Panic Attack in the Middle of My Kitchen

I'm not a people person.

(Shocking I know. I mean, really, a gal who spends her time hiding online behind a computer screen doesn't possess the social skills to gracefully flitter about with abounding social skills. Whodathunkit?)

I like to hide in my house and surround myself with all things familiar.

When someone comes to my house unexpectedly I have a full fledged panic attack. My head actually pops off and rolls down the driveway when someone calls in advance to invite themselves into my space and my dogs have fun chewing on my cranium and depositing it at my feet minutes before the anticipated company arrives.

I can count on one hand how many times I have ever had over-night guests stay in my domicile, use my toilet paper and snoop through my kitchen drawers.

I am not a born entertainer.

I'm okay with this. I have other skills. I'm very bendy.

But this week, something shifted. I did the unthinkable. Not only did I allow my children to invite every known terrorist child in the neighbourhood to stay for a sleep over (I'm still in shock and trying to recover) I invited grown up peoples to my house.

To stay over.

For more than one night.

My friends Catherine and Kate are coming to visit me and witness how I wrangle the dust bunnies in the wilds of rural Alberta.

Let the hyperventilating commence.

The things I do for the people I love. (Well, okay. Truth be told I only invited them because I am madly in love with their children and covet them for my own, but still.)

Is there anything better than corrupting other people's children? I think not.

So I may not be around much because I am actually going to do the unthinkable. I'm going to clean my house. Not just stuff things under the bed and in the closets like I do when my husband is on his way home. Nope. I'm actually going to move things and use that fancy Dyson vacuum I acquired not long ago that I still have no idea how to use.

I may even clean my fish tank.

I will be restocking the liquor cabinet. That's a guarantee.

So if you don't hear from me in a few days, you'll know I've lost the showdown in the kitchen as I attempted to outdraw the dust bunnies. I'll have drown in a mountain of damn laundry and choked on cleaning supplies.

The things I do for my friends.

Dammit.

It'd be much easier if I could just admit defeat and publicly declare I'm a slob.

Now excuse me. I need to buy a mop. Where the hell does one purchase such a weapon of war?

Gah.

Ring Tone Annoyance

I am not a trend setter. Not in how I dress, not in what I write, and certainly not in the music I listen to. I am, what one could accurately describe as, a square.

Perhaps this is because I grew up listening to scratchy 8 track cassette tapes of Waylon Jennings and Dolly Parton.

Or maybe it's because my parents always had a radio (perched on top of our refrigerator) playing; the dial never once moved from the local farm station on the AM channel, even when FM barged it's way into it's place in modern day culture. I always knew when the schools were closed, which country act was coming to town and the price of hogs on any given day.

(Pig prices wasn't particularly useful information for my family as we were a bunch of surburban city dwellers, but somehow it made a permanent way into my psyche. Go figure.)

The only vinyl my parents I ever considered playing from my parents large collection were a few scratchy Elvis records. I had no interest in listening to the plethora of Hank Williams tunes that seemed to dominate the entire selection.

I grew up knowing how to dance to a good polka and I can square dance with the best of them. Oh ya, I am hip.

My siblings, Stretch and Mouse, shook off this cultural immersion in all things country freakishly old fashioned and morphed into people reasonably in touch with modern day society. They listen to current music, buy the latest technologies available on the market and, when asked what the latest price in the pig market might be, have the appropriate blank stare and WTF? look on their faces.

Me? I'm still listening to that AM channel with the mid-morning piggie announcements and I can't get enough of Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash. There is even a radio perched on the top of my fridge that I turn on every morning when I pad my way into the kitchen for my morning coffee.

I am, and always will be thanks to my parents successful indoctrination, an old fashioned girl.

(An old fashioned girl who gets knocked up with two kids before marrying her babies daddy, finishes her post secondary after having children, sports a blue bush,  has a few nipple and nose piercings and is riddled with tattoos. Still, I am old fashioned, I swear.)

Ahem.

I am in fact, a crotchety old lady trapped in a young woman's body.

I totally blame my parents.

Which brings me to the point of this post.

Yesterday I spent the day with my father. The same man who constantly hums "There is a Tear in my Beer" and doffs a cowboy hat when ever he sits down for a meal. The man who has had the same hair cut his entire life, wears cowboy boots because they are practical and wouldn't know what a trend is if it bit him on the arse.

Other than the fact my father looks nothing like me and has a vocabularly that makes even sailors blush, we are pretty much the same people. Stuck in our ways, hesitant to try anything new and sporting the same grouchy outlook when it comes to our world views.

We are two sides of the same coin.

Or so I thought until yesterday as the two of us went shopping for his belated fathers day present. Picture him ambling down the hardware store aisles in dirty cowboy boots, jeans and a denim shirt with a black cowboy hat perched on his thinning hair and then picture me in my dirty cowboy boots, jeans and denim shirt with a straw cowboy hat perched on my head.

We don't dress for fashion around here, yo.

As we stood in the massive hardware store surveying cabinetry and counter tops, mulling over colour choices and variety of wood grains, his cell phone rang.

Except I didn't think it was his cell phone. I thought it was some punk ass kid's who must be lurking around the corner.

When my father put down the cabinet sample to reach into his front pocket to grab his cell phone I just about died.

My father, the man who refuses to even learn what an iPod can do and listens to the same scratchy radio station, has a fancier cell phone than I do. A cellphone that sings out "Kung Fu Fighting" at the top of it's lungs when ever some one calls him.

This from the man who threatened to throw out our television set whenever my brother Stretch and I wanted to watch Micheal Jackson's video Thriller on MuchMusic.

This from the man who swears the Beatles music is nothing but a bunch of British twits with too much time on their hands.

This from the same man who thinks the definition of disco is derived from the movie "Rhinestone" from Glen Campbell's song "Rhinestone Cowboy."

My 61 year old father had a itty bitty cellphone belting out a musical ring tone. As people turned to stare at us to see who the jackass it was polluting the hallowed halls of the hardware store with such a silly ring tone, I pulled the brim of my hat down lower, stared at my boots and wished for the powers of invisibility.

After my dad concluded his phone call, he slipped his phone back into his shirt pocket, picked up the sample we were examining and tried to pick up our conversation where it left off.

Except I was staring at him like he just grew a tail and horns sprouted out of his forehead.

"Whose phone is that Dad?" Because there was no way it could have been my father's.

"Mine. Why?"

"Where'd you get that ring tone?" Because obviously someone played a practical joke on him. Obviously. "I can CHANGE it for you," I graciously offered.

"I bought it. I like it. And I can change it myself if I wanted to," he huffed at me, indignant with me for thinking he was too technologically challenged to handle a simple task such as that himself.

"But DAD. It's embarrassing. Seriously." I gaped at him, while reaching for his cell phone to correct his obvious error in judgement.

"I like it. Your mom's phone moos like a cow when ever someone calls. It makes us smile," he replied as he evaded my hand.

I just stood there dumbstruck, wondering where my father went and how I could get the body snatcher out of my dad's skin and return the world to normal.

"I've even got it programmed to bark like a dog when I get a text message," he grinned.

That's when I fell over dead and saw my lifeless body below me as I floated my way to heaven.

Pigs grew wings in that moment and snow started to fly in the deserts of Africa too.

I don't get it.

What ever happened to the basic ring tone? Am I the only grown up in the Western world who doesn't need to hear a chicken cluck or a digital version of "Take me out to the Ball Game" when a call comes in?

As my father and I were leaving the store he asked me where my cell phone was.

"Why? Is your battery dead?" I asked as I dug in my pocket and handed it to him.

"No. I just want to check out what ring tones your phone has."

GAH.

AMEN.

The Tale of Blue Thunder

*Attention: This post contains graphic content and images not suitable for the office, the elderly, the prudish or my big brother Stretch. You've been warned, yo.*

This past Friday, after two months of hard labour, my husband managed to break the shackles that keep him a slave to his job and flee the work site. Which meant upon waking Friday morning I had about six hours to run around the house in an effort to kill 8 weeks worth of dust bunnies and fold the mountain of laundry that was heaped in a pile on a couch in our family room so that my husband didn't realize we live like sloths in his absence.

After my marathon session of house cleaning I flopped down on the couch, panting, and started brainstorming ways to welcome my husband back into the fold of our family life. It was right about then that the hair on my leg stood up and waved hello so I figured first things first, a go-round with a chain saw would be necessary if I didn't want him running back to the hills when he realized his wife had morphed into a hairy beast-like creature while he toiled away to provide a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

Since it had been a while since I last bothered shaving my legs *cough*62 days*cough* you might say the forest was thick and the underbrush needed to be removed. For safety reasons my husband has imposed a strict fire ban policy: If my legs are hairy enough to rub together and spark with friction, it's time to take a razor or a weed whacker to the ole stumps.

So I gathered the appropriate supplies, including hair removal creams, wax strips, razors (and a chainsaw for back up,) and headed to the bathroom to start the hair removal process. A few nicks, a couple of rips later, with my eyes bleeding from the toxic fumes of chemical hair remover creams, I was as smooth as a baby's bottom. (Well, not really, since the dimpled cellulite on the backs of my thighs and ass cheeks preclude smooth skin, but I was significantly less hairy than I was when I woke up.)

It was as I was standing in the bathroom trying to staunch the blood pouring down my leg from a razor gone dull, that I found my inspiration. I knew exactly what it was I needed to do to surprise my husband home in a manner he'd never forget.

I was going to dye what little hair remaining on my body blue. That's right. It was time to turn the old landing strip into a runway he'd never forget.

Thank you vericose veins in all your shiny blue splendor. You were my inspiration after all.

So after a quick trip to the pharmacy, I sat on the couch and tore open the box. After reading the instructions from front to back, (because when messing with a woman's precious parts I deem it wise to never ignore any instructions or warning labels), I shed my bottoms and made my way to the bathroom.

The instructions were simple enough. Remove unwanted hair. Been there, done that already. Trim hair to desired length. Okay. So after rooting through my daughter's pile of craft crap I located a pair of rounded tip scissors (because who wants to take pointy edged scissors to one's box and risk permanently injuring one's lotus of love) and started snipping. When I had a small pile of hair laying at my feet, I grabbed the instructions to see what the next step was.

Mix one part hair lightening cream to two parts conditioner. Easy enough. And oh, it smells like flowers. Niiice. Once the chemicals were mixed it was time to apply the snotty looking goop to my grass patch. Here's where it got a little tricky. In big bold print the instructions warned the user to avoid getting hair near any 'sensitive' skin.

So standing in front of a mirror and trying to twist my body, I applied the toxic bleach to my bush while carefully avoiding any bits that may get burned.

Once that was done, I noticed that the instructions said to leave on for twenty or thirty minutes to appropriately lighten the hair.

Which meant I'd either have to stand with my legs spread as far apart as possible for the next thirty minutes or walk like I had a stick shoved up my arse. Great. Just as I was about to make peace with the idea of waddling about with my legs as wide as possible, I noticed some fine print in the instructions.

If one would like to speed up the lightening process one may apply a strip of clear kitchen wrap to the hair smeared in toxic chemicals and aim a blow drier at ones twat. According to the instructions this could knock ten to fifteen minutes off the lightening procedure.

Sounded too good to be true, really.

So I walked to the kitchen as carefully as possible and ripped myself a big ole strip of cling wrap to place on my cooter. Apparently I didn't walk carefully enough because by the time I got back into the bathroom with my saran-wrapped vajay-jay, my crotch was on fire. The chemical goop had found its way onto my pink parts.

Holy Mother of Gawd, my tinkerbox was on fire. I had two choices. I could wipe the whole mess off and abandon ship or I could try and remove the bleach from my pink petals and hope for the best. Since I'm not a quitter, I once again contorted and twisted until I managed to remove any trace of acid burn from my labia lips. Cursing myself for not thinking of grabbing an ice cube to shove up there, (cuz that worked the last time my cooter caught fire) I took a deep breath and rewrapped my box of love with cling wrap and grabbed the hair dryer. Anything to speed this process up and be able to wipe the toxic goop off and away from my inner bits.

With my legs spread wide apart and my bush covered in plastic I fired up the hairdryer and took aim at my girly parts.

Ever attack your privates with hot air?

No?

I imagine it's about as much fun as wrestling with a porcupine in a tar pit. Gives a whole new meaning to Hot Damn! Once again my vadge was ablaze and my freshly shorn sensitive skin was on fire. After a few seconds I shut the hair dryer off and considered my options as I fanned cold air towards my womanhood.

By this time, sweat was pouring down my forehead and I knew I was in too deep to back out. "Come on Tanis. Some freaks out there would pay big money to have this done to themselves. Blowing yourself shouldn't be this hard. You can do it!" I told myself as I reluctantly picked up the blow torch hair dryer and turned it on.

For the next ten minutes I stood in the bathroom alternating between frying my junk and fanning myself cool all the while whimpering like a cougar with a thorn in it's paw.

I gave up at minute nine and decided enough was enough. Telling myself that a tinder box wasn't conducive to love making, I tossed the hair dryer, ripped off the cellophane and jumped in the shower to rinse the last of the acid goo off my beaver.

After drying off I happily noted that my landing strip was now bleached white and ready for the next step to Smurfy glory. It had now been near an hour since I began this freak show and by golly I was going to see the finale come hell or come high water.

From here the instructions were simple enough. Smear the blue goo onto the bleached hair, reapply kitchen cling wrap and wait thirty minutes or fry oneself with the blow torch hair dryer for ten minutes. After my last trip to the inferno of hell, I figured I could wait thirty minutes as the dye took hold. I was done with the heat source. I'm pretty sure lighting my pubic hairs on fire with a match would have been a more pleasant experience than the heat gun.

Just as I made peace with standing like a statue with my legs wide apart, there was a knock on my door.

Imagining it was my father who would likely just barge in (as he's been known to do), see my blue plastic-wrapped muff and then keel over dead, I wondered how I would explain this to the authorities so I grabbed a robe and ran to the door to try and stop my dad from buying the farm.

Except it wasn't my father, it was the UPS driver. He must have thought I was a tad freakish what with the robe on in the middle of the afternoon and the way I sorta bounced up and down as once again the toxic chemicals burned their way into my female folds. I quickly signed for my package, ignored his polite chit chat and all but slammed the door in his face as I tossed the parcel onto the couch and beelined back to the bathroom.

Shrugging off my robe I noticed the plastic had fallen off my cooter and the blue had smeared all over the insides of my thighs. Sexxay. I tried to wipe the goo off which was in the process of burning off small pieces of my most prized flesh and was horrified to find that it had dyed the inside of my beaver bright blue.

Not really the look I was going for. After a few minutes of futile scrubbing I just gave up and decided to worry about that when I showered off.

There isn't a whole lot to do when one is standing with one's legs spread wide apart in the bathroom while waiting for her thatch to go smurfalicious. I counted the toothpaste splatters on the mirror my daughter had missed wiping up, practiced reading my French as I read the back of a shampoo bottle and pondered my husband's reaction to my ever thoughtful gift.

Time moves really slowly when one's cooter is cooking, just so y'all know.

Eventually, the seconds passed and it was time to rinse off and clean up.

It was a little disconcerting to see the water turn blue as it swirled at my feet but thankfully the dye was washing off my skin.

Score! I wouldn't have a blueberry beaver and matching thighs!

Toweling off, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and dropped the towel to inspect my masterpiece under the harsh glare of the bathroom lights.



Yep, it's blue all right, I laughed to myself. Blue like Smurfette.

By this time I had spent nearly two hours of my life (two hours I will never get back) all in the effort to surprise my husband with a blue bush. He'd better damn well appreciate this, I muttered to myself as I got dressed and cleaned up the remnants of the toxic waste.

Except, in the end, he arrived home later than expected, the kids were all home and there was no time to unveil my new blue Thunder without visually scarring my children for the rest of their lives. I may be a bad mother, but I'm not that bad.

So I waited. And waited. And every time I had to go to the washroom I had to do a double take because bright blue pubic hair tends to take one by surprise no matter how many times one sees it.

Finally it was bed time.

And when it came time for the big reveal?

That fucker laughed.

Laughed so hard tears poured down his cheeks. He laughed so hard I wondered if he'd ever be able to get it up. If I had gone through all the torture of ripping, stripping, coluring and burning my beaver all for naught. I wondered if Smurfette had permanently wrestled my husband's one-eyed snake dead.

Thankfully no. The Blue Thunder worked it's magic and all was right under the Redneck roof.

At least until the next morning, when I regaled Boo with the tale of torture and woe all in the name of welcoming him home with style.

"Didn't you know you are supposed to wipe all areas you want to protect with vaseline before applying chemicals? Everyone knows that!" Boo laughed.

"What? I didn't know that!!! It didn't say that in the instructions!! It's not like I dye my pubic hair every damn day! How was I supposed to know?" I huffed.

"You're crazy, woman," he laughed after I whined how I burned my box all in the name of love.

"Crazy and cute," I teased. "Plus I'm now colour-coordinated to match your pretty blue eyes," I laughed.

"You know Tanis, if you really loved me..." he paused and looked thoughtful.

"What? You mean my blueberry muff isn't sufficient enough evidence of my undying love for you? You obviously weren't listening to the torture involved in achieving the big blue box of love," I huffed.

"No, no. It's just if you really loved me, you'd have dyed it John Deere green."

It was then I strangled him with a sock and buried him out in the back forty.

Never mess with a woman with a blue bush between her legs and a chemically burned cooter.

*And officially? I'm never, ever, EVER doing this again. Not just cuz it was a pain in the as- er, va-jayjay, but I don't even want to imagine the nightmare of what the regrowth is going to look like.*