Furniture Cluster#uck

My husband and I married when we were very young. We married so young not only because we were madly in lust love with one another, but after already birthing one baby and being five months pregnant with the next, my father was polishing his shotgun and starting to use Boo's picture for target practice.

Dad has deadly aim, so we figured (in the name of safety sake and Boo's preservation) we should probably make things legal. Besides, I couldn't find a nunnery that would take a horny 20 year old with an eight month old baby and one on the way.

So we stood up before God and our friends and family and pleaded for mercy. Er, said our vows. At the end of the ceremony, before we were pronounced man and wife, I asked my dad to finally put away his loaded shotgun. He complied but only before Boo's brother and my brother wrestled it out of his hands.

True story.

Because we married so young we didn't have a proverbial pot to piss in. We were dirt poor. At the time, I was the main bread earner because, well, I looked so good in pants. Never did I imagine I would be a stay at home wife, kept in the comfort provided off the earnings of my hard working husband as I spent my days loafing and surfing for internet porn.

How far we have come.

We struggled with early parenthood, being relative children ourselves, and finding our way in this cruel hard world we live in. Along the way we developed a deep and abiding love and respect for each other. But only when I wasn't screaming at him for forgetting to put the toilet seat down.

It was a tough road to travel. Several times we teetered on the brink of losing it all and each other, yet we always muddled through and found our way back to marital bliss and financial stability. Turns out, we both hate being poor and that motivated us to make smart choices and become financially responsible.

Early on, after we almost lost our home and were staring homelessness in the face, we made a promise to one another to never spend more than a hundred dollars with out running it past the other person. Groceries and bills were the exception to this rule, but everything else had to be cleared with our partner.

Such draconian efforts literally pulled our arses from the fire. We slowly became stable with our income, paid off our debts and now we are actually solvent. It is a wonderful feeling knowing in a matter of five years we will be completely financially independent.

But we still adhere to our one hundred dollar rule. Or rather, Boo does. I occasionally slip. I mean, I'm at home, by myself most days of the month and other than parenting, what else do I have to do other than surf the net than shop? Ha , ha.

This tends to annoy Boo, but because I'm such a wonderful wife, (stop laughing) he often forgives me.

Until yesterday. When he discovered that I broke the rules and bought furniture without even telling him. I know. BAD Tanis. Bad wife. Bad. I ought to be ashamed.

Oddly enough, I'm not. Cuz my new furniture is soooo purdee. The thing is, the furniture had to be delivered because I drive a station wagon and can't fit a four-poster bed and matching dresser in the back of my car no matter how hard I try.







I figured once Boo came home from work and saw our new lovely bedroom he would be more forgiving once I waggled my eyes, patted the mattress and offered to christen our new home furnishings with him. Sex usually helps, I find, for all of you who haven't figured that out just yet. It's why I keep knee pads in the side table. I'm often asking for forgiveness.

The delivery truck was supposed to come on Wednesday but due to a mechanical problem, it was rescheduled for Thursday. I sat around my house, twiddling my thumbs and looking out the window waiting for a large truck to pull up into my drive way until it got dark.

Still no furniture. I called the store and they promised me the furniture was on the way, they were just running behind. They would be at my house no later than 8 p.m. Weird, I mean, who delivers furniture at night, but hell, as long as I'm getting my new bed, I'll be a happy girl.

The clock was ticking. It now became a race to see who came home first. My bed or my husband. My ass would be grass if my husband came home to find no bed since I had disassembled our old one and tossed it out on the deck. My visions of a romantic reunion on fancy new furniture were disappearing with every hour that past. I was starting to imagine the spanking I would receive and not the sexy type if you know what I mean.

Finally, at MIDNIGHT my furniture arrived. I live out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark and I'm a woman alone with kids sleeping in their beds. It was like a nightmare come true. Strange, creepy delivery men knocking at my door in the middle of the night. Common sense told me to send their asses home and tell them to come back when it's light out, but then common sense doesn't have a husband currently en route and unaware of the drama unfolding in his domain.

Granted, the delivery men were more interested in setting up my bed and getting the hell out of dodge than they were in raping and pillaging me, but still. I was more than mildy annoyed. The obscene amount of money I spent on this fancy furniture should at least guarantee me the safety of a daytime delivery. By men who didn't sport prison tattoos and look like they were looking for fresh meat.

So not only was I exhausted, but now I was freaked right the fack out. What the hell had I done? Furniture, no matter how lovely, is not worth this type of stress.

Thankfully, just as the men were loading the boxes into my home, my very confused husband pulled into the driveway. The man always did have exceptional timing. He was actually fairly calm, considering he just drove six hours to come home in the middle of the night to find two men alone in his bedroom with his wife.

Mind you, he did have a crow bar in his hand, so I guess that speaks volumes. By the time the four of us had set up the bed and dresser it was past TWO a.m.







We crawled into our fabulous new bed and I waggled my eyes suggestively for forgiveness and all my darling husband could say was "Rub my neck. You'll pay for this later. I'm too damn tired right now."

Such sweeter words I have never heard, I thought to myself as I yawned and proceeded to give him the neck rub of his life. It really is better to ask for forgiveness than it is to beg for permission, I thought to myself slyly as I worked at the knots in his back.

That is until he rolled over and looked at me and told me it's a good thing I bought a poster bed. I could be expected to be chained to it for the duration of his stay at home.

Sigh. The price I have to pay for my slight financial indiscretions. It could have been worse, I suppose, he could have demanded I bring out the ole knee pads.

***Side note: Is it me, or do I have a right to be fraking mad about receiving a large furniture delivery at midnight? Is this usual? I never buy furniture so the delivery time took me by surprise. And for all of you wondering, I bought the furniture through ASHLEY furniture. It's beautiful, but after only getting five hours of sleep and the stress I endured waiting for the delivery, I'm not sure I would do it again. Thank God my husband came home when he did. But should I rip a strip off some unsuspecting manager's ass? What would you do?***

I'm Letting it All Hang Out

I am a creature of habit. Heck, I'm a stalker's delight. I like to do the same things, in the same order, every day. If something throws my routine off, I tend to fold my arms over my chest and start rocking back and forth in the nearest dark corner while humming like the twit I am as though my life depends on it.

My friends, like Cowboy and his wife, know this about me and laugh. When they're not rolling their eyes. My husband has been exasperated by me on more than one occasion. My kids, well, they just chalk it up to having the bad luck to have been birthed by a crazy woman.

(Side note: Cowboy's squished eyeball is healing nicely and although I'm thankful I don't have to stare too deeply into the scarred and reddened eyeball of his, he reports he can see. Not well, but then, either can I. So thanks for all the well wishes and prayers. Feel free to toss more in his direction, maybe we can make him prettier while we're at it.)

I can't help myself. I have no excuses other than the fact that I'm bat shit crazy. Really. The psychiatrist said so.

One of my slightly nutty habits is how I get dressed and ready for the day. I have my shower, wherein I proceed to wash myself in the exact same order, towel off, lotion up, etc. By the time I've brushed my teeth I'm sweating. Good grooming is hard work. So I do what I always do. I put on my underwear (yes, I do occasionally wear them...you know, when I know the paparazzi is hanging around) and then go back to the bathroom to slap on my war paint and do my hair.

With my boobs hanging out. I know, I'm a freak. But with the added weight I've gained this past year, I actually have guns. Nice guns. And it charms me to no end to ogle them while I'm peering at myself in the mirror trying to tame the wildebeest I generally look like. Weird, I know.

It's not until I'm coiffed and looking like the supermodel I am in my mind slightly presentable that I bother getting dressed. My kids know to stay the hell away from my bathroom as I groom unless they want an eyeful of mom's titties to scar them for life.

It's generally pretty safe to do this. The hubs works out of town most days so he's not going to sneak up behind me and try and cup the girls when he's looking for a little action and I live out in the sticks. Literally. I'm surrounded by trees. And while I do have a handful of neighbours, they are so far away from my house and we are so sheltered by trees I feel safe enough to wander about in the nude. I'll even swim in the pool buck naked or garden topless. (Aren't I painting you a pretty picture?)

 
 

 

See? Sticks. Lots and lots of sticks. 

 
 

 

My closest neighbour. Boy did I give him an eyeful. 

You might say, I'm comfortable in my own body and truth be told, I want my kids to be comfortable in theirs. After all, it is the only body we get and we may as well be at peace with it, even if your boobs resemble beaver tails and flap down around your belly button.

In our long Canadian winter months, the only time I can really let loose and be free nude is after I shower. It's not like I'm going to go streaking through the snow banks while buck nekkid hollering out my pledge of allegiance to the queen.

Well, okay, I may have done that once or twice on a dare, but in my defense, there was alcohol involved and the kids were in bed.

For the most part, my naked fetish has never been a problem. Other than the time I was breast feeding and an old family friend of Boo's walked in while I was sitting on the couch with my girls hanging out spraying milk all over the place.

Then there was the time I was heavily pregnant in the summer and it was freaking hot out. I was sitting in the shade with my top off and I fell asleep in the chair. I didn't hear my brother in-law drive up our long driveway and only awoke when he slammed his truck door shut. You might say he got more than he bargained on. To this day, I'm still his favorite sister in-law.

I have learned from these delightful moments to keep a shirt nearby to toss on, if the need arises. I am a quick learner after all.

But I may have to rethink this whole privacy out in the bushes thing, now that the kids are older. This weekend, as the kids were outside trying to shove each other's faces in the mounds of snow piled near the house, I was in my bathroom happily minding my own business, hanging out (literally), getting ready for a family get together. I had my stereo blasting and I was singing along to the tunes, sounding like a cat in heat.

Unbeknownst to me, one of the neighbour's kids decided to come over and see what Fric and Frac were up to. By this time, Fric and Frac had migrated further into the bush in their attempts to kill one another and their socially challenged friend didn't see them when he trudged up our driveway. Being the social delinquent he is, he heard the music and thought there was a party going on. So he just walked in. No knocking, no yelling "Hello? Anyone home?" He just entered my private little oasis as though he owned the joint.

There I was, in my bathroom, blow-drying my hair as my eighties rock music blared on the stereo, completely oblivious to this strange child wandering through my home, looking for Fric and Frac. Once my hair was dried, I decided I could use a drink so I wandered into the kitchen. Wearing only my pretty pink panties.

 
 

 

At least I shaved my legs... 

Do you see where this is going?

Meanwhile, the intruding child wandered out of Fric and Frac's room, scratching his head wondering where in the hell everyone was. Just as he entered the kitchen from one direction, I entered it from the other.

Time stopped. Everything happened in slow motion. At the exact same time he saw my boob rings glinting in the morning sun, I saw him. We made eye contact. I screamed. He screamed and then I think he jumped so high he narrowly missed having his head lopped off by the ceiling fan.

As my face turned eight shades of red, I turned around and hi-tailed it to my bedroom to seek shelter grab my robe, while wishing the earth would swallow me whole. I muttered something about the kids being outside and he muttered something about this being his lucky day.

From my bedroom I yelled that the kids were outside and for him to go and find them. I briefly considered murdering someone, but after quickly realizing I couldn't walk around naked in the joint, I reconsidered.

The socially inept child had the good graces not to follow me into my bedroom, (although I do think he briefly considered it) and yelled out his apologies as he scrambled to put his boots back on.

I yelled back, while rocking back and forth behind my locked bedroom door not to worry about it but maybe take this as a lesson to learn how to knock. (Although, as an after thought, I wouldn't have heard the knocking over my caterwauling about Cherry Pie.)

I hurriedly got dressed and wandered out onto the deck to yell for Fric and Frac to let them know they had a guest. Turned out, the socially inept kid had already found who he was looking for.

As I turned to go back in the house and bang my head against the wall, I heard him tell Frac, "Your mom is HOT! I'm coming over more often!"

Remind me to start locking my doors.

I'll never be able to make eye contact with anyone in the neighbourhood again, because as I learned when my kids came home from school on Monday, he has told EVERYONE. Even the school bus driver and the mailman.

It's official. I'm a dumbass famous. My poor kids.

 

Good Bloggers Gone Bad

When I first started writing this blog, it was strictly a means of personal therapy, trying to cope with the very recent death of my almost five year old son. Children aren't supposed to die before their parents, especially not in the middle of the night, in the back seat of their mom's car while she's got the pedal to the mat and is racing into the city to the hospital. It's just not very nice. Or very thoughtful.

It wasn't easy to blog. Hell, it wasn't easy to breathe. Yet I forced myself to sit in front of the computer and try and find something that would brighten my day and remember that life isn't just about the dead kid who was missing. It was about living. Living through the very worst moments of life and learning to survive. To never lose hope, to never lose one's self.

Blogging brought me out of my fog enshrouded world and gave me the ability to see my kids again. It reminded me to love. It helped morph me into the person I am today, sitting behind this computer screen, a person still struggling with heartbreak most days but a woman who can remember that life goes on. Even when when someone we cherish is lost.

The community I found on the vast internets swept me into their arms and loved me until I came back to the land of the living. I am forever in debt to all of you out there who have been a part of that.

But that left me with another problem. How much do I open myself up to this vast cyber community? Not everybody is friendly, and there are creeps out there. Perverts which I attract with my talk of boob rings, crotchless panties and blowjobs. And no, I don't care how nicely you ask, I'm still not sending you naked pictures of me. Sheesh.

I struggle with this, while trying to ensure I cross no online boundaries with my family members, because without them, I have nothing. Really. My husband pays for everything. Including the coffee I'm slurping. I'd like to keep it that way.

Yet I feel I owe my online community a small part of myself because truthfully, with out all of you I really don't think I would be here. Grief is a dark place and a mother's grief is the darkest corner of the universe there is. I don't like to think of the road I may have traveled if I hadn't found you. And you. Any maybe you too, but would you please stop picking your nose thinking we don't know what you are doing? Get a damn kleenex, for cripes sake.

I thrive with my online relationships, new and old. It gets me through the long and deafeningly quiet days that were once filled with drool and slamming cupboards and a constant humming from Bug. It gets me through the times Fric and Frac can't stop fighting and I can't remember why I wanted to be a parent at all. And it gets me through the lonely wee hours when I miss my husband so much I take a voodoo doll made in his image and stick pins in it. Right in his kneecaps.

So imagine my delight yesterday morning when I woke up to check my inbox and found several letters from my Toronto lady blogger friends. And then imagine the look of horror on my daughter's face when she peered over my shoulder to see what had made her mother keel over with laughter.





Wow, those Toronto gals really um, love me.

It seems a group of Toronto bloggers got together to celebrate all that is good about the world of blogging and wanted to include me. My heart just grew three sizes, just like the Grinch. I mean, is there anything better than getting virtually licked by a group of hot women? No, I didn't think so.

I knew the gals and a few guys were having a get together and wanted me to join them. But with 2000 odd kilometers between us, a maxed out credit card and some familial obligations, there was just no way I could join them. It's too bad all of them live in the WRONG. DAMN. PROVINCE.





I do believe that is MamaTulip flashing me her girls and getting frisky with another. Rawr. My type of lady.

What I sadly underestimated was just how wild a group of rowdy bloggers can get when you put a few bottles of beer in front of them and a blown up head shot snatched off of Facebook. (See Boo? Facebook isn't completely without it's uses...)





I kinda like it when the always classy Her Bad Mother molests me.

Because you know, a creative group of clever writers are always the most boring people in a bar.





Such pretty er, eyes you have Kittenpie.

It kinda went downhill from there.





This lady is so restrained. I worry she may never come out of her shell.

As the night wore on, and I was at home happily minding my own business unaware of the shenanigans going on with out me, across the country things were winding down. My blogging buddies had their fill of their Redneck and turned to more important topics like world peace, vibrators and the upcoming BlogHer conference in San Francisco.

I quickly became nothing more than a coaster for their beverages.


I like to call this one the Money Shot. Heh heh.

Eventually, they all wandered home, some sober, some less so, but all had a good time. Especially me, from the looks of it.





One liked me so much, he even thought to bring me home with him. What can I say? I'm irresistible.

Ya, this online community is a beautiful thing. The friendships that bloom here can be real and lasting and sweet as a freshly bloomed rose.

You know what's going to be sweeter though?

My revenge.

BWHAHAAHAHAHAAHAH!

Coming soon to a Toronto pub near you. As soon as I dig out my passport, find my husband's hidden credit card and think of a plausible story to tell my husband as to why I need to fly across the country.

It's gotta be a good one too, because he's not nearly as dumb as he looks.

Wink, wink.

***Kidding Boo. I love you. Now really, where's that credit card???***