Author: Mrs. Completely

You’re Trash. Apparently.

So, my good friend Dale* has been trying to post comments on my blog for months and they always disappear.  We have been assuming that the gremlins who make this blog work were either punting them to SPAM file or just refusing to accept them.

We were both wrong.  Apparently, my blog believes her to be Trash, which is absolute and utter nonsense.  I found not only Dale but many other comments that I’ve never seen

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Geezus!!  The Gremlins that are supposed to keep the blog working are, evidently, goofing around and not doing their fucking job.

So.  If you are one of those people that I’ve been ignoring, please accept my deepest apologies.  Who knew that Gremlins were so Trash-Happy?  I thought that things only ended up in the trash when I put them there but, obviously not.  From now on, I’ll be checking it all the time.

So, please make me happy and send comments.

*You should also go and visit Dale at https://adelectablelife.com/.  You won’t regret it because she is an awesome lady and a great friend.

Ballroom Dancing And Mini-Skirts

So, it’s 2019, and despite all the optimistic memes and heart-felt blessings, I don’t have too many expectations for this year.  I find it cuts down on the disappointments if you aren’t overly enthusiastic to begin with.  You should probably write this down because it’s the best advice you’ll get all year.

I’m not being…..

…..I’m just being realistic.

Of course, I’ll try to work on my procrastinating tendencies, try to be less sensitive, and I’ll do my best to consume less fat and more vegetables and maybe I’ll attempt to manage my time more wisely – these are the standard efforts I begin every new year with.  Unfortunately, I never succeed.

But, if you think about it, success would make me UNBEARABLE.

I would be the perfect human being within 2 years.  By the end of year one, I’d be thin and the house would be immaculate, there wouldn’t be science experiments in the fridge and zero fur-balls floating around the house.  The vehicles would be clean inside and out, the garbage bags of cans and bottles would be at the depot where they belong rather than beside the back door.  An entire month of meals would be planned and prepared ahead of time so I wouldn’t have my head stuck in the freezer for 15 minutes every morning agonizing over dinner plans.  The Matterhorn of laundry in the bedroom would be non-existent and the pile of paper on my desk would have a home in actual files.  The base-boards would be spotless, the family room painted and you could eat off the floor under the stove.

Once I achieve that level of competence, I’m not sure I could contain the urge to judge everyone else around me.  I would have to start a VLOG so others could become just as perfect.  Comedians would start making jokes about me like they do about Gwyneth Paltrow and Martha Stewart.

By year two, I would be an extrovert who loves parties.  I’d chat with people in grocery stores and go to the movies by myself.  I’d take up ballroom dancing and wear mini-skirts……..  Wait.  I wouldn’t wear mini-skirts and not because they’re too sexy but because it gets cold here and I hate a cold ass……

…………

…………

…..if I was perfect though, my ass wouldn’t get cold so, Yes! I would wear mini-skirts!

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And when I’m not ballroom dancing, I’d ride a motorcycle – a huge, fucking motorcycle and I’d wear leather mini-skirts!  Also, my huge fucking motorcycle would always be sparkly clean and have organizers in every saddlebag – I’d need saddlebags to store all my mini-skirts after all…..if I’m being perfect.

Okay.  I realize I’ve gotten carried away here.

Oh!  Just realizing and acknowledging that I’ve gotten carried away is a step in the right direction, right?  Look what I can accomplish without trying!  Maybe a lack of effort is the secret to Perfection.  Of course that theory flies in the face of every critic’s assessment of my faults and foibles.  On the other hand, their exhaustive lists and my valiant attempts haven’t made me perfect yet, so there is every possibility that my critics are full of shit.  Shitty Critics, if you will.

And now I arrive precisely where I started – low expectations for the coming year.  If I wanted to spend all my time cleaning and cooking, I would probably be doing it already.  If the idea of spending evenings and weekends in the company of People were appealing, I’d probably be doing that, too.  But I don’t, so I don’t.

2019 will just have to be happy with my half-assed efforts to eat better, procrastinate less, give fewer Fucks and the minimal efforts I give to limit my play time on Solitaire.  I’m not going to spend what little time I have left, after dithering most of it away, trying to meet ephemeral goals I don’t care about anyway.  Except vegetables – I really do need to eat more vegetables.  And less Toffifee.

You’re welcome, 2019 – go forth with low expectations and you won’t be disappointed on December 31st.  In fact, you might just be pleasantly surprised.

It’s Nearly Christmas….

It’s nearly Christmas, and I’ve noticed that there are literally thousands of articles listing Tips to make it through the Holiday Season with your sanity intact.  So I thought I would add my list to the Ad Nauseam because who doesn’t like Tips?

Tip 1.  Don’t knock over your tree.  And if you DO knock over your tree, blame it on the cat(s).  And if you don’t have a cat, blame it on good-looking, single neighbour (your partner will be distracted by you spending alone time with a good-looking neighbour and totally forget you knocked over the tree).

Tip 2.  Don’t get too drunk.  Nobody likes a sloppy drunk who pukes in the Eggnog Bowl and calls your Mother Chewbacca the Wookie.

Tip 3.  Never arrive at an Event empty-handed.  Storming out after someone insults your kid is more dramatic if you take the gift too.  Shout how expensive it is as you make your epic departure.

Tip 4.  Shovel the snow from your sidewalk.  Nothing makes Grandma crankier than wading through ankle-deep snow to get to the house and you definitely don’t want her calling you a Wanker all day long.  That’s the kind of name that sticks forever.

Tip 5.  Make your own Cranberry Sauce.  Nothing says Love like manual labour and nothing pisses off Aunt Cheryl as quickly as pretentious up-staging.

Tip 6.  Manage your outfit carefully.  Not too flashy or attractive because there are bound to be family members who will remember nothing of the day except the fact that you wore sequins.

Tip 7.  Bring slippers.  Some floors are fucking cold and by the time you can make your escape your feet may have developed frostbite.

Tip 8.  DON’T BRING LIME JELL-O SALAD!!  It’s gross!  Jell-o was never meant to hold vegetables, it’s a crime against humanity.

Tip 9.  Pre-drink.  Have a couple stiff cocktails before you arrive or everyone arrives at your house.  It never hurts to be half-tanked.

And finally……

Tip 10.  Help with the dishes.  Nobody is cheerful after stuffing themselves with 8 kg (17.5 lbs) of artery-clogging Christmas food and a bucket of booze.  All the safe conversations are over and now it’s time to bring up past humiliations, like the time you didn’t shovel the snow off your sidewalk for Grandma, and/or predictions of future fuck-ups.  Just help with the dishes and go home.

If you have other great Tips that help you survive, please let me know.  I’m working on a comprehensive pamphlet.

And now…..

May your Christmas be filled with love and laughter.  May you all be kind to each other because there are those who have no love or laughter.  Heal hearts, spread joy and think of your Beloveds that can’t be with you.

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Brace Yourselves…..

Brace yourselves – I’ve done something stupid.  On the long list of stupid things I’ve done, this one is now the Supreme Leader.

I’ve shocked The Viking.

I’ve even shocked myself.

It started with an email from Netflix.  We have an automatic payment on our credit card once a month and I never have to think about it.  Until yesterday when they informed me that my credit card information was out of date and our monthly payment failed.  I thought, “Really?  That’s odd.  Maybe I didn’t update the payment method when we got the new card.”

My brain immediately began searching for references, found many of them in different folders and files, initiated a Defrag in a vain attempt make one complete memory, the system crashed and I sat looking at the email…..

Tiny little synopsis began to fire with random thoughts….

Year-End books.  Sex.  Christmas gifts.  Something shiny.  Julefrokost. Gilligan’s Island.  Garbage Pick-up.  Mortgage and Truck payments.  I’m hungry.  Blog post.  Recharge phone.  Shopping.  Probiotics.  New season of Grace and Frankie.  Gas and electric bill.  Why am I smelling burnt toast?

Suddenly, in a dazzling display of spontaneous rebooting, a complete thought emerged.

DO IT NOW SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT IT ANY MORE.

My finger hit the email button and I entered all the information required and updated it.

….

….

….

….

….

….

What the fuck did I just do?!  Did I just follow an email and plug in our credit card information?

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Fuck

I called Netflix.  “Did you send me an email that my payment failed?”  No, they didn’t.

Double fuck!

I called our Credit Card Provider.  “I just compromised my credit card by giving information to a fake Netflix email.  I’m Menopausal so don’t call me stupid.”

The Viking was totally supportive.  “What the fuck were you thinking?!”

Me:

Sometimes It’s Just So Easy

RING, RING!

Me:  Four Seasons Motorsports

Guy on the Phone:  Hello.  May I speak with Niels?

Me:  He’s not in right now.  Can I take a message?

Guy on the Phone:  Yes.  My name is…..mumbling too fast to understand….

Me:  Who did you say this was?

Guy on the Phone:  JooJoo. And I’m calling from…..mumbling too fast to understand….

Me:  Wait.  Your name is JooJoo?

JooJoo:  Yes, JooJoo and I’m calling from….mumbling….card services…..more mumbling…

Me:  What company are you from?

JooJoo:  ….mumbling…..card services….appointment……4:00 this afternoon…

Me:  Card services?!

JooJoo:  Yes.  I have an appointment with Niels at 4:00 this afternoon…..mumbling.

Me:  You booked an appointment with Niels for what?

JooJoo:  We are having a warehouse sale on credit card transaction fees….mumbling.

Me:  Wait a minute, JooJoo.  You spoke to Niels and he booked an appointment to discuss transaction fees?

JooJoo:  Well, I didn’t personally speak to him.  Clara, from our office, spoke to him yesterday and set up a meeting with me for 4:00 today.

Me:  Are you aware that Niels is a Viking?

JooJoo:  Um…..no.

Me:  The Viking doesn’t discuss transaction fees with anyone.  Ever.  Not even you, JooJoo.

JooJoo:  I’m sure he’s interested in saving money on transaction fees.

Me:  I’m sure he would be interested if he knew what the fuck you’re talking about.

JooJoo:  But Clara….

Me:  I’m afraid Clara might be full of shit, JooJoo.  The Viking wouldn’t know a credit card transaction fee if it hit him with a battle axe.

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JooJoo:  Okay.  Is there someone else who deals with the fees.

Me:  Oh yes.  That would be me.

JooJoo:  Are you the owner of the business?

Me:  You could call me an owner –  I’m bossy enough.

JooJoo:  I would be willing to meet with you today…..

Me:  Oh, no.  I can’t possibly…

JooJoo:  But I can save you money….

Me:  Yes, but I have already done my due diligence on transaction fees and, to be completely honest, I can’t be bothered to wade through another contract with another company in order to save a nickel a month.

JooJoo:  Are you sure I can’t….

Me:  Quite sure, JooJoo.  Have a nice day.

The Viking arrived home about a half hour later and I asked him if he had booked an appointment to meet with a guy to discuss credit card transaction fees?

“Some fucking woman called yesterday and I couldn’t understand what the fuck she was even saying!”

I nodded enthusiastically.  “That’s what I thought.  I told him you would be delighted to meet with him at 4:00pm.”

“WHAT?!”

Sometimes, it’s just so easy……

 

 

A Viking Hissy Fit

Two posts ago I wrote about The Viking’s Stupid and it’s still affecting our lives.  His life more than mine but, since I’m in the general vicinity, I’m aware.  And then this happened.

It started around 11:00 in the morning with the usual shouts and curses.  I let him alone for awhile but when it didn’t burn itself out, I told him to come in for a coffee.  Not that I wanted a cranky Viking in the house but in the interests of preventing heart-attacks I thought he needed to walk away for a bit.

After a 20-minute break, he went back to the garage and I went back to paperwork.  It wasn’t long before the shouting and cursing began again.  I could clearly hear every single word he was yelling and that was with all the doors and windows closed.  I went out to offer any assistance I might be capable of and was told, amidst all the cursing, that there ‘wasn’t a fucking thing I could help with’, punctuated by 3 thrown tools – not in my direction, just so you know.  Okay.  I avoided eye contact and slowly backed out of the garage.

I wasn’t back in the house 5 minutes before the swearing and cursing spilled out of the garage.  Shortly after that something flew past the window.  “What in the ever-loving fuck?!  Was that an office chair?!”

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It was.

It was followed quickly by 2 ATV tires and a Rubber Maid tote.  The office chair didn’t seem pathetic enough, so he gave it a kick, picked it up and bashed it several times on the ground until it was in two pieces.  He’d lost the ability to form words by this point and had resorted to guttural howls and primal, yet man-ly, screams.

I watched from the window as he grabbed a large snow shovel and beat it against the cement until it exploded into tiny pieces.  I added ‘Snow Shovel’ to my shopping list, right under ‘Office Chair’.

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He wasn’t done yet, though.  An innocent bag of cans and bottles ready for the depot found itself soaring through the air to land in front of my car, followed quickly by a Weed Whacker*.  He tried to kick it first but missed and nearly up-ended himself.  Several other items, one of them quite large, was launched against the house.  A deck chair was tossed and landed against the new fifth wheel trailer and that’s when I stepped in.

I threw open the back door, “THAT’S ENOUGH!!  Get in here!”

He pulled his hair a couple of times while eloquently and loudly explaining his lack of space in the garage and vilifying the filthy ATV that covered the garage floor with mud.

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“For fucks-sake!  Sit down.  Here’s some water.  Your throat must be raw.”

And it was.

“You keep this up and someone is going to call the cops!”  I hissed.

Bing Bong!

“See?!  That’s probably them now!”

And it was.

As soon as I opened the big door and saw them, my eyes rolled and my head tipped back.  Of course!  I couldn’t quite believe it and gave a little laugh.  It was two female Officers who looked very concerned.

“Ma’am?  Are you okay?”  One said while she gently stepped into the house, forcing me to take a step back.

Sigh.  “Yes.  I am perfectly fine.  He’s just having a hissy fit.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No.  He’s only a danger to himself, snow shovels, weed whackers and office chairs.”

They went past me and into the kitchen where The Viking was busily ramming his feet into his shoes, trying to escape Consequences.  I wanted to yell “Not so fast, motherfucker!!  You deal with this!” but that might have been misconstrued as elevating the situation.  Thankfully, I hadn’t completely lost my mind yet.

The second Officer said, “So what’s going on?” while the first Officer followed The Viking out to the garage.  Divide and conquer I suppose.  If she tazes him I hope I can watch.

“We run a business out of the garage and he’s out of room and the machine he’s working on is full of mud and he’s just really frustrated.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Once in a while but never at this level.  He’s frustrated and has, apparently, the crazy ability to completely lose his shit.  Who knew?”

I notice a movement behind the Officer.  A massive fucking guy in a police uniform snuck in.  “Holy FUCK!!” I actually said, “Another one?!  Geezus!”  And I started laughing.  A little hysterically, if I’m honest.  He arrived like a Ninja – I hadn’t heard him come through the front door.  I wondered if the Police Service trains Ninja moves?  Not out loud, course, because that would be weird.

“I’m going to have to bake cookies for the neighbours, aren’t I?”

The lady Cop smiled and nodded while the humungous guy glowered intimidation at me, not understanding that I’m not the one around here that needed his special gift.  I’ve never seen such a big cop in my entire life.  Honestly, he was the biggest guy of any type I’ve ever seen.

After several moments, during which I couldn’t take my eyes off the big guy, the other Officer came back in the house.  “He’s just having a really bad day.” She said in a colossal understatement.  “It’s fine now.”

I have no idea what was said in the garage, but it must have satisfied her because the three Officers left through the front door, single file, the giant last.  It was then I saw the police cars parked down the block, not in front of the house.  Christ!  This is like an episode of COPS!

The Viking didn’t come in the house for two hours which was probably for the best because I was feeling a little murderous – a feeling that lasted for almost a week.

Junior stopped by a while later, stepping over the exploded snow shovel, around the broken office chair and side-stepping two ATV tires.  He came in the house and said, “Sooooo, how was your day?”

 

*Added Weed Whacker to the shopping list under Office Chair and Snow Shovel.

The Day of the Monkey Wrench

When I make mashed potatoes I don’t make just a little bit.  I make a massive pot of them because who doesn’t love left over mashed potatoes – Croquettes, potato pancakes, shepherd’s pie?

About a month ago, I made a lovely beef roast with mashed potatoes and other good things.  The following evening we had the leftover beef with re-heated mashed potatoes and leftover gravy, etc.  I was on track to use all the potatoes in a total of 4 days, except someone threw a Monkey Wrench into my plans (I don’t even remember exactly what that monkey wrench was anymore though) and suddenly those mashed potatoes became a problem.  And part of the problem was the fact that we have two refrigerators – one for daily stuff and the other for drinks mostly but also leftovers in larger containers.

On the Day of the Monkey Wrench, I probably thought they would keep for an extra day.  But the day after that I totally forgot about them.

Two days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I went to the spare fridge for a drink and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I should use them up tomorrow for sure.”

Three days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I came home from the grocery store and opened the spare fridge to put in some drinks and “Shit!  I completely forgot about the potatoes!  I’m not sure if they are good anymore because of the cream and butter.  Well, I don’t have time right now to toss them out but I will get to it in an hour or so.

Four Days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I never opened the spare fridge.

Five days after:  I opened the fridge, “Fuck!  Someone needs to throw them out before they get nasty.

Six days after:  The Viking opens the spare fridge,

“What’s in this big pot?”

Me:  “Mashed potatoes, dammit!  I’ll be there in a minute to throw it out and wash the pot.”

Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I go for a drink.  Ugh!!  Those potatoes are probably working on becoming a science experiment and I’m just not up to dealing with that today.  I’ll handle it tomorrow.

Eight days:  The Viking notices the same pot in the same position.

“Have you completely forgotten these potatoes?”

Me:  “Shit!  Yes!  I’ll be right there.”

Nine days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I find the pot and moan because it’s got to be gross by now.  Maybe if I wait little longer The Viking will take care of it.

Ten days:  I purposely refuse to see the pot when I grab a drink.

Eleven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Twelve days:  Ditto.

Thirteen days:  Ditto.

Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  Ditto.

Nineteen days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking:  “Fucksakes!  Is that still the mashed potatoes?!”

Me (slightly hopeful that he’ll throw them out and wash the pot):  “Yes!  I keep forgetting about them!”

Twenty days:  I hear something whispering my name from the spare fridge.  It doesn’t sound like something nice, more like a hiss of malevolent evil.  I ignore it.

Twenty-One days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:

The Viking stops by the spare fridge and says,

“Do you hear something?”

Me:  “Ummm…..no.  You must be hearing things.”

Twenty-Four days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench: The Viking comes in the house and says….”*A friend from Denmark is going to be in Calgary this weekend.  I’ve invited him and his co-workers for dinner.”

Me (surprised and already getting anxious):  “What?!  You invited them here?!”

Him:  “Yes.  I haven’t seen Soren for years!”

Me:  “Fuck.”

Twenty-Six days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I have no idea what to make for dinner for the Danes.

The Viking:  “Clam Chowder.  They would really like it.”

Me:  “Really?  How can my land-locked clam chowder compare to Danish Right-out-of-the-Ocean Clam Chowder?”

Him:  “Trust me.  They’ll like it.”

Twenty-Seven days after The Day of the Monkey Wrench:  I need that mashed potato pot for the Clam Chowder.  Sigh.  It’s going to be so gross.  Nothing smells worse than rotten potatoes…..except maybe a dead body but I’m only guessing because I’ve never smelled a dead body.  Wait.  There was that dead mouse and it did smell pretty bad but I think the potatoes are going to smell worse because there are more potatoes than one dead mouse.

Apparently, The Viking didn’t feel the need to take care of the mess so I had to.  I pulled the neck of my shirt up over my nose, squinted my eyes and hauled the pot from the fridge.  It was worse than I thought – they had turned all brown and green and made my eyes water.

I suck at keeping the refrigerators organized and free of science experiments.

As for the Clam Chowder.  I spent several hours frying bacon, cleaning, peeling and chopping veggies, making broth and taste testing it.  I was like Gordon Ramsey but with far worse language, knowing one tiny mistake could ruin the entire thing.  When I thought it was pretty good, I called for The Viking to do a taste test.  He sipped it, sipped it again and pronounced it good with just a touch more salt and pepper.  But……

Him:  Where is the corn?

Me:  Corn?  You don’t put corn in Clam Chowder.  But now that you mention it, it would probably taste good.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any corn at the moment.

Him:  Where is the red and white stuff?

Me:  Red and white stuff?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Him:  Crab!  Where’s the crab?

Me:  You don’t put Crab in Clam Chowder.  You put Clams in Clam Chowder.

Him:  You made some soup once for me and Adam and it had corn and crab and shrimp.  I thought that’s what you were making.

Me:  That’s not Clam Chowder, that’s Seafood Chowder!  I didn’t think you even cared much for that.  You said, when I specifically asked, “It’s okay.”  Which is the same thing as saying “It’s passable but just barely.”

Him:  I liked it!

Me:  That’s not what you said!  You said, “It’s O.K.A.Y.”  Which isn’t the same thing as “I like it”!

Him:  For fucks-sakes!

Me:  Did I just spend all day making Clam Chowder for Danish experts and you wanted Seafood Chowder?  Geezus!  Do I need to start all over?!”

Him:  NO!  You don’t have to do a fucking thing!  This is fine.

Me:  Gawd save me!  It’s FINE?!  That’s it?!  FINE?!

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And that’s why I needed to start drinking 4 hours before the Danes were due to arrive.  Being drunk is the only way to put a pot of ‘fine’ in front of experts.

*What the fuck!?  Why is this quotation mark going the wrong way?!  I’ve tried to fix it 8 times already!

He Who Laughs Last….

The Viking did something stupid.  You’re shocked, aren’t you?  Me, too!  He never does stupid things and I should feel better knowing that he is just as capable as I am even though he prefers not to exercise his ability as often as I do.  But I don’t feel better.  Not at the moment.  Because his Stupid caused me bodily injury that may end with amputation.

In our efforts to down-size and simplify, we sold our fifth-wheel trailer and my Seadoo.  We would have sold his Seadoo as well, but it has been upgraded and pimped out until no amateur should attempt to ride it.  The Viking blew it up twice in the space of two years and he’s an expert.  So, rather than sell the ‘Doo to a rookie, he decided to take it all apart, put in all the stock parts again and then sell it.  Except we suddenly got busy and there was no time to finish the job.  Meaning…..the garage is a maze of Seadoo parts and we have snowmobiles to work on!

So, we did what any reasonable people would do – we brought the guts of the Seadoo into the house so he has more room to work in the garage.  It is our bread and butter, after all.

Now, there is a pile of stuff right in the middle of the area where I spend 90% of my time.  And guess what?  I stubbed my fucking foot on the biggest and heaviest piece while I was hurrying to let Izzie outside.  She was shouting abuse and calling me names…..as usual.

“SHIT!  Sonofabitch!  Mo…erfu….er!  Stupid, fucking shit!  Ahhhhhhh!!” 

I’ve stubbed my toes many, many times before and the pain usually goes away after a few minutes.  Not this time.  This time the pain didn’t go away.  When The Viking came in the house, I informed him that his Stupid broke my toe.  He didn’t have any concern at all, so I pulled off my sock, plopped my leg on the kitchen counter and showed him my toe who was already busy turning purple.  He still didn’t seem concerned!

Am I living in ‘Bizarro World’?  My toe is turning purple!  If I didn’t live here I would have grounds to sue.  We’ve been binge-watching ‘Suits’ and I would totally have a case.

I stewed for several hours.  Watching ‘Suits’, of course.  I was hoping my toe was busy getting huge and ugly and alarming so he would feel terrible for not caring.  When The Viking got up to visit the bathroom I whipped off my sock to see how it was coming along.  That fucking traitor didn’t look any worse than it did 3 hours ago!  Curse my superior healing genes!!

I poked it a couple of times and explained that it needed to up its game.  I needed some sympathy, dammit!

Just before bed, I waved my toe in front of The Viking’s face.

Me: “I think it’s broken.  The knuckle closest to the toe nail.”

Him (not even looking): “That happens to me 10 times a day and I never even mention it.”

Me: “You always get sympathy!  I’m the most sympathetic asshole around!”

Him (not even looking): …….

I never should have told him what my father used to say…..”You know where to find sympathy?  Between Shit and Syphilis in the dictionary.”  Obviously, The Viking decided to pay attention to that one thing in all the other things I’ve said over the years.

Well, one good turn deserves another.  Just wait until he has an injury that may end in amputation!  I’m not going to even look at it.  I won’t even fetch a Band-Aid.  When he gets sick I’m not going to make him some Neo-Citran!  He could be on his deathbed and I’ll just go shopping or something.  I’ll make Mexican food* and eat it right in front of him when he has the Flu.  I’ll turn the heat down and refuse to get him a blanket!  That will teach him.  As he’s sitting there with chattering teeth I’ll just say “Remember my toe?  Touche!”

Except he’ll probably win the way he always does.  He’ll probably go and actually die and I won’t get any revenge at all!  That’s just how he rolls.  But he who laughs last…..

I’ll bury him with the things he hates the most – a snow shovel and cigarette butts and pumpkin pie and pancakes and every one of Michael Buble’s CDs!  I’ll make mashed potatoes instead of boiled potatoes to serve with the pork roast at his Memorial Service**!  And I won’t put his Battle Axe with him so he won’t be allowed in Valhalla!  How do you like my toe now?

 

*According to Mim, Mexican food is the worst when you’re nauseous.  She knows this because she made it for her husband when he had the flu because he had no sympathy for her when she was sick.  The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it?

**You probably won’t get this unless you’re Danish but serving mashed potatoes with pork roast is akin to murdering puppies.  Trust me.  I made this mistake once.  Once.  The Viking will roll in his grave!

Thunder Thighs and Sabre-Tooth Gophers

Everything we’ve been taught about evolution is wrong.  No, seriously.  I’m not saying that creationism is real, I’m just saying that evolution is wrong.  Hear me out.

The accepted theory is that humans evolved over millions of years into what we are today.  Some scientists say we walked upright somewhere between 6 million and 2 million years ago.  Whatever.  I don’t dispute this.  However, they all seem to agree that hominids started using tools about 2.5 millions years ago and, in my opinion, that’s where the evolution theory falls apart.  Tools changed everything.

Let’s take one Australopithecus – Bruce.  Bruce was walking upright and, from the new and lofty perspective of his eyes, found a stick that looked like it could be used for something.  He wasn’t entirely sure what it could be used for but he didn’t want to leave it behind and run the risk of never finding it again.  So, he packed it around for a few days, poking things, trying to eat with it (Asians mastered this far sooner than anyone else), riding it like a horse, etc.  Then, one day, he sees a fine-looking female Australopithecus and thinks he’d like to get to know her better.  She’s fucking fast though and he can’t catch her.

via GIPHY

He wishes there was some way to slow her down.  He sits down under a tree (this was still a safe thing to do because Newton hadn’t been born yet) to think.  He’s playing with the stick, twirling it around, and it gets away from him.  He lunges after the stick but knocks it further away and that’s when the gorgeous female Australopithecus(Cheryl) came running past, probably chasing a sabre-tooth gopher.  The stick tripped her and she slid face-first into the dirt only a meter away.  Bruce, knowing a good opportunity when he sees one, sat on her back so she couldn’t get away and began telling her all about himself.  Voila!  The first tool!

It didn’t take him a million or two years to figure out how to trip women so he could sit on them, now did it?  You have to catch her before you can get babies.  Let’s just carry this story for a bit longer.

Bruce is now walking upright and using a stick.  He may have found several other ways to use the stick, especially the pointy end, because he’s packing it around with him everywhere he goes.  Then one day, he’s fucking around and tossing the stick in the air and catching it.  Cheryl ran past, probably chasing a sabre-tooth rabbit………

via GIPHY

and Bruce got distracted and the pointy end of his stick got stuck in the top of his head.

“Ouch!  Fuck!!”

Bruce just became the very first klutz.  After 1257 times of getting the stick stuck in his head, he learned to flinch to the side.  It stuck in his foot 713 times before he mastered the art of the ‘Foot Flinch’.  You get my meaning here, right?  I’m pretty sure it didn’t take Bruce a million years to develop evasion reflexes and that brings me to…..well….me.

I was sitting at the computer, eating a piece of delicious 3-year old cheese last night and because the cheese is 3 years old it crumbles easily and a piece of the deliciousness broke off and headed for the floor except my thighs slammed together with loud clap (thunder-like) and caught the cheese mid-fall!  I couldn’t do that when I was a kid.  I was always picking my food up and brushing the bits of dirt off before I could eat it.  Over the years, my thighs have evolved into powerful tools that keep dropped food/breakables/paperclips/pills from hitting the floor/dirt/pavement.  The skill also came in handy when Jerry thought he could cop a feel at a social function.  It didn’t take my thighs a million years to develop their speed – it happened in less than 50 years.

And it’s not just my thighs.  My feet have developed the ability to flinch away from falling knives/bricks/glass.  My feet and thighs are literally supersonic.  My hands are a different matter; it’s like they don’t even belong to me because they are always getting cut and poked and crushed.  They try to evade but for some reason they are just evolutionary-ily challenged.  As are my boobs.  To be fair though I’m fairly certain that boobs weren’t intended to have built-in evasion abilities because how would babies chase down a boob so it could have breakfast.

So, there you have it.  Necessity is the mother of invention (I think someone said this before but I can’t be bothered to look it up).  If it took a million years to develop adaptations to new circumstances we would have died out as a species before the end of an ice age.  It’s the Slam and Flinch that saved us from extinction.  Sorry Scientists, you’ll have to go back to the old drawing board.

You’re Neglecting Me

 

I’ve been missing Mim lately.  She lives 7 minutes away but she’s so damned busy fixing up her new house and working full-time that there isn’t much time for visiting.  So, I was thrilled, naturally, when my phone rang yesterday and it was her.

She caught me up on her house projects and how much she likes her new job.  I let her ramble for a bit before I said….

“You’re neglecting me.”

She laughed.  “I don’t mean to neglect you, it’s just that I’m really busy.”

“It still feels like neglect.  I only have The Viking for daily companionship and you know how much he enjoys listening to me talk about the challenges of shopping or why I need a tiny pony and two geese or why I should call him Maurice from now on.  I can’t even get him to tell me that supper was more than just ‘fine’ or ‘alright’.”  I keep hoping that one day he will take a bite of food and say ‘Holy Fuck that’s good!!’

Being receptive to my needs, Mim immediately asked me if I’d like to come to Home Depot after dinner.  “We could browse around and maybe pick out some colors for your house………

Annnnnd, that’s where she lost me.  While she was still talking I was cringing in something close to horror!

“Wait.  Tonight?!  You want me to leave my house tonight?!”

“You can ditch The Viking for a couple of hours, can’t you?”

“Yeess.  But (tipping my head way back and howling to the Gawds) I hate having to go out after dinner!”

“I thought you wanted to spend time with me.”

“I do!  I just didn’t think it would involve leaving my house.  After dinner.”

“You could come for some tea and see what I’ve done with the house.”

“Does that involve me leaving my house after dinner?”

“Mom!”

Through intense negotiations we decided she would come to me one evening this week (I had to sweeten the deal by offering wine) and next week I’ll go to Home Depot with her after dinner.  I’ll just have to postpone our nightly Netflix binge for another night.  It’ll be fine.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve never been much of a socializer; I paste a Happy on my face and make jokes hoping no one notices that I have a run in my pantyhose or a stain on my boob because I dropped a stuffed mushroom en route from my plate to my mouth.

Public get-togethers are fraught with perils:

    • Please don’t let my pantyhose fall down around my ankles as I’m going for another drink.
    • Please don’t let me slip and fall on my ass as I head for the washroom.
    • Please don’t let a pair of panties stuck in a pant leg fall out as I’m crossing the dance floor. Don’t ask.
    • Please don’t ask me to dance because I WILL step on your toes. Probably all of them, multiple times.
  • Please don’t let me get flatulent from the Broccoli Salad. And if I do get flatulent, please don’t let them stink unless I’m standing beside The Viking and people would just assume it’s him.  Especially if I point a finger at him while wrinkling my nose.
  • Please don’t let my hair fall from a Hot Flash – Menopause sucks.
  • Please let me remember where I parked the car.
  • Please keep the catty bitches away from me because I can never come up with a witty insult on short notice and I won’t sleep for days just thinking about it.
  • And, finally….please don’t have a swimming pool anywhere in the vicinity because The Fucking Viking always has to get into the pool which means I’m obligated to get into the pool. In a bathing suit.

An actual video of The Viking near a body of water no matter the size:

Versus me in water:

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m an Introvert that becomes a Super Introvert after dinner or at a social function, particularly if that social function involves dinner*.  You would think Mim would know this by now.  And she probably does but she thinks it’s good for me to face my fears or some fucking thing (she’s probably right but don’t tell her I said so).  And, I’m the first one to admit that once I’ve been dynamited out of the house I generally have a nice time, as long as there is lots of booze and only three people.

So, while you’re not telling Mim, I’ll try to work on my Introvert-dom.

*I’ve made it a hard rule to never eat spaghetti or ribs when dining out – the potential for disaster is just too great.