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.

After my usual night time routine of feeding my fish, taking Nixon the World’s Greatest Dog, EVAR (suck on that Chuck) and his sidekick, the dopey Diera, out for a potty break involving barking at porupines and howling at the moon, plucking my chin hairs out in the bathroom while moaning about the giant zit on my nose and then flossing my teeth, I flipped off the bathroom light and crawled into bed next to my husband.

“Wanna rub my back?” I waggled my eyebrows at him in the dark.

“No.”

“Fine. Don’t ever say the candy store hasn’t opened after hours only for you to refuse to shop,” I pouted.

“Pfft. Whatever.”

Silence ensued for a moment while I pouted. I am very mature like that. Then as I rolled over to check to make sure the alarm clock was set for the ungodly hour my husband has to rise at to leave for work I remembered my dream from the night before.

“I dreamt last night that you abandoned me in a food court and stole a monkey.”

Boo yawned (something about him having to leave for work at five in the morning and not get home until seven at night makes him sleepy these days,) and muttered something about having great luck in finding a wife with a twisted imagination.

“It was really vivid. You completely loved this monkey more than me. I stood in the food court trying to beg Asian tourists for money so I could scrape up enough cash to buy a Big Mac. Then I saw you pull out a big wad of cash and hand it to the monkey and the two of you went and bought ice cream cones while I stood pandering to the public, begging them to feed me.”

“I hope it was Rocky Road ice cream. Or a banana split. The monkey totally deserves a banana split,” Boo joked.

“Pfft. There is no joking about my traumatic dreams. I wonder what the dream meant,” I queried.

“It means you need to give me blow jobs more often. You are obviously worried you aren’t fulfilling my needs.”

“Hahaha. Nice try. The candy store closed for the night. You had your chance pretty boy.” Because I am totally petty like that.

Silence fell over us only broken by Nixon making soft snorting sounds as he settled in beside me for the evening. Just as I was relaxing enough to fall asleep Boo piped up,”I wonder what a person would have to do to take his monkey to the zoo.”

“What?”

“I said, I wonder what a person would have to do to take his monkey to the zoo?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I yawned.

“You know, if you owned a monkey and you wanted to take it to the zoo so it could see all the other animals. What would you do?”

“Why in hell would you want to bring your monkey to a zoo?” I asked as I rolled over to see if my husband was shitting me. He sounded sane but this conversation was entirely insane.

“So it could see all the other monkeys! Think about it Tanis. Would the zoo administration let you in with the monkey or would they see the monkey and think it was theirs and then try and put it in the monkey cage with all of the other monkeys while you stood there and tried to tell them that it was YOUR monkey and he came in with you. You weren’t stealing it.”

“Who the hell takes their monkey to the zoo?” I couldn’t seem to get past this point.

“Micheal Jackson took his monkey to the zoo,” Boo pointed out. Because Micheal Jackson was the epitome of normal human behaviour.

“No, Micheal Jackson built a zoo AROUND his monkey. He didn’t just walk into zoos around the world with Bubbles on his shoulder so they could toss peanuts at all the other monkeys.” I think. I mean it’s not like I’m an expert on Micheal’s monkey practices or anything.

“Still, would they make you register the monkey at the gate and fill out paperwork or would you simply take your chances?”

“Ya, because this scenario plays out daily in zoos across the country. People live in fear of having their monkeys accidentally confiscated when they take them to the zoo.”

“It could happen,” he huffed.

“Why would you want to take your monkey to the zoo in the first place Boo?” At this point I was rather incredulous I was even participating in this conversation.

“You know, so he could visit his little monkey friends.”

“Ya, because all monkeys in the world know each other. You can’t see me but I’m totally rolling my eyes at you in the dark Boo. That’s just illogical.”

“Think about it Tanis. If you were the last person on earth and everyone else had relocated to Mars and you finally made your way over there, wouldn’t they all be glad to see you as the last known person who lived on Earth?”

That stumped me. “Well, I suppose they would. For all of five minutes. Then they’d be all ‘Get a job you worthless mooch. Don’t be thinking just cuz you were the last one to make your way to Mars that we are going to give you a free ride.’ Then they’d grab a broom and tell me to get off their lawn. I’m pretty sure monkeys would be the same. Minus the job part.”

“I wonder what would happen if your monkey got locked in with all the other monkeys. You know, after the zoo officials accidentally confiscated your monkey thinking it was theirs.”

Oh my GAWD. It’s almost midnight and I’m really having this conversation with my husband. Who is absolutely and completely earnest and sincere about the fate of this imaginary monkey. What has our marriage deteriorated to?

“Well Boo, I suppose it would be like the last Earthling to make it to Mars. They would all gather around the new monkey, sniff and poke and prod him and then eventually someone would start flinging poo.”

At that mental image we both started laughing out loud. Because monkeys flinging poo are always amusing no matter what time of the day.

“I have to say Boo, I’m still stuck on why a monkey would even want to visit a zoo. Seems to me the monkey would likely see all the other zoo inmates and then spiral into a great pit of monkey despair knowing that all his little monkey buddies didn’t share his lot in life.” Oh great. Now I’m actually becoming earnest and sincere in this discussion about our imaginary monkey pal.

“Nah, I’d think the monkey would be all ‘neener neener’ to all the other animals, like the hippopotamuses and the zebras, and then him and his owner would stand at the monkey cage and toss peanuts to the other primates to show their solidarity with the banana suckers. It’d be their version of providing monkey welfare checks. But with peanuts.”

“You are insane and I can’t believe we have just wasted ten minutes of our lives talking about monkeys when you could have been rubbing my back,” I laughed.

We giggled for a second, a moment of clarity in our insane conversation, and then silence ensued once more. I rolled back over once more and tried to erase all memory of monkey talk from my brain as I settled in for slumber.

A few seconds later, the silence was shattered when Boo piped up, “They wrote a book about what would happen if you take your monkey to the zoo you know.”

Sighing into my pillow, I mumbled, “No they did not. No one takes their monkey to the zoo Boo.”

Boo remained silent for a moment or so more and then he insisted, “Yes Tanis, they did. I swear to you, there is a book about what would happen if you take your monkey to the zoo. We should buy it so we have it for a reference if we ever get a monkey and want to take it to the zoo.”

Realizing at this point there was no way to shut my obviously sincere husband up about the plight of his imaginary monkey and his desire to take it to the zoo, I sighed and said, “Fine. What’s the name of this book and I’ll check it out on Amazon and get it for you.”

The things I agree to do all in the name of marital harmony amaze me sometimes.

“Curious George Visits the Zoo,” Boo replied. With out batting an eyelash or cracking a smile.

I couldn’t help it. I cracked up.

“Shut up. I can’t believe you had this long winded conversation with me all to get to a punch line of a damn joke. Man, I must be tired,” I chuckled as my darling husband laughed so hard he about rolled off his side of the bed. “Good night you monkey lover,” I giggled and then closed my eyes once more.

Five minutes later, just as I was on the precipice of sleep and Nixon snored softly in the dark, Boo quietly asked, “Tanis?”

“What Boo?” I mumbled.

“Do you know what the moral of the story in that book is?”

“No Boo. I never liked Curious George. Never read him.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I could tell he was trying to get at something so with a heavy sigh I rolled back towards him and asked (in a rather patronizing tone, but hey it was after midnight by this point,) “Tell me Boo. What is the moral of the story?”

I could see him smile in the dark.

“Don’t bring your f*cking monkey to the zoo,” he snorted in laughter.

I couldn’t help it. I smothered him with my pillow and when he stopped twitching I rolled back over and finally went to sleep.

*I later learned he had this same damn conversation earlier on in the day with his buddy Mack. Those two really need to stop spending so much time together or start having more interesting conversations to recycle with me before I murder them both.*

*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.*

For a nanosecond of my life I worked at a television station. This was before I gave birth to Bug and I was still young and impressionable with stars in my eyes and had a ‘kick me’ sign pinned to my forehead.

I loved the people at the television station but it didn’t take me long to realize I would rather bathe in a vat of acid, rip out my tongue and beat myself with it and then volunteer to model nude in for a college art class before spending my days anywhere near a camera.

Like pygmies out in the wilds of Africa or New Zealand or where ever the heck it is they live, I believe a camera sucks out my soul and leaves another double chin behind in return.

Still, when the good ladies at BlogHer asked me to tape a short piece for their new program, BackTalk, I couldn’t think of a valid reason to say no resist.

Surely this wouldn’t be more embarrassing than waxing poetic about beaver fever, cock rings or warming lube.

I’m not talking about the ole cooter yet again and I would keep my clothes on.

(Although they did expressly state I was not to show my boobs and to try and keep it clean. Such prudes. Wink.)

Go ahead and watch. It’s totally work friendly. I promise.

Not bad, right?

They TOTALLY edited me to make me sound more rational and intelligent and less Tanis-y.

Can’t say I blame them.

Here’s what you didn’t see:

I totally should have worn lingerie while doing this.

Heh.

***WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT. PROCEED AT OWN RISK***

Last week, late at night, my husband deemed it was business time. In true marital fashion, I rolled my eyes at him and groaned about how tired I was and how my back ached and it would require entirely too much energy to get my Gumby on and get bendy.

Boo, not one to be easily dissuaded once he’s had an evening beverage of the liquor variety, just waggled his eyes and offered his magic hands as a remedy to my bad back and invisible libido.

It was one of those evenings when I knew I had a choice to make. I could beat the man off and snarl at him for daring to find me attractive while he was feeling amorous or I could resign myself to one of his magical back rubs and accept the strings attached to his gift.

After all, isn’t a backrub the universal code word for ‘Let’s get it on?‘

It wasn’t a hard choice to make.

“Fine,” I grumped at him cooed romantically, “but don’t bitch at me cuz I didn’t shave my legs today. It hurt too much to bend over and find the razor.”

I am all about the romance people.

Thankfully, Captain Morgan’s was in full command of my husband’s ship and a few hairs on my tree stumps weren’t enough to deter him from his planned evening activities.

I flopped on the bed, er, sexily slinked in between the bed sheets and moaned as my back screamed in protest.

Boo climbed on board, leaned over to shut the bedroom lamp off while whispering in my ear, “I have a treat for you.”

Just then I felt something wet drip on my back.

Trying to push him off my back, I screeched, “What is that?”

“Relax love,” he laughed, “I bought some new personal massage oil. I thought it would help with your back rub.”

I would have asked what kind of oil it was he was slathering all over my backside but I quickly lost the ability to articulate any words as his magic fingers did their job and my back starting feeling miraculously better.

I knew I married a man with strong hands for a reason. That would be the ability to give good massages, you dirty minded people.

Soon I was relaxed as humanly possible and that’s when my husband decided to pounce and move further south.

“You like this?” he whispered as he continued his romantic ministrations.

I nodded my head and tried to verbalize but at this point I may have been a puddle of drool. I’m easy people. This is no secret.

“The boys at work told me this was the good stuff,” he whispered as he worked.

That statement alone should have been enough of a heads up to buck my darling husband off my back like a new stallion in a small town rodeo. But, in my defense, my mind was quickly going in another direction and I may not have been thinking all that clearly at the time.

Moments passed and suddenly I started feeling something new. Something warm.

“Um, Boo? What exactly are you using?” I asked when the warming sensation suddenly turned up the temperature and bordered on uncomfortable.

“It’s a new warming lube. Good for your back and all your pretty woman parts,” he purred oblivious to the alarm in my voice.

Just as he voiced ‘warming lube’ my crotch exploded in flames. Holy mother of God, I thought to myself as I squirmed beneath him.

My husband, half drunk and obviously playing out his own romantic fantasies in his head, was not paying attention to the fact that flames were shooting out of my nether regions.

“Boo! That burns!!” I gasped.

“That’s right baby. Feel the burn. Feel the flames of my desire,” he murmured as he continued.

“NO BOO! It burns!!! My crotch! OW! It’s on fire!!!” I yelped as I arched back and bucked him off me.

“What? Are you serious?”

Apparently the smoke rising from between the sheets wasn’t obvious to him so I grabbed the bed sheet and tried to wipe away the vicious oil flaming my tender parts.

“Oh my GAWD, I’m DYING,” I half cried, half laughed. “Boo, do something before you have to tell the coroner that you killed me with warming lube!”

Boo jumped off the bed and ran into our ensuite bathroom and came back with a wet face cloth.

Grabbing it, I realized it was hot and I threw it back at him. “A COLD FACE CLOTH YOU TWIT! I’ve enough heat here to melt an igloo!”

“Oops, sorry. Didn’t think of that,” he called as he went to remedy the situation.

Snatching the cold face cloth from him when he returned, I snarled something about how next time I was going to pour hot sauce on his wanker and watch him smoke as I writhed in pain on the bed.

“I know!” Boo exclaimed. “Ice!!”

Seconds later, he was back with a tray of ice cubes and I greedily grabbed some and applied to the areas on fire. That warming lube must have been doing its job because those ice blocks were water within seconds.

A few minutes of intense personal pain later, the burning subsided and all traces of the evil acid had been eradicated.

I laid back on my pillow, panting (and not from the way my husband had hoped minutes earlier) and watched my husband laugh hysterically.

“I always told you I thought you were hot stuff,” he giggled as I tossed a pillow at his head.

“Very funny.” If looks could kill, my children would be fatherless.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” he asked contritely as he ducked from flying objects.

Luckily for him, the fire was extinguished and I was beginning to see the humour of the situation. From his perspective, I guess it would be fairly funny to watch me shove ice cubes up my cooter while begging to be killed.

Asshat.

“Let me make it up to you, darlin’,” he purred as he reached for me.

“You. Have. Got. To. Be. Joking,” I snarled and swatted at his roving hands.

“I promise, no more massage oil!”

It’s hard to get back in the mood of things when the smell of burnt va-jay-jay lingered in the air like acrid smoke. My pink parts were a little tender from the recent barbeque sizzle they had been subjected to.

But still, a girl has to do what a girl has to do and the show must go on.

Afterwards, as Boo lay staring at the ceiling reliving the evening’s festivities in his mind, he reached over in an attempt to engage in the requisite post-coital cuddle.

I squirmed away and hopped out of bed as Boo asked what I was doing.

“I’m finding that demon lube and throwing it in the trash so that the next time the only burn I feel will be from desire and not from my cooter being boiled alive,” I huffed as I bent down to grab the lube from under the chair where it had landed when I hurled it at his head earlier.

“Oh, now, now. It couldn’t have been that bad. You just weren’t prepared for it. Next time I’m sure it will work like it’s supposed to,” he snorted as visions of my smoking hooha danced before his eyes.

Next time? I thought. Next time? Are you f*cking kidding me, I sneered in my mind while smiling sweetly at my husband from the bathroom.

“You’re right darling. I’m sure next time will be better,” I called out from over my shoulder in the bathroom. Ever so carefully I quietly snapped the lid open and poured a few drops on my fingertips before chucking the bottle into the garbage can with a grin of good riddance.

Hopping back into bed, I draped myself over Boo’s body and nibbled at his neck, careful not to wipe the lube off my hand.

“Well, at least it took my mind off my back pain for a moment,” I whispered as I tugged on his earlobe with my teeth.

Boo and his buddy Captain Morgan quickly charted a course for round two. It was right then I reached down slowly and wrapped my lubricated fingers around my husband’s lovely man stick.

“Oh T,” he breathed as I smiled sadistically in the dark and waited.

“Oh, OH..OHHHH!!! OH Shit! Oh Shit!!!” Boo cried as he pushed me off the bed and raced into the bathroom.

Picture my husband at full mast standing at the bathroom sink trying to splash cold water onto his johnson while I howled with laughter from the bed.

“Feeling the burn, baby?” I called out. “I always knew you were smoking hot darling. Maybe NEXT TIME you’ll believe me.”

Needless to say, once Boo’s flame of desire was duly put out he double checked to make sure his newly purchased massage oil was safely ensconced in the garbage can.

I knew he’d see things my way sooner or later.

Heh.