Why Blogging With Tissue Up Your Nose is a Bad Idea

With my 34th birthday looming on the horizon, my husband and I have taken to discussing redoing our last will and testament. Because nothing says Happy Birthday Tanis quite like staring death in the face and discussing your mortality and dividing your personal assets amongst people who are likely going to be doing a happy dance on me when I'm six feet under.

But as responsible parents (shut up, we ARE), adjustments have to be made since we have increased our family and added Jumby into the fold. Fric and Frac are going to have to survive on one third of our pittance of pennies instead of the half share they currently inherit. We are equal opportunity penny sharers, Boo and I.

Last night, as my brain was slowly leaking out of my nose via a steady trickle of snot, I sat on the couch with a pile of used tissues littering the floor around me, a mug of tea quickly going cold, a glass of water, and every type of over the counter pharmaceuticals guaranteed to get you high instead of fighting off the plague running rampant in your body and I had an epiphany.

(There's a marketing strategy untapped. Tylenol Cold Medication: Reducing your snot factor while conjuring up personal revelations!)

As I slowly lay dying from the latest virus my children lovingly bestowed upon me while drawing up a list of personal assets and wishes I want to gift upon loved ones as I dance in the heavens above and rot six feet below, I realized a huge part of my life wasn't being addressed as I parceled out my jewelery and bank notes.

I have an entire existence online that would fade away into nothingness upon my demise and all my cyber goodness would wilt and wither as though I never existed.

Then I took another drag of decongestant, popped another cough drop and stuffed more kleenex up my nose to staunch the snot.

As the world swirled around me (literally) and the gremlins fought germ warfare with my immune system, I decided it would be a fantastic idea to write up an entirely different type of will. A cyber will.

Ah. The best ideas are brought about by Sudafed overdoses.

(This may also be why my husband insists on locking our medicine cabinet. Too bad suckah! I know where you keep the key.)

So, it is with a runny nose, hair that hasn't seen a comb in a few days and a decidedly sickly odour emanating from my pores that I bring to you, The Last Cyber Will and Testament of Tanis the Redneck Mommy.*


(If my children ever read this site-GET OFF IT NOW!!!-I want you to know your daddy never wore my intimate apparel. But I can't say the same for Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog.)

Upon my untimely passing from both the real world and the cyber world, I hereby bestow the keys to my blog to the lovely and talented Mr. Lady. I may as well. She already has my password and routinely comes into the guts of this place to clean up the messes I like to make when I try and make things prettier.  And since most people can't tell us apart, she may as well just take over the archives and spam folder and use my blog as she sees fit. However, if I find out you are using my blog to do product placement and review or to indoctrinate readers into right wing Christian Conservatism, I'm totally coming back from the dead and hiding behind your shower curtain when you least expect it.

I happily hand over my Facebook account and all the poking going on over there to Jason Mayo. I know, I know. This seems random and odd. But he's a relatively new blogger whom I really dig. And since my facebook account contains the links to hundreds of fantastic writers he could mine this information and use it to become world famous and dominate the entire blogosphere. Or just use it to play Lexulous like I do. Or stalk my sister. She needs a little action in her life to spice things up.

I bequeath my Linked In account to, um, *scratches head*. Does anyone use Linked In? I mean, I have an account but I can't figure out why. Screw it. Anyone want my Linked In account contact my attorney. First come, first serve.


For my most precious possession, my cartoon stash on my hard drive, I hereby pass it onto Shawn. I figure anyone who spends his free time composing essays on feminism and deconstructing toddlerhood needs a life chuckle. Or at the very least a distraction from all the big words rattling around in his head.

It is with great happiness I give all my really good porn links to Neil Kramer. I consider this my contribution to getting him laid. Even if it's only self serve action. An orgasm is never something to shun. You're welcome Neil. Don't say I never did anything for you.

For my friend, Adam Avitable, I would like you to have the file marked 'Vanity' buried in my documents. In it, you'll find the digital negatives for all the naughty photos I ever took for Boo. Since he already has the hard copies, I figure he won't mind sharing the cyber copies with you. Or maybe he will. But I'm dead so really, that's your problem. Did I mention my husband is bigger than you? And his fists are the size of hams? Anyways, happy viewing friend. I know you don't really have a hankering to look at pictures of a chubby blonde with tattoos, but maybe you could make a calendar with them and sell them to recoup all the money you spent on postage for the parcels you lovingly sent to me over the years:

055-300x22429560058-48c3fe4655e8dc97d3cb3a809839c10e.4ab3d4d3-fullMy mailman will always remember you fondly.

As for my Twitter account, I bequeath it to my friend Anissa Mayhew. Your tweets constantly amuse me and really, the world needs to know how spectacular your rack is. Feel free to use my twitter following to spread the word wonder.

For my MotherBumper, Kate, I'd like you to have my collection of iTunes. I know you don't really dig the magic of Dolly Parton and you can't stand Nickelback, but I don't play video games and really, the thought of you prancing around in your underwear while Billy Ray Cyrus sings about wanting his mullet back is an image too priceless for me to resist. You're welcome.

*Come on. You all know you need a little mullet in your life. Click it. I double dog dare you.*

And lastly, to my darling Catherine, I give you my fan mail. I know, I know. You don't need to my fan mail, you have your own and it outnumbers mine.  Actually, I'm too lazy to sort through my inbox so you can just take all four damn email accounts I have. Feel free to empty the spam folders while you are in there.  But with my email accounts you will find all the letters I have ever written to my friends, my haters and my supporters. You will find a small treasure trove of insight and drivel. Oh all right. Fine. You caught me. I gave away all my good stuff already and I didn't want you to feel left out. You want my LinkedIn account?? No? Well,  I'm sure if you ask really nice, Bumper will let you listen to some Nickelback and Shawn will share some cartoons with you.

And to everyone else who knew me online, in real life or virtual reality, you will always carry a little bit of me around with you in your heart. Mostly, because my words are insidious, like the germs currently infesting my body.

Now I have to go and hide my computer. I promised my husband I wouldn't blog while doped up on cold meds. Something about me being wildly inappropriate and accidentally sending topless photos to his boss's email account instead of his.

He's such a fuddy duddy sometimes.

*This will is in no way legally binding and will be enforced only through the whimsy of my husband, who will likely be too busy interviewing for Wife 2.o to actually follow through with bestowing my gifts to their rightful heirs. Take it up with him. I'll be dead. What do I care?