Something's Growing Between Us

I wanted to be a doctor when I was growing up. I had big dreams of setting up shop in the middle of nowhere, delivering babies at the crack of dawn and being paid for my services with live chickens and smoked hams.

I watched a lot of Little House on the Prairie growing up.

It didn't take long for me to change my tune and adjust my dreams when I realized just how much time and hard work it would take to become a doctor of medicine, a saver of lives. At 17, the last thing I wanted to do was commit to another eight to ten years of schooling when I could easily buy a lap top and write internet porn to support myself.

(I'm totally kidding. Or at least I am if my MIL is reading this.)

One of the deciding factors in me not going to medical school was discovering how squeamish I was. While my own blood didn't bother me, anybody else's body fluids did. Immensely and disproportionately. I couldn't...can't handle the sight of anybody's wet and sticky substances leave their body.

It creeps me right out.

Which just made the fact that I gave birth to a handicapped child who liked to share is copious amounts of body fluid with me even more ironic.

I sucked up my distaste for blood, saliva, vomit, snot and what ever else leaked from Bug on an alarming frequency because I had to. Someone had to be the grownup in our relationship and my birth certificate demanded it be me.

I rose to the occasion and did what had to be done because he was my child and because quite simply, his life depended on it.

Yet, I've also been known to hide in the bathroom with my eyes tightly shut and humming "lalalalalala" as Fric and Frac come in to have a gaping wound fixed. "Go see your father! He's magical. He'll make it all better!"

Ya. My parental skills rocks.

Thankfully, there hasn't been many emergencies that would test my squeamish boundaries in all the time I have been a parent.

This doesn't mean I don't live in fear of said moments. Or that my children and my husband don't lie in wait to pull a prank on the pansy living in their midst.

Because there is nothing funnier than watching me turn sheet white, while running from the room saying "Don't show me, I don't want to see your blood!" as I go hide in a dark corner and berate myself for my weakness as my loved ones slowly bleed to death in my imagination.

Totally funny. Asshats.

Last night was one such prank. After spending a lovely romantic evening with my darling Boo, where he massaged my feet as we watched season one of Heroes, we decided to take our romance to a more private venue (behind our locked bedroom door) and do what married couples like to do when alone in the dark with a big bed at their disposal.

(I had forgotten how novel bedtime could be when one isn't simply crawling under the sheets alone with a fat hairy dog to fart in one's face for company.)

After a bout of nightly romance, Boo padded off to his bathroom while I luxuriated under our sheets, waiting for his return. I was half asleep when I felt the mattress shift as he slid into bed next to me.

"Tanis?" he whispered as his hand lightly rubbed my shoulder.

"Go away Boo. You already got lucky once tonight. Leave me alone," I complained as I shrugged his hand off me.

"Once is never enough," he purred in my ear as I slapped at his hand.

"Go to sleep and leave me alone," I groaned and buried my head into my pillow.

"I need you to feel something for me," he whispered.

"Boo, I'm not feeling anything for you. Go to bed," I commanded, getting more and more irritated with him with each second that ticked past. Sheesh. I mean I just got all bendy for that man. Didn't that earn me a free pass to sleep?

"Tanis. I'm serious. When I went to the bathroom I noticed a growth by my leg," he whispered worriedly.

That got my attention as visions of tumors danced before my eyes.

"What?" I half-whispered, half-shouted.

"Give me your hand, I need you to feel it and tell me if I should be worried," he said as he tried to grab my hand.

"No freaking way! I'm not touching it! Why didn't you say something earlier! Turn the light on so I can see!" I panicked while keeping my hands firmly at my side and away from his disgusting tumor.

"Just give me your hand so you can feel it. I don't know what to do!" he worried.

"I'm not touching it! Gross! I'll make a doctor's appointment for you first thing in the morning and the doctor can touch it," I offered.

"Just give me your hand. I'm worried," he said as he trapped my hand with one of his freakishly large mitts.

Squirming, I squealed "Don't make me touch it!!!" as he lowered my hand to the medical mystery under the sheets.

I just about passed out from the fear of feeling some disgusting large lump threatening to take my beloved's life when suddenly my hand landed on his growth. Funny, the growth felt like a penis, I thought, as I suddenly realized where he was going with all this growth talk.

He chuckled and crowed, "Ya. I went to the bathroom and discovered this growth by my leg. It won't go away."

Snatching my hand away from his love rod, I smacked him and told him just how funny I didn't think he was.

"You freaked me out! Don't mess with my head like that! You know I don't do well with stuff like that!" I whined.

Boo snuggled in closer to me and smiled. "Aw baby, don't be mad. It's just a testament to how fine you are that my manhood won't lie down and go to sleep with you next to me."

Said as he slapped his willy against my thigh, in the most romantic gesture ever.

"You're giving me a tumor," he giggled.

Only fair since he not only gave me a heart attack two seconds earlier, but was now inducing a massive headache due to sleep deprivation and annoyance.

I love my husband. Really.

"My love for you keeps growing," he snorted.

But sometimes a girl can go with out a tumor smacked upside her ass. Call me crazy but I think I can officially say the romance is dead.

"Come on baby, rub my lamp. The genie wants to come out of the bottle and play," he continued.

Good thing the humor between us is still er, growing.

Extortion on My Birthday

***Edited to Add: Holy cow. After howling with laughter over some of the lovely and thoughtful presents you guys have received over the years, I have now learned to appreciate a good can of albacore tuna. Thanks for sharing with me. The competition was too damn tight to declare a winner. But there were some personal favourites. Heh. Here's hoping everyone gets a badass wonderful gift on their next birthday like I did.***


I've never been a big birthday lover. I'm the mom who dreads the time of year when her children inevitably turn another year older. Not that I mind them growing up. What's not to love being one year closer to parental freedom and not having to be responsible for feeding the seemingly bottomless pits known as children?

No, I hate the responsibilities birthdays involve. Parties, cake, gift bag, other people's snotty children. Those things. I dread having to throw a birthday party because around these parts "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" has a whole other meaning.

Still, I power through it like the good mother I pretend to be. I don't like it, but I do it. Not well, not every year and certainly never with a smile on my face, but I have been known to throw a damn children's birthday party just so my children can feel the magical delight of having the world revolve around them for one small moment in time.

That said, I wish my birthday would just all together drop off the calendar. I don't need another reminder of my own mortality. I have wrinkles, sagging boobs and dimples on my arse as a permanent reminder to my fleeting youth.

I planned on ringing in the latest annual reminder of my cougar status by simply hiding at home, ignoring the phone and surfing the vast interweb where I am just one more anonymous lurker looking for something vapid and amusing and perhaps slightly pornographic while the day slowly ticked past and my birthday came and went quietly like a mouse hiding in the pantry.

But like most well-laid plans, it didn't quite happen that way. While I adored the fact my children attempted to kill me by feeding me runny eggs and burnt toast, I could have lived without ever having discovered a certain friend mocked my vanity and insecurities by aging me publicly on his blog.

I have since put a pox on his head.

Still, I thought my birthday excitement had come and gone early before the midday sun shone upon the golden trees in my yard. I had no reason to think any differently. Birthdays have always been a low key affair. No. MY birthday has always been a low key affair.

My darling and beloved husband hasn't always rose to the occasion and proved his love on the date of my birth. While he tends to outshine himself at gift giving during the Christmas season, he tends to walk around with his head planted firmly up his arse whenever Sept. 27 rolls around.

I knew this about my husband before we married and still I chose to overlook it when I accepted his proposal for marriage. I was young and naive and believed that the power of our love could change him and morph him into the very best, the most thoughtful gift giver ever.

Excuse me while I die laughing at my youthful stupidity.

My husband, bless his cotton socks, is a stubborn man. With a will of unbendable steel. He just couldn't understand why a cork screw and a set of cheap steak knives was not a viable birthday present. After all, I like wine and I like steak. In his mind it was the perfect gift.

He hastily realized his faux-pas as I started hurling the bloody knives at his head while calling him a doofus.

I didn't think his birthday buying skills could get any worse after that year. I was wrong. The very next year he bought me a chocolate bar and a can of tuna. That's it. He spent less than two freaking dollars on the woman who regularly played with his penis and spent more than 30 months gestating his spawn.

He did include a thoughtful and loving note about how we were strapped for cash (we were indeed, in dire financial straits) but he wanted to make me smile on my special day.

I could have thought of a dozen different ways he could have made me smile without spending any money, but none of them involved albacore tuna packed in salt water and a squished chocolate bar. Apparently, I am not near as creative as my husband is.

Then there was the year of my 27 birthday and I spent the entire night alone in the hospital as my precious Bug fought off a blood infection threatening to take his life. I had hoped my Boo would drop by the hospital and bring flowers or even coffee as I flipped through an endless pile of magazines and fretted over my child.

He decided to race home to our other two children while munching on fresh pizza and the donuts he picked up to celebrate his wife's birthday. Without saving any for his actual wife.

I wasn't bitter. NOT AT ALL.

It's not that Boo hasn't tried on my birthday. He's just failed miserably time and time again. I can forgive him for this because he buys me fancy wash machines, diamond earrings, and lap top computers for seemingly no reason other than I am very bendy in the bedroom.

He's a wonderful husband even if his gift giving technique is as sharp as a rusty butter knife.

Knowing this, I was determined not to expect anything but maybe a hammer so we could pound nails in our fence line together as a happy romantic couple. He may not be learning but I'm starting to understand how the man thinks.

So when he told me to get dressed so we could pick up my birthday present, I wasn't expecting much. But I'm a good wife so I played along and did what he asked.

I'm obedient like that.

Snicker.

Turns out, all these years of ducking flying steak knives and the man finally learned.

Picture my face when we pulled into the car dealership and he handed me the keys to a shiny new SUV.





Such a pretty Chevy Equinox. I named her Lolita.

"I'm sorry honey, I wanted to have it home for you in our driveway but it turns out I can't drive two cars at once. I needed you to be able to drive it home," he laughed excitedly at my shocked face.

"I figure this should make up for 13 years or more of bad birthday gifts," he said as he leaned over and kissed me.

After finally reviving from the shock of receiving a real (yet wildly extravagant and completely too expensive) birthday present, I hopped out and checked out my new wheels. Apparently, my fondness for driving into ditches in the middle of our Canadian winters is a tad worrisome for my husband when he works away from home.

He's hoping my new shiny SUV will keep my ass from freezing to death in a snowbank. And keep our children safe as their slow-reflexed mother taxis them around on icy roads.

I did mention my husband is the cat's ass, right?

Driving home that afternoon, while he drove in front of me in my older, banged up and very abused car, I called him to tell him how much I loved him and the new wheels.

"I can't get over this Boo! I love you! You are the best husband ever!" I gushed to him.

I could see him puff up his manly chest and polish his fingers against his chest as he laughed in the phone. "I'm glad you like it love. You deserve it."

I admit, I melted a bit at his sweetness. Then suddenly, a thought occurred to me.

"Oh DAMN IT!" I cried.

"What? Is something wrong with the vehicle?" he asked very concerned.

"No, it's fine. I just realized there is no FREAKING way I'm ever going to be able to top this ever in our entire marriage unless I spit out a set of septuplets on your birthday! I'm screwed forever!" I moaned.

Boo snorted and agreed. He's very agreeable apparently.

"Damn you Boo with your thoughtful and well timed vehicle purchases," I wailed.

"Well, there is one thing you can give me on my birthday that would top my present to you," he hinted. (I could totally see the lurid waggling of eyebrows as he spoke.)

"Really?" I asked eagerly and stupidly. "What's that?" (Nothing like setting yourself up for failure, Tanis. Way to go.)

"You could give me a blow job every birthday, and not just one of your 'there, I looked at it, good enough,' blowjobs. A real blow job. One in the morning and one at night. Enthusiastic blow jobs. While you wear a smile on your face."

(Clearly the man has never given head before otherwise he's realize the physical impossibility of such a statement.)

Silence. The mental image of me having to give him head when we're 70 and my teeth are sitting in a cup on the bedside table next to the lamp flashed before my eyes.

Why bother lying? He has as much chance of getting happy head every birthday for the rest of his life as I have of sprouting wings and flying south tomorrow.

"Sigh. Face it Boo. I'm screwed. I'm never going to be able to top this birthday present."

Not even a new zippy SUV on my birthday can make me promise to shut up and swallow.

Turns out I'm not that obedient.

*What was the worst birthday present you ever received. The person who can top a can of tuna and a chocolate bar wins a prize. Maybe a pot holder or a used sock. Or maybe just my eternal gratefulness at knowing I'm not the only one in the world who has received dorky presents. Misery loves company and all...*

And the Winner is...

Holy comments Batman! I never expected such a huge turnout for some piddly camera. Just where are all you lurkers when I promise to show my boobs on the internet?

My ego is *crushed*. Sniff. Surely my goodies, flapjacks, beavertails or whatever you choose to call them are worth more than a brand spanking new digital camera.

Oh, all right. Maybe not. Let me have a second for self-delusion and then let's move on, shall we?

(Takes a moment to imagine said boobs are rival to the mounds of boobiliciousness like Dolly Parton's.)

Moving on. Ahem.

After reading everyone's comments and emails about their favourite or most memorable concert moments, I realized I lied to you, my readers.

It wasn't intentional. When I wrote about my deep and abiding love for Sir Elton I wasn't exaggerating. I meant every word. In fact, if you are reading this dear Elton, please know I would willingly tattoo your name on my arse just for the privilege of knowing every time I sit I'd be sitting on you.

(Wow. Wayyyyy dirtier sounding when I type it than when I thought it.)

Still, after reading about everyone's experience I realized there was one concert moment I will never, ever be able to forget. It's branded into my grey matter and haunts me when I sleep. (Like the 80 year old women who walk around naked in the swimming pool's change rooms, taunting me with images of my future self. Shudder.)

I was 27 and my sister invited me to a concert being held in a small watering hole downtown. (That is a fancy way of saying it was a remarkably scuzzy dive located on the corner where local hookers and drug dealers made their livings.) The invitation was a rare occurence as I spent most of my twenties making and raising babies while my darling sister spent her time going to school and shaking her booty at night clubs.

What made the concert even more thrilling than being able to escape diaper duty and house cleaning for a night was the fact that it was my brother, Stretch's gig. He had been in a band for years and while I had heard his music many, many times (in fact, his music may be slightly responsible for my current hearing loss) I had never actually seen him perform.

My siblings, of course, are evil. Evil in a lovable way. They are much like me. But since neither of them had children at that point in their lives, they didn't focus their laser beams of evil on their spawn like I like to do. No, they focused on me.

As I wandered around making a complete and utter jackass of myself, they grinned quietly into their beers and enjoyed the show I was inadvertently putting on.

That's the finest example of sibling love my parents could ever hope for. Heh. But that's not the only reason why this concert stands out like Richard Simmons at a country fair.

I was thrilled to be able to watch my brother perform live in front of an audience. It's the concert where I met the love of his life, Stump, for the first time. And it was the first time I got to see my brother as not just the goober who would sit on me and fart but the man he grew into.

Although, I will admit it was freaking weird to watch other women toss their panties at him like he was a rock star or something. I mean, I know for a fact the dude has one single black chest hair sprouting from his left nipple. It's not like he oozes sex appeal. (Admittedly, I may be slightly coloured in my sibling perception of him. Sorry Stump. I'm sure he is sexy to you. Ew. That sentence hurt to type.)

It was surreal to be standing on the dance floor watching people in leather collars with more metal in their bodies than are in the automobiles in the nearby parking lot, thrash around and pay homage to the cookie monster music my brother made.

It was surreal to realize my brother was actually talented. That the years of me having been forced to listen to him rip on his electric guitar in the basement actually morphed into music.

More surreal to the experience was the pig's blood tossed around, the thump of the bass and the crazy drunkards who actually enjoyed the loud screams of the singer as my ears started to slightly bleed. I realized then what an actual fuddy duddy I had turned into during my years of raising babies.







Still, it was an event to be remembered. Maybe not repeated any time soon, but I could safely go to my grave knowing I had seen my brother strum his guitar and sing his anti-establishment songs that other's seemed to genuinely enjoy.

Just when I thought the evening couldn't get any stranger, a lone dancer on the dance floor caught my eye. She was a skinny, lanky woman wearing a leather collar and a shirt so short if she bent over her little hairs would peep out and wave hello. She tossed her stringy hair around like her life depended on it while alternately taking swigs from the beer bottle she tightly clenched in one hand.

She mesmerized the people sitting at the tables near the dance floor. I'm not sure if it was the over-sized tank top that kept slipping down her shoulder and exposing her left breasticle to everyone or just her bizarre chicken dancing skills. What ever it was, she had captured the audience's attention with her antics and she knew it.





Even Stretch was fascinated. It was hard not to be.

Just when I was about to look away and head to the bar where my brother was entertaining his fans during a break in his gig, she lowered the beer bottle to the floor and gently swayed her hips while swaying over the bottle.

For a split second, I was sure she was going to try and pee in the bottle. At that point in the evening, nothing would have surprised me. I was surrounded by, well, freaks. Freaks do freaky things. But she didn't.

Instead, she jacked up her already short skirt (hello little hairs! It's good to see one woman believes in going au naturel,) and started grinding her hips lower and lower towards the floor like some weird limbo dance, all the while making sure the bottle was directly center underneath her.

I watched, entranced with the woman who looked so frail she may actually break and wondered if my body could bend the way hers did. Not bloody likely I thought, just as she squatted over the bottle.

And then, as if time stood still, she did the unimaginable. (At least to my prim and pure imagination.) She lowered herself onto the beer bottle and picked it up with her vay-jay-jay. The crowd immediately hushed as everyone turned to watch this weirdo on the dance floor, grooving with a beer bottle stuck in her hoo-ha.

I was repulsed. Yet strangely fascinated. She twirled about and amazingly that damn bottle didn't fly out of her cooter. I thought she was going to show off her limber technique to lower the bottle back to the floor (because I'm amazingly naive like that) when suddenly she reached down and grabbed the bottle from her nether regions.

(Must have started to slip.) Heh. Instead of putting the bottle back on the dance floor, she freaking took a swig from it. The 'Ewwws' could be heard all the way down the noisy city block. Then she fell flat on her ass and crawled off the dance floor.

Who knew I'd get a concert and a sex show when I went to see Stretch perform?

It was one of those freakish things I had wished I had never seen nor will I ever forget.

That won't ever stop me from wondering just how long I could hold a half-full bottle of beer in my tulip lips, though. Not that I've been tempted to try. But a girl can ponder can't she?

It turned out to be a concert to remember. I walked away with a new found respect for my brother and a renewed pledge to work on my kegels.

What more could a girl ask for?

****************************************************************************************

Thanks to everyone who entered my concert. I must admit, I wish I had a camera to give to every person who entered. But there can only be one winner and after consulting the stars (or the random number generator) I found a winner.

Congratulations to the winner, Katie Jennings, who learned not to judge a book by it's cover with her concert experience. Your spanky new camera is in the mail. Or will be later today, when I get my arse to the post office.

Stay tuned for my next big giveaway. I had so much fun with this one, I've decided to toss more freebies in my reader's direction.