Classic TMI

Every day this week I've opened my computer, sat down and willed myself to write something. Every. Day. And six hours later, stymied, frustrated and dejected, I've closed my laptop and walked away. It's not that I have writer's block, or don't have anything to say, it's just that I don't know how to write what I want to say with out sounding like that insane screechy person on the subway platform prattling on and on about the end of days a'coming and hoping no one pushes her onto the tracks.

So I've decided to take my time and parse my words, for once, thinking before I speak, or rather, pressing 'publish.' I'm trying to show a depth in growth here people, but it's no fun.

In-law/sibling relationships are hard, hurty and complicated and life would just be easier if I didn't mind picking up a flamethrower and burning a few bridges to the ground. I could totally chant, "Burn baby burn!" as I wielded a big old blowtorch.

Life would be so much more fun if I was a pyromaniac with little regard to other people's feelings or my own happiness.


So as I have struggled to figure out how I feel, why it matters and if it's even worth sharing, (because really, who hasn't had difficulty with a relative or an in-law or even just another human being before in their lives? It's not like my particular family dynamics are particularly interesting or unique and I'd likely just be another person prattling 'woe is me' when you all have real life problems and then you'd all want to either smother me with a dirty pillow or hit me upside the head with a broken laptop.) I've taken to wandering around my yard, pulling the occasional weed, planting the odd flower and cursing at the wildlife.

Remember this fine fella from earlier this spring? He/she/Pat (it's not like I'm going to ask him/her/Pat to hold still so I can inspect what's between it's legs) has taken to standing in my driveway, eating the tops off of all my fruit trees off and pooping wherever I have to walk. Apparently Pat the Moose is neither scared of the pack of dogs I keep, or the air horn I blow when ever he gets too close to my favourite cherry tree.

Pat just keeps coming back.

I found Pat bathing in my pond yesterday. Pat wasn't shy at all. Of course, I kept a healthy distance between Pat and myself because as much as I call myself a redneck and for as long as I've lived out in the country, I am a born city slicker who squeals like the girl I am when ever I comes face to face with an animal taller than I am.

I gave Pat my permission to stay in my pond because if he/she stays in the back half of my property then I know he/she won't be eating any more of my tree tops, will stay out of my garden and I won't have to scrape moose poop off of Jumby's wheelchair tires.

Also, I can hear my husband screeching at me that it's a girl moose but for all I know Pat could just be a slow developer. Like I was. Maybe his balls haven't dropped and his horns are slow. DO I LOOK LIKE A FREAKING ZOOLOGIST BOO? STOP MOCKING ME.

Of course Pat the Moose is much friendlier than the bitchy beaver I happened upon last week. I only had my iPhone with me and when I tried to get closer to show you all the true majesty of our royal beaver, the little witch smacked her tail at me, bared her teeth and then chased me a few meters.

Insert stuffed beaver joke here.

There was no chance of me getting any tail with that beaver, as I was too busy half laughing, half squealing and full out running as fast as my little legs would take me away from the beastie. I wanted to turn right around and point out just who owned what but then I remembered what a beaver did to my dad's dog so I just kept on running.

I'm a pansy like that.

What does it say that a girl can't even walk around her yard with out being chased by an angry beaver? Don't answer that. It was rhetorical.

You'd think with all the recent brushes with death I've had via my wild life encounters, I'd have finally figured out how I want to write what I need to say. You'd have thought wrong. Because when I am not taking my own life into my hands by walking around the yard, I've been ogling the construction men my husband hired to fill my hole.

Cue the bad 70's porn music. Bow chicka bow wow. Except the only dirty thing going on over here is how it rained nonstop the moment my husband ripped out our driveway. My yard is one big slip and slide involving sweaty, muddy men playing with Lego styrofoam blocks and feeding me beer.

Turns out this construction gig isn't half bad.


There was only one beer. Most of the time the manly men refuse to talk to me and instead they prefer to walk around the yard holding their cell phones up trying to find one bar of reception so they can call my husband and therefore avoid walking up the deck, knocking on the door and being forced to talk to me.

When they do have to talk to me, they stare at my feet and pretend I'm not drooling on them. They're very professional like that.

I can totally hear my husband yelling at me to STOP TALKING. I bet he's really glad Xplornet finally fixed my internet.

For those of you who are interested in my husband's man cave, well, we've gone from having a driveway, to having a pit to hell, to having footings, to now having first floor walls, a septic system, plumbing, electrical and absolutely zero driveway. Next up, I hear my sidewalk and my lawn are on the list to be ripped out.


My husband, being the man he is, is bouncing around with excitement and barely takes any notice of how ugly everything is right now. He just keeps telling me 'it has to get ugly before it can get pretty, Tanis,' and I keep wanting to hit him over the head with a shovel.

It turns out that this entire building project, the sheer enormity of it, the cost, the time factor and the myriad of a million loose threads all needing to be tied together in one giant bow are taking their toll on me. My husband sees a shiny bright future filled with ease and double garage doors and I see that spot where Bug used to sit in a plastic pool erased, filled now with concrete. That sidewalk he wants to rip out? Bug walked those blocks. With every little change necessary to make room for my husband's dream it seems like it's erasing the memories of my past, scattering them in the wind like dandelion seeds and I'm struggling over it.

In the meantime, I'll keep wandering about, begging Nature to be kind to me, while hoping the next construction crew doesn't drink cheap beer and I'll wait for the words to come.

At over 1200 words today, I don't think I'll have to wait much longer.

A mock-up of what the man-cave should end up looking like. Picture girly doors though. Because I like girly. And my husband didn't check the order. Heh.