets for my own enjoyment, it seemed perfectly natural to use their inflatable water containment device for my own personal comfort. Unfortunately, by the time I got done blowing up the pool and filling it with water (which I forgot to turn off causing it to overflow and creating a small mudpit in the backyard) it began to storm and by the time ABF got there, I was in the midst of a hormonally induced psychotic meltdown, so while swimming in lightning seemed like a completely rational idea to me at the time, I was once again saved by the unending rational and non-impulsive mind of my male better half.
The next day however, proved to be equally as sweltering and hyperthermia inducing. Swimming (and I use that term lightly, only because water and semi-submerged bodies are involved, it was more like "lounging") in the kiddie pool commenced. We sat in the "pool", drank beer and watch Redheaded Bitch and Chinashop Bull (dogs, people... dogs - their names have been changed to protect their inherent canine right to privacy) make one another's acquaintance for the first time. This involved Bitch attempting to hump Bull from behind... When that didn't work, she went straight for the full facial. This seemed to be more gender appropriate and socially acceptable to Bull, and he allowed it. It was almost as good as watching a cockfight or horse race or some other illegal gambling activity involving animals. Just imagine a 47lbs Husky attempting to hump a 100lbs Rottweiler and getting away with it.
Now you might be thinking that, so far, we are totally winning at being rednecks... You would be right, except that we were drinking craft beer instead of Old Milwaukee and we were sitting outside a 3 bedroom house with a basement instead of a doublewide on cinder blocks. There was also no trace of old tires, rusted out truckbed caps or half-naked filthy children running around the yard in saggy diapers nor was any country music being blared from a pickup truck with the doors left open to better hear the tunes. I even exchange my white-trashy, too-small-topped swimsuit which was showing more of my boobs than it was covering for a fancy number from Victoria's Secret (specifically designed for the mammarily "gifted") that had just come in the mail. Rednecks don't wear $100 swimsuits. Rednecks don't own anything that costs over $20, unless it's a shotgun and even those are usually passed down from their great great grandpa who was only somewhat affected by redneck genes yet still managed to put in his hours coal-mining or digging trenches or something that made him some sort of sustainable income.
We completed our adventure in backwoods hillbilly bliss by going to dinner at the Texas Roadhouse. What we lacked earlier in auditory resemblance to redneckedness we surely made up for in this place. "I lost my truck and my dawg and my pickup 'cause that woman done left me and now I gotta drown my sorrows in a pitcher of Coors in a bar with a sawdust floor" was blaring from what seemed like the very building itself. Delectable cuts of bovine were prominently displayed behind a glass (probably plexiglass or just plain old plastic) display case where you could choose your own dinner, peanut shells were strewn across the floor throughout the entire place (I think this may have been staged - you know, to make it look more redneck than it really was, cause there weren't any in the bathroom and surely rednecks would definitely eat peanuts in the shitter) and the drink specials were pitchers of cheap beer and different "sweet tea" flavor cordials mixed with things like Jack Daniels and Southern Comfort.
To add to this authentic Texas experience, we were seated directly next to a table full of Mexicans and our waiter seemed a little... "slow". Maybe he was just nervous to be in the presence of the extreme awesomeness of the Dynamic Duo... or maybe a little of both. When I asked about a drink on the menu, he told me that the people who just left his other table had 3 of them. I looked at him very seriously and told him that he should not have served them so much alcohol and then permitted them to drive home. He looked very nervous and stated, "Oh, haha, no, they had three altogether, each of them had one." How each of them ordering only one each demonstrated that said drinks were so fantastic was entirely beyond me, so he either really believed that I was someone from the Liquor Control Board or he was just not the sharpest tool in the shed. "A" for effort, sweetheart, "A" for effort.
Despite being a little slow, quite talkative and a bit socially awkward, he was a good waiter. That is why I chose to express my concerns to him about the rest of the "staff" there. It was beyond me how anyone working in redneck heaven could seemingly hate their job as much as most of the adolescent girls there... When it came time for someone to have a birthday (which invariably happens if you choose to dine at one of these mid-range franchise restaurants on a weekend), the saddle on wheels was rolled out, a little girl was lifted onto it by a reasonably enthusiastic young male member of the staff, an announcement was made and the birthday singing began. Sadly, the girls singing weren't even a micro-fraction as enthusiastic as the young man, otherwise, I would not have been torn between being completely embarrassed at the pathetic performance and fighting the urge to stand up and give that poor little girl the birthday song she deserved.
Not being paid minimum wage to do so, I successfully resisted the latter, but my righteous indignation at the former caused me to have a little chat with our waiter when he came over. I told him that the poor little girl sitting there should have been sung to with some gusto and he should tell those girls that work-ethic is very important in America, as is customer service, and that they should be ashamed of themselves for ruining that poor little girl's birthday. Now she'll probably grow up to be a welfare bum because they'd set a bad example and her crushed faith in humanity will probably cause her to become addicted to heroin (ok, I didn't tell him all this, but this was the point I was trying to get across to him). To my surprise, he came back and said he told the non-singing girls what I said. Awesome BF just kinda glared at me and was all "Great, now we're going to be eating spit". To which Waiter replied "Oh no, they'd never do that! They'd get fired if they did that!"... Evidently, though they tolerate staff that sings to small children less than half-assed, the Texas Roadhouse has a very strict "no spitting in customers' food policy" that is vigilantly monitored and promptly punished by termination. Good to know.