Advocation of the Shenis

A few (days) ago, Beth Teliho blogged about something called The Shenis.

It’s exactly what it sounds like: a penis for girls.

I could probably find a purple funnel in my kitchen if I looked really hard…

Nothing Freudian; just practicality when it comes to things like being able to pee standing up like one of the guys. #EqualityForAll

You’re doing it wrong. Cute, but wrong.

If they ever make an infomercial about this product (have they already??), I will audition to be one of the people living a terrible existence in a choppy black-and-white montage before they experienced The Shenis.

And I will win that “role” by telling this story.

The Year Was 2005…

I was a skinny Mexican teenager unaffected by the mass amounts of mini-donuts I was consuming at a small-town Fall Fair…

As I was for a number of years…RIP teenage me…

For four days at the end of every summer, our little Smithers was overtaken by madness. Semi-truck after semi-truck would pile into town, and we would watch excitedly as we could see our favourite rides being constructed before our eyes like Legos in a local field. We prepared ourselves for the Parade (building and dancing on a Bible-themed float down Main Street, skeet-a-skeet whaaaat?) and the ensuing Midnight Madness, where you paid $20 for a bracelet that entitled you to an unlimited amount of rides and skeezy out-of-towners trying to sell you stuff. And, of course, mini-donuts.

As will happen, a group of my friends and I needed to use the bathroom. Pairs? Try fives.

We made our way through the crowds, only to find this unfortunate situation in front of the girl’s washroom:

Begrudgingly, we got into line, trying to calculate just how much this would cut in our unlimited ride time. After 10 minutes, we all started doing the scissor dance

and after 5 minutes of that, I noticed that this was happening in front of the men’s washroom:

So I said, “Girls, I’m going in..I think!”

They all said, “Girl, don’t do it. This line’s gotta move eventually.”

I, in my infinite wisdom, “Girls, my girl can wait no longer. Cover me.”

So I took a deep breath and crossed the line…into Urinal Territory. I could hear whispers of friends and strangers alike, as I was clearly a groundbreaking bad-ass.

Friends, I’m not gonna lie…it was pretty bad. There were 3 rotten urinals against the wall; I took a few more deep breaths, entered one of two sit-down stalls, and locked the door. I had no sooner unzipped my pants and sat down than I heard it.

A rumbling in the floors, in the walls. Drunken shouts. The boys bathroom was now filled with what I imagined to be at least 5 football-player-sized meatheads who didn’t need urinals, but needed to crap or puke or both.

In terror, I quickly bent my knees and tucked my dazzly flip-flopped feet up on the toilet seat. I don’t know why I thought this would prevent them from seeing me, but I held my breath – praying that God would cause the cunning enemy-defeating spirit of my Yaqi ancestors to descend upon me with powers of invisibility.


My stall door rattled and shook until I thought it was going to unhinge. I expected at any moment to see a head pop up underneath the door. Or worse, a body crawling underneath to unlock it from within. But, too drunk to figure out what was happening, these boys started yelling at each other in frustration.

“Fudge! This stupid fudging door is fudging stuck! This is fudging bullcrap! Oh wait, there’s another one, this one better fudging work…”   *

*Actually different words.

So there I hunched and waited as each one of those gentlemen took turns using the one available stall. Oh yeah, and you can bet that I’d still never peed.

5 minutes…10…15 minutes later, the stomping and swearing and bodily function noises finally subsided. Ever so slowly, I let my legs unfold and my feet touch the floor again.


I bent over, looking at the floor from all angles for any evidence of feet.


I sighed and released my bladder like Niagara Falls.

I flushed, unlocked the door, washed my hands and ran like a bat out of hell.

And guess what I found in front of ladies washroom?

That’s right. The amount of time I was trapped was equal to or more than the time it took to go through the entire line-up. Everyone was gone, including my friends.

Not. Worth. It.

Suddenly, a lady came out of the women’s washroom, and her eyes widened when she saw me.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? We watched you walk in there, and literally a bunch of guys barreled in right after you. I was so worried!”

I looked around at the emptiness. “Well, that makes one of you. They didn’t find me; I’m okay. Thanks.”

And if that wasn’t enough, it took me bloody half an hour to find my friends. Who laughed their asses off when I told them what had happened.

Come to think of it, a decade later, I’m not in contact with any of them. Hmmm…

So, in short, if I’d had the Shenis with me that day, I’d have more fake friends and less of an addiction to mini-donuts.

Actually, nah, that sounds like a win to me. Thanks, Yaqi ancestors.



Van Halen’s Mascot is a House Sheep

At this point, if you’ve been with me for awhile, it’s probably no secret that I married a bit of a rock star. If you’re just joining the readership (which has grown exponentially in the past few days — THANK YOU!!!), then I’ll fill you in here and here.

Either way, the story I’m about to tell is wild.

After the fateful night at Bogey’s Pub (referenced above), Steve started attending band practices, with his co-worker/David Lee Roth counterpart, on Sunday afternoons. Because, as we all know, the Sabbath day was created to be kept holy and wholly rockin’.
He would usually leave the house around 3 and come back in time for dinner and relaxing with me before the busy work week started again. But two days ago, everything changed.

David Lee Roth threw BBQ ribs into the mix, inviting me to come along, to eat and be groupies with his girlfriend. I was so in.

We headed out around 6. I’d never been to David Lee Roth’s house before, but by the time we got there, I was truly lost. Langley City is crammed with houses, townhouses, apartments and the like, but outside of it, there’s just acreage after acreage with ranchers and mansions and grids of endless streets. If there is such a thing as the “middle of nowhere” in the city, this was it.

DL Roth lives on a farm with a fancy gate, and since he wasn’t home yet by the time we got there, we waited outside for awhile. This is where the legendary Keith Urban/Miranda Lambert/Don Henley/Anastasia soundtrack mash-up would come to be born.

Finally, everyone showed up and we were let inside the gate. My jaw dropped. There was a pond with ducks on it, while goats and sheep roamed freely in the yard. It was such a call-back to my childhood that I experienced rosy-eyed nostalgia for a brief moment.

And then I entered the house.

Soon, it became clear that I was in a den of porn and horror.


Only a BB gun, I realize now, but it was HEAVY and had a SCOPE. We could still be murdered with it.



The real David Lee Roth being sexual in the corner.


Nice Victorian portrait, right?


Tilt your head to the right and think again.

Of course, I don’t have pictures of the actual porn, but let’s just say that the phrase “graduating magna cum laude” is a punchline I don’t ever want to see again…

So yeah. This is where my husband goes on Sunday afternoons. Not weird at all.


60% hardcore, 30% terrified, 10% I don’t even know.

Here’s the thing though: once I realized that I wasn’t going to die here, these people were really interesting, and I wouldn’t hesitate to hang out with them again. They’ve all taken way too many substances, but they have stories. In many cases, it was that they survived to tell the tale.

Like the bass player who was in Hyder, Alaska in 1991 (where my mom is hiding out from the Apocalypse, ya’ll) for his 23rd birthday, got drunk, stole a horse, got bucked off, and then had someone stop by in a truck and say, “If that was my horse, I’d shoot YOU too!” before peeling out.

Or David Lee Roth’s girlfriend, whose son died in a car accident 9 years ago, and she still feels like it happened yesterday.

Or David Lee Roth himself, being told “Hey man, love your voice!” by Gene Simmons, or doing a floor-laying job on Hastings Street in downtown Vancouver and having the floor cave in beneath him to reveal two skeletons. Not bodies, skeletons. And it’s still not known how they got there.

Steve and I laughed, gave each other weird looks, and ate an ungodly amount of BBQ ribs at 10pm like teenagers.


Shit shit shit. Mushrooms on my blog, mushrooms on my blog. Must…cleanse…


And, of course, there was rock and roll.



The only porn I need.

But WAIT. I am saving the best part for last.

After we ate the ribs and jammed and packed up the gear, I met someone.


This…is Eve.

Eve is the house sheep.

I repeat: The Van Halen Porn Farm has a HOUSE SHEEP.


She eats, in the house.


She makes Steve feel uncomfortable, in the house.


She baa’s majestically during selfies because she is precious and perfect, in the house.

So basically, from now on, my Sunday afternoons are booked. No shame in my Sabbath game, friends!

What’s the weirdest house you’ve ever been in? If you could have any house creature, what would it be? Did I write the word “porn” too much today?