This time was shockingly different. The Viking and I spent most of the time just staring at her like she was a changeling. We had only babysat a month previous – how can this little human be the same human from a month ago? The whole experience was a revelation.

The Highlights

• She mastered the sippy cup. Last time she wouldn’t even pick it up. This time she was a rockstar, one-handing it and performing stunts as she drained the last drop of juice.
• SHE WALKS! And runs! All around the house like it was an Olympic Speed Walking track. She stuck her little hand up to grab my finger and started dragging me around behind her. Amazing.
• She loves getting her hair combed. Especially if you accidentally squirt her in the face with a water bottle. When she woke up in the morning, her hair was kind of knotted and sticking in all directions and I thought I should get her looking spiffy for her mom. I assumed I needed to sneak up on her because who likes getting the knots out of their hair when they are 14 months old? She turned around at the last second and got a face full of water and it wasn’t even warm. SHE GIGGLED! I started combing her hair and she got that look on her face that everyone on the planet makes when they are getting a head massage. She grabbed for the spray bottle and tried to squirt herself and when that didn’t work, she handed it back to me. So, I sprayed her in the face again and combed. And again. And again. Until the bottle was empty and she still wanted more.
• The turkey baster is no longer her favourite toy.

• She has the smelliest farts I’ve ever been forced to smell.
• She found a remote control and held it to her ear like it was a phone. She went to the kitchen and started chatting on the ‘phone’, so The Viking and I started answering her from the other room and the conversation became quite complex.
• She is an epic chair dancer.
• She TALKS! I had given her a sippy cup of juice and when she had no interest in it, I set it on the table. An hour later she stood beside me, reached toward the table and demanded “JUICE!” Well, knock me over with a feather.
• She has a stuffed sloth that is almost as big as she is, and she never puts it down.
• She squinches her face when she smiles and it’s fucking adorable.
• Watching her facial expressions is like looking in a mirror. She has a ‘what-the-fuck’ face.
• Fruitloops received the ‘what-the-fuck’ face. Pretzels didn’t and are the preferred snack after grapes.
• When she poops, she gets this still face and faraway look like she’s listening to aliens.
• Cook an egg for her and she stuffs it in her mouth with both hands and no, she doesn’t want a spoon, thank you very much.
• She gives hugs for no reason at all. It’s a ‘wrap her arms around your neck and lays her head on your shoulder’ kind of hug that makes you feel warm and squishy inside.

So, it was a win. More than just a win, though. It was a spectacular success! The one takeaway was that we don’t have enough toys to entertain Molly and keep her mind working. Lids off Tupperware containers and pill bottles filled with beads won’t cut it anymore. And that’s how I found myself scrolling through dozens of listings on Facebook Marketplace. We want to be prepared for next time, after all.

The morning we were leaving, all the luggage bags were on the floor at the back door and the neighbours were getting out their lawn chairs and spiked coffee. I was determined to cheat them out of the usual gong show and sing-along this time and I was about to find out if I succeeded.

The Viking selected the bags he wanted to load first and I trotted behind him, carrying the other two bags. I stopped well short of the bike and gently put down the bags. I was careful to avoid The Viking Stink Eye that happens when I get too close to luggage. While he called on his Gods to bless his packing, I went back in the house to dig out the jackets and helmets, cleaned the coffee pot, made sure the garbage and compost bucket were empty, changed the message on the answering machine, watered the plants, and put on my boots. Then I played Solitaire until he showed up sweaty and panting from all the packing. He looked like he’d been in a fist fight.

Our destination: Vernon, BC. We were managing to leave two full days earlier than we had anticipated, so we booked a hotel for the days before the cabin reservation kicked in. The Viking had scrolled through hundreds of hotels in the Vernon area until he found what he wanted – reasonably priced rooms and a pool. A POOL! Because not only is he a control freak about packing, he also has a water fetish.

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I don’t understand what it is with him and water. He’s like AquaViking! For me, a hotel with a pool is like going to Hawaii for a root canal. Sure, it’s great to be in Hawaii, but…well…you get my point. A pool means a bathing suit and it’s impossible to find a bathing suit I’m willing to wear in public. Apparently, the swimming costumes I am willing to wear went out of fashion in 1910.

It turned out that putting on my bathing suit wasn’t an issue after all. By the time we reached Vernon, the temperature had soared to over 30°C (86°F) and we were both melting in our big jackets and jeans. Our melting intensified while we reverse-VooDoo-ed all the packing and carried it to our room. Just so you know – The Viking allows me to help with unpacking the bike. Sure, he’s all…

“Be careful….ooooh….no! you have to….just a minute….watch out!….you can’t do that…..STOP!…for fucksake!” but he wore himself out once I had successfully unloaded a bag without breaking the bike into a million pieces.

I started peeling off clothes before the room door was completely closed. At that moment I really didn’t care what I looked like in a bathing suit if the pool could stop the sweating. Of course, it took quite a while to find the bathing suits because someone didn’t make a luggage map. It was sort of like a Naked Treasure Hunt, but I had to be careful with my nipples because the air conditioning was on ‘high’, and my boobs aren’t twenty anymore. My mood improved dramatically when we found that the pool was deserted, though.

The second thing I don’t understand about water: what are you supposed to do with yourself once you’re wet and no longer sweating? If I were a surfer or a water polo enthusiast, I would know exactly what to do in the water, but 1). The pool was too small for a surfboard and 2). Water polo usually has more than two people and we didn’t have a ball. So, I paddle around for a couple of minutes and then what? I have watched The Viking very carefully over the years to see exactly what he does in the water that he loves so much and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t do a damned thing. He just stands around. There wasn’t even something interesting on the wall except for a life preserver which seems a little redundant when the pool is only 3 meters (10 feet) by 6 meters (20 feet).

“I wonder how many times they’ve had to use that life preserver?”

“Probably never.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” End of conversation.

There was a clock on the wall, but it seemed to be mocking me. After 3 hours in the pool, I thought I could suggest we search for drinks back in the room, except the clock said we had only been there for 9 minutes.

I did notice an odd reflection on the door to the pool area. There were trees and about 5 flags, but when I looked at the windows all I could see was blue sky. I spent about 10 minutes trying to locate the source of the reflection. I even went so far as to get out of the pool and stand in front of the door, but I still couldn’t see anything. The Viking was wondering what I was doing, and he started looking too.  It was a mystery.  So, we gave up and went back to standing around doing nothing. It was probably the best time I’ve had in a body of water since my last water polo game – in 1975.

Nine hundred years later….

“Maybe we should go back to the room and have a couple of drinks.”

“Are you sure? We can stay longer if you want. I’m quite happy here.” I was already running for my towel.

“No. I’m done here.”

Drinks in the room, dinner in the hotel restaurant, and a quick tidy of the exploded luggage. I curled up to read, my head resting on The Viking’s stomach.

“Do you know that we didn’t have a single ‘incident’ today? Yes, there were a few stabby, snarky comments when we were unloading the bike and melting, but overall, it was a good day.”

“They were your stabby, snarky comments.”

“Hmmm. I think there were a couple from you.”

“Nope. All you.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like me at all. I am the soul of kindness.”

“HA!!” His stomach catapulted my head toward the ceiling. “A little bit of sweat and you turn into The Hulk.”

“Pfft! I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

We took the Goldwing, but we haven’t become very adept at packing. This is only the third time we’ve attempted a motorcycle vacation and it shows. Mostly because The Viking is a cranky control freak.

Back in the bad old days, when we packed the fifth wheel for every holiday, we had completely separate tasks that rarely over-lapped. He had nothing to do with stocking the towels, clothes and condiments. I had nothing to do with filling propane bottles and checking tire pressures. The only time we had to confer was in regard to how many times we would be eating steak and bacon (every meal) and how much beer and Baileys I needed to buy (a lot). This motorcycle packing is an entirely different beast though. It turns out that I am in charge of gathering things and The Viking is in charge of complaining about the items I’ve gathered and packing those items into the bags.

I started my ‘gathering stuff’ a couple days in advance, all the items grouped into categories, sealed in Ziplocks and labelled appropriately. I put all my clothes into a large Ziplock bag and squeezed the air out of it so it took up less space, and wrote lists of what needed to be done before we left. I brought out the custom bags that fit perfectly in the trunk and side bags of the bike and thought I had everything under control.

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Just to be clear, I did not presume to put anything in a bag. I clearly remember last year’s debacle and simply laid out the bags and piles on the kitchen table so The Viking could mumble incantations and work the intricate magic involved in his packing system. I took up position on the opposite side of the table and waited for instructions.

“Beach Towels.”

“Yes Sir!” I handed them over respectfully with a snappy salute. I folded them wrong, apparently, and there was a heavy sigh and several seconds of head shaking while he re-folded them properly and put them in the bottom of a bag. With great exaggeration for instructional purposes.

“Laptop.”

I had put the power cords in the outside pocket of the laptop bag and that was a colossal blunder.

“You can’t put the cords with the laptop because any weight on top of it…” he mimics pushing down on the laptop, “will break it.” He continues mimicking the pushing and breaking for an entire 30 seconds. Okay, he has a point. I’ll give him that.

My vacuum-packed clothes were an issue for some unknown reason. It probably wasn’t magic enough. He mumbled something about it being too wide to fit and bashed the side bag skinny-full-ly several times to make his point. “See?! It won’t fit. You have to be very careful that you don’t make the bag too wide, or the side bag cover won’t close. See?!”

I nodded enthusiastically like I had learned something new, hoping he wouldn’t carry on for another 6 minutes on the intricacies of motorcycle packing. As he dumped my clothes…..

“You only need 5 pairs of underpants.” Counting them out and handing me the remainder.

“But we’re going to be gone for 10 days.”

“You’re lucky I’m allowing you 5! You can wash them in the sink. I’ve been taking motorcycle trips for 107 years and have never packed more than 3 pairs of underpants even for a 6-month trip. And I washed them out with only one cup (250ml) of water that I recycle to make myself some coffee with nothing more than a Bic lighter and tin foil. I’m sure you can make do.”

“Should I buy travel-size laundry soap?”

“What?!! Are you crazy?!! We’ll use sand and spit.”

He dismantled my entire Ziplock system, including the Ziplock containing all the chargers for all of our electronics. He gave a Ted Talk on how a Ziplock of something takes up too much room, but individual items can be put into nooks and crannies. He explained with examples, best practices and techniques. He did make one concession for Ziplocks and that was when it came to things that might leak, like shampoo. He also gave a short lecture on where things go depending on their squishiness – hard things go here, and soft things go there. At least that’s what I think he was explaining; I had stopped listening at sand and spit because my lady parts were shrieking.

I finally walked away and left him to his dark magic. He may VooDoo everything into the bags easier but just wait until he’s looking for his toothbrush and has to unpack every damned bag to find it. That goes for tablets and phone chargers, too. He should have made a detailed luggage map with the location of every item at a bare minimum, but what do I know?

I’m not saying that I could do a better job packing the bike, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be so cranky and explain-y.

Every night at 11:00 on the nose, treats are handed out to Teddy and Izzie, like alms for the poor except they aren’t poor, and Izzie isn’t as deserving as poor peasants. And I’m not a good acolyte, either. Okay, it’s nothing like alms for the poor so just ignore the whole alms thing.

Last night, close to 11:00, Izzie abandoned her usual routine of trying to hypnotize early treats out of The Viking and went to crouch in front of the cat door. That in itself isn’t unusual because she squats there all the time, daring Teddy to make it past her without receiving flesh wounds. However, the timing of the squatting was unusual. She’s usually more focused on treats than petty assault.

I assumed that she was feeling more militant than usual. “Izzie! Let Teddy in for his treats!”

She didn’t move. “Izzie!!”

Her left ear flicked in my direction, but she still didn’t move. So, I went to the door and opened it so Teddy could come in. Except he seemed sort of hesitant even though he could clearly see that Izzie was behind me and, therefore not a threat.

“Come one, Teddy. I chased Izzie away.”

He came up one step and that’s when I noticed that his tail was unbelievably huge. “Holy moly, Teddy! What’s up with the big tail? Come on. Come get your treats.”

He came up one more step. The Viking showed up and gave his version of encouragement. “What the fuck’s the problem? Come on, Teddy!” He shook the treat jug loud enough for every cat in the block to hear.

He came up the top step and looked at me.

What the fuck?! Was this even Teddy? Same colour, same eyes. The light on the fur around his ears were the same silver. But the tail is too long, isn’t it? And did he lose about three pounds since supper?

“I don’t think this is Teddy.” The cat now had two feet in the house, and it was obvious.

I turned to look at Izzie who was standing off to my left. She was wearing her frowny face and staring at me. Apparently, she knew it wasn’t Teddy and definitely didn’t approve of my invitations to Treat Time.

“Where’s Teddy then?”

The motion detector light came back on, and I thought I saw Teddy squatting on the garage roof. I grabbed a flashlight and aimed it at the garage. Yup. He was just sitting on the garage roof watching the show. “What are you doing up there, Teddy?”

I scooted Skinny Teddy out the door. “Okay. Let me get this straight.” I said, rubbernecking between Teddy and Izzie. “You two allowed a strange cat that we’ve never seen before to sashay right up to the back door? You even let me invite it into the house for treats?”

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Skinny Teddy was just sitting at the bottom of the steps, wondering if treats were still available. Fat Teddy still squatted on the roof and Izzie, bored with the whole thing, was cleaning her right ear.

“Do you know that The Viking and I were sitting out enjoying a beer the other day and a mouse – yes! A mouse! – spent at least an hour scampering around back and forth in front of the office door? Yes! AN HOUR! You guys drag the corpses of rodents and birds you’ve killed into the house but allow a live mouse free access to the beer drinking patio?”

No one moved. They weren’t even looking at me. “And you think you deserve treats?!”

Skinny Teddy took a step toward the bottom step. “You know what?! I’m going to ask Skinny Teddy for its* resume and references. Gawd! Maybe it will earn the food and treats we pay for. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that damned fly that bumped against every window for two days!”

I sent Skinny Teddy away to put together an employment package and banged the back door shut.

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Teddy immediately left his perch and headed for the house. Izzie took up her usual position beside The Viking to beg for treats despite my mutterings that they don’t deserve them.

They don’t care, because The Viking is the weakest link in this household and will give them treats whether they earn them or not. And most of the time, it’s ‘not’.

Freeloaders.

*I hadn’t taken the time to check his/her private bits and besides is it even polite on a first meeting?

In my defense, we were leaving for vacation a day earlier than the original plan because The Viking decided, and that condensed my preparations from two days into one day. That’s important because my usual pre-vacation check, check, triple check, self-doubt, check, check, second self-doubt, and a final check was cut off after just two checks, and I only had one day to run all errands and chores. Also, The Viking usually fuels up the bike the day before we leave so we just get on the bike and go first thing in the morning, but this time he decided he should mess with our scientifically proven process of vacationing and would fuel up on the way out of the city. In other words, we were throwing all caution to the wind and recklessly hoping the Vacation Gods were in our favour. They weren’t.

The first sign of the colossal clusterfuckery headed my way happened at the gas station before we ever left the city. The Viking opened his wallet to pull out the credit card to stick into the pump….

“Where the fuck is the credit card?!!!”

During one of those errands the day before, I needed the credit card, so I just stuck the card in my wallet. Had I returned the card to his wallet immediately, he would have been none the wiser, but I hadn’t and that one little thing was nothing short of a sin of biblical proportions and, trust me on this, The Viking is extremely good at pinpointing sins of biblical proportions and exactly who is to blame for those sins of biblical proportions. And, since I didn’t need my wallet on the first day, it was buried in the depths of Jolene’s over-stuffed side bags. At that point, we both decided that it was easier to just pay with cash than scatter our belongings all over the parking lot of the gas station to find my wallet. We should have known better. This is what happens when we fly by the seat of our pants, with no method to our madness. And, had The Viking fueled up Jolene the day before, he would have caught my clusterfuck. But, he didn’t. Our fate was inescapable at that point.

So, we drove four and a half hours, blissfully ignorant. We pulled into the parking lot of our pre-booked hotel and dug out my wallet.

Time.

Stopped.

Blink. Blink.

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My wallet did not contain the credit card.

The Viking grabbed my wallet out of my hands and looked for himself. No credit card. He pulled his wallet out again and nope, no credit card.

Shit.

The Viking started a curse-y stream of mutterances of doom and the ending of all our hopes and dreams forever more, while I prepared for the biblical consequences of my clusterfuck. How could I have lost the credit card?! If it wasn’t in either wallet, then it had to be in my coat pocket or still sitting on the counter at the parts store.

The Vacation Gods must have decided to give us a small bit of luck though when the hotel desk person didn’t ask to see the credit card. We had booked and paid for the room on Expedia, but usually, we are asked for the card anyway. This time they didn’t, so at least we had a bed for the night.

Six o’clock the next morning, we loaded Jolene up again and drove four and a half hours back to Calgary in sub-arctic temperatures which The Viking had tried to avoid by leaving a day early!

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I ran for my coat and…no credit card!

I ran to the car and frisked it thoroughly…no credit card!!

I must have left it on the counter at the parts store. My head was ready to explode. I don’t lose things! How could I have lost THE CREDIT CARD of all things?! The Viking was pacing.

I reached for the phone to call the parts store, and there, on the top of The Viking’s computer tower, was the credit card. I almost cried. It took me only a second to realize that I must have been sidetracked on my way to put the credit card in The Viking’s wallet. A phone call? A customer? With the panic of changed plans and the parts run and talking with the house sitter and getting more cat food and finishing laundry and customers coming at the last minute…it could happen to anyone.

So, 8 hours of driving just to get back to where we started, and then another 8 hours to go where we wanted to go and where we had a hotel room waiting for us. A 12-hour driving day. And it was fucking cold until we got back to where we started that morning.

In a post-apocalyptic clusterfuck de-brief we decided that getting a second card for me to keep in my wallet at all times would protect his card from being pinched from his wallet and the $100.00 for that second card was more than worth it.

The Viking lovingly freed Jolene from her winter clothes and checked her over for any possible concerns. He bought a new GPS since Jolene’s is making noises about retirement and wanting a pension. He also bought a dash cam. Don’t worry though, it doesn’t have a microphone in case cursing happens and an insurance adjuster or a cop needs to see footage. It just makes sense to proactively avoid offending anyone who may or may not approve an insurance claim.

I, as usual, am in charge of making lists and piles of things we need to take with us. The Viking is in charge of packing it all in bags and wedging them into Jolene’s trunk and side bags. Because he’s a control freak and doesn’t think I have the skills to pack a bag. I do, of course, but I’m not prepared to die on that hill when I can just sit back and watch him do all the work. I just offer drinks and snacks while I play Solitaire.

“How’s it going in there? Do you need a drink or a snack?” I don’t even bother getting up from the computer.

“NO! Why in the fuck do you need eight different jugs of lotion?!”

“Because I have eight different lotion requirements for my body. Face lotion, hand lotion, foot lotion, arm lotion, leg lotion, and three different lotions that overlap so no part of my old lady skin is left un-lotion-ed.” I answer over my shoulder.

“For fucksakes! You get ONE LOTION!!”

Control Freak. “Fine! But, if I pre-maturely age while we’re on vacation it’s your fault.” Heavy sigh.  “If I am forced to choose, and you are forcing me, I need the face lotion because it has sunscreen and then the hand lotion because face lotion is too expensive to use on my whole body and hand lotion doesn’t have sunscreen.”

I hear the rattling of lotion containers bouncing across the living room floor. There is muttering and cursing, but I don’t even pay attention anymore. If he wasn’t such a control freak, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

After about 10 minutes. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

I was wondering when he would get to that. He took so long I thought maybe he missed it. Or, more likely, knew immediately that I was fucking with him because he’s a control freak and just put the extra-large jar of pickles to the side without a word. The 8 jugs of lotion were on purpose, too, but he fell for that.

And, sure, I suppose I shouldn’t fuck with him when he’s in the middle of a complex and grandiose packing plan, but I can’t just let the whole control freak thing go without some sort of punishment, can I? Give him a pass and what’s next? He’ll be organizing my purse or going through the freezer and pointing out things that have been in there since 2017. Or insist on driving whenever we go some place together.

Wait…

…

…

I probably should have been on top of this way before now.

“Hey, Izzie. How’s it going?” I have to acknowledge her arrival, or she doesn’t stop.

Shouting.

I bent down to give her a little love and discovered that she was naked. “Where is your collar?!”

More shouts.

“It’s brand new! And it was beautiful! All those sparkly rhinestones!”

More shouting.

“Stop shouting already! Gawd!”

She launched herself into my chest-ular area and gave me the stink eye.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one who lost your collar.” I said, as I was scratching her under her chin. “I suppose I need to go look for it?” Sigh.

I went out to the garage to tell The Viking that Izzie was naked and to keep a look out for her collar. His response was classic. “AGAIN?!”

I nodded and Izzie shouted.

I took a look around but there was no sign of her collar. Someone would return it though. They always do. Everyone within a 3-block radius knows Izzie and where to go to get an apology.

Ten minutes later, the phone rang. “Hello?”

“I’m at your back door and I have Izzie’s collar.” Izzie’s boyfriend. The guy that has been on a year-long crusade to steal Izzie’s affections from The Viking.

Weird. Why didn’t he just ring the doorbell or knock like a normal person? He was literally standing right in front of the door. When I opened it, he shoved Izzie’s collar at me. “I almost had to go to the hospital after I tried to put that collar back on her.” He sounded annoyed.

“Awww…did you bleed?”

“Yes!”

“Well, thank you for bringing the collar home. Apologies for your bleeding.” Izzie is sitting innocently beside me watching her boyfriend’s outrage.

It was difficult to feel any sympathy for this ballsy homewrecker. It’s not like she hasn’t slapped him before, because she has. Many, many times because it’s been a journey*. I suppose he just got cocky when she took a few treats from his hand like he had won the popularity contest. A contest that he bragged about winning directly to The Viking’s face. He obviously over-played his hand and now had the audacity to come to our door, all annoyed because he just realized that the joke was on him.

“She was crawling on my quad and must have caught her collar.”

I couldn’t help myself. Honestly. I tried to be gracious. For a full two seconds. But he had bragged to The Viking’s face, and that can’t go unanswered.

“That’s not what Izzie said. She’s been shouting and name-calling since she got home. It’s almost like she’s blaming you for the loss of her collar.”

“WHAT?! Why would I take her collar?”

“Hey. Don’t get testy with me. You and her have some sort of dysfunctional relationship that involves peeping tommery and food. So, how would I know what you would or wouldn’t do?”

“That’s ridiculous. If I wanted her collar, why I would I bring it back?”

“Like I said, how would I know?”

“She spends every afternoon with me, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“She usually lets me pet her and eats treats out of my hand.”

I shrugged, still not sympathetic. “Yes, well, she’s notoriously fickle. I’ve spoken to her about it, but it’s like she doesn’t care. Besides, you should consider yourself lucky that she hasn’t stolen your vehicle or a major appliance.”

“Well, I brought back her collar.” He started walking away, unimpressed.

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Suddenly, he turned around. “Just out of curiosity, does she cuddle with you?”

I laughed. “Yes! A lot more than I would like sometimes.”

“She doesn’t scratch or bite you?” Incredulous.

“Of course not. We’re family.” Just to show off, I scooped Izzie up, flipped her on her back in my arms, and started scratching her chin. She tipped her head toward Gregor and gave him a smile. She must not like his attitude.

I went to see The Viking in the garage. “Izzie slapped Gregor and there was blood.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “She did?”

“Uh, huh. And he was annoyed.”

The smile grew. “I feel so bad for him.”

And then we laughed and laughed and laughed.

We never should have doubted Izzie. It appears that her usual routine of crime has become boring and she needs to up her game. Emotional warfare is just the next logical step, I suppose.

*If you aren’t current with the boyfriend drama, click click here.

In case you’ve missed it, here is a partial list of her crimes over the past few years:

• She broke into a guy’s house via a closed but unlocked basement window and refused to let him use his washing machine for 4 hours. When she was ready to leave, she went to his back door and shouted names at him until he opened it for her.
• She bullied a neighbour’s dogs into neurosis.
• She stole a customer’s truck and wouldn’t give it back. He had to come and get The Viking to remove her.
• She car-jacked a car down the street, but the woman screamed so loud that a neighbour had to get me.
• She kidnapped 2 newcomers to the block and refused to let them use their back door.
• She started a fight club and came home bloody, over and over and over again.
• She sits on top of a cabinet at the back door and slaps every customer as they walk in to pay their bill.
• She supervised a guy, all afternoon, while he built a fence and then slapped him when he tried to give her a treat.
• She started a fight with a Raven who came back with reinforcements and turned our yard into Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. I had to rescue her from under a spruce tree.
• She taunted a Magpie, Alice Pooper, until Alice shouted insults and curses at her every time she left the house. It was deafening.

So, yeah. She’s a Mobster. The thing is, she’s a lovable Mobster. And it’s mostly men who become enchanted. They laugh about her antics, put food out for her in case she gets hungry during a crime spree, they chat with her when she stops by to judge them. She always came home, though, clear on who her family was.

But one of her conquests from down the street has crossed a line. He stopped by to brag to The Viking that Izzie has been visiting him and letting him pet her and takes treats out of his hand. Directly from his hand!! It’s one thing for her to just visit, it’s another thing entirely when she becomes a strumpet for any Tom, Dick or Harry’s affection! She has never let anyone touch her; she has a strict ‘no touchy!’ rule. Apparently though, this guy has been on a year-long campaign to win her approval and he’s succeeded!

I was unaware of the treachery until I heard The Viking’s indignation tossed at Izzie. “So! You would rather hang out with the guy down the alley?! You bite my toes at night if I move even a little bit, but you let that guy pet you?!”

Izzie busily started an extensive bath.

“You eat treats right out of his hand?!”

Still bathing.

“And, I had to hear it right from that bragging bastard?!”

The bathing moved to the lady bits.

Surprised, I had to ask, “Izzie’s cheating on you?”

“Yes!!” He bellowed. “That guy stopped right out there in the alley, asking where Izzie was because he hadn’t seen her since yesterday when he Gave. Her. Treats!”

I looked at Izzie. “Really? You’re cheating on The Viking? After all the fancy collars he’s bought you? And the Dynamite sticks you love so much? That’s cold.”

Still bathing her lady bits.

“Well, I’m not feeding her supper tonight.” He said to me, then directed himself to Izzie. “You can go get your supper at your boyfriend’s house!”

Sadly, Izzie seems to be morally ambivalent about the situation. Teddy, on the other hand, has taken advantage of the demographic shift. The Viking is spoiling him outrageously, especially in front of Izzie. She looks at me like ‘What the Fuck?!’

I just shrug at her. “That’s what happens when you betray a Viking. And they have very long memories, too”

One thing I do know – Teddy would never cheat on us. He’s a staunch defender of the home, totally loyal since we got him off the streets. He doesn’t bite The Viking’s toes in the middle of the night either, and hasn’t committed a single crime in all the years he’s lived here.

Because he’s a good boy.

In my downtime, I like to listen to documentaries on YouTube while I play Solitaire – it helps me to unwind – but because The Viking is sitting right next to me, he is forced to listen to whatever I’m listening to, and sometimes it’s a problem.

If I’m learning about the Hittites and their social hierarchies, The Viking usually just tunes it out. On the other hand, if I’m listening to expert opinions on western expansion, or the decline of the middle class, he becomes extremely interactive. Curses and shouts, to the point that I can’t hear the video over Viking political views. The cats usually rocket out the cat door to escape the heated and sometimes lengthy debate between The Viking and YouTube.

In order to protect YouTube’s feelings and the judgemental dagger stares from the cats, I’ve narrowed down the safe topic selection to……murder/crime.  Thankfully, YouTube has an extensive number of channels offering as much gore and dodgy motives as a person could hope for.

After months of videos, it occurred to me……

Me: I don’t think I can be a murderer. There is far too much work involved.

The Viking: If there was no work involved would you reconsider?

Me: Hmmm…..you know, there have been moments…..but, even if no work was involved, I would still have to be a good liar in case someone started asking questions and we both know that I am a lousy liar.

The Viking: …

Me: What surprises me most is how willing these criminally minded people are to work so hard for so little personal gain. This guy, for instance – he just wanted some weed and whatever cash he could find lying around his girlfriend’s house. He ends up going to a great deal of effort to murder her, then clean up the blood, replace the carpet, dismember the body, dig holes in various remote locations to bury the body parts, and then manufacture a fake alibi. That’s a lot of work. AND, he had to do it all in like 6 hours. I can barely de-bone a chicken in 6 hours.

The Viking: …

Me: Also, have you noticed that everyone involved in solving a crime is given the title of “Forensic”? Forensic Accountants, Forensic Shoe Print Analysists, Forensic Water Analysists, Forensic Internet Specialists, Forensic Reporters. My favorite is the Forensic Hypnotist who hypnotised a witness to get a partial license plate number. So, I suppose as long as you are talking about a crime, anyone can be a Forensic Something.

The Viking: …

Me: How many times a day do you get annoyed because someone has treated their machine with criminal neglect? That makes you a Forensic Mechanic! Right? I’m going to put that on your business cards.

The Viking (snorting): What does that make you?

Me: A Forensic Chef. Forensic Laundress. Forensic Business Accountant. Forensic Shopper. And a Forensic Wife. I’m going to need bigger cards.

The Viking (almost eyeball rolling): Really?

Me: You’ve never heard me folding your laundry when every t-shirt is inside out. You’re just going to have to believe me when I say I’m entertaining criminal thoughts. And don’t get me started on family reunions in grocery store aisles.

The Viking: A Forensic Chef?

Me: Every time I ruin a meal. Every. Time. All that wasted time and food. That’s criminal all on its own.

The Viking had to give me a point for that because it’s absolutely true and we both know it.

In the past few years, he’s had a couple of war wounds.  He banged his leg on a sharp something in the shop, left it to fester for a week, and then presented me with a Sweet-Baby-Jesus(!) oozing wound that required intensive pampering to heal.  He sliced his finger, again in the shop, that sent us to Emergency to have it stitched up before he bled to death.  And other less spectacular injuries that I don’t have time to list.

However, no previous incident can compare with his latest mishap.  It comes with a Red Alert Warning, too.

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Turn back now if you are squeamish about Bums.  Asses.  Derrieres.  Cracks-of-Dawns, or any other euphemism that applies to the muscles upon which you sit.

The day was the same as any other day around here.  The Viking went out to the shop, as per usual, and I was doing my own somethings in the house, as per usual.  From time to time, there were shouts and cursing seeping into the house from the shop, but I don’t even notice them anymore.  The Viking excels at verbalizing his frustrations, very often and at very high decibels, and I’ve developed almost total deafness for sounds coming from the shop.

There came a moment though, that got a tiny piece of my attention for a tiny amount of time.  It was just a second, a blip, a staccato peep, that I dismissed almost immediately even though the sound was not usually part of The Viking’s repertoire.  In my defense, I just thought he was extraordinarily annoyed with a something that required an extraordinary curse.  It was only later that I realized the significance of that blip.

Two hours later, I had reason to visit the shop and found a quiet Viking leaning to the left in his office chair.  “I really wrecked myself this time, babe.”

“Oh?  What happened?”

He lurched out of his chair to recreate the events that ‘wrecked’ him, just stopping short of actually suffering the injury again.  Apparently, he tripped over a trailer hitch and fell backwards.  The lock part of the hitch was sticking straight up and that’s what he landed on.  On his ass.  His right ass cheek, to be exact.  A centimeter (half inch give or take) to the left and he would have completely lost his virginity.*  He whipped his pants down so I could get a look, and it wasn’t pretty.  The offended spot had a shallow cut and the area around it was already turning black and purple and was becoming hard as a rock.

“Holy shit!!  Does it hurt?”  Well, of course it hurt!  He wouldn’t have bothered mentioning it if it didn’t.

Within an hour, half of his bum was purple.  Two hours later his entire right bum cheek was purple and spreading to the left cheek.

I couldn’t look away.  It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen!  I really wanted him to just stand in the kitchen, naked from the waist down so I could observe the exponential expansion of Bruise Willis and poke it often for ripeness.

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It was so wildly unbelievable that I had to share it.  I sent a picture to his brother in Denmark which got an immediate response of “What the fuck happened?!”  I sent a picture to my daughter which got a quick response of….

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Which made me go…..

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I’m not totally without a heart though.  It was obvious – from my close scrutiny and poking of Bruise Willis – that The Viking was going to need some way to sit down.  So, we jury-rigged a pillow and an ice pack.  The following day it was no better and probably even worse.  The whole thing was so massive I started to get a bit concerned.  Can you get a blood clot in your bum that could travel to your brain/lungs/heart?

“Maybe we should go to a medical clinic.” The Viking thought it was unnecessary but on the third day without any improvement, I forced the issue.

The Doctor was a young guy in his late twenties or early thirties and after a brief explanation from us, he told The Viking to drop his pants.  I think the guy thought we were over-reacting to a minor bruise, but he was thoroughly impressed.

“OH!  WOW!  How did you do that?”

Long story short: The Viking will live to fall another day, we shouldn’t be concerned about blood clots, and here’s a prescription for the pain.  However, Bruise Willis earned The Viking some pampering and a couple sick days off work.

And this brings us to the title of who is the biggest Klutz in the house.  I received two points – one for an infected tooth and another for my spectacular skid across the industrial carpet at the back door.  I also received a bonus point for doing it in front of a customer.  The Viking received three points – one for the oozing leg wound, one for the nearly amputated finger, and one point for Bruise Willis.  He also received two bonus points for style.

With 5 points for presentation and creativity, The Viking is now the Champion Klutz.  Long live the Klutz!

*I didn’t say that right then though because that I thought it might be too soon.