Author: Mrs. Completely

At What Cost?

Welcome to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  Photo prompt has been provided by Ted Strutz.

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The rain hammered.  Car after car rolled onto the ferry, watery tracks staining the deck.  

Ted watched, swallowing down nausea.  He looked at the worn gate locking mechanism again.  How many times had he filed the work request?  Twenty?  At least! 

Another report this morning.  “It will fail, sir!  We need to replace it!”

His diligence was not appreciated.  Shareholders wanted profits. 

At the cost of human lives?  Apparently.  “Just do your job!”

He knew it wouldn’t hold. 

The cars kept rolling on board.  Men, women, children, babies.

What of his own family?  No, he couldn’t just walk away.

-word count: 99

Sex On The Beach – Friday Fictioneers

Welcome to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers.  Challenge:  write a 100 word story about the above picture – courtesy of my friend Dale Rogerson.  To read more short stories by awesome writers click the blue button below.

Without further ado, this is my contribution:

“Come on, Cheryl!  I’ve always wanted to do this!  You said you would!”

“That was before I realized the moon would turn my freakishly white body into a lighthouse beacon!  It’s the middle of winter at home, Steve!”

“We’re on vacation.  No one knows us.  We’re just two more people having sex on the beach.  They’ll never remember us.”

“And if we’re arrested?  That’s nice to have on our record.”

“Ok.  Leave your bikini on and if we’re caught we’ll say we were just wrestling.”

“Sure.  Two lighthouses wrestling on the beach.  I’m sure the cops will buy it.”

Word count:  99

Like a Mini-Me

I was the family joke when I was growing up.  They called me Dum-Dum. I was also “the ugliest baby” my father had ever seen.  I eventually came to terms that this is the hand that I was dealt and carried on.  There are others out there that have much shittier hands than me so I just made the best of it.

Oh sure, I was different.  I thought differently, I saw things differently, I did things differently.  Everyone in the household wore the “What the Fuck?!” face most of the 18 years I lived there.  And when I moved in with my husband, he wore it for the next 20+ years we were together.  And yes. The Viking wears it too.

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But during my genealogy project, I came across pictures of myself as a kid. I wasn’t ugly!  What the hell?!  Stupid and ugly….those were the words.  But look at me!

I’m fucking adorable!

And then I started looking more closely at the rest of the photos and realized that Mrs. Completely was hiding there the whole time!  Like a Mini-Me!  If only I had known!

Those facial expressions aren’t those of a stupid person.  There are definitely things going on in that head.

 

 

I saw, I analyzed and I got grossed out.  There is no disputing the wheels were turning and I had come to a logical conclusion.

 

 

 

I tried to explain myself all the time!  Obviously not well enough though. Those aren’t the eyes of a stupid kid – they are the windows into a wacky soul.  An adorable wacky soul!

 

 

 

 

It’s not like I didn’t try to be normal. What other conclusion could anyone make about this pic except I was trying very, very hard to be sweet like a normal person?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s not a good look on anyone but I’m putting in the effort.

 

 

Most people would have left the room, but I stuck it out.  That’s loyalty!

 

 

 

 

And then Dad set me up to look really stupid with my Grade 2 friends when he explained what an Orgy was.  Not cool, Dad!

 

 

 

 

I may have fallen for the Orgasm thing but despite what Dad says now, I didn’t fall for a Carpool being a swimming pool with sloped ends that you drive your car through.

I stopped asking him questions after that and just figured it out on my own.

 

 

Sure, I had my moments.  I wasn’t always good – I probably wasn’t good 70% of the time – but aside from my older sister, who is good all the time?  Certainly not the person who gave me that damned black left eye!  Oddly enough, that’s not the only black eye I sported in childhood pictures.

So, I’m reviewing everything I always believed about myself. Who knew that at this late date it would be necessary?  And what does that say when I have to go all the way back to the beginning in order to grow now?

 

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Just Like Us

 

 

 

 

 

It has become evident that The Viking and I have rubbed off on our cats.  You might think that would be a good thing, especially if we are competent at using a litter box, but it’s probably not.  It appears they are picking up only our bad habits and personality disorders.

When Mim brought her two kitties (Dexter & Lucy) for a visit all 4 cats got bent out of shape.  Despite having spent quite a bit of time together (and playing!) in the past 6 months they act like they’ve never laid eyes on each other before.  Every human got at least 2 Stink Eyes from at least 2 cats.

 

 

 

 

 

And then………Everycat started Kung Fu Fighting.

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Lucy was the most committed.  She takes her Kung Fu very seriously.  Izzie was a close second because she, too, enjoys the occasional Kung Fu Free-For-All.  Blizzards of slapping happened with staccatos of trash talk.  They are both lovely ladies but I’m pretty sure there were a few ‘fucks’ thrown around and perhaps a little body shaming in between the lightning-fast bitch slaps.

In the meantime, Dexter and Teddy thought they should be doing something.  Dex made the first move – a half-assed slap aimed slightly to the left of Teddy.  Teddy sent a quick poke that fell far short of Dex and that was that.  Dex sort of went “Aw…fuck it!” and took over the top of the spare fridge.  Lucy finally decided that she’d had enough of the opening skirmish and took over the top tier of the Cat Tree.

We humans started nodding our heads going “that went well”, genuinely pleased with the social skills of our Clowder.  Mim and Brad had to leave for a few hours so The Viking and I were the referees should anymore conversations break out.

Eventually, the house settled into quiet.  So quiet, in fact, that I became a little suspicious and went to check on the combatants.  Teddy was humped up taking a poo in Dex and Lucy’s litter box while Izzie was rolling all over their blankets.

“Our cats are now Passive Aggressive!”  I said to The Viking.  “That’s exactly how we would handle an unwanted invasion into our territory.  You would poo in their suitcase and I would spray something smelly on their bed.”

“Why would I be the one to poo in the suitcase?”

“Because that’s definitely a guy thing to do.  Besides, you’re a better pooper than I am.”

Mim and Brad came again this past weekend and our suspicions were confirmed.  Once again, Dexter took over the top of the spare fridge and Lucy commandeered the top tier of the Cat Tree.  Izzie – she’s the brains – and Teddy wandered down the hallway, probably intending to poo and roll again but something else presented itself.

The Viking and I were watching a movie when we heard a loud rustling of plastic.  I went to investigate.  Both cats had ripped open Dexter and Lucy’s treat bag and were busy munching.  When they saw me coming both cats started to eat faster and faster.  By the time I rescued the bag there were only 3 treats left.

How can I be mad when they are doing exactly what we would do?  The Viking and I would totally eat their treats.  And make yum-yum noises as we did it.

I’m fairly certain that Teddy pooped in their litter box at some point and Izzie rolled all over their blankets again but I didn’t actually witness the crime.  Izzie did camp out on the floor in front of the Cat Tree – an “I dare you to come down, Lucy” sort of thing while Teddy took up a position in front of the fridge.  He was less effective because he is on pretty good terms with Dexter.  You have to give him points for his solidarity to his sister though.

So, now I’m wondering if The Viking and I need to be setting a better example.  When someone comes to the front door I have to admit that I’m a little standoffish but I’ve honestly never got into a bitch-slapping fight.  Okay….there was that one time I almost did but I managed to use my words to drive the person off the step.  And to be fair, they were trying to sell me a vacuum cleaner and dumped dirt all over the front door mat.

I suppose I could be more welcoming.  I could offer refreshments and stale cookies.  Would that make the cats better about welcoming their cousins?  It’s doubtful.  The damage is already done, precedence has been set, a routine established.  A change in tradition might cause more harm than good because cats get crazy about changes to the rules.

It’s settled then.  I don’t have to be any nice-r to people bothering me at the front door and The Viking can still poo in suitcases if he doesn’t like the company.

You’re Supposed to be Friends

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, it’s Friday Fictioneers again.  The photo prompt is from Karuna with a wonderful story that goes with it.  The challenge is to write a story about the photo in 100 words or less.

I missed last week due to busy-ness…..

sigh…..

who am I kidding?  I missed last week because I was frantically getting my shit together for a family weekend to work on genealogy.  I have menopause (that’s the excuse I’m sticking with) so I freak out about little things and pretty much everything is a little thing.  When did I lose my competence at juggling a hundred things at once?  I was a Juggling Queen once upon a time.  Now I’m a court jester that can’t find matching socks.

At least the cats are happy.  I can’t keep track of who’s in and who’s out so I offer treats at roll call – if only one comes the other must be out.  I wonder if I can teach them to clock in and out like employees.  Probably not because the only chore they are even slightly competent at is dusting behind the sofa.  I chase them in one end then hurry to the other end with a hand-held vacuum.

Anyhoo…..here’s my offering to Karuna’s picture.

You’re Supposed to be Friends – 99 words.

Three feet tall.  Skinny arms crossed, oozing belligerence.  Dark, unruly hair; brown eyes cold as stone.  

“Why?”  His mother was at a complete loss.  “You’re supposed to be friends!”

Jack pursed his lips tighter and looked away. 

“Sarah’s monkey was a gift from her Grandmother!  It can’t be replaced!”

Finally, she sank into a lawn chair.  “Well, we’re going to stay here until you explain yourself.  And you don’t have a chair.”

Minutes pass.  More minutes.  Even more.

Then….

“SHE BROKE MY FAVORITE WOODEN SWORD!!  SHE SAID IT WAS STUPID!”

Tears ran down his face.

Comfort now.

Consequences later.

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A Slightly Kinder Version of Hell

I opened my email today and then quickly closed it again.  There were 238 new messages.  238!!  I’m in no shape to deal with that!  I’m barely able to brush my teeth.

It all started last week.  Wait, more accurately, it started 3 years ago but last week was an event of sorts.  It’s genealogy – convoluted, confusing genealogy.  My Great Grandmother started this whole thing when she watched Roots: The Miniseries, way back in the 1970’s.  She started digging and researching and put together an impressive lump of material without the aid of the internet.

My parents took up the cause and collected an even more impressive chunk of information, including photos.  They wandered all over the USA, wrote letters and badgered relatives until they now have branches on the family tree that go back to the 1600’s.  The pile is spectacularly imposing.

All of this information and keepsakes and heirlooms and photos……all of it…..will go to my older sister.  But where does that leave my kids?  What if they want to know the stories about their great, great, great, great, great Grandfather/Grandmother?  It would break my heart to lose all the information that’s been lovingly compiled over 50 years.

I decided that wasn’t going to happen.  About three years ago I started writing a short book about my parents and their parents.  I’ve spent the last 6 months scanning over 800 photos.  Some photos deserved better than my old Brother scanner that tops out at 1200dpi, so I bought another scanner that does 6400dpi.  I taught myself Photoshop and spent hundreds of hours touching up photos.

This brings me why I’m in no shape to deal with 238 245 (more have come in since I started this post) damned emails.

I drove 4 hours to my parents and spent Friday afternoon, all day Saturday and part of Sunday working on notes for their book and going though keepsakes in the family trunk and then drove the 4 hours back home.  I want this project finished so I can move on with my own projects, namely a book on how The Viking and I stormed Europe, offended Catholics, pissed off the Autobahn, shocked small villages and educated Florencians on how to curse.

But for now my brain is full.

It’s so full there isn’t room for anything else.  And I’m tired to the bone.  It’s probably because my brain is so busy trying to compartmentalize all that information that it has nothing left to actually operate my body.  That happens to computers all the time!  It’s so busy updating the Anti-Virus that it can’t play a single game of Solitaire.  That’s totally legit.

Except, apparently, it’s not legit when it’s anything other than a computers.  Because I came home and my car vomited all the binders, photos, keepsakes, tintypes and diaries all over the kitchen.  On Monday I looked at the mess and…..NOPE!  It just wasn’t in me to deal with it.  Yesterday was the same way.  Until The Viking decided that all this shit was messing up the clean kitchen he had personally arranged for me.

 

 

 

So, with aching back and foggy mind, I have picked up the harness of Mundania.  I’ve got no great ideas for a blog post – or supper for that matter.  I’ll come up with something I guess.  It’s supposed to thundershower this afternoon, fucking up any thoughts on barbequing.  I might be able to but as soon as I rely on it the heavens will open up and drown me, the barbeque and whatever the hell the main dish is.  Maybe something in the slow cooker?  It doesn’t give off much heat so shouldn’t turn the house into a slightly kinder version of Hell.

In the meantime, I will tackle the monster that is my Inbox.

Celebrity Meow

Hi, I’m Puma Thurman reporting for The Celebrity Meow and I’m here with the glamorous Izzie and her handsome brother Teddy. 

  

These two felines were CAT-apulted into stardom from appearances on the Mrs. Completely Blog.  My readers have been clamouring for news about the duo so we’ve managed to pin them down for an interview.

Thanks for joining us, Izzie & Teddy.

Izzie:  I almost didn’t come but Teddy insisted.

Teddy:  Well, I’m happy to be here.  The buffet in my dressing room was very good.  Especially the Caviar.  I love Caviar.

Haha!  I’m glad you liked it.  So, it’s been 5 months since Teddy was rescued and moved into the Completely Viking home.  Tell us…..was there tension at first?

Izzie:  Yes.  Lots and lots of tension.

Teddy:  For sure.  There was tension but I believe in making friends and treating each other with love.

That’s just wonderful.  It sounds like you won her over fairly quickly.

Izzie:  He didn’t.  I barely tolerate him at the best of times.

Teddy:  Haha!  Izzie likes to tease.  We’re best friends!

Oooookay.  So what is your biggest Pet Peeve?

Teddy:  An empty food bowl.  I went hungry a lot when I was on the streets and now I can’t stand a bowl that isn’t heaping full.

And how about you, Izzie?

Izzie:  Teddy.  Teddy is my biggest Pet Peeve.

I can see Teddy is right about your sense of humor, Izzie.  So tell me, what pet would you like to have?

 Teddy:  Good question!  Hmmm….well, I would like something that would play with me so maybe a Bearded Dragon.  I love the way they run!

Izzie:  A sheep’s skin.  It’s soft to lie on and I don’t have to play with it, share my food with it, or tolerate its smell in my litter box.

Haha!  That’s funny!  So what’s your most prized possession?

Teddy:  I’ve gotta be honest, Puma.  It’s my food bowl.  I don’t need much in this life but I need a good food bowl.

Izzie:  My intelligence, my freedom and my ability to contemplate the meaning of existence.  Albert Camus said: The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.  Every action I take is toward that end.

Um…..well that’s very….um.…very……deep.  Okay.   Here’s an easy one:  what is your favorite movie?

Teddy:  I like a good love story that involves food because I’m all about food and love.  I would have to say my favorite movie would be Chocolat with Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche. Me-ee-Oww.

Izzie:  Kill Bill.  Both volumes.  That lady takes shit from No One.

Teddy:  Geez, Izzie.  Couldn’t you pick something nice like 50 First Dates or something?

You are such a sweet guy, Teddy!  What theme song would you say fits your life?

Teddy:  Peter Gunn Theme.  Hands down.

Izzie:  These Boots are Made for Walking.  It’s self-explanatory.

Okay.  Last question.  What Super Power would you like to possess?

Teddy:  It might not be a Super Power but I’ve always wanted Opposable Thumbs, Puma.  I could get those treats Mom hides in the cupboard.  I could get into the bedroom at night so I could sleep on the bed.  Yeah.  Opposable Thumbs.

Izzie:  I would want the power to increase or decrease my size at will.  No one would fuck with me if I was the size of a small elephant.  There would be no more of this picking me up and kissing me crap, I’ll tell you that!   I’d have claws like Wolverine.

Well, thank you so much for your time.  It’s been a real thrill to interview you both and I’m sure my Readers will love it.

Okay boys!  Let’s blow this popsicle stand!  There’s a warm bowl of cream with my name on it somewhere.

Teddy:  You know….it wouldn’t hurt you to be a little nicer.  Kill Bill?  Really?

Izzie:  Pfft!  I just have no tolerance for bullshit and Puma Thurman is full of it.

Teddy:  And I’m your biggest pet peeve?  I thought people who touch your tail was your biggest pet peeve.

Izzie:  That was before you ate the food I was saving for a bedtime snack.

Teddy:  OH, COME ON!!  That was 3 weeks ago!

Izzie:  Revenge is best served cold.  Haven’t you heard that before?

Teddy:  When we get home you are going to get the biggest licking ever!

Izzie:  Don’t threaten me!  I hate the lickings.

Teddy:  I know.  That’s why I put you in a headlock first.

Izzie:  Whatever.  Where’s Mom?  She owes me treats for doing this.

Is it dangerous?

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers.  Tell a story based on the picture below in 100 words or less.

 

“Just a peek for now, we can’t risk being seen.  Poor Jacques learned that the hard way.”

Pascal’s eyes grew round.  “Is it dangerous?”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.”  Louis boasted.  “Relax!  I’m the best!”

“Um……okay.”  Hesitantly, not totally convinced.

Louis grinned mischievously.  “You’re not in the country anymore, cousin.  This is the city – you can find anything you want!”

“Is there cheese?  I love cheese.”

“Only about 10 different kinds!”

“And toast?  Toast is wonderful.”  Pascal’s tummy rumbled.

“Let’s grab a nap now so we can eat all night!” Louis said, his whiskers dancing in anticipation. 

-100 words

Special thanks to Roger Bultot for the cool photo and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

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Confessions of an Ex-Wife

The Viking and I spent most of Saturday silently arguing.  Well, not arguing the way most people would argue, but more like silent, body language arguing.  It’s our specialty.

Okay, fine!  It’s my specialty.  That’s how I argue.  I walk away from the actual argument (you might be tempted to think you’ve won but you would be mistaken) and then answer every subsequent question with one syllable responses that are so fucking polite it’s impossible not to notice I’m pissed off.

I sometimes think I should work on that but to be honest it’s just too big of a job.  I’d have to dig and pick at childhood stuff and then become more assertive and less Passive-Aggressive which means I would have to actively participate in arguments that would involve cursing and shouting and maybe even door slamming and nothing would be settled because everyone was so busy shouting they couldn’t hear what the other one was saying.  I’ve never done this so I’m just guessing at how it would all work.  

It was while I was silently, Passive-Aggressively arguing with The Viking on Saturday, that I started thinking about the things I did to my Ex-Husband, Stanley, while I was Passively-Aggressively arguing with him.  I have to admit I did quite a lot of things but he was just so easy to fuck with and I was evil enough to use it against him.

Food was the biggest issue with Stanley.  Don’t touch his food, don’t smell his food, don’t even look at his food.  If one of your digits/limbs got too close you could expect, at minimum, a good stabbing with his fork.  When children came along, we would all huddle down at one end of the table while he hunched over his plate at the other end, shovelling food into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with us.  He said it was because he spent too much time in Boarding Schools where he had to fight for every bite of food.  I thought it was because he was raised by wolves.  Whatever the cause, as the Cook/Scullery Maid, I had plenty of access to his food and when the Passive/Aggressive got a hold of me……well….I would fuck with his food.

He worked 12 hour shifts so I would pack 4 sandwiches, a Tupperware container of microwaveable dinner leftovers, an apple or two and half a dozen cookies.  Sometimes, I would take a big bite out of the lower right-hand corner of each sandwich, stack them up, perfectly aligned and wrap them.  I’d put the bite corner facing down in the lunch box so he wouldn’t suspect a thing until he wanted a sandwich at work.

He called from work.  “WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I put a note in the lunch box.  “I licked one of the cookies.”

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I folded the piece of ham in half and chewed out the center, leaving just a ham ring before I put it in the sandwich.  All four sandwiches.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I made him 3 Bologna and Strawberry Jam sandwiches because I ran out of mustard after the first one.  Before you go ‘Ewwww…” try it.  It’s actually good.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I put a note in the bottom of his lunch box.  “One of these things is past its expiration date.  Guess which one.”

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He once woke me up at 4 o’clock in the morning because he was going on a rafting trip with some friends and had promised to bring sandwiches.  He forgot to mention it the night before.  So I left the wrapping on the cheese slices in every one of the 12 sandwiches.*

When he got home…..“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He called from work one time to ask me to mow the lawn so he could go to the bar with some of his work buddies.  The best advice my Mother ever gave me was to never do any chore for your husband because it will be yours for the rest of your life.  So I mowed the lawn in wild curves and circles with large patches of grass un-mowed.  From above it should have looked like a penis and balls.

When he stopped at home to change clothes….“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”  I told him I thought it looked great.  He mowed it again before he went to the bar.

I folded all his socks inside out.  I stuck my finger in his mashed potatoes.  I short sheeted the bed when he was working night shifts.   “WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He sat on the toilet so long that his legs fell asleep.  He waddled down the hallway, heading for the family room.  I watched him for a moment and then put my index finger on his shoulder and pushed him, ever so gently, so he had to take a step.  He yelled “QUIT IT!”  I did it again.  He yelled again.  I did it again.  You have to make the best of the time you have before the blood rushes back into his legs.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I’m not proud of any of it.  Wait.  Who am I kidding?  I’m totally proud!  And it’s difficult to stop doing a behavior that gives me so much joy.  And before you have too much sympathy for Stanley you should know that he once came home in the middle of the night and banged on the front door.  When I got the door opened he was wearing a full face Gorilla mask and jumped at me.  There was a little bit of pee.

He also sat on top of our refrigerator for 45 minutes just so he could scare me.  I wonder if karma ever caught up to him?

I don’t have the time or energy for those kinds of things anymore.  At worse I make food that I know The Viking doesn’t like.  He also works at home so there would be no “cooling off period” before he could confront my deeds.  And there is the fact that I already do enough stuff to make him holler without engineering more.

As for trying to address my Passive-Aggressive tendencies:  that’s probably not something I’m going to get around to fixing.  Besides, what would I do with all my VooDoo dolls?

 

*I’ve noticed that leaving the plastic on the cheese slice has become a ‘thing’ now.  But I did it first – 30 years ago.  However, I never thought to write “Sorry.  Not Sorry.” on it with a Sharpie.

An Alien Broke the Car – Friday Fictioneers

“CHERYL!!”

She looked at the clock – he’s right on time.

He was standing beside the car, hands on hips, a fleck of foam at the corner of his mouth.  “What the hell happened?!”

“Happened?”

“THE CAR!  THE MIRROR!!”  Steve jabbed violently toward the side mirror.

She had considered pleading ignorance but the broken, dangling mirror was hard to miss, or going on the offensive, blaming him, but for that to work she should be the one hollering and pointing.

She settled for, “Oh, that?  Well, it all started when I went for groceries and an alien spacecraft landed in the……”

 

 

Huge thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers and for this week’s photo prompt.
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