Death By Priapism

She approached me with a serious look on her face and quietly asked, "Mom, can I ask you a question?"

I looked up at her and nodded my head.

"You know you can ask me anything," I promised solemnly.

Internally I braced myself for the very worst. Whatever it may be, I reminded myself, I am strong. I can handle it.

"What is death by priapism?"

Oh. I had been expecting a diatribe on the latest teen drama in the grade ten class and instead she hit me upside the head with this.

"It's probably something your dad could better explain; you should Skype him." I like to share the parental responsibilities whenever things get weird and/or uncomfortable on the home front. I'm thoughtful like that.

"He's at work," she said flatly. "If you are busy I can Google it," she thoughtfully offered.

Yes, because I want my daughter googling priapism. STAY OFF THE GOOGLE!

"Do you know what priapism means?" I asked.

"No, but I think it's something dirty because the boys in class keep making a joke about it."

OF COURSE THEY DO. They're fifteen-year-old horn dogs that walk around thinking their bottom half is going to explode whenever a pretty girl walks by.

Home schooling is suddenly sounding more attractive.

"Well, priapism is what is otherwise known as a prolonged or persistent erection. Apparently it is quite painful."

"So like a boner that won't, um, deflate?" I could see the wheels in her brain spinning behind her slightly embarrassed expression.

"Yes. Exactly."

"So death by erection?"

"Yes."

"Is that even possible?" I swear if she asks about blue balls next I'm shipping her to her father on the next darn bus.

"Um, well I'm not a medical doctor but I know there are medical treatments for that condition. It can lead to strokes and such if left untreated. I think." Clearly I need to spend more time on WebMd.

"So in theory a guy can die from his..." She clearly was struggling to say the words.

"His stiffy," I helpfully supplied.

"Ya."

"In theory."

"Weird."

"Priapism is very rare and is usually caused by an underlying medical condition. It's not something typically healthy teenaged boys or adult males need to worry about."

"Got it." She was clearly ready for this conversation to be over. Like, Stop Talking Mom!

"So if a boy is telling you he needs to have sex, of any type, with you because he's about to die from bursting, he's full of it." Clearly I wasn't ready for this conversation to be over. Like, I Can't Seem To Stop Talking!

"I've GOT it Mom. I was just wondering."

"Okay. But just so you know, it's not really a laughing matter. It's a medical condition, not a joke!"

"Okay Mom."

"You know you can talk to me about boners or anything, anytime, right?"

She just glared at me, willing me into silence.

Just then her brother walked into the room.

"Hey Mom, can I ask you a question?"

Fric and I both look at each other and then I smiled. In for a penny, in for a pound after all.

"Sure, what's up kiddo?"

"Where's the hand lotion? I really need it."

...

His sister burst out laughing. I tried really hard not to smirk. After all, I'm supposed to be the mature one under this roof.

"What? What's so funny?" He just stood there, looking all innocent and teen boyish and confused.

I couldn't help it. I cracked up too.

"What? My elbows are dry! What's so funny?" Frac walked away, muttering about being surrounded by nuts as his sister and I continued giggling like schoolgirls.

Boners. They'll get you every time, no matter how mature you think you are.

The Devil is in the Details

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I compromised with my husband.

(Read that knowing I wrote the word compromise with great disdain and dislike. Compromise is for the weak. Or the happily married. WHATEVER.) There was bartering and tears, foot stomping and then ultimately, a promise wrenched from my lips, all so that I could get my own way.

Eight years ago I told the man that one day, in our far off distance future, when our kids were older and we had paid off some of our debt, he could build himself the biggest, baddest garage/shop/barn he could dream of and I would not stand in his way, argue, or roll my eyes in exchange for him agreeing to let me have my own way on something that wasn't even important enough for me to remember what exactly it was that I was selling my soul for.

(Seriously. No idea. None. Hope I liked whatever it was I bartered for.)

Well that far off distant future I promised my husband? Started this past weekend.

Suddenly I've got contractors calling my house, blue prints scattered everywhere, permit applications littering my countertops and one very, very excited husband.

Of all the many things I may be, I am indeed a woman of my word and for the most part I have sat back and let my husband do his thing as he starts the arduous process of carving his dreams into reality. A promise is a promise after all, plus I like the idea of never having to scrape ice off my windshield anymore during our long cold winters.

Boo has been talking about this garage for years and I've known for months he planned on starting construction this spring. But that's about as much as I actually do know because every time my husband started talking about the garage or asked my opinion I would tell him I can't respond unless he calls me Alfred and that the only thing I need in his Bat Cave is working plumbing and a spot light to shine into the sky.

At that point he typically rolls his eyes, mutters something about wishing he'd listened to his siblings when they told him not to marry me and then remarks that without him I'd just be some pathetic cat lady who spends too much time on twitter and Facebook while watching comic book based movies.

21 years, people. This is true romance.

This weekend I stood at my kitchen window and watched as a bunch of men hammered stakes in the ground, pointed at trees and wildly gesticulated about who knows what. The dream is about to happen and I realized, I should probably start paying attention to what is going on outside because that is what responsible adults do.

Besides, if I don't show any interest I'm forfeiting the right to whine about the construction process later, right? It's like voting really. You have no business bitching about the government if you are too lazy to cast your ballot.

So later that night I asked Boo to walk me through the entire process.

Two minutes later, my husband had launched into an in-depth conversation about engineered roof trusses, floor joists, solar panels and who knows what and just as I started to hear everything he said as "Blah Blah Blah" I realized I made a mistake.

"Woah there Nelly! Too much. Let's dumb it right down for me. How about you show me what you are building? Why don't we start with that?" I begged.

Boo briefly looked like a kid who just dropped his cookie into a mud puddle but the moment soon passed. Before I could blink three times, I was staring at his dream on paper.

"What is that?" I asked in a super high-pitched voice meant to convey both my dismay and disbelief.

"It's what our garage will look like." He replied in a tone meant to convey "Like duh, stupid."

Now, I don't really know what I was expecting. As long as it looked better than this, I figured I'd be cool:

I couldn't have been farther off the mark than if I was smoking crack.

My husband? The man who can't drink wine unless it's from the correct stemware? His little man cave? Turned out not to be so little. In fact, his far off future distant project to store vehicles has more square footage than the house he stores his family in.

Boo's garage is my damn dream home. Minus the carbon monoxide fumes and cement floors, of course.

Not an exact replica of what my husband has in mind.

This isn't as BIG as the one Boo showed me.

I sat there, momentarily, dumbfounded, searching for something to say which didn't involve threats on his life.

You know what happens when you give your husband eight years and a dream?

Big things.

Big red barn/garage thingies with triple doors, two storeys and a private man cave. Surely to be completed with a "No Girls Allowed" sign hanging on the door.

You would have thought I'd have learned my lesson after our couch debacle. I suppose the upside to all of this is that he can take his manly leather monstrosity of a couch and stick it in his oversized man cave.

Where the sun surely won't be shining.

Once upon a time there was a girl, who married a boy, who never quite learned how to pay attention so she made a compromise, which involved a promise and now she's banging her head against her desk. It's like that song about a fly on a log, only worse.

Because my song involves an ugly couch, a giant garage, a Bat Cave, me wearing Alfred's butler costume and my husband wearing a sh!t eating grin.

The devil really is in the details.

 

 

My Preciousssss...

OR ALTERNATELY TITLED: MY HUSBAND IS SO GOING TO KILL ME

It's not every day that I receive a head in a cardboard box in the mail. Because it's not every day that a jewellery maker reads my blog and decides, "Hey! That Tanis chick totally could rock a dead bird necklace!"

But it happened.

And I named him Herbert.

Herbie.

The Herbster.

That's right. My name is Tanis and I like to freak out small children with my jewellery everywhere I go. See also another reason why my husband may also choose to work out of town.

Anyways....

The other day I received a text message telling me there was a special box waiting for me in the nearest small town. I wasn't quite sure what was in the box but since the last time I opened up a box Herbert came into my life so I knew I would soon be sporting the latest in road kill creation.

Just as long as I didn't mind picking up my parcel at the local police station.

Because there is absolutely nothing weird about going to pick up a box of jewellery made from the parts of dead animals at a police station. I hear the RCMP totally dig that sort of stuff.

"I'm so going to get arrested," I texted back.

"Only if there are dog sniffers on duty!" she cheerfully replied.

Hahaha.

You gotta love a girl who will willingly touch dead wild life to craft pretties for me and then joke about getting frisked in the clink. That's the very definition of a good girlfriend.

Sadly enough, as naughty as it felt, picking up a box of dead things from inside a cop shop went surprisingly well. My visions of being snarled at by dog sniffers and feeling the cold bite of metal bracelets around my wrists as I wailed "But they match my gopher earrings!!!" and then tossed into the clink never came true.

It was utterly routine.

Just as picking up a box of dead animal jewellery should be. Clearly my imagination is much more interesting than my reality.

Thank goodness for furried and feathered adornments to spice up my existence.

My lovely friend really went all out this time, covering stem to stern and everything in between. I can't decide which piece I love most. The brooch I plan on wearing for Mother's day festivities:

What's a tail or two between friends?

Or the sister to my sweet sweet Herbert? Because everyone needs a blue and green dead bird to match the purple one you've already been rocking. I think I'll call her Joan.

My precioussssss....

However, the piece de resistance had to be the face. This is what happens to the Easter Bunny once the holiday is over. I'm so hanging this in my living room. Right next to wear my husband always sits. Because I know he'll appreciate the value of quality road kill decor.

I can't stop stroking my bunny.

I'm betting once he sees Mrs. Fuzzlenuts (as it shall hence forth be referred to) he's really going to wish he had just ponied up and bought me that pot I wanted for Christmas after all.

So Vicki, thank you once again, for helping me help my husband see my wisdom and making me look fine while doing it.

Wink.

P.S. Vicki makes lovely non-dead-animal related jewellery as well for those of you who are interested. She is multitalented. (No, she didn't pay me to say that. I just like to point out Canadian awesomeness whenever I can. Plus, you know. She's my crack carcass dealer so...)