I grew up in a small village in southern Ontario. (I fast-tracked my way to the front of the line to be their idiot.) It seems strange to call it a village, but they had built two churches there, so technically it is. I lived with my mom and stepfather, along with my two sisters. I was a pretty bad kid, but I was fairly well liked and had a good heart, so I got along okay with the village elders.
I slid, for lack of a better term, through school and as soon as I was old enough to get myself expelled, I did. Wahoo, life is about to begin, right? Not a chance. I jumped from meaningless job to meaningless job faster than you can say Jack Robinson (whoever the hell he is). I should also add that I liked to “party” beyond my means. I use that word as a blanket term for any type of debauchery you can think of. That lifestyle ended shortly after I got my truck driving licence in 1998 and the mandatory drug testing began. I am now married to the girl I’ve been waiting for forever and her two amazing daughters, and other than my chosen career path, I’ve never been happier.
The reason I am doing this blog, is to sort of document my transition from being a trucker to whatever I end up doing next. I only know that it has to be something I love, and it has to pay the bills. I’m open to suggestion, so if there is something you think I’d be good at, let me know. I’m kind of lost here, and I can always use a guiding hand.
Peace out bitches,
About Mrs. Birdman
Mrs. Birdman is not only beautiful, but she’s funny, smart, kind, talented, and extremely wise. She has a smile that will melt away your darkest days, and she’s mine. For whatever reason, she loves me, and feels the need to grace me with amazing cocooning every night (and some mornings and afternoons). She wouldn’t do her own “about me” section so I’m doing it for her, and let me tell you bub, I’m doing this thing up right.
Mrs. B has had a hard go of life, starting from when she was born to an unnamed Mississippi river boat gambler and an old, drunk washer-woman named Lily. She hustled her ass, as soon as she was old enough to shine shoes, sell cigarettes, and run liquor to the men in the work cabins that were employed at the local farms. Sometimes, she’d get lucky, and one of those dirty old men would take a shine to that sixteen year old girl with a penchant for giving handjobs. She would get an extra couple bucks, and maybe more if she let him have a snort of that bourbon she brought back from town. I tell you sir, that when she first filled her palm with lotion for me, I thought I’d promise her a steak dinner and a brand new Cadillac. She was some skilled, she was, and that’s why I’m marrying that girl.
You may have realized that that last paragraph is bullshit. Well, the first part of it, anyhow ;). I do love her more than anything I could ever dream of (except if I could have a threesome with her and her clone), and I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Not only is she the perfect woman for me, she is an amazing photographer. I get lucky sometimes and get to be her light bitch, and I absolutely love to watch her work and interact with people. She is the yin to my yang, and the whipped cream in my coffee (Fuck off, if I have to drink coffee, it should taste awesome). I wouldn’t trade her for the world, and I hope she never wants to get rid of me.
Was that okay? I never know.