Month: August 2020

Where the Hell is Izzie?!

Izzie’s nose is finally starting to heal from all her activity in Fight Club.  Either she is getting better at fighting or Baloshi is getting worse.  There is the slight possibility that they have reached a mutually beneficial armistice but I’m not going to hang my hat on that because….well….Izzie.  We’ve been worried about Fight Club for quite some time now – Izzie is a small cat and despite her criminal personality, we love her.

During Happy Hour on Friday afternoon, she stretched out on the patio, happy to just be near us.  We paid her little attention.  At some point she wandered off.

And that was last we saw of her.  Friday night she didn’t come for her supper.  At bedtime, she didn’t come for her treats.  Saturday morning, she never arrived for her morning treats.  We started to get worried.  Saturday night, she didn’t arrive for her supper.  Bedtime, no Izzie.

The Viking:  I suppose it’s finally happened.

Me:  I was just thinking the same thing!

The Viking:  She’s such a little dummy.

Me:  I guess I always knew that she wouldn’t live very long.  She wanders so far from home.  Maybe she was hit by a car, or she got trapped in another Cat Trap.

Every time Teddy schlumped past, “Where the hell is Izzie?!”  He either didn’t care or didn’t care.  Izzie is horrible to him so we can’t really blame him for not caring.  Without her around, he would automatically inherit our bed, both cat trees, full attention from us, more treats and the freedom to lay wherever the hell he wants when it’s -25° outside.  Izzie is a tyrant and badgers him constantly.

By Sunday morning, The Viking and I were almost resigned that Izzie was gone for good.

The Viking:  Well, fuck.

Me:  You know, I’ve been thinking about this.  It doesn’t make sense that a coyote got her, or a car ran over her.  I drove around yesterday on my way for groceries and there were no cadavers on the street.

The Viking:  Exactly!  And it doesn’t make sense that she would fall for another cat trap, no matter what treat was inside.  I think she got locked in somewhere.

Me:  I know!  She’s always in everyone’s business and probably got locked in a garage or something.

The Viking:  They probably went away for the weekend.

Me:  It wouldn’t be somewhere close because we would hear her bellowing.  She can shriek the leave off trees.

The Viking:  She’s fucked if those people are gone for a week.  No water, no food.

We both sat in silence, thinking about walking the back alleys, calling for her.  If we heard her calling back, there would be nothing we could do to help her without breaking and entering.  And we would have to break and enter because there is no way we could do nothing while she was dying.  Fucking cat!!  We decided that if she didn’t come home by Sunday night, we would start trolling all the back alleys in a four block radius.  We weren’t prepared to Break and Enter until we had no choice.

Every time the cat door rattled we were hoping it was Izzie and then disappointed when it was Teddy.  Thankfully, he wasn’t offended.

And then, about 3:00pm yesterday, the cat door rattled and Izzie marched in, shrieking and name-calling and demanding treats.  Immediately.  The Viking and I barraged her with “Where the fuck have you been?!” and “You dirty, fucking cat!  We thought you were dead!”

You would think that she would be so happy to see us that she would be, at least a little, loving.  You’d be wrong though.  She was shouty and impatient and “Don’t touch me!” and “That’s not nearly enough treats!” and “Where is that Catnip Mouse I left here 3 days ago?” and “Shit!  You haven’t got rid of Teddy yet?  What have you been doing with all your time?!” and “That is not a fresh can of food and I will not eat it!  Get a fresh one out already!”

The Viking and I were hurrying around to do her bidding because we were so damned happy that she was alive, but we had questions:  “Were you so busy holding someone hostage that you couldn’t be bothered to come home?”, “Did you steal another car and go on a joy ride?”,  “Thieving household appliances and selling them on the black market?”  She never answered because of course she didn’t.  We know what she’s capable of though, so nothing is out of the realm of possibility.

So, she’s alive.  She won’t explain her absence.  And, she’s still demand-y and shout-y today.

And how was your weekend?

Menopause and Strategic Drinking

If you’ve never developed a dysfunctional and cursing relationship with the lowest disc in your back, consider yourself lucky.  That particular disc is a bastard and it will make you miserable for the rest of your life.  Drugs and pain become part of your daily life.  I’ll just leave it at that because further explanation is lengthy and boring.

The reason I even bother mentioning it is because I have difficulty doing certain things – like any activity that requires my torso to have anywhere from a slight forward angle to full 90° angle – like vacuuming, washing dishes, cleaning toilets………and shaving my legs.

And the only reason I even bother mentioning that is because my legs need shaving.  Of course, I procrastinate.  2 weeks ago, The Viking and I were sitting outside enjoying the sun.

Me:  Geez!  Someone needs to shave my legs.

The Viking:  Why?  Who gives a fuck if your legs are hairy?

Me (loving him intensely):  Well, it’s considered a social obligation in Canada/Alberta/Calgary.  Women just don’t go around with hairy legs!  Or pits, for that matter.

The Viking:  Canadians are stupid.  It’s just hair!

He’s right, of course, and I might be rebel enough to break the hairless opinion chain except for one tiny little thing – my legs won’t tan if there is even the slightest hint of hair stubble.  I blame genetics.  Also, The Viking made a comment early this summer:

Hey, Babe!  You have Bedroom Legs!

That the fuck is that supposed to mean?  Apparently, in Denmark, if you have fish-belly-white legs it means you are spending far too much time in the bedroom doing……..well…..you know.  Before you go “that’s sexist”, it also applies to men.

Last week, The Viking and I were sitting outside having a beer after work and I noticed that my legs still weren’t shaved.

Me:  Geezus!  Someone really needs to get these legs shaved.  Look at this!  I can actually pull this hair!

The Viking:  Whatever.  No one cares.

We had some lousy weather for a few days, so I put leg shaving out of mind.  And then Friday was a beautiful day so I plopped myself down in a deck chair in the sun and closed my eyes to just enjoy it for a few minutes.  It was warm and there was a lovely soft breeze.  Then my legs started to feel weird.  It took me a moment to realize that……

……..the breeze was ruffling the hair on my legs!           

Someone has seriously dropped the ball here.  I need to go to the store!  It’s one thing to leave a few pesky chin hairs because they can hide behind the face mask*, it’s another thing entirely to go to the store with the wind whipping my leg hair around.  Whatever happened to slower leg hair growth when you hit menopause so you can spend more time plucking facial hair?  I was looking forward to the day I could quit leg shaving because I can pluck my face without bending over.  I feel kind of betrayed!  Not only am I plucking my face more, but my leg hair hasn’t slowed down at all.  Heavy sigh.

So, I pulled a kitchen chair into the bathroom, along with a margarine container of water to swish the razor.  Thankfully, the shower head is detachable, and I can wet my legs.  And now that I’m bent 110° over my legs, I realize that I’ve forgotten my reading glasses and can’t see if I’m missing hair.  I remedy that problem and now I can see, very clearly, the varicose veins in brilliant contrast to my slightly tanned skin.  Heavier sigh.

In the end, I got my legs shaved and I spent some time hanging them out in the sun.  I complained about the varicose veins though.

The Viking:  Just tan your legs more and no one will notice the veins.

Me:  I’m not sure I can tan them out of existence.

The Viking:  Then stop worrying about it.  Now, let’s have beer!

Happily, after a few beer, I didn’t care about my leg hair and varicose veins.  Perhaps I need to develop and implement a strategic drinking program – it’s cheaper than therapy, after all.

 

*Thank you silver lining of COVID-19.

Ugh! Mondays!

Mondays are a shitshow around here.  And the nicer the weather on the weekend, the bigger the shitshow on Monday.  It’s entirely The Viking’s fault too because if he wasn’t so good at his job, we wouldn’t be in this pickle.  If your problem involves a motor, The Viking is the guy to call and they do.  Call, I mean.

We start Mondays desperately slurping coffee and listening to the disjointed, muffled, almost inarticulate mumblings on Voice Mail.  We both squint our eyes and lean toward the telephone hoping that proximity will help us understand what….

‘skoihknlm;oij 96 mlhwedsnpglas forkwejhrolj 403hus54okn thanks’

….means.  What are these people doing when they leave a message?  Bowling?  Jogging?  Sex? Eating a hot pizza?  It’s always the men, too.  Women call and clearly enunciate their words, explain the issue concisely, leave an audible phone number and thank us for our time.  I have never not been able to understand a message left by a woman.  Also, women call weeks in advance of when they need a machine fixed.  Men call two days before they need the machine serviced or repaired and get cranky when I can’t fit them in the schedule before their big family vacation at the lake that they’ve been planning for months.

The Viking is already slightly annoyed that he isn’t independently wealthy because he hasn’t won the Lottery yet and having to face customers at 9:00am on Monday doesn’t improve his mood.

And then the phone starts ringing.

Since the weather was beautiful, everyone was out with their ATVs, PWCs, Dirtbikes or Streetbikes and they broke them.

“Hi!  I broke the winch on my Polaris Sportsman this weekend, trying to pull a buddy’s massively big Jeep out of a ravine.  Can you have it fixed today?  I told the guys we would go out again tomorrow.”

Ummm….no.  Sorry.  My first available appointment is 3 weeks from today.

“What?!  But I told the guys……blah, blah, blah.”

Listen man.  The Viking is only one man and you aren’t our only customer.  People booked appointments three weeks ago and I’m not pushing them so you can keep a promise to your buddies.

“Good morning!  Can I talk to The Viking?  He fixed a flat tire for me 6 months ago and now I’m having trouble fixing my oil pump and I wanted to pick his brain for solutions.”

Sure!  He lives to help people fix their machines over the phone.  He’s happy to stop, in the middle of the paying job that he’s currently working on, to help you, for free, because you’re special.

Usually, around noon, I get phone calls from the Mumblers who left incomprehensible messages at all hours of the day on Sunday.

“Hi.  I left you a message and you never called back.”

Probably because I couldn’t understand a single word from your message.

“Oh!  Really?”

Yes.  Really.  What were you doing when you left the message?

“I was eating a hot pizza.  Anyway, I need my motorcycle fixed because I was burning a wheelie and the bike got away from me.”

Wow!  That’s gotta hurt.  Sorry, but my first available appointment is 3 weeks from Tuesday.

“What?!  3 weeks?!  It will take The Viking 5 minutes to fix the bike!  It’s not like it’s complicated.”

First of all, I doubt that.  Second, you aren’t helping your case by getting condescending.  My next available appointment is now 4 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  AND…..your middle name in our database is how ‘Fuckhead’.  Doe, John Fuckhead.

“Let me talk to The Viking.”

Sure!  As soon as he’s finished working for the guy who booked his appointment 3 weeks ago.

“Well, I guess I’m taking my business elsewhere.”

OH NO!!  Whatever will we do?!  How will we afford food?  We could starve to death!  Okay, man.  You win.  I’ll book an appointment 5 weeks from Tuesday.  Ass.  Doe, Fuckie Fuckhead.

“You know he’s my best friend.  We’ve known each other since the 80s.  He’ll fit me in.”

The 80s you say?  The Viking didn’t arrive in Canada until the 90s, so I call bullshit.

“Well then book the appointment, but if I find someone else who can do the work before then, I’ll do that.”

Excellent!  What did you say your name was?  Fuckwad, Fuckie Fuckhead?

By 6:00pm, The Viking and I are both annoyed and looking for booze.  And yesterday was such a shitshow that I couldn’t actually get the blog posted until Tuesday.

We’ve created a new ritual to celebrate the end of a bad workday – a beer.  We survived.  No heart attack happened, no customer was harmed during appointment booking, no one called the police to complain about excessive cursing and household items being thrown around.

Skål, Baby!! 

NOTE:  You must be very careful in the spelling of ‘skål’.  I spelled it ‘skole’ and that means something very different from ‘Cheers!’  From Urban Dictionary “Skole is a danish word meaning dick sucking teachers who like to spank their students with sticks.”