Aunt Flo, Cotton Picking, Flatulence, and Other Shit That Makes Long Road Trips Fun

When the Hancocks take a road trip, they go all out!  Rarely is there a dull moment in our lives, but when we hit the road, we really pull out all the stops.  this past trip was no exception.  For starters, I realized that the oldest spawn and I seem to have synced up our monthly cycles.  Two "women" with PMS in a confined space for 19 hours with a loud-mouthed 1st grader, a farting dog and a man with a stomach bug = a bloody good time, y'all.

Aside from dealing with the curse Mother Nature  has bestowed upon women, we always head north forgetting one simple fact: high altitude = gassy Hancocks.  Our dog, evidently, is no exception to the rule.  Even if she doesn't fart much.  She's just a great scapegoat for when you fart and want to blame someone else.  She can't speak...so she can't deny anything.  Some people, though, are too dumb let the dog take the blame...

Hubber: Please tell me that was the dog again.

Me: That was the dog again.  It's too foul to be human.  Wait.  Maybe it's a skunk.

Little Spawn:  You mean that fart?  That was me!  Hahahahaha! <fart, fart>

Big Spawn: Ewwww!  There's something rotting inside you!

But, if there was a bright side to the long road trip it would have to be the acres and acres of cotton fields.  That's right... people still grow cotton!  Who'da thunk it!?

Not only do they GROW the shit, they very rarely fence it in.  Huge mistake, cotton growers.  HUGE.  Because, if this heifer has a chance to pick some free cotton, you best believe she's gonna pull her large ass over to the side of the road and get to pickin'!  I love picking cotton!  I don't know what all those slaves complained about.   Cotton is soft and fluffy and fun to pick.

Me:  Hey, Hubber... look at all the cotton left on those crops.  Those cotton picking machines are slacking!  They need to get some slaves out there to finish picking that shit.  I wanna see those bushes picked dry!

Hubber: "Bushes picked dry"?  Really?

Me:  Perv.  But, seriously.  If we lived on a cotton farm, I'd make the girls go out every day to follow those machines around and pick all the cotton scraps.  They'd be my slaves.  I'd be all... "pick that cotton, slave child!"...  and, "spin that cotton into silk, slave girls!"...

Hubber: You can't even get them to put their dirty panties in the hamper.

Me: It'd be different on a cotton farm. That's what I'm saying.  Oh... and look at all those hay bales all rolled up everywhere!

Hubber: You are easily sidetracked.

Me:  Yeah, well, I think I could totally be a country girl.  I'd be picking cotton and rolling around on those hay bales.

Hubber: I'd like to see you try to roll on one of those bales.

Me: They're round.  They roll. How hard can it be?

Hubber:  Not hard at all, until it takes one turn and SQUASHES the shit out of you.  Those things weigh a ton.

Me:  They're made of HAY, Hub.  HAY don't weigh shit.  But, just to be sure, maybe I'll let the girls try to roll on one first.

Hubber:  Now you're talkin'!

But, he wouldn't pull over and let the girls try to roll on a hay bale for me.  Something about cow patties and barbed wire fences and ranchers with shot guns.  Party pooper.

But... at least I got this:

Home ownership is highly over-rated

There is a lot of shit I hate about owning a home.  At the top of the list is MAINTENANCE.  Yards need to be cut, pools need to be cleaned, roofs need to be repaired, plumbing issues need to be fixed, fucking siding needs to be replaced, weeds need to be pulled, ant mounds need to be killed, trees need to be pruned, A/C units need to be replaced... and the list goes on, and on, and ON.  My head hurts like the dickens just thinking about it.

And, when you belong to a Home Owner's Association with Nazi volunteer inspectors, you get regular "courtesy" notices asking that you kindly replace your leaning mailbox (leaning gives it character!), or paint the tarnished copper awning over your front door (copper is supposed to look like that, assholes!), or repave your cracked driveway (we LIKE crack!), or to power wash the north side of the house to remove traces of mold (mold, schmold... we live in fucking Houston, the humidity capital of the world!), or to remove the "truck with camper" from the driveway (it's a fucking RV, assholes... the Minnie Winnie was highly offended when that notice came).  They're adult bullies.  And, I hate them.

My point here is that our house has become a fucking money pit.  And, when you're poor like us, you just can't afford to keep up with that shit.  One step forward leads to five steps back.  It's always SOMETHING... something broken, something old, something dirty, etc.   Plus, it's annoying as fuck to spend money on things outside of vacations, booze, food and clothes.

So, we're finally giving up on the "American Dream" and moving back into the world of renting.  That's right... when shit goes wrong, we're calling the property managers to fix that shit!  I'ma sit on my fat ass sipping on a pina colada while someone else replaces the A/C filter or fixes the garage door opener.  Life is too damn short to spend every waking minute fixing broken shit and throwing perfectly good booze money away on maintenance repairs.  Screw that crap!  Momma needs a REAL vacation!

We're More Like the Griswolds Than Cousin Eddie's Peeps

Although telecommuting isn't always all it's cracked up to be, the one constant positive thing about it is that I can work from anywhere.  And by "anywhere"... I mean ANY FUCKING WHERE!  Like here, for instance:

Hellooooo, Minnie Winnie!

That's right, people! The Hancocks bought a second home...and this bad boy has wheels!  His name is Minnie Winnie.  Like a small weiner.  (But, we all know, size doesn't matter. Besides, Minnie Winnie has very ginormous balls.) 

So, why did we take the plunge?  Well, Hubber had an itch.  I guess it's the caveman in him.  The last time he had this itch, I nearly died... and in order to live through his itch this time, we decided a motorhome was the way to go.

The first itch took place several years ago when Hubber introduced me to his kind of "roughing it."  It was loaded with nature, tents, sleeping bags, fires and more nature.  Momma don't like too much nature, y'all.  But, I'll try anything once... so I was a good sport about my first camping trip.  Mother nature, however, wasn't too keen on my dabbling with her affairs.  First, it was hot and muggy and mosquitos were everywhere.  Next, it was so cold I thought my nips would break right off the ends of my boobs.  Then, it rained.  All night. As I lay in my tent. Dying.  I kid you not.  And, to make matters worse, in the middle of the worst rain storm in history, my toddler decides to contract explosive diarreah.  Climbing (but mostly slipping and sliding) a half mile uphill in the dark of night to find the restroom nearly killed us both.  It's a miracle that I lived to tell the tale.

So, when Hubber got the "we really need to go camping" itch again... the solution was either DIVORCE or buy a motorhome.  We figured a divorce would be too taxing on the children so we opted for the latter.

Which makes the entire family happy.  The "real campers" can pitch a tent if they want to, but Momma's gonna be warm and cozy inside her Minnie Winnie; banging away on the laptop, sipping coffee and watching trash on television.  And, when the explosive diarreah stikes (and it WILL strike), the toilet will only be 6 feet away!

Although I sure hope that when the shitter gets full, Hubber doesn't turn into this guy: