September 10, 2011

Lannis: Chickening Out

All I have to say about this is TRIPLE GAH!
* * *

Some days coming up with post topic is easy — I can only imagine how The Mrs feels, having to fill the other days; I only have to cover one.

Some days, though, some days I’ve a great rant, or an anecdote that’s fabulous — one not at all inappropriate (probably).

Those are good days.

Other days, I sit, staring at the wall, then the laptop screen, then the wall, and I can’t recall what I ate for breakfast, or whether the dishwasher is clean, let alone something interesting to relate on a Saturday post.

It’s like writer’s block, except my cure for writer’s block has always been to switch gears and work on another project.

That doesn’t exactly help when I’m trying to fill a specific niche.

This morning, though, I went to hang laundry on the line, and saw this —

It was huge!

Like, the size of a loonie! And it darted at me!

And it looked at me crosswise, like it was trying to figure out if the best tactic to induce maximum paranoia would be to leap onto my face and scare the bejeezus out of me, or whether it should shimmy up my leg and under my shirt...

And it was monstrous. Striped like some genetically altered tarantula, shrunken slightly to a more inconspicuous (yet still abnormally large) size, streamlined for increased speed...


I might have done the stereotypic girlie thing and whined and pouted and vibrated on the spot until Mr Lannis came to rescue me.

(He tells me it was relocated to the front lawn — but that bad boy was fast! There’s a good chance he’ll have returned by the time tomorrow’s laundry goes up... eep!)

I wish I could say only a few of those panicky jitters were feigned.


I grew up in a small town. I spent my summers outdoors. I am not squeamish. I used to capture toads (big ones!), I’d try to trap mice if I could. My parents used to tell me to stay away from the notorious skunk-den stump because they knew me too well.

Nope, not squeamish with nature. Unless it comes to creepy-crawlies. And I’m usually good with spiders, even indoors. (They’re all named Peter. Hands up if you know why.) Tiny spiders, I’m good with.

But not this enormous arachnid!

He’s huge!

He’s probably better at math than I am!

I mean, he must be smart to survive long enough to get that big!

To have this guy hanging out in the same place I’m about to hang my laundry not only gives me the heebie-jeebies standing in proximity to put the clothes on the line, but the idea that he might decide to go for a walk and get caught in the laundry, to be inadvertently relocated indoors...?



The irony to this story, of course, is that before Mr Lannis had to come to my rescue and relocate that hairy behemoth elsewhere, I was busy taking photos of our fridge.

Yes. The mysterious contents of the Lannis household’s fridge.

Because Mr Lannis had gone on a jaunt to the grocery store the day before, to pick up items imperative to his everyday eating habits (and no one else’s).

That’s three dozen eggs. And cartons of whites.

He eats six eggs a day, and that’s before adding in his egg white shakes.

Yes, every day.

Yes, I’m serious.

Yes, he’s a crazy health nut (and I maintain he works out enough for the both of us).

Yep. So. There I was, gathering photographic evidence in order to write a silly post about how he maybe probably should have married a chicken.


And then I realized he did.

Occasional poster at The Mrs, I'm Lannis - or Leslie, depending on which circles you're swimming. A while ago I decided that I don't care anymore, hence my general standards for life are lower than The Mrs' (but she still loves me.) [Editor: I do]

I live in a small town with my favourite people: my husband, Mr Lannis, and our two boys, along with two cats and one hamster.

If you follow me on Twitter, you might witness my issues with linear thought, road rage, spending more money on food than books, and potty mouth. Be warned.