Petty with a Chance of Fiddles

I get a lot of (good-natured) ribbing for liking country music, but I don’t know how I could possibly NOT adore these lyrics paired with three sassy ladies, rollicking GUI-tars, and some motherfucking fiddles.

(Pistol Annies, “Got My Name Changed Back.” Catchy as fuck.)

H/T, George Carlin

George Carlin had a bit about the potency of farts — eg, “A fart that could eat the stitching out of Levi’s,” or “A fart that could end a marriage.”

And even though I don’t make fart jokes because I AM A LADY, my mind wandered to Carlin today, high fived that bit, and ended up here…

The kind of cramps where you Google a diagram of the human body so you know for sure which organs are absolutely going to fall out of your body at some point today.

The kind of cramps where you’ve never seen the movie Alien, but you just know something similar is happening in your abdomen.

The kind of cramps where you sing along with that country song about shootin’ your husband and really mean it, even though you’re single, because you just know, somewhere, somehow, a man is responsible for this. (JK, men — please come have sex with me in 3-4 days.)

The kind of cramps where you apologize to your liver in advance, because today’s definitely an Advil with a Bayer chaser kinda day. With Aleve sprinkles.

The kind of cramps where you’re like, “Fuck ME, did I eat knives that I forgot about?!”

The kind of cramps where “Fuck YOU, this chocolate muffin I’m eating for dinner is medicinal.”

Upholding my finest family traditions…

Logically I know there’ll come a time when seeing my ex at a group gathering of “our” still-coupled friends won’t make my brain all swimmy afterward.

Now that I’m home from tonight’s festivities, though, since I’m half Irish and half redneck, let’s hear it for stifling my feelings with whiskey and off-key singing along to blaring country music.

Suck it, thinking.

How have we not inspired at least one country song?

Right, so… THAT was the kind of family gathering that makes one consider seeking emergency weekend therapy.

Though score one for the preemptive healing properties of Malbec, hiding in restrooms, and dancing to “Runaround Sue.”

And, you know, for avoiding humanity for the rest of the weekend.

Family rally cry? Family rally cry.

I know you guys aren’t on my side with the country music, but I think we can all agree Pistol Annies have been reading my journal as we approach my family’s Christmas dinner. This is my new favorite song to sing in the car. (Shut up, I am SUPER hot when I have twang.)

“Well, Daddy’s reading propaganda
And he’s talkin’ ’bout the end of days
Well, cheers to the vodka Mama’s been sneakin’,
Let’s all gather ’round and pray.

“So I snuck out behind the red barn
And I took myself a toke
Since everybody here hates everybody here
Hell, I might as well be their joke.

“I’m gonna dance up on the table
Singing ‘This Little Light of Mine’
God gave it to me, what good’s it gonna do me
If I don’t, by God, let it shine?

“Hide your tattoo,
Put on your Sunday best,
Pretend you’re not a mess,
Be the happy family in the front pew…”

“Hush hush, don’t you dare say a word
Hush hush, don’t you know the truth hurts
Hush hush, when push comes to shove,
It’s best to keep it hush hush.”

Miranda Lambert is my new BFF

a) This is basically how I imagine myself looking and sounding when I sing this song in my car. (Delusions of WHAT, now?)

b) I am going to need that dress, like, IMMEDIATELY. Damn, girl — HIPS. Let’s be BFFs and share clothes. I would wear the similar hell out of that.

c) Now that they’re divorcing, can I also bang Blake Shelton?

“Hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady…”

I am obsessed with this song — it’s my new Sassy Strut/car singing/Pull Yourself Together song. In addition:

a) Miranda Lambert looks better unkempt than I do when I bring my capital-A game. I need more eye makeup, like, immediately.

b) I’m pretty sure I’ve HAD this conversation with my mother.

c) You can write it off because it’s country music, but it’s a bawdy, curvy, big-haired blonde sangin’ ’bout drankin’, and that there is some of my favorite comfort music. (For obvious reasons.) This song is the twangy, guitar-driven equivalent of “Conceal, don’t feel” — Miranda Lambert is basically Elsa, and you KNOW that movie would’ve been way better with whiskey and pills.