You can take the girl out of the meth capital of Arizona, but it looks like some of that sand may have gotten into my DNA.
I want you to understand that I was raised in the desert. Wearing shit kickers and riding in the back of my grandfather’s pick up truck. I had a mean ass drunk for a dad, and a mother who loved Jesus. I had killer tan lines and scabby knees.
But I said good-bye to all of that and spent the next 15 years remarketing myself as an Easterner. I was received into the Episcopal Church, married a girl and adopted a really expensive dog. It pains me to correct people when they assume I grew up in Boston.
Then my son came along. The other day, I was flipping through the radio stations in my new SUV, when he told me to stop. He liked that song. It was Brook and Dunn’s Cowgirls Don’t Cry. It’s about a cow girl who falls off her horse.
He asks for it all of the time in his cute little voice. I had to download it onto my ipod. And we’ve gone all out. I’ve downloaded Shania, Trisha Yarwood and Toby Keith.
I briefed Jen about the situation. I knew my little Presbyterian would not be pleased. After a day of giving into our sons demands to listen to Carrie Underwood, she said, It takes some getting use to. In Wasp, I think that roughly translates to I am ready to ply my eyes out with a f*cking spoon.
Is this genetic? No matter. Little one, when you’re 16, mommy’s going to buy you a red pick up truck.