I’ve made it no secret I live in buttfarkle Alberta. To my stalkers, I live in northern Alberta. Specifically, I live in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, bears and moose who like to crap on my lawn and eat my flowers. When I’m in a good mood, I refer to my location as the pimple on the North Pole’s arse cheek.

Y’all don’t want to hear what I call where I live when I’m cranky.

While I love living rural there are moments when I’m reminded I’ve lost my damn urban mind when I chose to relocate to the sticks. Generally those moments occur when I realize we need milk, toilet paper or booze.

It’s in those moments, those twenty-five minutes it takes for me to drive all over hell’s half acre to get to the nearest small town’s ridiculously overpriced rinky dink grocery store to over pay for a jug of milk, I’m reminded that I need to really, really re-evaluate the joys of country living.

(I’d tell my husband the same thing too, but every time I whine about having to drive so far just to buy milk he offers to bring home a cow for me to keep in the front yard to milk. I’ve since learned to keep my big fat yap shut.)

But then there are moments that make country living worth it. Moments which remind me that I am living the dream. Country life at it’s finest.

Moments like this:

Talk about things that make you go, Hmm?

Naturally, because let’s face it, I’m a dirty minded gal, I immediately got to thinking, what kind of yahoo names his store Beaver Rentals?

Apparently the type of yahoo that opens up a small business in my local small town.

Since the last time this small town brought in a new business it was a Subway, this must surely mean progress. I mean, we have a jacked up grocery store, two banks, a chinese food place guaranteed to serve mystery meat and four liquor stores. This could only mean (to me), my small town was gearing up to sell porn.

Thus my excited phone call to tell my husband as well as sending him the same emailed picture as seen above.

“Dude! Do you see? We’re getting a pornie store! I wonder if all 17 local church congregations will band together to picket!” I may have excitedly told my husband when he answered his phone.

“Um, Tanis, I don’t think that’s what the store sign meant,” Boo offered in his most serious tone. Because after almost thirteen years of marriage it would kill him to play along with my excited delusions. Bugger.

“Sure it does! It says so on the sign! In red ink. Beaver rentals. Red ink Boo! Red is associated with blood, blood comes out of most womens bodies on a monthly basis! Beavers being an accepted word of slang for the woman’s vagina!” Surely he couldn’t argue with that logic.

“Er, I don’t think so honey. The owner probably only wanted the signage to stand out in the snow.”

“No way, Boo. I’m pretty sure this in concrete, incontrovertible evidence that we are getting some sort of shop for beavers!”

“Beavers as in vaginas?” Boo clarified.

“Well, I can’t see why they’d open a shop up aimed at the actual beaver animal population. As far as I’m aware those critters are fairly self-sufficient if the looks of our sloughs are any indication.” Like, sheesh.

“Uh huh.” I think I stunned my husband into a moment of silence with my clearly great thinking.

“I wonder where they are getting their beavers from? Are they prowling the local liquor stores looking for stay at home moms on the prowl? Scouting the church pews to see if any of the attendants are wearing their skirts too short? Oh my! I bet they went to the elementary school’s Christmas concert and checked out all the soccer moms to see who was wearing a low cut shirt! I knew I should have worn a low cut sweater that night!”

Boo laughed and started to say something but I cut him off as my brain kicked into high gear.

“I wonder if any one could apply to be one of their beavers for rent? How does one apply for that position? Do you have to fill in a form or could you just supply a resume and a list of references of people who have been satisfied with your beaver’s services?”

“Tanis..”

By now, I was on a roll.

“And just what equipment does a beaver need? Are they renting out speculums? I wonder if the aisles are filled with menstrual supplies? They better sell the diva cup. Oh! And the Go-Girl product! That’s a must have for us rural girls. No more peeing while squatting and worrying if we are going to tinkle on our shoes.”

“Tanis, I really don’t think that’s what the store is for…” he tried interrupting me, more forcefully this time.

“You’re right. It’s probably just porn. I wonder if Eden Fantasies is in on this act? Just think, tools for my beaver! I’ll never have to order a vibrator online again! I can just swing into town, drop Jumby off at school and pop into the Beaver rentals place!”

“You’re being silly.”

“Oh wait,” I ignored him. “Beaver RENTALS. Does that mean they want the vibrators back? Ew? Who does that? How will I know they are sanitized? Do they make dishwashers for dildos? On the other hand, I kind of like the idea of trying out a vibrator before purchasing. There are some real duds out there and this could save a shopper money, you know,” I prattled out loud.

“For crying out loud Tanis! I think it’s a TOOL shop. You know, a place you can go rent power tools and the likes. You know, to fix things?” Boo huffed.

“Hey, some women have broken beavers that just need a good tool to fix. Ever ask Catherine about her frankenvulva? I bet she could have used a beaver rental tool. Maybe that’s what they do. Rent out beavers for husbands to borrow while their wives recover from childbirth! That’s actually kind of ingenious!”

“You mean hookers?” he asked dryly.

“Hookers, beavers, it doesn’t matter what they call ‘em. It could be profitable!”

“You seem to have put a lot of thought into this little shop.”

“Well, it’s not like this town is a hot bed of commerce. Things like this get noticed.” That and I may have slowly lost my mind trapped inside these four walls as I recover from back surgery.

“You are insane.”

“You always say I need to get a real job. I wonder how much I’d earn for my beaver?”

“TANIS!!”

“What??”

“The store has nothing to do with beavers or vaginas or anything in between. It’s a rental company for home builders and mechanics and such.”

“So YOU say. I’ve got a sign here in bright red ink saying that they rent out beavers.”

“Did you drive while medicated?”

“No, I waited till I got home to pop a pain pill. What’s your point?”

“My point is you have lost your damn mind.”

“You are just jealous that someone is opening a shop geared for a women’s needs. If the sign said Dick Rentals, tools and equipment, you’d be singing a different story.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m going to draft up a resume. I’m going to have to put you down as a reference though. I mean, after all these years of marriage you are a repeat customer.”

“Do not put my name on that list.”

“Why not? Suddenly my beaver isn’t good enough for you to be associated with?”

“No, if it were just your beaver, I’d be fine with it. I’m more concerned with people associating me with your wacked out brain.”

“What ever dude. Mock me all you want, but we both know you’ll be rolling naked in the dough I make because I am a free thinking entrepreneur.”

“You mean happy hooker.”

“Whatever.”

Boo shortly lost interest in my beaver rental scheme and soon started talking about his business. It was shortly after that I lost interest in what he was saying. Weird how that works.

The next week, after dropping Jumby off at school and picking up a jug of milk, I pulled into the parking lot in front of the Beaver Rental Storefront.

The store was still closed, not yet open for business but the lights were on and people were inside setting things up. With my typed out resume (I am SO NOT JOKING) in one hand, I pressed my nose up against the glass, readying myself to see shelves being stocked with speculums and x-rated supplies.

Ya.

Turns out my husband was right. Power tools.

Boy, it’s a good thing I didn’t go in offering my beaver for services.

I’d have looked like a real tool.