Author: Mrs. Completely

Meet the MoFos

Having Grandchildren is surprisingly easy.  And, unsurprisingly, The Viking is a stellar baby cuddler/entertainer.  He’s a Viking on the outside and a marshmallow on the inside.  Don’t tell anyone though, because we don’t want to encourage our enemies.  Okay.  We only have one enemy, but others could crop up over time.

While I plop down on the floor with Luna, the two-year-old, to play with Picasso Tiles, The Viking makes faces and plays peek-a-boo with Molly, the 6-month-old baby.  We’ve mastered the Tag Team method of child herding, changing diapers, and mixing formula powder.  Overall, we make a pretty good team.

Izzie has turned out to be extremely surprising.  We were a little anxious about how she would react to babies and toddlers given her previous behavior interacting with adults, but she follows Luna around constantly, jumping onto her cat tree if Luna gets a little touchy.  She’s brilliant.  Which is surprising.  We thought Teddy Bear would be the Baby Whisperer, but he prefers a less loud environment and heads for the cat door.

There is a small challenge though. The girls have 3 sets of Grandparents and we all need different titles so the girls know who is who when Mim talks about us.  Two of the Grandparent sets took the traditional titles which left The Viking and I to decide how we want to be addressed.  Easy Peasy!  We’ll use Danish terms.

A short lesson in the Danish language:  In Danish, Mor is the word for mother, and Far is the word for father.  But then it gets tricky.  When you talk about the mother of the child’s mother you say, Mor Mor – mom’s mom.  The father of the mother is Mor Far – mom’s dad.  There is a whole different set of combinations when you talk about the child’s father’s parents, but it’s not relevant right now. So, since I am the mother of Luna’s mom, I am Mor Mor.  The Viking is the stepfather of Luna’s mom so he is Mor Far.

The last time Mim brought the girls for a visit, she confided that Luna decided this whole Danish word jumble is too messy and too much so she calls us…….

………

………

The MoFos.

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I HAVE NEVER LOVED ANYTHING MORE!!

From this day forward……we are the MoFos!  I never want her to stop calling us that.  She can tell her friends that she loves her MoFos, that she’s going to visit her MoFos.  Her MoFos can come to her school pageants and concerts.  She can tell her other grandparents all about her MoFos.  She can introduce us as The MoFos to her teachers, Doctors, friends’ parents, employers, boyfriends/husband(s)……whatever!  And I certainly hope that Molly does the same thing when she starts talking.

Besides, if someone is shocked beyond words, the girls can just shrug and say, “It’s Danish!”  What are people going to do?  You can’t punish a kid for being bi-lingual.

girl hiding behind a white wall, isolated on a white background

 

 

Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeene!

Wow!  It’s been a while, hasn’t it?  Life, though, right?  The everyday drudgery always seems to take more time than I have.  We did have a few moments to remember though.

The Viking got the New-To-Us Goldwing – Jolene* – put together and he spent quite a lot of time getting to know her.  Alarmingly, during one of our early rides, while I was sitting on my backseat throne, oblivious, enjoying my music and the scenery, The Viking was having a torrid love affair.  Right in front of me!  It turns out that Jolene is The Viking’s Dream Girl – he asks for more speed, and she just gives it to him.  No questions asked.  I can hear his ‘HeHeHeHe!” over my music and through my helmet every time he passes another vehicle.  I call it his George Bush laugh, which makes him laugh more, which makes me laugh more at his laugh.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that The Viking would cheat on me – he’s a sucker for horsepower.  Our old Goldwing was like driving a Ford Focus – Jolene is like driving a Bugatti or whatever the motorcycle equivalent is because he loves ‘really fast’!

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Except for women.  He doesn’t like his women to be ‘really fast’.  This shouldn’t surprise anyone either, given his choice of a wife.  I don’t do anything really fast.  I do try, but it usually ends with a broken something and a lecture.

Like any cheating spouse, The Viking started buying me stuff.  Like I wouldn’t know what he was doing.  First was an edgy motorcycle jacket with microdots that keep me cool even when it’s smoking hot outside.  Then came the motorcycle boots, motorcycle gloves, motorcycle rain suits, motorcycle luggage, and a motorcycle helmet with a built-in sun visor and hinges at the chinny part.  I can swivel half the helmet up so I can sip coffee or swill G&Ts while we’re riding.

He wanted to get us helmets with Bluetooth so we can talk as we go, but that was a hard NO.  The last thing I want while I’m enjoying the time in my head is a Viking rambling on and on about his mistress and all the ways he wants to fondle her when we get home.  He tried to sell it as a way for both of us to enjoy my music until I mentioned the Operas I like and then the helmets were too expensive anyway.

Still, we spent many weekends on the road and even managed a full week-long vacation.  Sadly, Jolene is a fair-weather strumpet, and she has been stored for the winter.  It hasn’t stopped The Viking talking about her though.  He’s already shopping for armrests for my throne and cup holders with special travel mugs.

Is he buying me off?  Of course, he is, but Jolene has been extremely effective in getting me out of cooking, cleaning, and making the bed.  I now have hotel cleaning staff, chefs, and drink mixers.  So, I’m not going to complain about the new Sister Wife.  Unless he starts sleeping with her.  I might draw the line there.

 

*Her original name was Lucille, but given her slutty ways, I’ve changed her name to better reflect her harlot/trollop/strumpet personality.

You’re a Nightmare, Alice Pooper

Teddy made friends with a Magpie last summer.  Yup, a Magpie.  I have no idea how it happened, but suddenly Teddy was wandering around the neighbourhood, shadowed by the Magpie, having complete conversations with it.  They were answering each other! I had hoped the Magpie would have forgotten the fledgling friendship over the winter, but no such luck.  It’s back, it’s loud, it’s vocal and it won’t shut the fuck up.  And, along with the noise, we are now Magpie Shit Recipients.

Have you ever tried to get rid of a Magpie?  Well, trust me, it’s impossible, which means that we’ve been forced to accept Alice Pooper as a family member.  As if we don’t have enough attitude in this house already.

For the past couple of weeks, we noticed that Alice was going above and beyond her normal squawking, to the point that I had to yell at her several times to…

“Shut the fuck up, Alice!!”

It didn’t work because Alice is not only loud, she’s an asshole, too.

We discovered the reason for the increase in vocals completely by accident.  The Viking and I were trying to have a business-related conversation by the garage when Izzie wandered past, followed closely by Alice Pooper shouting insults.  Lightbulb moment!

“Is Alice Pooper pissed at you, Izzie?!”  She gave me a flat, pissy look and went directly into the house.

In the past, Izzie has picked fights with ravens.  We know that because our front lawn became a scene out of Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’, and I had to rescue her from under the spruce tree in the front yard.

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We had a long conversation about the perils of picking fights with large birds.  Apparently, I was too specific about the ‘large birds’ I was referring too, because Magpies are technically smaller than ravens.  I have a child who was exactly like this, living on the fringes of technicalities, and I can’t believe I have to deal with the same thing with a fucking cat!

So, Izzie is slinking around, hiding under vehicles, the patio table, the back steps, and the fifth wheel trailer.  Alice Pooper sits on the power pole composing eloquent and savage insults, waiting for a chance to use them on Izzie.  The Viking and I only whisper when we talk to her because who knows how good Alice Pooper’s hearing is?

And now, I’m wondering if I have to start apologizing to the neighbours about Alice’s shenanigans, since it’s Teddy’s fault that she’s part of the family to begin with?  Also, I had a stern conversation with him about befriending large birds, and played a clip of Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’, for reference.

Do they look pointy to you?

I walked past a mirror last week and thought, “Geezus! Why are my boobs so low?” And, of course, the first thing that pops into my head is that stupid little song:

Do your boobs hang low?

Do they wobble to and fro?

Can you tie them in a knot?

Can you tie them in a bow?

Can you throw them over your shoulder 

like a continental soldier?

Do your boobs. Hang. Low?

The answer is Yes.  Definitely, Yes.

It seems that my bras have, spitefully, given up the fight.  All of them.  At the same time!  I couldn’t find a single bra that was willing to put in some effort.  It’s a whole-scale mutiny!  Sure, I’ve lost a little weight, but that’s no reason for a bra to stop trying.  Perhaps I haven’t treated them with the respect that manufacturers insist I use – I throw them directly in the washing machine – but it’s not like I’m scrubbing them on a washboard with lye soap.  If a bra can’t handle the mildly rough treatment of a washing machine on delicate cycle, it has no place in my life.  I have shit to do, places to go, a Viking to annoy.  I don’t have time to delicately swirl a bra in tepid water and sissy soap.  I am willing to hang them to dry though, sparing them the rigors of a dryer, but that’s as far as I go.

So now I have to bra shop, and there is only one thing worse than bra shopping, and that’s swimsuit shopping.  Ugh!

So, I’m test-driving bras.

The Viking: What the fuck are you doing?

Me (rolling my shoulders): I’m trying to get these stupid bra straps to sit properly on my shoulders.

Him: If it’s uncomfortable, why bother?

Me (bending over and flapping my boobs around to get them to sit nicely in the cups): Do they look pointy to you?

Him: …

Me (twisting around in front of the mirror): Gawd!!  There is fat spillage over the back strap!

Him: …

Me (looking down at my boobs): Are they pointing in different directions?  I’m pretty sure the left one is looking east and the right one is looking west.

Him: …

Me (bouncing up and down to judge supportive ability): What do you think? Will there be too much up and down movement when I’m walking?  Side to side movement?  I don’t want to be that one woman in the store whose boobs are making a spectacle of themselves.

Him:  What are you doing later?

Me:  When?  After dinner?

Him:  Or before.

Me:  Why?

Him:  I was just thinking that maybe I could help you get everything sorted with that bra.

Me:  I’m not sure that it’s a two-person job, because only one set of hands can fit in the cups at a ti……..Ohhhhhhh!

Him (wiggling his eyebrows): Now you’re getting it.

Me:  Lock the door.  We aren’t expecting anyone for a while……..

Clearly, bra testing isn’t all bad.  Particularly if a Viking happens to be in the room.

 

Another Day, Another Murder Attempt

Four in the morning.  Sleeping peacefully.  Dreaming happy dreams.

“OW! Fucking OWWWW!”

I bolted upright in time to see Izzie catapulted into the air.  Obviously, she bit The Viking’s toes.  Again.  She curls up against his legs when he’s sleeping and when he tries to move, he gets the big chomp.  Or more than one chomp.  Sometimes she chomps four or five times in a lightning-fast cluster, depending on how annoyed she is, I suppose.

She gets me too, in the middle of the night.  My right armpit has scars.  I walked past her Cat Tree today while I was tidying up and stopped to give her a cheek rub and have a short lovey chat.  When I wanted to move on, both paws grabbed my wrist and claws dug in, drawing blood in three spots.

“OW!  Fucking OWWWW!!!!”

I squeezed some hand sanitizer on the wounds because if I don’t, it takes months for them to heal.  Thanks to COVID I have jugs of that shit everywhere.  While I rubbed in the sanitizer, she just sat there like nothing had happened!

Me: WHY?! Why, why, why?!

Her: Why not?

Me: I thought we talked about the murder attempts!

Her: I don’t recall.

Me: We have had many, many conversations about this.

Her: You’ll have to refresh my memory.

Me: NO CLAWS!!

Her: Hmmm…..I vaguely remember something, but that was years ago.

Me: IT WAS YESTERDAY!!

Her: Really? It seems so long ago, and I didn’t think you meant forever.

Me: Yes!  FOREVER!

Her: That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?

Me: If I’m bleeding, it’s not extreme!

Her: You’re such a Drama Queen.

Me: You’re such a pain in my ass!

Her: Whatever.  By the way, you missed a spot on the counter.  I can see it all the way over here.

Me: You know what?  You’re just one small step away from becoming a Barn Cat on some guy’s farm.

Her:  You wouldn’t.  You love me.

Me:  I’m bleeding, and the thought is becoming more appealing all the time.

Her: The Viking wouldn’t let you.

Me:  You bit The Viking’s toes last night!  Trust me, it was his idea!

Her:  ……..

We haven’t spoken since.  Well, she tried to talk in a squeaky, mewing tone, but I’m holding a grudge until my wrist stops hurting.

Fucking cat.

Lori Vs. Washing Machine

Once was a time when I thought there was something very wrong with me because I was very unloved.  When I first met The Viking, I told him my suspicions and he snorted at me.  Snorted!  I thought he should have fair warning so he could back out before he was in too deep, but hey, if he wanted to recklessly ignore my warnings I may as well play along because maybe he would never find out.  Sure, I suppose that could be construed as stringing him along if suddenly three years down the road something would happen, and he’d be like “Fuck!  There is something very wrong with you Lady!”.  But I would have three years, right?  Isn’t it easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission?  That applies here, doesn’t it?  However, I was dealing with a Viking and didn’t have any peer-reviewed studies on Viking forgiveness.  Philosophically, I decided to be just as reckless as The Viking and stopped trying to convince him.  It’s his own fault if he eventually finds out.  He had his chance, after all.

The reason I’m mentioning it now is that I did a thing.  All by myself.  Without any input from The Viking.  In fact, he didn’t even know there was a thing and that I was doing that thing alone.  And the reason this is important is that The Viking loves me.  Lucky for me, he still hasn’t figured out what’s wrong and I’m smart enough not to bring it up.

We show each other our love in many different ways, but at the moment I’m talking about one specific way The Viking proves he loves me.

He does things for me.

And, just as importantly, I let him do things for me.  And that’s important because I’ve never had anyone to rely on, so I tend to just take care of things by myself.  Purposely allowing him to control/fix things is an actual act of love on my part.  So, it’s kind of a gift back at him to let him do things.  I know.  It’s complicated.

Anyway, he’s quite vigilant watching for moments when he can do things for me, which means that I frequently have a can yanked out of my hands so he can open it for me.  If I’m doing something and accidentally curse at whatever the fuck I’m doing, The Viking shows up immediately and takes over whatever the fuck I’m doing.  It’s like I can summon him, like a demon, with colorful curses.

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And that brings me to the thing I did.  I was doing laundry, and everything was going splendidly until Washing Machine decided to take a vacation.  I tossed in the clothes, closed the door, added detergent and poked the power button.

Nothing.

I said, “Hey!  What’s your problem?”  I checked that the door was completely closed and checked the fuses.

Still nothing.

Dryer was working just fine so it wasn’t a plug problem.

Well, shit.

My first thought was to summon The Viking with curses, because after 14 years I’ve become less dependent on my own resourcefulness.  Except, every once in a while, I feel like a loser when things are yanked out of my hands.  I’m an intelligent woman and I can figure out how to open a damned can!

Deciding to figure this out on my own, I went searching for the Owner’s Manual.  Finding the Owner’s Manual is a triumph all on its own since I have 14,927,062 places where I store Owner’s Manuals and I have Owner’s Manuals for things that we haven’t had for 10 years.  I managed though and flipped through to the Troubleshooting page.  It was written by a man.  Obviously.

Owner’s Manual:  Is it plugged into a power source?

Me:  Yes.  Ass.

OW:  Check your fuses?

Me:  Already did that.

OW:  Okay, I’m out of ideas.

Me:  I can’t believe I’m saving you.  You are not worthy of storage space.

Google was much more helpful and much less condescending by suggesting a reset.

Unplug Washing Machine.  While the machine is unplugged, poke and hold the power button for 5 seconds and then poke and hold the start/pause button for 5 seconds.  Plug Washing Machine back in.

AND IT WORKED!! WOO HOO!!  I HEALED WASHING MACHINE!!   VICTORY DANCE IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM!! 

I had been fully prepared to summon The Viking.  I had my curses ready to go.  For my own self-respect though, I wanted to do my due diligence.  There’s nothing worse than summoning The Viking only to find out I missed something a toddler could find.

After I finished my Victory Dance, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.  I had proven that I am smarter than Washing Machine, and if I’m smarter than Washing Machine then I’m probably smarter than Dryer.  I wouldn’t take on Microwave or Refrigerator though, because that seems like a bridge too far and could result in a disastrous hit to my newly found confidence.  It’s probably for the best that I quit while I’m ahead.

So, I’m taking this as a win.  It’s marked on the Calendar as “Lori Vs. Washing Machine Day”.  In the meantime, The Viking will just have to prove his love by doing the dishes.

Because I’m smarter than Washing Machine.

Are You Even Listening?

I’ve got nothing to say.  Yes, I know.  Shocking.  Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be a problem but when one has a blog having nothing to say is a bit of a problem.  The Viking is likely happy enough though because I usually chat his ear off with mostly nonsense except for the odd flash of brilliance that he doesn’t even hear because he’s tuned me out.

Me: “So, I was watching a video this morning on how to use epoxy to make a table that looks like a beach and I think I should make one.  It’s so hypnotic watching all the grinding and polishing.  What a sense of accomplishment when it’s finished.  You have a grinder, right?”

The Viking: “hmm……”

Me: “You aren’t even listening.”

Him: “hunn…..”

Me: “The neighbour lady came by yesterday afternoon and suggested a threesome which does sound very intriguing.  Apparently, I need a very large sheet of heavy-duty plastic and a four-litre jug of cooking oil.  I’ll have to host because they have their handicapped child and also because her parents are always popping in, unannounced, which could become awkward.”

Him: “hhzzzzzzzz…”

Me: “Of course, you’ll have to stay out in the garage during our ménage à trois event.  I will probably just lock the door, so you don’t forget and decide to come in for a coffee or something.  I think the neighbours are a bit shy.”

Him: “mmmmuh”

Me: “Unnnless….you would like to join?  I’m pretty sure the neighbours would be more than happy to upgrade from a ménage à trois to a ménage à quatre.  I’ve seen the Missus watching you over the fence sometimes and she seems interested.”

Him: “uh..hmmm”

Me: “How big of a plastic sheet should I buy?  Is there a mathematical equation to figure that out?”

…..

Me: “I should probably google how this all works, too, because I’m not very clear on how we can keep a grip on each other when we’re all greased up with the oil.  I watched a Greased Pig competition once and it doesn’t look easy.”

…..

Me: “So, I should just volunteer you to make up the foursome?”

Him: Grunt

Me: “You make me so happy!  Should I book for this weekend?”

Him (turning to look at me): “What?!”

Me: “Does this weekend work for you?”

Him: “For what?!  There is MotoGP this weekend!”

Me (heavy sigh): “For the menage et quatre with the neighbours!”

Him: “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

Me (heavier sigh plus an eye roll):  “A menage et trois!  Except it’s now a menage et quatre since you decided you wanted to join.  With Steve and Kathryn.  We are supposed to provide a large sheet of plastic and a four-litre jug of cooking oil!  Home Depot would have that, wouldn’t they?

His left eye starts to twitch.

Me: “And we’re hosting so we should provide some snacks.  That’s the classy thing to do.  We probably want something high in protein for energy, don’t you think?  And fluids with electrolytes.  It’s important to keep hydrated.”

Him: “For fuck’s sake!  We aren’t having a men…..whatever!”

Me: “Hey!  You were the one that volunteered!”

Him: “I did not!”

Me: “You did!  And, you have no one to blame but yourself because you don’t listen to me and now, we’re locked into a menage et quatre with the neighbours.”

 

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Battle of 39th Avenue

The Viking’s favorite slow, indoor sport is Darts.  I’m pretty sure it’s because he can legally throw sharp, pointed objects, but also because he looks like the above picture immediately after the dart leaves his hand.  His form is magnificent!

After years of just playing against each other, we decided we needed some competition.  Unfortunately, we don’t know any other Dart enthusiasts.  So, we created our own competition – The Joneses* – and it became a little more competitive than we thought it would.

Commentator Bob: Welcome to the Battle of 39th Avenue, the Semi-Finals of the World Dart Championship 2021, and what a battle it has turned out to be!  It’s a good, old-fashioned Grudge Match, the kind rarely seen in the Dart Universe.

Commentator Hank: That’s right, Bob.  This competition has developed into a fierce dogfight, both teams equally determined to lay it all on the line. The Joneses are a pair of gritty, highly competitive, highly strung individuals determined to take no prisoners.  They have complete confidence in their abilities and are ready to show off their stuff!

Bob: The Vikings are not even slightly intimidated – giving up isn’t in their DNA.  They’ve been together for years, honing their skills and bonding into the perfect, competitive team.

Bob: Here’s the coin toss…..and it’s the Vikings who throw first.  Mr. Viking steps up and takes careful aim.  He looks good.  Laser focused.

Hank: He wants the most points possible on this first turn, showing the Joneses that he isn’t messing around.

Bob: Ohhhhh!  That’s a miss!  His first dart drifts to the right, earning him only one point!  You can feel the disappointment!

Hank:  You can hear the curses, all the way up to our broadcasting booth, Bob.  And….Holy Moly!  The Joneses are catcalling!  What are they chanting now?  Good Lord, they are calling him a loser!

Bob:  Mrs. Viking isn’t taking that shit sitting down!  She gives them an aggressive middle finger salute.  Mr. Viking has nerves of steel though, and he’s totally ignoring the sideline activity.  His second dart is much better, hitting the 20, but the third dart drifts left for only five points.

Hank: He’s scored the dreaded 26 points, Bob.  It’s every Dart Players’ worst nightmare.

Bob: Look at that!  In a show of terrible sportsmanship, the Joneses are celebrating!  There have been whispered rumours about alcohol use in the Jones camp which probably accounts for the poor gamesmanship.  They may come to regret their victory dances though, because the Vikings are barely domesticated and quick to take offense.

Hank: Mrs. Viking clapped the Mr. on the back and told him it’s fine.  It’s early days.  She steps to the line and takes aim.

Bob: I have to say, Mrs. Viking has a hot mess of a form.  I don’t even know what to call it.  Is she waving at a neighbour or playing darts?

Hank: It’s the talk of the Dart Universe.  To call her stance ‘Unconventional’ is an understatement.

Bob: Her first dart is…..BANG ON!  That’s a TRIPLE 20!  It’s 60 points with the first dart!

Hank: Say what you will, Bob, she gets it done despite that tragic stance.  Second dart is a solid 18 and the third dart IS A DOUBLE 12!!

Bob: WHAT A SHOT!!  That’s a total of 114 points!  A career best!  For a lady that’s only a Rookie, it’s a miracle!  Oh, look!  She’s giving the Joneses a shit-eating grin and a handful of fucks!

Hank: Mr. Viking is on his feet!  Throwing punches in the air!  He’s trying to lift Mrs. Viking for a celebratory twirl, but……he’s bogged down, Bob.  He can’t get her off the ground!  Awww…now that’s turned into the most awkward moment in Dart Competition history.

Bob: Go to commercial, for the love of Gawd!

Commercial Break

Bob: Welcome back.  Despite a commanding lead, The Vikings lost game One.  Trouble hitting a double one side-railed them and the Joneses took the win.  They are resilient, though.  Mr. Jones has scored a solid 32 points.

Hank:  Mrs. Jones steps up.  Ho, boy!  She’s only managed a total of 9 points!

Bob:  She’s pissed at herself, and who can blame her?  Perhaps she should ration her “refreshments”.

Hank: Mr. Viking just handed both the Joneses fresh beverage refills.  It looks like The Vikings have a strategy

Commercial Break

Hank:  Welcome back.  We are in the middle of the second game of the best-out-of-three match.

Bob:  Mr. Viking is on the Throw Line.  His game has improved dramatically since that disaster of a first throw.  The tension is really building.

Hank:  You could hear a pin drop, Bob.  The Joneses are ahead by 52 points.  This is no time to make a mistake.  A single bad dart at this point could lose them the match.

Bob:  Oh, yes!  That’s a well-played turn.  60 points is nothing to be ashamed of.

Hank:  Mrs. Viking only needs a triple 20, a 13 and a double 8 to win the game.  That triple 20 could be tricky – she’s not the most consistent of players.  It’s her form, in all honesty.

Bob:  That’s right Hank.  You need a solid form to be consistent, but a triple 20 isn’t beyond her.  Her first shot today was a triple 20.  It only remains to be seen if she can duplicate that shot.

Hank:  She’s CHOKED!!  What a disappointment, Bob.

Bob:  With only a total of 7 points, that gives the Joneses a huge opportunity to steal this game.  The Joneses are Turkey Dancing for heaven’s sake, and making Joker Grins.  These two couples really don’t like each other and it shows.

Commercial Break

Hank:  Welcome back to this intense third match.  The Vikings clinched a win on the last game, so both teams are super focused on winning this Semi-Final.

Bob:  Both teams have been jawing back and forth, hoping to intimidate.  It’s been effective in the past.

Hank:  Mrs. Jones is giving the Mr. a final boost of confidence and encouragement.  The Vikings look tense.  The Joneses are a dangerous team to underestimate.

Bob:  That’s exactly right, Hank, but the Vikings are warriors and can come from behind for stellar wins.  Losing isn’t in their blood.

Bob:  Jones looks good.  Focused.  Here’s the throw…..

Hank:  Holy Shit, Bob!  He’s missed the entire board!  That dart is needle deep in the door of the Ladies Room!  The Vikings are on their feet, performing their signature Slappy Ass Dance!  What a great stroke of luck for them and a hideous humiliation for the Joneses.

Bob:  Mrs. Jones is livid!  She’s belly-to-belly with the Mr.

Mrs. Jones:  WHAT THE FUCK?!

Bob:  She’s thrown her darts at the floor and one is lodged in the left foot of Mr. Jones.

Hank:  That can’t be good for Mr. Jones.

Mrs. Jones:  Are you trying to lose?!  Have you made a deal with the Vikings to throw the game?!  Are you a gawd-damned traitor?

Bob:  Commercial break!  Commercial break!

Commercial Break

Hank:  Welcome back, folks.  We are in the middle of game three of the Semi-Final match of the Darts World Championship and Mr. and Mrs. Jones have devolved into an alcohol-induced meltdown.

Bob:  You’ve got that right, Hank.  It’s not hard to see that Mr. Jones is completely and obviously drunk.  He’s trying to defend himself, but words are almost beyond him at this point.

Hank:  Mr. and Mrs. Jones have called for their only allowable time-out.  If they want to win the match, they need to shake this off and refocus all their attention on the game.

Bob:  Mrs. Jones is calling for coffee, and someone had better make that happen quickly.  She’s well-known for her short temper and fierce competitiveness.

Hank:  Remember the Championship of 2018, Bob?  She tore her right gluteus maximus kicking the Mr. when he missed a shot.  It took months to get back into game form.

Commercial Break

Bob:  And we’re back!  This has turned into the biggest battle in the sporting world since 1821.

Hank:  This match has taken the Dart World by storm.  I can’t look away from this train wreck.

Bob:  Here come The Joneses.  They look calm and ready to play.

Hank:  I would have paid good money to be a fly on the wall in their dressing room.

Bob:  Mrs. Jones is ready to throw.  Oh, boy!  Do you see the shaky hand?  I’m not sure she can continue.  I think we can both agree that the Vikings’s Slappy Ass Dance has annihilated her confidence.

Hank:  This is just tragic.  That dart didn’t even make it to the board.

Bob:  Mr. Jones is swearing.  He’s taken her darts away!  I don’t know what happened in that dressing room, but neither Jones is capable.  And……that’s the game, Hank!  The Mrs. has thrown in the towel.

Hank:  The Vikings are on their way to the Finals where they will take on the Brown Team.

Bob:  It’s not over yet!  The Vikings are singing.  Can you make out what the song is, Hank?

Hank:  Awww…..geez.  As if the Joneses haven’t suffered enough.

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*To be clear…..we are the Joneses.  And the Vikings.

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It’s a Fine Line Between Good and Rotten

Geezus!  What’s that smell?!

I was going for my second cup of coffee, opened the fridge door for the cream……Sniff, Sniff.  Something died in there!

I didn’t smell anything the first time I put cream in my coffee.  Can something go from perfectly fine to Holy Shit Rotten in a half-hour?  The Viking has a Super Sniffer that can smell a Bastard Fart from a kilometer away, so it’s virtually impossible that he missed the odor of a veggie contemplating its own death.  And, I would have heard about it if he had because he usually makes a loud and public proclamation……

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“Something fucking stinks in the fridge!”

…….and I run for the hills because there will be an in-depth lecture on the wastefulness of food in our house and how no self-respecting Danish person would ever find a rotten anything in their fridge.  Because they all plan their meals a week ahead, purchase all the ingredients in one trip to the store, and do all the meal prep in advance so no food is wasted and no one has to lay on the kitchen floor crying because they don’t know what to make for dinner.  And, in case you are wondering about leftovers, every Sunday, every Dane eats Biksemad (bik-si-mel), which is short for a gawd-awful concoction of every item in the fridge you couldn’t bear to eat during the week, topped off with a fried egg.

I had other plans for the next hour but obviously something had to be done about the fridge if I wanted to avoid another episode of “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane?”.  I started rummaging around, looking for fresh veggies that aren’t so fresh anymore.  That’s usually the smelly culprit and finding it could make this task short if not sweet.

Unfortunately, there was no obvious suspect, which meant an aggressive, frontal assault on every container and condiment.  Sigh.  Don’t tell The Viking, but there was a bottle of Bar-B-Que Sauce with a ‘best before’ date of March 2019.  On the bright side, I didn’t find a single container of Science and that should count for something.

The problem then isn’t with the fridge.  The smell is coming from somewhere else…….

Please Gawd, don’t let it be a dead mouse/bird – a gift from a cat – behind an appliance!  

Before I called HazMat, I decided to put all the sinfully wasteful fridge items in the garbage.  I won’t be avoiding the “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane” lecture if he sees all the waste on display just begging for comment.  Better to hide that shit as quickly as possible.

I grabbed the garbage from under the sink and…….

Sweet Baby Geezus!!!

Well, shit.  It wasn’t the fridge after all.

The smell coming from the garbage was so smelly and heavy that it took the 3 seconds between the garbage and the fridge for the smell to catch up with me.

In the half-hour between coffee refills, the smell went from nothing to Holy Shit Rotten and that’s just not fair. How can I avoid the “Why Can’t You Be More Like A Dane” lecture if I only have a scant half-hour window?  What if I’m busy during that half-hour?

I’m sure Science can explain the exponential multiplication of odor molecules within a finite time limit but it doesn’t help me be more Danish.

I cleaned out the fridge for nothing.

Shit.

 

 

 

Thundering Chases

Sweet Baby Jesus, it’s been COLD!  Of course, this is Alberta so it’s only to be expected but I don’t have to like it.  And as miserable as it is for The Viking and me to go about our daily business when it’s -30°C, it’s even worse for the cats.

On the first very cold day, both cats moped around the house, complaining and whining – Izzie at the top of her lungs.

On the second very cold day, Izzie ripped apart a loaf of bread on the counter when I shivered my way to the grocery store and Teddy destroyed a roll of toilet paper.

“IZZIE!!  You dirty cat!!”

A destroyed loaf of bread paled in comparison to wiping my Lady Parts with shredded toilet paper though.

“TEDDY!!  What the fuck?!”

On the third very cold day, a Cold War began.  Izzie would sit in front of the Cat Door so Teddy couldn’t get back in after he ran out for his pee/poo.  And then Teddy would sit in front of the Cat Door so Izzie couldn’t get back in after she ran out for her pee/poo.

“IZZIE!!  You long streak of misery!  Get away from that Cat Door!”

“TEDDY!!  Get away from that…….oh, never mind.  She has it coming.  Just don’t keep her out for long or she’ll get frostbite.”

They both took turns sitting beside me on my desk, staring at my left ear without blinking until I started getting a bit freaked out – usually 15 to 20 minutes.  It worked better on The Viking than it did on me because I’ve had children and have extensive experience at Ignoring.

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On the fourth very cold day, a Peace Treaty was negotiated, and Play Etiquette was established.  Very loudly.  With lots and lots of cursing and name-calling.  They also took turns trying to convince The Viking and me that it was Dinner Time despite the fact that it clearly wasn’t Dinner Time.  And then The Viking made the mistake of telling Izzie that she was getting fat.  The cursing was very lengthy and very creative, and he won’t make that mistake again any time soon.

On the fifth very cold day, a racecourse was agreed upon, including a chicane* behind the sofa, and a climb over the top of the Cat Tree.  We may need to bolt it to the floor.

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There are now Thundering Chases through the house at regular intervals, 24 hours a day.  I bought a set of ‘Ruggies’ – sticky triangles you put under the corners of an area rug to keep it in place – but the rigors of Formula 1: Cat Edition are more than the ‘Ruggies’ can handle.  I reposition the rug several times a day.  The wind gusts generated by two cats hurtling around the chicane have kicked up some impressive Dust Bunnies – I won’t have to move the furniture for cleaning until Spring, at the earliest.  Every time I go into our bedroom, I have to push a storage bin back under the bed.   The kitchen chairs are rattled violently and occasionally knocked over in their enthusiasm, as are the office chairs when high-velocity furry rockets storm my workstation.  Invoices and statements explode like a blizzard in their wake because Holy Crap they are fast!!  One minute I’m making an invoice and in the blink of an eye, I’m surrounded by fluttering paper.  I never actually see them – it’s only a fuzzy blur.

The Viking and I aren’t complaining, though.  Our Babies are playing!  Peacefully!  It’s so sweet!  We had almost given up hope they would learn to play.

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The weather started getting nice again yesterday so we’re expecting fewer race heats.  And let’s hope they remember how to play for the next cold snap.

 

* A Chicane is a serpentine curve in a road, added by design rather than dictated by geography. Chicanes add extra turns and are used both in motor racing and on roads and streets to slow traffic for safety.